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THE 
 
 POETS AND POETRY 
 
 EUROPE. 
 

 ^7f- 
 
THE 
 
 POETS AND POETEY 
 
 OF 
 
 EUROPE. 
 
 INTRODUCTIONS AND BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES. 
 
 HENEY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 A NEW EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED. 
 
 From Helicon's harmonious springs 
 
 A thousand rills their mazy progress take. 
 
 Ghat. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. 
 
 2Dtje Mtoerstoe pm*, Cambringe. 
 
 1882. 
 
PNmoi 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusette. 
 
 S87270 
 •29 
 
PREFACE 
 
 " The art of poetry," says the old Spanish Jew, Alfonso de Baena, " the gay 
 science, is a most subtle and most delightful sort of writing or composition. 
 It is sweet and pleasurable to those who propound and to those who reply ; to 
 utterers and to hearers. This science, or the wisdom or knowledge dependent 
 on it, can only be possessed, received, and acquired by the inspired spirit of the 
 Lord God ; who communicates it, sends it, and influences by it, those alone, who 
 well and wisely, and discreetly and correctly, can create and arrange, and compose 
 and polish, and scan and measure feet, and pauses, and rhymes, and syllables, and 
 accents, by dextrous art, by varied and by novel arrangement of words. And 
 even then, so sub'ime is the understanding of this art, and so difficult its attainment, 
 that it can only be learned, possessed, reached, and known to the man who is of 
 noble and of ready invention, elevated and pure discretion, sound and steady 
 judgment; who has seen, and heard, and read many and divers books and writ- 
 ings ; who understands all languages ; who has, moreover, dwelt in the courts of 
 kings and nobles ; and who has witnessed and practised many heroic feats. 
 Finally, he must be of high birth, courteous, calm, chivalric, gracious ; he must 
 be polite and graceful; he must possess honey, and sugar, and salt, and facility 
 and gayety in his discourse." 
 
 Tried by this standard, many of the poets in this volume would occupy a smaller 
 space than has been allotted to them ; and others would have been rejected alto- 
 gether, as being neither " of ready invention, elevated and pure discretion, nor 
 sound and steady judgment." But it has not been my purpose to illustrate any 
 poetic definition, or establish any theory of art. I have attempted only to bring 
 together, into a compact and convenient form, as large an amount, as possible of 
 those English translations which are scattered through many volumes, and are 
 not easily accessible to the general reader. In doing this, it has been thought 
 advisable to treat the subject historically, rather than critically. The materials 
 have in consequence been arranged according to their dates ; and in order to render 
 the literary history of the various countries as complete as these materials and 
 the limits of a single volume would allow, an author of no great note has some- 
 times been admitted, or a poem which a severer taste would have excluded. The 
 work is to be regarded as a collection, rather than as a selection ; and in judging 
 any author, it must be borne in mind that translations do not always preserve the 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 rhythm and melody of the original, but often resemble soldiers moving onward when 
 the music has ceased and the time is marked only by the tap of the drum. 
 
 The languages from which translations are here presented are ten. They are 
 the six Gothic languages of the North of Europe, — Anglo-Saxon, Icelandic, Dan- 
 ish, Swedish, German, and Dutch ; and the four Latin languages of the South of 
 Europe, — French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese. In order to make the work 
 fulfil entirely the promise of its title, the Celtic and Sclavonic, as likewise the 
 Turkish and Romaic, should have been introduced ; but with these I am not 
 acquainted, and I therefore leave them to some other hand, hoping that ere long 
 a volume may be added to this which shall embrace all the remaining European 
 tongues. 
 
 The authors upon whom I have chiefly relied, and to whom I am indebted for 
 the greatest number of translations, are Bowring, Herbert, Costello, Taylor, 
 Jamieson, Brooks, Adamson, and Thorpe.* Some of these are already beyond 
 the reach of praise or thanks. To the rest, and to all the translators by whose 
 labors I have profited, I wish to express my sincere acknowledgments. I need 
 not repeat their names ; they will, for the most part, be found in the Table of 
 Contents, and in the list entitled "Translators and Sources." 
 
 In the preparation of this work I have been assisted by Mr. C. C. Felton, 
 who has furnished me with a large portion of the biographical sketches prefixed 
 to the translations. I have also received much valuable aid from the critical taste 
 and judgment of Mr. George Nichols, during the progress of the work through 
 the press. 
 
 Cambridge, May, 1845. 
 
 * Since the Anglo-Saxon portion of this book was printed, a copy of the " Codex Exoniensis," 
 spoken of on pages 6, 7, as " the Exeter Manuscript," has been received. The work has been 
 published by Mr. Thorpe, with the following title : " Codex Exoniensis ; a Collection of 
 Anglo-Saxon Poetry, from a Manuscript in the Library of the Dean and Chapter of Exeter, 
 with an English Translation and Notes, by Benjamin Thorpe, F. S. A." London. 3842. 8vo. 
 
 The following translations may also be mentioned: "Master Wace his Chronicle of 
 the Norman Conquest, from the Roman du Rou," by Edgar Taylor, London, 8vo. ; and 
 " Reynard the Fox, a renowned Apologue of the Middle Age, reproduced in Rhyme," by 
 S Naylor, London, 1845, 8vo. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ANGLO-SAXON. 
 
 Page 
 
 ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE AND POETRY 1 
 
 POEM OF BEOWULF 8 
 
 Beowulf the Shyld W. Taylor. . 8 
 
 The Sailing of Beowulf 76. ... 8 
 
 Beowulf's Expedition to Heort . . . 77. W. Longfellow. 8 
 
 An Old Man's Sorrow Ktmble. . . 10 
 
 Good Night lb. ... 10 
 
 CfiDMON 10 
 
 The First Day Thorpe. . . 10 
 
 The Fall of the Rebel Angela lb. ... 11 
 
 Satan's Speech lb. ... 12 
 
 The Temptation of Eve lb. . . . 13 
 
 The Flight of the Israelites lb. ... 17 
 
 The Destruction of Pharaoh lb. ... 18 
 
 HISTORIC ODES 19 
 
 The Battle of Bronanburh Ingram. . . 19 
 
 The Death of King Edgar lb. ... 20 
 
 The Death of King Edward lb. ... 21 
 
 POEM FROM THE POETIC CALENDAR . Turner. . . 21 
 
 KING ALFRED'S METRES OF BOETHIUS Fox. ... 23 
 
 POEM OF JUO'TH 26 
 
 The Bs?«-aiHolofeme« Turner. . . 26 
 
 The Death of Holofernn lb. ... 27 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 27 
 
 The Exile's Complain*. Conybeare. . 27 
 
 The Soul's Complaint H.W. Longfellow. 28 
 
 The Grave lb. ... 28 
 
 The Ruined Wall-stone Conybeare. . 29 
 
 The Song of Summer Warton. . . 29 
 
 ICELANDIC. 
 
 ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY 30 
 
 S-SSMUND'S EDDA 37 
 
 The Voluspa Henderson. . 37 
 
 The Hava-mal W. Taylor. . 39 
 
 Yafthrudni's-mal lb. ... 41 
 
 Tbrym'sQ.uida Herbert. . . 43 
 
 Skirnis-for lb. ... 45 
 
 Brynhilda'sRide toHel lb. ... 46 
 
 Grotta-savngr Jamieson. . . 47 
 
 Vegtam's Q.vida Pigolt. . . 49 
 
 Gunlaugand Rafen Herbert. . . 50 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 51 
 
 The Biarkemaal Pigolt. . ■ 51 
 
 The Death-song of Regner Lodbrock . . Herbert. . . 51 
 
 The Battle of Hafur's Bay lb. ... 53 
 
 Death-song of Hakon W.Taylor. . 53 
 
 The Song of Harald the Hardv Herbert. . . 55 
 
 Song of the Berserks W. Taylor. . 55 
 
 The Combat of Hialmar and Oddur . . . Herbert. . . 56 
 
 The Dying Song of Asbiorn 76. ... 56 
 
 TheSongofHroke theBla-k 76. ... 57 
 
 The Lamentation of Starkader 76. ... 58 
 
 Grymur and Hialmar 76. ... 58 
 
 DANISH. 
 
 DANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY 59 
 
 BALLADS 64 
 
 Stark Tiderick and Olger Danske .... Jamieson. . . 64 
 
 Lady Grimild's Wrack 76. ... 65 
 
 The Ellin Langshanks 76. ... 67 
 
 Hero Hogen and the Queen of Danmarck . . 76. ... 69 
 
 Sir Gunceiin 76. ... 70 
 
 Ribolt and Giildborg 76. ... 71 
 
 Young Child Dyring 76. ... 73 
 
 Child Axelvold 76. ... 74 
 
 The Wassel Dance 76. ... 75 
 
 OlufPant 76. ... 76 
 
 Rosmer Hafmand 76. ... 77 
 
 Wit at Need 76. ... 78 
 
 The Mer-man and Marstig's Daughter ... 76. ... 79 
 
 ElferHill 76. 79 
 
 P»g« 
 
 King Oluf the Saint For. Quart. Re:73 
 
 Aager and Eliza 76. ... 81 
 
 The Elected Knight H.W. Longfellow. 82 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 82 
 
 THOMAS KINGO 82 
 
 Morning Song For. Quart. Rev. 32 
 
 CHRISTIAN BRAUMAN TULLIN 33 
 
 Extract from May-day Herbert. . . 83 
 
 JOHANNES EVALD 83 
 
 King Christian H.W. Longfellow. 84 
 
 The Wishes Walker. . . 84 
 
 Song Herbert. . . 84 
 
 EDWARD STORM 84 
 
 The Ballad of Sinclair Walker. . . S3 
 
 Thorvald For. Quark Rev. 85 
 
 THOMAS THAARUP 89 
 
 t The Love of our Country Walker. . . 88 
 
 To Spring 76. ... 8? 
 
 KNUD LYNE RAHBEK 87 
 
 Peter Colbiornsen For. Quart. *?(-■. 87 
 
 PETER ANDREAS HEIBERG 88 
 
 Norwegian Love-song Walker. . . 83 
 
 Tycho Brahe, or the Ruins of Uranienborg For. Quart. Rsv. 88 
 
 JENS BAGGESEN 89 
 
 Childhood H.W. Longfellow. 90 
 
 To my Native Land Walker. . . DO 
 
 ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLAGER 91 
 
 From Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp 93 
 
 From the Dedication Gillies. . . 93 
 
 Nouieddin and Aladdin 76. ... 94 
 
 Aladdin at the Gates of Ispahan .... 76. ... 96 
 
 Aladdin in Prison 76. ... 96 
 
 Aladdin in his Mother's Chamber .... 76. . . . S7 
 
 Aladdin at his Mother's G-„.„ 76. ... 98 
 
 From Hakon Jarl 98 
 
 Hakon and Thorer. in the Sacred Grove . . 76. ... 98 
 Hakon discloses his Designs to Thorer .76. . . .100 
 
 Hakon and Messenger 76. ... 101 
 
 Hakon and his Son Erling, in the Sacred Grove 76. . . . 102 
 
 Defeat and Death of Hakon 76. ... 103 
 
 Soliloquy of Thora 76. ... 710 
 
 From the Tragedy of Correggio 110 
 
 Antonio da CorreggiD, and Maria his Wife . 76. . . .110 
 
 Antonio and Giulio Romano 76. . . . 112 
 
 Michael Angelo, Maria, and Giovanni . . 76. . . .115 
 Antonio in the Gallery of Count Octavian .76. . . . 117 
 
 Soliloquy of Correggio 76. ... 118 
 
 Thor's Fishing Pigott. . . 118 
 
 The Dwarfs 76. ... 119 
 
 The Bard Walker. . . 122 
 
 Lines on leaving Italy For. Quart. Rev. 122 
 
 The Morning Walk 76. ... 122 
 
 BERNHARD SEVERIN INGEMANN 123 
 
 Progress of Axel Hwide 76. . . . 123 
 
 FromMasaniello 124 
 
 Masaniello, Mad, in the Church-yard Blackwood's Mag. 124 
 
 The Aspen For. Quart. Rev. 125 
 
 Dame Martha's Fountain 76. . . 125 
 
 SWEDISH. 
 
 SWEDISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY 126 
 
 BALLADS 132 
 
 The Mountain-taken Maid For. Quart. Rev. 132 
 
 Hillebrand 76. ... 133 
 
 The Dance in the Grove of Roses 76. . . . 134 
 
 The Maiden that was sold 76. . . . 134 
 
 The Little Seaman 76. ... 135 , 
 
 Sir Carl, or the Cloister Robbed 76. ... 136 
 
 Rosegrove-side N. A. Rev . 137 
 
 Sir Olof's Bridal 76. ... 138 
 
 Duke Magnus 76. ... 138 
 
 The Power of the Harp 76. . . . 139 
 
 Little Kar'n's Death 76. . . 139 
 
VI. 
 X. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 140 
 
 JOHAN HENRIK KELLGREN 140 
 
 The New Creation For. Rev. . . HO 
 
 The Foes of Light 76. ... 141 
 
 Folly is no Proof of Genius For. Quart. Rev. 143 
 
 ANNA MARIA LENNGREN 144 
 
 Family Port. aits Jo. ... 144 
 
 CARL GUSTAF AF LEOPOLD 145 
 
 Ode on the Desire of Deathless Fame . . . lb. . . . 145 
 
 ESAIAS TEGNER 14S 
 
 From Frithiofs Saga 154 
 
 Canto I. Frithiof and Ingeborg . . . Strong. . . 154 
 
 III. Frithiof's Homestead . 77. W. Longfellow. 156 
 
 IV. FrithiorsSu.it Strong. . . 156 
 
 Frithiof at Chess lb. . . . 158 
 
 FrithiofatSea lb. ... 159 
 
 XI. Frithiof at the Court of Angantyr lb. . . 
 XIX. Frithiof's Temptation . H. W. Longfellox 
 The Children of the Lord's Supper . ... lb. . . 
 
 From Axel 
 
 The Veteran Latham. 
 
 King Charles's Guard lb. . . 
 
 Love lb. . . 
 
 PER DANIEL AMADEUS ATTERBOM 170 
 
 From the Island of the Blest For. Rev. .171 
 
 The Hyacinth For. Quart. Rev. 173 
 
 ERIC JOHAN STAGNELIUS 173 
 
 From lie Tragedy of the Martyrs 173 
 
 Emi.ia and Perpetua For. Quart. Rev. 173 
 
 Marcion and Eubulus For. Rev. . . 175 
 
 The Birds of Passage lb. ... 176 
 
 Amanda lb. ... 177 
 
 ERIC SJOBERG (VITALIS) 177 
 
 To the Moon. — A Dedication lb. ... 178 
 
 Spring Fancy lb. ... 179 
 
 Life and Death lb. ... 179 
 
 GERMAN. 
 
 GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY 180 
 
 FIRST PERIOD. — CENTURIES VIII. -XI. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS 189 
 
 SongofOld Hildebrand Weber. . .189 
 
 FragmentoftheSongofLouisthe Third . W. Taylor. .189 
 From the Rhyme of St. Anno lb. . . .189 
 
 SECOND PERIOD. —CENTURIES XII., XIII. 
 
 MINNESINGERS 190 
 
 CONRAD VON KIRCHBERG 190 
 
 May, sweet May E. Taylor. . 190 
 
 HEINRICH VON RISPACH 190 
 
 The woodlands with my songs resound . . . lb. ... 191 
 WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH 191 
 
 Would I the lofty spirit melt lb. ... 192 
 
 THE EMPEROR HENRY 192 
 
 I greet in song that sweetest one lb. ... 192 
 
 WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE 192 
 
 When from the sod the flowerets spring . . lit. ... 194 
 
 'T was summer lb. ... 194 
 
 HEINRICH VON MORUNG 195 
 
 My lady dearly loves a pretty bird . ... lb. ... 195 
 
 Hast thou seen lb. ... 195 
 
 BURKHART VON HOHENFELS 195 
 
 Like the sun's uprising light lb. ... 195 
 
 GOTTFRIED VON NIFEN 195 
 
 Up, up I let us greet lb. ... 196 
 
 -DIETMAR VON AST 196 
 
 By the heath stood a lady lb. ... 196 
 
 There sat upon the linden-tree lb. 
 
 CHRISTIAN VON HAMLE 
 
 Would that the meadow could sneak . . . lb. 
 RUDOLPH VON ROTHENBERG 197 
 
 A stranger pilgrim spoke to me lb. ... 197 
 
 HEINRICH, HERZOG VON ANHALT 197 
 
 Stay I let the breeze still blow on me ... 76. • . . 197 
 COUNT KRAFT OF TOGGENBURG 197 
 
 DoeB any one seek the soul of mirth . ... lb. ... 197 
 STEINMAR 197 
 
 With the graceful corn upspringing . ... lb. ... 197 
 CONRAD VON WURTZBURG 198 
 
 See how from the meadows pass lb. ... 198 
 
 OTHO, MARGRAVE OF BRANDENBURG 198 
 
 Again appears the cheerful May lb. 
 
 Make room unto my loved lady bright . . Weber. . 
 THE CHANCELLOR 
 
 Who would summer pleasures try . . . E. Taytoi 
 
 196 
 
 196 
 
 198 
 
 HEINRICH, HERZOG VON ERESLAU 
 
 To thee, O May, 1 must complain . . . E.Taylor. . '4i 
 ALBRECHT VON RAPRECHTSWEIL "9* 
 
 Once more mounts my spirit gay lb. ... 199 
 
 ULRICH VON LICHTENSTEIN 200 
 
 lb. 
 
 Lady beauteous, lady pure .... 
 GOESLI VON EHENHEIM 200 
 
 Now will the foe of every flower lb. . . . 200 
 
 THE THURINGIAN 200 
 
 The pleasant season must away lb. ... 200 
 
 WINCESLAUS, KING OF BOHEMIA 201 
 
 Now that stern winter each blossom is blighting lb. . . .201 
 LUTOLT VON SEVEN 201 
 
 In the woods and meadows green . ... lb. ... 201 
 JOHANN HADLOUB 201 
 
 Far as I journey from my lady fair .... 76. . . . 201 
 
 I saw yon infant in her arms caresBed . . . lb. . . . 201 
 WATCH-SONGS 202 
 
 The sun is gone down lb. ... 202 
 
 I heard before the dawn of day lb. 
 
 THE HELDENBUCH, OR BOOK OF THE HEROES 
 I. — Omit 
 
 Sir Otnit and Dwarf Elberich Weber. 
 
 II, —Wolfdietrich 
 
 Wolfdietrich's Infancy lb. 
 
 Wolfdietrich and the Giants lb. 
 
 Wolfdietrich and Wild Else lb. 
 
 The Fountain of Youth lb. 
 
 Wolfdietrich and the Stag with Golden Horns lb. 
 
 Wolfdietrich in the Giant 
 
 Wolfdietrich and Sir Belligan lb 
 
 Wolfdietrich and the Fiends lb 
 
 The Tournament lb. 
 
 Wolfdietrich's Penance lb 
 
 III. — The Garden of Roses 
 
 Friar Ilsan in the Garden of Roses . . . . id, 
 
 Friar Ilsan's Return to the Convent .... 74. ... 214 
 
 IV. — The Little Garden of Roses 215 
 
 King Laurin the Dwarf 76. ... 215 
 
 The Court of Little King Laurin 76. . . . 21i 
 
 THE NIBELUNGENLIED 2!? 
 
 Castle .... 76. ... 209 
 . 210 
 . 211 
 . 213 
 . 213 
 . 213 
 . 213 
 
 The Nibelungen 76. 
 
 Chrimhild 76. 
 
 Siegfried at the Fountain 76. 
 
 Hagen at the Danube 76. 
 
 Hagen and Volker the Fiddler 76. 
 
 Death of Gunther, Hagen, and Chrimhild . .76. . . . 
 
 THIRD PERIOD. — CENTURIES XIV., XV. 
 HALB SUTER ' 
 
 The Battle ofSempach Scott. . . . 
 
 ULRICH BONER 
 
 The Frog and the Steer Carlyle. . . 
 
 VEIT WEBER 
 
 The Battle of Murten C. C. Fellon. 
 
 ANONYMOUS POEMS OF UNCERTAIN DATE . . . . 
 
 Song of Hildebrand Weber. . . . 
 
 The Noble Moringer Scott. . . . 
 
 The Lay of the Young Count N. A. Rev. . 
 
 Song of the Three Tailors 76. . . . 
 
 The Wandering Lover 76. . . . 
 
 The Castle in Austria 76. . . . 
 
 The Dead Bridegroom 76. . . . 
 
 The Nightingale E. Taylor. . 
 
 Absence 76. . . . 
 
 The Faithless One 76. . . . 
 
 The Nightingale 76. . . . 
 
 The Hemlock-tree H.W.Longfellow. 
 
 Silent Love 76. . . . 
 
 The German Night-Watchman's Srng , . Anonymous. . 
 
 FOURTH PERIOD. — CENTURY XVI. 
 MARTIN LUTHER 
 
 Psalm Carlyle. . . 
 
 HEINRICH KNAUST 
 
 Dignity of the Clerk C. C. Fellon. 
 
 FIFTH PERIOD. —CENTURY XVII. 
 
 223 
 . 224 
 , 224 
 . 225 
 , 226 
 
 SIMON DACH 
 
 Annie of Tharaw 
 
 Blessed are the Dead 
 
 ABRAHAM A SANCTA CLARA . 
 
 Saint Anthony's Sermon to the Fishe 
 
 240 
 
 77. W. Longfellow. 240 
 • . 76. ... 240 
 241 
 
 Anonymous . . 241 
 
 SIXTH PERIOD. —FROM 1700 TO 1770. 
 JOHANN JACOB BODMER 
 
 The Deluge W. Taylor 
 
 FREDERIC HAGEDORN 
 
 The Merry Soap-boiler W. Taylor. 
 
 . 242 
 242 
 242 
 242 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ALBRECHT VON HALLER 243 
 
 Extract from Doris W. Taylor. . 243 
 
 CHRISTIAN FURCHTEGOTT GELLERT 244 
 
 The Widow C. T. Brooks. 244 
 
 EWALD CHRISTIAN VON KLEIST 245 
 
 Sighs for Rest W. Taylor. .245 
 
 JOHANN WILHELM LUDWIG GLEIM 246 
 
 War-song 76. ... 246 
 
 The Invitation S. 77. Whitman. 247 
 
 The Wanderer Macray. . . 247 
 
 FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK 247 
 
 Ode to God For. Rev. . .248 
 
 The Lake of Zurich W.Taylor. .249 
 
 To Young 76. ... 250 
 
 My Recovery lb. ... 250 
 
 The Choirs 76. ... 250 
 
 CARL WILHELM RAMLER 251 
 
 Ode to Winter lb. ... 251 
 
 Ode to Concord lb. ... 252 
 
 GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING 252 
 
 From Nathan the Wise 253 
 
 Sittah, Saladin, and Nathan lb. ... 253 
 
 SALOMON GESSNER 253 
 
 A Scene from the Deluge J. A. Heraud. 258 
 
 JOHANN GEORG JACOBI 260 
 
 Song Beresford. . 260 
 
 SEVENTH PERIOD. —FROM 1770 TO 1844. 
 
 CHRISTOPH MARTIN WIELAND 261 
 
 Extract from Oberon Sotheby. . . 263 
 
 GOTTLIEB CONRAD PFEFFEL 266 
 
 The Tobacco-pipe C.T.Brooks. 267 
 
 MATTHIAS CLAUDIUS 267 
 
 Rhine-wine Macray. . . 268 
 
 Winter C.T. Brooks. 268 
 
 The Hen N. Y. Rev. . 268 
 
 Night-song C.T. Brooks. 269 
 
 JOHANN GOTTFRIED VON HERDER 269 
 
 Voice of a Son W.Taylor. .271 
 
 Esthonian Bridal Bong lb. ... 271 
 
 Chance - lb. ... 271 
 
 To a Dragon-fiy lb. ... 271 
 
 The Organ C.T. Brooks. 271 
 
 A Legendary Ballad Mary Howitl. 272 
 
 CARL LUDWIG VON KNEBEI 273 
 
 Moonlight For. Quart. Rev. 273 
 
 Adrastea lb. ... 273 
 
 GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGER 274 
 
 Ellenore W. Taylor. . 275 
 
 The Brave Man N. Eng. Mag. 277 
 
 CHRISTIAN GRAF ZU STOLBERG 278 
 
 To my Brother For. Rev. . .278 
 
 LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HOLTY 279 
 
 Death of the Nightingale C.T.Brooks. 280 
 
 Harvest Song lb. . . . 280 
 
 Winter Song lb. ... 280 
 
 Elegy at the Grave of my Father lb. . . . 280 
 
 Country Life Frascr's Mag. 281 
 
 JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE 281 
 
 From Faust 288 
 
 Dedication Halleck. . . 288 
 
 The Cathedral Hnytcard. . . 288 
 
 May-day Night Shelley. . . 289 
 
 The Loved One ever near J. S. Dwighl. 294 
 
 Solace in Tears lb. ... 294 
 
 The Salutation of a Spirit O.Bancroft. .294 
 
 To the Moon J. S. Dwight. 294 
 
 Vnnitas 76. ... 295 
 
 Mahomet's Song 76. ... 295 
 
 Song of the Spirit 76. . . . 296 
 
 Prometheus 76. ... 296 
 
 . . . .297 
 
 FRIEDRICH LEOPOLD GRAF ZU STOLBERG 
 
 Song of Freedom W. Taylor. . 297 
 
 The Stream of the Rock W. W. Story. 298 
 
 To the Sea C.T. Brooks. 299 
 
 To the Evening Star For. Rev. . .299 
 
 The Seas 76. ... 299 
 
 Michael Angelo 76. ... 300 
 
 JOHANN HEINRICH VOSS 300 
 
 TbeBejrgar. An Idyl Fraser's Mag. 302 
 
 Extract from Luise 76. . . . 303 
 
 CHRISTOPH AUGUST T1EDGE 303 
 
 To the Memory of Korner C.T. Brooks. 304 
 
 The Wave of Life H.W. Longfellow. 304 
 
 LUDWIG TIIF.OBUL KOSEGARTEN 304 
 
 The Amen of the Stones C.T.Brooks. 304 
 
 Via Crucis, Via Lucls 76. ... 305 
 
 6 
 
 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER . 305 
 
 Song of the Bell S. A. Eliot. .309 
 
 The Entrance of the New Century . N. L. Frolhingham. 312 
 
 Knight Toggenburg Edinburgh Rev. 313 
 
 Indian Death-song N. L. Frolhingham. 313 
 
 The Division of the Earth C.P.Cranch. 314 
 
 Extract from Wallenstein's Camp . . . Moir. . . .314 
 
 The Glove: a Tal Bulwer. . .315 
 
 The Dance Merivale. . . 316 
 
 From Mary Stuart W. Peter. . . 767 
 
 From Don Carlos G. 77. Calvert. 768 
 
 From the Death of Wallenstein .... Coleridge. .769 
 
 JOHANN PETER HEBEL 316 
 
 Sunday Morning F. Graetsr. .317 
 
 FRIEDRICH VON MATTHISSON 317 
 
 Elegy Knickerbocker. 318 
 
 The Spring Evening Anonymous. .318 
 
 For ever thine Macray. . . 319 
 
 AUGUST FRIEDRICH FERDINAND VON KOTZEBUE . 319 
 
 From the Tragedy of Hugo Grolius 319 
 
 The Flight from Prison W.Taylor. .319 
 
 From the Tragedy of Gustavus Wasa 322 
 
 The Arrest and Escape 76. ... 322 
 
 JOHANN GAUDENZ VON SALIS 326 
 
 Cheerfulness Anonymous. . 326 
 
 Song of the Silent Land H.W. Longfellow. 326 
 
 Harvest Song C.T. Brooks. 326 
 
 The Grave Cower. . . 327 
 
 VALERIUS WILHELM NEUBECK 327 
 
 The Praise of Iron Beresford. . 327 
 
 FRIEDRICH LUDWIG ZACHARIAS WERNER . . .328 
 
 From the Templars in Cyprus 329 
 
 Adalbert in the Church of the Templars . Carlyle. . .329 
 Adalbert in the Cemetery ....... lb. . . . 330 
 
 ERNST MORITZ ARNDT 332 
 
 The German Fatherland Macray. . . 332 
 
 Field-Marshal Blucher C. C. Fellon. 333 
 
 LUDWIG TIECK 333 
 
 Spring C.T. Brooks. 334 
 
 Song from Bluebeard Blackwood' s Mag. 334 
 
 LUDOLF ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO 334 
 
 The Last Sonnets Anonymous. . 335 
 
 JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND 336 
 
 The Luck of Edenhall 77. W. Longfellow. 337 
 
 The Mountain Boy Anonymous. . 337 
 
 On the Death ofa Country Clergyman . . W. W.Story. 337 
 
 The Castle hv the Sea 77. W. Longfellow. 337 
 
 The Black Knight 76. ... 338 
 
 The Dream Edinburgh Rev. 338 
 
 The Passage 76. ... 338 
 
 The Nun For. Quart. Rev. 339 
 
 The Serenade 76. ... 339 
 
 The Wreath 76. ... 339 
 
 To 76. ... 339 
 
 ERNST CONRAD FRIEDRICH SCHULZE 339 
 
 Song W. Taylor. . 340 
 
 The Huntsman Death 76. ... 340 
 
 May Lilies 75. ... 340 
 
 Extract from Cecilia 76. ... 340 
 
 FRIEDRICH RUCKERT " 341 
 
 Strung Pearls TV. L. Frolhingham. 341 
 
 The Sun and the Brook J.S.Dwight. 343 
 
 Nature more than Science .... Dublin Univ. Mag. 343 
 
 The Patriot's Lament C. C. Felton. 343 
 
 Christkinillein German Wreath. 344 
 
 JOSEPH CHRISTIAN VON ZEDLITZ 345 
 
 The Midnight Review Anonymous. . 345 
 
 KARL THEODOR KORNER .345 
 
 My Fatherland Richardson. . 346 
 
 Good Night 76. ... 346 
 
 Sword-song Charley. . . 346 
 
 The Oak-trees 76. ... 347 
 
 ADOLF LUDWIG FOLLEN 347 
 
 Blucher'sBall C. C. Fellon. 348 
 
 WILHELM MULLER 348 
 
 The Bird and the Ship H.W. Longfellow. 343 
 
 Whither? 76. ... 349 
 
 AUGUST GRAF VON PLATEN-HALLERMUNDS . . .349 
 Sonnets Anonymous. . 349 
 
 HEINRICH HEINE 349 
 
 The Voyage Edinburgh Rev. 350 
 
 The Tear 76. ... 350 
 
 The Evening Gossip 76. . . . 35S 
 
 The Lore-lei 76. ... 351 
 
 The Hostile Brothers . . . : 76. ... 351 
 
 The Sea hath its Pearls H.W. Longfellow. 351 
 
 The Fir-tree and the Palm W. W. Story. 351 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 AUG. HEESTRICH HOFFMANN VON FALLERSLEBEN 352 
 
 On the Walhalla hand. Athenaum. 352 
 
 Lamentation for the Golden Age 76. ... 353 
 
 German National Wealth 76. ... 353 
 
 DIETRICH CHRISTIAN GRABBE 353 
 
 Extract from Cinderella Blackwood's Mag. 354 
 
 KARL EIMROCK 355 
 
 Warning against the Rhine .."... C. C. Fellon. 355 
 
 JULIUS MOSEN 355 
 
 The Statue over the Cathedral Door . H. W. Longfellow. 355 
 The Legend of the Croesbill lb. . . . 356 
 
 ANTON ALEXANDER VON AUERSPERG 356 
 
 Saloon Scene Lond. Athenaum. 356 
 
 The Censor lb. ... 357 
 
 The Customs-cordon lb. ... 357 
 
 The Last Poet N. L. Frolhingham. 358 
 
 Henry Frauenlob Edinburgh Rev. 358 
 
 GUSTAV PFIZER 359 
 
 The Two Locks of Hair 77. W. Longfellow. 359 
 
 FERDINAND FREILIGRATH 359 
 
 The Moorish Prince C.T.Brooks. 360 
 
 The Emigrants lb. ... 361 
 
 The Lion's Ride Dublin Univ. Mag. 361 
 
 Iceland-moss Tea lb. ... 362 
 
 The Sheik of Mount Sinai lb. . . . 363 
 
 To a Skating Negro lb. ... 363 
 
 The Alexandrine Metre lb. ... 364 
 
 The King of Congo and his Hundred Wives . lb. . . .364 
 
 Sand-songs lb. ... 365 
 
 My Themes lb. ... 366 
 
 Grabbe's Death Jb. ... 367 
 
 FRANZ DINGELSTEDT 368 
 
 The Watchman Lond. Athenaum. 368 
 
 The German Prince lb. ... 368 
 
 GEORG HERWEGH 369 
 
 The Fatherland For, Quart. Rev. 369 
 
 The Song ofHatred lb. . . . 369 
 
 The Protest lb. ... 369 
 
 To a Poetess lb. ... 370 
 
 BENED1KT DALEI 370 
 
 Enviable Poverty Lond. Athenaum. 370 
 
 The Walk lb. ... 370 
 
 DUTCH. 
 
 DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY 371 
 
 BALLADS 377 
 
 The Hunter from Greece Bowring. . . 377 
 
 The Fettered Nightingale lb. ... 377 
 
 The Knight and his Squire lb. . . . 378 
 
 The Three Maidens For. Quart. Rev. 378 
 
 Day in the east is dawning lb. . . . 378 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 379 
 
 JACOB CATS 379 
 
 The Ivy Bowring. . . 379 
 
 The Statue of Memnon Jb. . . . 379 
 
 PIETER CORNELIS HOOFT 379 
 
 Anacreontic 76. ... 380 
 
 MARIA TESSELSCHADE VISSCHER 380 
 
 The Nightingale lb. ... 380 
 
 HUIG DE GROOT 381 
 
 Sonnet lb. ... 381 
 
 JAN DE BRUNE 381 
 
 Song lb. ... 381 
 
 GERBRAND BREDERODE 382 
 
 Song lb. ... 382 
 
 DIRK RAFAEL KAMPHUYZEN 382 
 
 Psalm CXXXIII lb. ... 382 
 
 JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL 383 
 
 ToGeeraert Vossius, on the LossorhisSon .lb. . . .383 
 Chorus from Gyabrecht van Aemslel . . . lb. . . . 384 
 
 Chorus from Palamcdes lb. ... 384 
 
 Chorus of Batavian Women lb. . . . 335 
 
 CONSTANTIJN HUIJGENS 386 
 
 A King lb. ... 387 
 
 JACOB WESTERBAEN 387 
 
 Song 76. ... 387 
 
 Song 76. ... 388 
 
 JEREMIAS DE DECKER 388 
 
 To a Brother who died at Batavin .... 76. . . . 388 
 Ode to my Mother 76. ... 389 
 
 REINIER ANSLO 390 
 
 From the Plague of Naples 76. ... 390 
 
 IOANNES ANTONIDES VAN DER GOES 39! 
 
 Overthrow of the Turks 76. . . . 891 
 
 JAN VAN BROEKHUIZEN 392 
 
 Song Bowring. . . 392 
 
 Sonnet 76. ... 392 
 
 Morning Jb. ... 392 
 
 DIRK SMITS 393 
 
 On the Death of an Infant Van Dyk. . .393 
 
 WILLEM BILDERDIJK 393 
 
 Ode to Beauty Westminster Rev. 394 
 
 The Roses Van Dyk. . . 395 
 
 JACOB BELLAMY 771 
 
 Ode to God Bowring. . . 772 
 
 H. TOLLENS 396 
 
 Summer Morning's Song Westminster Rev. 396 
 
 Winter Evening's Song For. Quart. Rev. 396 
 
 John a' SchofTelaar Van Dyk. . . 397 
 
 Birthday Verses 76, ... 398 
 
 ELIAS ANNE BORGER 399 
 
 Ode to the Rhine For. Quart. Rev. 399 
 
 DA COSTA 400 
 
 Introduction to a Hymn on Providence . Westminster Rev. 40C 
 The Sabbath For. Quart. Rev. 401 
 
 KINKER 401 
 
 Virtue and Truth Westminster Rev. 401 
 
 LOOTS 402 
 
 The Nightingale 76. , . . 402 
 
 WITHUIS 402 
 
 Ode to Time For. Quart. Rev. 402 
 
 FRENCH. 
 
 403 
 
 FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY 
 
 FIRST PERIOD. — CENTURIES XII., XIII. 
 JONGLEURS, TROUVERES, AND TROUBADOURS 
 
 I. — CHANSONS DE GESTE, ETC 414 
 
 Death of Archbishop Turpin .... 77. W. Longfellow. 414 
 
 From the Roman du Rou 414 
 
 Duke William at Rouen Blackwood' s Mag. 415 
 
 Richard'B Escape 76. ... 416 
 
 The Lay of the Little Bird Way. . . .416 
 
 Paradise . • Blackwood's Mag. 418 
 
 The Gentle Bachelor Way. . . .419 
 
 The Priest who ate Mulberries 76. ... 419 
 
 The Land ofCokaigne 76. 
 
 The Lay of Bisclaveret Costello. 
 
 From the Romaunt of the Rose .... Chaucer. 
 
 414 
 
 420 
 
 423 
 
 II. — LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUVERES 425 
 
 LE CHATELAIN DE COUCY 425 
 
 My wandering thoughts awake to love anew Costello. . .425 
 The first approach of the sweet spring . . E. Taylor. . 425 
 
 HUGUES D'ATHIES 425 
 
 Fool I who from choice can spend his hours .lb. ... 425 
 
 THIBAUD DE BLAZON 426 
 
 lam to blame 1 — Why should I sing? . . Costello. . .426 
 
 THIBAUD, KING OF NAVARRE 426 
 
 Lady, the fates command, and I must go . E. Taylor. . 426 
 
 GACE BRULEZ 426 
 
 The birds, the birds of mine own land ... 76. . . .426 
 
 RAOUL, COMTE DE SOISSONS 427 
 
 Ah I beauteous maid 76. ... 427 
 
 JAQ.UES DE CHISON 427 
 
 When the sweet daysof summercome at last .76. . . .427 
 
 DOETE DE TROIES 427 
 
 When comes the beauteous summer time . . 76. . . . 427 
 
 BARBE DE VERRUE 427 
 
 The wise man sees his winter close .... 76. . . . 427 
 THE AUTHOR OF THE PARADISE OF LOVE .... 428 
 
 Hark I hark I 76. ... 428 
 
 III. — LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS . . .428 
 
 GUILLAUME, COMTE DE POITOU 428 
 
 428 
 129 
 129 
 J29 
 429 
 429 
 4C9 
 430 
 43C 
 
 r brow 
 
 Costello. 
 . lb. . 
 . Jb. . 
 . Jb. . 
 
 Anew I tune my lute to love 
 PIERRE ROGIERS . . 
 
 Who has not looked upon h' 
 GEOFFROl RUDEL 
 
 Around, above, on every spray . . . 
 GAUCEI.M FAIDIT 
 
 And must thy chords, my lute, be strun 
 GUILLAUME DE CABESTAING 
 
 No, never since the fatal time 76. 
 
 LA COMTESSE DE PROVENCE 431 
 
 I fain would think thou hast a heart .... 76. . . . 431 
 THE MONK OF MONTAUDON 431 
 
 I love the court by wit and worth adorned . . lb. . . .431 
 CLAIRE D'ANDUZE 431 
 
 They who may blame my tenderness ... 76. ... 431 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ARNAUD DANIEL 431 
 
 When leaves and flowers are newly springing Costcllo, . . 432 
 BERNARD DE VENTADOUR 432 
 
 When I behold the lark upspring . . . E. Taylor. . 432 
 FOULQ.UES DE MARSEILLE 432 
 
 I would not any man should hear .... lb. . . . 432 
 BERTRAND DE BORN 433 
 
 Lady, since tbou hast driven me forth . . . lb. . . .433 
 
 The beautiful spring delights me well . . . lb. ... 434 
 ARNAUD DE MARVEIL 434 
 
 O, how sweet the breeze of April .... lb. . . . 434 
 PIERRE VIDAL 435 
 
 Of all sweet birds, I love the most . ... lb. . . . 435 
 PIERRE D'AUVERGNE 435 
 
 Go, nightingale, and find the beauty I adore . lb. ... 435 
 GIRAUD DE BORNEII 436 
 
 Companion dear 1 or sleeping or awaking . . lb. ... 436 
 TOMIERS 436 
 
 I '11 make a song shall utter forth lb. . . . 436 
 
 RICHARD CCEUR-DE-LION 437 
 
 No captive knight, whom chains confine . Anonymous. .437 
 
 SECOND PERIOD. —CENTURIES XIV., XV. 
 
 JEAN FROISSART 437 
 
 Triolet Costello. . . 437 
 
 Virelay lb. ... 438 
 
 Rondel H.W. Longfellow. 438 
 
 CHRISTINE DE PISAN 438 
 
 Rondel Costello. . . 438 
 
 On the Death of her Father lb. . . . 438 
 
 ALAIN CHARTIER 438 
 
 From La Belle Dame sana Mercy . . . . Chaucer. . .439 
 
 CHARLES D'ORLEANS 440 
 
 Rondel H. W. Longfellow. 440 
 
 Renouveau lb. ... 440 
 
 Renouveau lb. ... 440 
 
 Son? Costello. . . 441 
 
 Son' lb. ... 441 
 
 Song lb. ... 441 
 
 Song lb- ... 441 
 
 CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE 441 
 
 Tne Child Asleep H. W.Longfellow. 441 
 
 FRANCOIS VILLON' 442 
 
 The Ballad of Dead Ladies .... DO. Bo-setd. . 442 
 
 MARTIAL DE PARIS, DIT D'AUVERGNE 442 
 
 The Advantages of Adversity Costello. . .442 
 
 Song lb. ... 443 
 
 GUILLAUME CRETIN 443 
 
 Song lb. ... 443 
 
 -JLEMENCE ISAURE 443 
 
 Song lb. ... 443 
 
 Song lb. ... 443 
 
 THIRD PERIOD.- FROM 1500 TO 1650. 
 
 MELLIN DE SAINT-GELAIS 444 
 
 Huitnin Costello. . . 444 
 
 MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, REINE DE NAVARRE . . 444 
 On the Death of her Brother, Francis the First Costello. . 444 
 
 FRANCOIS 1 444 
 
 Epitaph on Francoise de Foil lb. ... 444 
 
 Epitaph on Agnes Sorel lb. . . . 444 
 
 CLEMENT MAROT 445 
 
 Friar Lubia H.W. Longfellow. 445 
 
 To Anne Costello. . . 445 
 
 The Portrait lb. ... 445 
 
 Huilain lb. ... 445 
 
 To Diane de Poitiera lb. ... 445 
 
 HENRI II 445 
 
 To Diane de Poitiers lb. ... 446 
 
 PIERRE DE RONSARD 446 
 
 To his Lyre lb. ... 446 
 
 Loves lb. ... 447 
 
 To Mary Stuart lb. ... 447 
 
 JOACHIM DU BELLAY 447 
 
 From the Visions Spenser. . . 447 
 
 JEAN DORAT 448 
 
 To Catherine de Media's, Regent . . . Costello. . .449 
 
 LOUISE LABE 449 
 
 Sonnet lb. ... 449 
 
 Elegy lb. ... 449 
 
 REMI BELLEAli 450 
 
 The Pearl lb. ... 450 
 
 April lb. ... 450 
 
 JEAN ANTOINE DE BAIP 451 
 
 The Calculation of Life lb. . . . 451 
 
 Epitaph on Rabelaifl lb. ... 451 
 
 ETIENNE JODELLE 451 
 
 To Madame de Primadi Corlello. . . 451 
 
 AMADIS JAMYN 452 
 
 Calliree lb. ... 452 
 
 MARIE STUART 452 
 
 On the Death of her Husband, Francis II. Anonymous. . 452 
 Farewell to France Jo. ... 452 
 
 PHILIPPE DESPORTES 453 
 
 Diane Costello. . . 453 
 
 JEAN BERTAUT 453 
 
 Loneliness lb. ... 453 
 
 HENRI IV 453 
 
 Charming Gabrielle lb. ... 453 
 
 D'HUXATIME 454 
 
 Repentance lb. . . . 454 
 
 FOURTH PERIOD. — FROM 1650 TO 1700. 
 
 PIERRE CORNEILLE 455 
 
 From the Tragedy of the Cid Colley Cibber. 456 
 
 JEAN-BAPTISTE POCQ.UELIN DE MOLIERE .... 459 
 From the Misanthrope Lady's Ann. Reg. 460 
 
 JEAN DE LA FONTAINE 461 
 
 The Council held by the Rats E.Wright. .462 
 
 The Cat and the Old Rat lb. ... 463 
 
 The Cock and the For lb. ... 463 
 
 The Wolf and the Dog lb. . . . 464 
 
 The Crow and the Fox Anonymous. . 464 
 
 NICHOLAS BOILEAU DESPREAUX 464 
 
 Ninth Satire N. A. Rev. .465 
 
 JEAN RACINE 469 
 
 From the Tragedy of Andromaque . . Ambrose Philips. 470 
 
 FIFTH PERIOD. —CENTURY XVIII. 
 
 ANONYMOUS 472 
 
 Malbrouck Fraser's Mag. 472 
 
 FRANCOIS-MARIE AROUET DE VOLTAIRE .... 472 
 
 From the Tragedy of Alzira 474 
 
 Alzira's Soliloqtiy Aaron Hill. . 474 
 
 Dun Alvarez, Don Guzman, and Alzira . . lb. . . . 474 
 
 JEAN-BAPTISTE-LOUIS GRESSET 476 
 
 Ver-Vert, the Parrot 477 
 
 His Original Innocence Fraser's Mag. 477 
 
 His Fatal Renown lb. . . . 477 
 
 His Evil Voyage lb. ... 478 
 
 The Awful Discovery lb. . . . 479 
 
 JOSEPH ROUGET-DE-L'ISLE 481 
 
 The Marseilles Hymn Anonymous. . 481 
 
 SIXTH PERIOD. — FROM 1800 TO 1844. 
 
 FRANCOIS-AUGUSTE, VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND 481 
 Jeune Fille et J^une Fleur ... . . Anonymous. . 482 
 Home lb. ... 773 
 
 CHARLES DE CHENEDOLLE 482 
 
 Ode to the Sea London Mag. 482 
 
 The Young Matron among the Ruins of Rome lb. . . . 483 
 Regrets lb. ... 483 
 
 CHARLES-HUBERT MILLEVOYE 484 
 
 The Fall of the Leaves Fraser's Mag. 484 
 
 Pray for me lb. ... 484 
 
 PIERRE-JEAN DE BERANGER 485 
 
 The Little Brown Man Tail's Mag. . 485 
 
 The Old Vagabond lb. ... 485 
 
 The Garret Fraser's Mag. 486 
 
 The Shooting Stars Anonymous. . 486 
 
 Louis the Eleventh Fraser's Mag. 487 
 
 The Songs of the People lb. . . . 487 
 
 ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE 487 
 
 On leaving France for the East . . . For. Quart. Rev. 488 
 
 The Guardian Angel Knickerbocker. 489 
 
 Hymn lb. ... 490 
 
 JEAN-FRANCOIS CASIMIR DELAVIGNE 491 
 
 Battle of Waterloo London Mag. 491 
 
 Parthenope and the Stranger lb. ... 492 
 
 La Parisienne Reynolds. . . 493 
 
 VICTOR-MARIE HUGO 494 
 
 Infancy For. Quart. Rev. 494 
 
 Her Name Dublin Univ. Mag. 495 
 
 The Veil Democratic Rev. 495 
 
 The Djinns lb. ... 496 
 
 Moonlight lb. ... 497 
 
 The Sack of the City lb. ... 497 
 
 Expectation lb. . . . 497 
 
 AMABLE TASTU 497 
 
 Leaves of the Willow-tree Phaser's Mag. 497 
 
 Death lb. ... 498 
 
 The Echo of the Harp lb. ... 499 
 
 AUGUSTE BARBIER 49S 
 
 The Bronze Statue of Napoleon . . . For. Quart. Rev. 499 
 Sonnet to irUtiame Roland lb. .500 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ITALIAN. 
 
 ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY 501 
 
 FIRST PERIOD.— CENTURIES XIII., XIV. 
 GUIDO GUINICELLI 511 
 
 Tie Nature of Love H.W.Longfellow. 511 
 
 PRA GUITTONE D' AREZZO 511 
 
 Sonnets London Mag. 511 
 
 LAPO GIANNI 512 
 
 Canzone lb. ... 012 
 
 DANTE ALIGHIERI 512 
 
 Sonnets from the Vita Nuova 516 
 
 What is Love 3 Lyell. ... 516 
 
 Loveliness of Beatrice lb. . . . 516 
 
 Beatrice's Salutation lb. ... 516 
 
 The Anniversary lb. ... 516 
 
 The Pilgrims lb. ... 517 
 
 Sonnets from the Canzoniere 517 
 
 The Curse lb. ... 517 
 
 The Farewell lb. ... 517 
 
 Beauty and Virtue lb. ... 517 
 
 The Lover lb. ... 517 
 
 To Guido Cavalcanti lb. ... 517 
 
 ToBossone d' Agobio lb. . . . 517 
 
 Canzoni from the Vita Nuova 518 
 
 Vision of Beatrice's Death lb. ... 518 
 
 Dirge of Beatrice lb. . . . 518 
 
 Canzoni from the Canzoniere 519 
 
 Beatrice lb. ... 519 
 
 Farewell lb. ... 520 
 
 Canzone from the Convito 520 
 
 Philosophy lb. ... 520 
 
 From the Divina Commedia. — Inferno 521 
 
 Francesca da Rimini Byron. . . .521 
 
 Farinata T.W. Parsons. 521 
 
 From the Divina Commedia. — Purgatorio 522 
 
 ■"he Celestial Pilot H.W. Longfellow. 522 
 
 The Terrestrial Paradise lb. ... 522 
 
 Beatrice lb. ... 523 
 
 From the Divina Commedia. — Paradiso 523 
 
 Spirits in the Planet Mercury .... J. C. Wright. 523 
 
 Spirits in the Sun lb. ... 524 
 
 Heavenly Justice lb. ... 524 
 
 Beatrice F.C. Gray. . 524 
 
 FRANCESCO PETRARCA 524 
 
 Sonnets 527 
 
 The palmer bent, with loclrs of silver-gray Lady Dacre. . 527 
 Poor, solitary bird, that pour'st thy lay . . lb. . . .528 
 Alone and pensive, the deserted strand . G. W. Greene. 528 
 The soft west wind, returning, brings ngain lb. . . .528 
 Swift current, that from rocky Alpine vein .lb. . . .528 
 In tears I trace the memory of the days . . lb. . . .528 
 In what ideal world or part of heaven . T. Roscoe. .528 
 Creatures there be, of sight so keen and high lb. . . .528 
 Waved to the winds were those long locks . lb. . . .528 
 Those eyes, my bright and glowing theme .lb. ... 529 
 I feel the well known breeze lb. ... 529 
 
 Canzoni 529 
 
 In the still evening, when with rapid flight Lady Dacre. .529 
 
 Ye waters clear and fresh lb. . . . 529 
 
 From hill to hill I roam lb. ... 530 
 
 my own Italy I though words are vain .lb. ... 531 
 Visions Spenser. . . 532 
 
 GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO 533 
 
 Dante F. C. Gray. . 534 
 
 Songs from the Decamerone 534 
 
 Cupid, the charms that crown my fair . Anonymous. .534 
 Go, Love, and to my lord declare . ... lb. ... 534 
 
 SECOND PERIOD. — CENTURY XV. 
 
 LUIGI PULOI 535 
 
 From the Morgante Maggiore 535 
 
 Orlando and the Giant Byron. ... 535 
 
 Morgante at the Convent lb. . . . 537 
 
 MATTEO MARIA BOJARDO 539 
 
 Sonnets 639 
 
 Beautiful gift, and dearest pledge of love For. Quart. Rev. 539 
 
 1 saw that lovely cheek grow wan and pale . lb. ... 539 
 LORENZO DE' MEDICI 539 
 
 Stanzas London Mag. 540 
 
 Sonnet lb. ... 540 
 
 Orazione W. Roscoe. . 541 
 
 ANGELO POLIZIANO 541 
 
 From the Stanze sopra la GioBtra . . . W. Parr Greswell. 541 
 
 The Mountain Maid lb. ... 542 
 
 Europa T. Roscoe. . 543 
 
 ANTONIO TIEALDEO 543 
 
 Sonnet 543 
 
 From Cyprus' iBle London Mag. 543 
 
 Lord of my love I my soul's far dearer part .lb. ... 543 
 
 ANDREA DEL BASSO 543 
 
 Ode to a Dead Body Leigh Hunt. . 543 
 
 JACOPO SANNAZZARO 544 
 
 Elegy from the Arcadia ....... T. Roscoe. . 545 
 
 Sonnets B45 
 
 Beloved, weN thou know'st howmany ayear lb. . . .545 
 
 thou, so long the Muse's favorite theme W. Roscoe. .546 
 Stanze Mrs. Hemans. 545 
 
 THIRD PERIOD. — CENTURY XVI. 
 PIETRO BEMBO 546 
 
 Sonnets 546 
 
 To Italy V. S. Lit. Gaz.StG 
 
 Turning to God lb. ... 546 
 
 Solitude London Mag. 547 
 
 Death Mrs. Hemans. 547 
 
 Politiani Tumulus W. Roscoe. .547 
 
 LODOVICO ARIOSTO 547 
 
 Sonnet London Mag. 549 
 
 From the Capitoli Amorosi 550 
 
 The Laurel lb. ... 550 
 
 From the Orlando Furioso 550 
 
 Orlando's Madness Rose. . . . 550 
 
 MICHEL ANGELO BUONAROTTI 553 
 
 Sonnets 553 
 
 Yes I hope may with my strong desire . Wordsworth. 553 
 No mortal object did these eyes behold . . lb. . . . 553 
 The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed lb. . . . 554 
 
 My wave-worn bark London Mag. 554 
 
 If it be true that any beauteous thing . J.E.Taylor. 554 
 O, blessed ye who find in heaven the joy . lb. ... 551 
 How, lady, can it be,— which yet is shown . lb. . . . 554 
 Thou high-born spirit, on whose countenance lb. . . .554 
 Return me to the time when loose the curb lb. ... 554 
 Already full of years and heaviness . . . lb. ... 555 
 If much delay doth oft lead the desire . . lb. . . . 555 
 
 1 scarce beheld on earth those beauteous eyes lb. ... 555 
 On Dante lb. ... 555 
 
 Canzone lb. ... 555 
 
 Song lb. ... 556 
 
 GALEAZZO DI TARSIA 556 
 
 Sonnet London Mag. 556 
 
 GIROLAMO FRACASTORO 556 
 
 Sonnets 556 
 
 To a Lady U.S. Lit. Gaz. 656 
 
 Homer London Mag. 556 
 
 VITTORIA COLONNA 556 
 
 Sonnets 557 
 
 Father of heaven I if by thy mercy's grace .lb. . . .557 
 Blest union, that in heaven was ordained J. E. Taylor. 557 
 
 CLAUDIO TOLOMEI 557 
 
 Sonnet. — To the EveningStar .... London Mag. 558 
 
 BERNARDO TASSO 558 
 
 Sonnet lb. ... 559 
 
 AGNOLO FIRENZUOLA 559 
 
 Sonnet lb. ... 559 
 
 LUIGI ALAMANNI 559 
 
 Sonnets 560 
 
 To Italy U.S. Rev. . . 560 
 
 Pelrarca'B Retreat lb. ... 560 
 
 GIOVANNI GUID1CCIONI 560 
 
 Sonnets 560 
 
 To Rome V. S.Lit. Gat. 560 
 
 To Italy lb. ... 560 
 
 FRANCESCO BERNI DA BIBBIENA 560 
 
 From the Orlando Innamorato 561 
 
 The Author's own Portrait Rose. . . .561 
 
 The Two Fountains in the Forest of Arden . lb. . . .563 
 
 Microcosmos lb. . . . 563 
 
 BENEDETTO VARCHI 564 
 
 Sonnet. — On the Tomb of Petrarca . . . U. S. Lit. Gaz. 564 
 
 GIOVANNI DELLA CASA 565 
 
 Sonnets 565 
 
 Sweet lonely wood, that like a friend . London Mag. 565 
 
 Venice Mrs. Hemans. 565 
 
 ANGELO DI COSTANZO 565 
 
 Sonnet London Mag. 565 
 
 BERNARDINO ROTA 566 
 
 Sonnet. — On the Death of Porzia Capcce . V. S. Lit. Gaz. 566 
 
 LUIGI TANSILLO 566 
 
 FromLaBalia 566 
 
 The Mother W. Roscoe. . 566 
 
 The Hireling Nurse lb. ... 567 
 
 GIOVANNI BATT1STA GUARINI 567 
 
 From II Pastor Fido Fanshaw. . . 568 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 TORQ.UATO TASSO 568 
 
 From Aminla 570 
 
 The Golden Ag« Leigh Hunt. . 570 
 
 From La Gerusalemme 570 
 
 Arrival of the Crusaders at Jerusalem . Fairfax. . . 570 
 Erminia's Flight 76. ... 571 
 
 Canzone. — To the Princesses of Ferrara . Wilde. . . . 573 
 
 Sonnets 574 
 
 If Love his captive bind with ties so dear London Mag. 774 
 Thy unripe youth seemed like the purple rose lb. . . .574 
 I see the anchored bark with streamers gay lb. ... 571 
 Three high-born dames it was my lot to see Wilde. . . .574 
 While of the age in which the heart but ill lb. . . .574 
 Till Lauracornes, — who now, alas . . . lb. . . . 575 
 To his Lady, the Spouse of another . . . lb. . . . 575 
 
 To the Duchess of Ferrara lb. . . . 575 
 
 On two Beautiful Ladies, one gay and one sad lb. ... 575 
 
 To the Countess of Scandia lb. ... 575 
 
 To an Ungrateful Friend lb. ... 575 
 
 To Lamberto, against a Calumny . . . . lb. . . .576 
 He compares himself to Ulysses . ... lb. ... 576 
 
 To Alphonso, Duke of Ferrara lb. . . . 576 
 
 A hell of torment is this life of mine ... 76. ... 576 
 
 To the Duke Alphonso lb. ... 576 
 
 To IheDuke Alphonso, askingto be liberated lb. . . .576 
 
 To the Princesses of Ferrara lb. . . . 576 
 
 To the Most Illustrious and Serene Lord Duke lb. . . .577 
 
 To Scipio Gonzaga lb. ... 577 
 
 FOURTH PERIOD. — FROM 1600 TO 1844. 
 GABRIELLO CHIABRERA .577 
 
 To his Mistress's Lips London Mag. 577 
 
 Epitaphs Wordsworth. . 578 
 
 ALESSANDRO TASSONI 580 
 
 From LaSecchiaRapita 580 
 
 The Attack on Modena Ozell. . . .580 
 
 The Bucket of Bologna lb. . . . 581 
 
 GUMBATTISTA MARINI 6S2 
 
 Fading Beauty Daniel. . . 582 
 
 lb. — Supplementary Stanzas Anony?nous. . 773 
 
 FRANCESCO REDI 583 
 
 From Bacchus in Tuscany 583 
 
 His Opinion of Wine and other Beverages Leigh Hunt. .583 
 
 Ice necessary to Wine lb. ... 584 
 
 Bacchus grows musical in his Cups . . . lb. ... 585 
 
 Good Wine a Gentleman lb. . . . 585 
 
 The Praise of Chianti Wine lb. ... 585 
 
 A Tune on the Water lb. ... 586 
 
 Montepulciano Inaugurated lb. . . ■ 586 
 
 VINCENZO DA FILICAJA 586 
 
 Canzone. — The Siege of Vienna . . . U.S.Lil. Gaz. 587 
 
 Sonnets 588 
 
 To Italy lb. ... 588 
 
 On the Earthquake of Sicily lb. . . . 588 
 
 Time Anonymous. . 588 
 
 BENEDETTO MENZINI 588 
 
 Cupid's Revenge London Mag. 588 
 
 ALESSANDRO GUIDI 589 
 
 Canzoni 589 
 
 Fortune Milman. . . 589 
 
 To the Tiber Eraser's Mag. 591 
 
 CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO 592 
 
 Sonnet Mrs. Hemans. 592 
 
 GIOVANNI COTTA 592 
 
 Sonnet London Mag. 592 
 
 GIOVANNI BARTOLOMMEO CASAREGI 592 
 
 Sonnet lb. ... 593 
 
 PIETRO METASTASIO 593 
 
 From the Drama of Titus 693 
 
 Titus, Publius, Annius, and Sextus . . Hoole. . . .593 
 
 Annius and Servilia lb. ... 595 
 
 CARLO GOLDONI 595 
 
 Cecilia's Dream For. Rev. . . 596 
 
 Carlo gozzi 596 
 
 FromTurandot Blackwood's Mag. 596 
 
 GIUSEPPE PARINI 699 
 
 From II Giorno lb. ... 600 
 
 LUIGI VITTORIO SAVIOLI 600 
 
 To Solitude U.S. Lit. Gaz. 601 
 
 VITTORIO ALFIERI 601 
 
 From the First Brutus 604 
 
 Brutus and Collatinus Lloyd. . . .604 
 
 Brutus, C'ollatinus, and People lb. ... 605 
 
 VINCENZO MONTI 607 
 
 From the Bassevilliana 608 
 
 The Soul's Doom For. Quart. Rev. 608 
 
 The Soul's Arrival in Paris lb. . . . 608 
 
 Vhe Passion of Christ Fraser's Mag. 6U8 
 
 IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE 610 
 
 From the Tragedy of Arminio 610 
 
 Lament of the Aged Bards .... For. Quart. Rev. 610 
 Lament on the Death of Baldur . . Blackwood's Mag. 611 
 
 Night Am. Quart. Rev. 774 
 
 NICCOLO UGO FOSCOLO 612 
 
 To Luigia Pallavicini For. Rev. . . 612 
 
 The Sepulchres Am. Quart. Rev. 774 
 
 ALESSANDRO MANZONI 513 
 
 II Cinque Maggio F.C. Gray. . SI4 
 
 Chorus from the Conte di Carmagnola . . Mrs. Hemans. 614 
 GIOVANNI BATTISTA NICCOLINI 616 
 
 From the Tragedy of Nabucco .... For. Quart. Rev. 616 
 SILVIO PELLICO 617 
 
 Canzone, written in Prison Knickerbocker. 618 
 
 TOMMASO SGRICCI 618 
 
 From La Morte di Carlo I For. Quart. Rev. 618 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS IN THE ITALIAN DIALECTS 619 
 CALABRIAN 619 
 
 Popular Song N. A. Rev. .619 
 
 NEAPOLITAN 619 
 
 Christmas Carol lb. ... 619 
 
 Soldier's Song 76. ... 619 
 
 Song lb. ... 620 
 
 FLORENTINE 620 
 
 From the Tancia of Michel Angelo . ... lb. . . . 620 
 MILANESE 620 
 
 From the Fuggitiva of Tommaso Grossi . . lb. ... 620 
 GENOESE 620 
 
 Song. — By Cicala Casero lb. ... 620 
 
 SPANISH. 
 
 SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY 621 
 
 FIRST PERIOD. — FROM 1150 TO 1500. 
 FROM THE POEMA DEL CID 632 
 
 Argument 632 
 
 The Cid and the Infantes de Carrion . . Frere. . . .632 
 ALFONSO THE SECOND, KING OF ARAGON .... 634 
 
 Song E. Taylor. . 634 
 
 GONZALO DE BERCEO 635 
 
 From the Vida de San Millan N. A. Rev. . 635 
 
 From the Milagros de Nuestra Senora 635 
 
 Introduction lb. ... 635 
 
 San Miguel de la Tumba 76. ... 636 
 
 ALFONSO THE TENTH, KING OF CASTILE .... 637 
 
 From the Libro del Tesoro Retrospective Rev. 637 
 
 JUAN LORENZO DE ASTORGA 638 
 
 From the Poemade Alexandro 76. . . . 638 
 
 MOSSEN JORDI DE SAN JORDI 638 
 
 Song of Contraries 76. ... 638 
 
 DON JUAN MANUEL 639 
 
 Ballad Bowring. . . 639 
 
 JUAN RUIZ DE HITA 640 
 
 Praiseof Little Women N.A.Rev. .640 
 
 Hymn to the Virgin Retrospective Rev. 641 
 
 Love 76. ... 641 
 
 RABBI DON SANTOB, OR SANTO 641 
 
 The Dance of Death lb. ... 641 
 
 BALLADS 642 
 
 I. — HISTORICAL BALLADS 642 
 
 Lamentation of Don Roderick Lockhart, . . 642 
 
 March of Bernardo del Carpio 76. ... 512 
 
 Bavieca 76. ... 643 
 
 The Pounder 75. ... 643 
 
 The Death of Don Pedro 75. . . . 644 
 
 II. — ROMANTIC BALLADS C44 
 
 Count Arnaldos 76. ... 644 
 
 The Admiral Guarinos lb, ... 614 
 
 Count Alarcos and the Infanta Solisa . . . lb. . . . 646 
 
 III. — MOORISH BALLADS 649 
 
 The Lamentation for Celin 74. . . 64S 
 
 The Bull-fight of Gazul 76. . 650 
 
 The Bridal of Andalla 76. . 651 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama Syren. . . . 651 
 
 POETS OF THE CANCIONEROS 653 
 
 JUAN II., KING OF CASTILE 653 
 
 I never knew it, Love, till now .... Bowring. . .653 
 LOPE DE MENDOZA, MARQ.UES DE SANTILLANA . 653 
 
 Song . , Wiffen. . . 65S 
 
 Scrrana T. Roscoe. . 653 
 
 JUAN DE MENA 654 
 
 From Ihe Laberinto 654 
 
 Maciasel Enamorado Wifen. . . .654 
 
 Lorenzo Davalos ■ . . . . For. Rev. . . 654 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ALONSO DE CARTAGENA 655 
 
 Pain in Pleasure Bowring. . . 655 
 
 No, that can never be 76. ... 655 
 
 JORGE MANRiaUE 655 
 
 Ode on the Dealh of his Falher . . . 77. W. Longfellow. 655 
 
 RODRIGUEZ DEL PADRON 660 
 
 Prayer Bowring. . . 660 
 
 JUAN DE LA ENZINA 660 
 
 Don't shut your door 76. ... 660 
 
 " Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die " 76. ... 661 
 
 ANONYMOUS POEMS FROM THE CANCIONEROS, ETC. 661 
 
 What will they say of you and me 7 . . . Bowring. . .661 
 
 Fount of freshness lb. . . . 661 
 
 The two Streamlets lb. ... 662 
 
 She comes to gather flowers lb. ... 662 
 
 Dear maid of hazel brow lb. . . . 662 
 
 Emblem lb. ... 662 
 
 Who 'II buy a heart? lb. . . . 662 
 
 The Maiden wailing her Lover lb. . . . 663 
 
 The Thrush lb. ... 663 
 
 'T is time to rise lb. ... 663 
 
 Sweet were the hours lb. ... 663 
 
 The Prisoner's Romance lb. ... 664 
 
 Yield, thou castle lb. . . . 664 
 
 Amaryllis lb. ... 664 
 
 Sharply I repent of it lb. . . . 664 
 
 The Siesta Bryant. . . 664 
 
 The Song of the Galley Lockhart. . 665 
 
 The Wandering Knight's Song lb. . . . 665 
 
 Serenade lb. ... 665 
 
 Song Edinburgh Rev. 665 
 
 SECOND PERIOD. — CENTURIES XVI., XVII. 
 
 JUAN BOS-CAN ALMOGAVER 666 
 
 On the Dealh ofGaicilaso Wiffen. . .666 
 
 From his Epislle to Mendoza Anonymous. . 666 
 
 DIEGO HURTADO DE MENDOZA 668 
 
 From his Epislle to Luis de Zuniga . . . T. Roscoe. .668 
 Sonnet lb. ... 688 
 
 GARCILASO DE LA VEGA 668 
 
 From the First Eclogue Wiffen. . . . 668 
 
 From the Third Eclogue lb. ... 671 
 
 Ode to the Flower of Gnido lb. ... 672 
 
 Sonnets 672 
 
 As the fond mother, when her sulfering child Bowring. . 672 
 Lady, thy face is written in my soul . . Wiffen. . . . 673 
 
 FERNANDO DE HERRERA 673 
 
 Ode on the Battle of Lepanto Prater' t Mag . 673 
 
 Ode on the Death of Don Sebastian . . . Herbert. . . 674 
 From an Ode to Don John of Austria ... 76. . . . 675 
 Ode to Sleep T. Roscoe. .675 
 
 JUAN FERNANDEZ DE HEREDIA 676 
 
 Parting Bowring. . . 676 
 
 BALTASAR DEL ALCAZAR 676 
 
 Sleep lb. ... 676 
 
 SANTA TERESA DE AVILA 676 
 
 Sonnet . . ' lb. ... 677 
 
 GASPAR GIL POLO 677 
 
 From the Diana Enarnorada 677 
 
 Love and Hate lb. ... 677 
 
 I cannot cease to love lb. . . . 677 
 
 GREGORIO SILVESTRE 677 
 
 Tell me, lady I tell me I— yes? lb. . . . 677 
 
 Ines sent a kiss to me lb. ... 678 
 
 JORGE DE MONTEMAYOR 678 
 
 From the Di^rta Enarnorada 678 
 
 Diana's S.jng Frater't Mag. 678 
 
 Sireno'n Song Sir Philip Sidney. 679 
 
 CRISTOVAL DS CASTILLEJO 679 
 
 Women Bowring. . . 679 
 
 LUIS PONCE DE LEON 680 
 
 Noche Seri-na lb. ... 0SI 
 
 Virgin borne by Angels 76. ... 682 
 
 The Life of tire Blessed Bryant. . . 682 
 
 Retirement Edinburgh Rev. 682 
 
 ANTONIO HE VILLEGAS 683 
 
 Sleep and Dreams Bowring. . . 6S3 
 
 Love's Extremes lb. ... 683 
 
 PEDRO DE PAPILLA 664 
 
 The Chains of Love Ih. . . . 684 
 
 The Wandering Knight lb. . . . 6S4 
 
 FRANCISCO DE FUJUEROA 6S4 
 
 Sonnet on the Dealh ofGarcilaso . . . . Herbert. . .684 
 
 ALONSO DE ERCILLA Y ZUNIGA 684 
 
 From the Araucana 686 
 
 A Battle with ihe Araucanians . . . For. Quart. Rev. 686 
 A Storm at Sea lb. ... 686 
 
 VICENTE ESPINEL 
 
 Faint Heart never won Fair Lady . . . Bowing. . . 
 MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA 
 
 From the Tragedy of Numancia .... Quart. Rev. . 
 
 Poems from Don Quixote 
 
 Cardenio's Song Jarvis. . . . 
 
 Song lb. . . . 
 
 Sonnet lb. . . . 
 
 Song n. . . . 
 
 LOPEZ MALDONADO 
 
 Song H.W.LongJ,Jow. 
 
 JUAN DE TIMONEDA 
 
 Nay, shepherd I nay Bowring. . . 
 
 ALONSO DE LEDESMA 
 
 Sleep lb. . . . 
 
 LUIS DE GONGORA Y ARGOTE 
 
 The Song of Catharine of Aragon 74. . . . 
 
 Come, wandering sheep I O, come .... 76. . . . 
 
 Not all Sweet Nightingales 76. . . . 
 
 Let me go warm TV. Eng. M-ig. 
 
 HIERONIMO DE CONTRERAS 
 
 Sighs Bowring. . . 
 
 FRANCISCO DE OCANA 
 
 Open the door 76. . . . 
 
 LOPE FELIX DE VEGA CARPIO 
 
 From the Estrella de Sevilla 
 
 The King and Sancho Ortiz Lord Holland. 
 
 Bustos Tabera and Sancho Ortiz .... 76. . . . 
 Estrella and Theodora 76. . . . 
 
 Sonnets 
 
 The Good Shepherd 77. W. Longfellow. 
 
 To-morrow 76. . . . 
 
 Country Life Mrs. Hcmans. 
 
 LUPERCIO LEONARDO ARGENSOLA ....... 
 
 Mary Magdalen Bryant. . . 
 
 BARTOLOME LEONARDO ARGENSOLA 
 
 Sonnet Herbert. . . 
 
 JUAN DE RIBERA 
 
 The good old count in sadness strayed . . Bowring. . . 
 
 Romance 76. . . . 
 
 FRANCISCO DE VELASCO 
 
 The World and its Flowers 76. . . . 
 
 I told thee so 76. . . . 
 
 ALONSO DE BONILLA 
 
 Let 's hold sweet converse 76. . . . 
 
 ALVARO DE HINOJOSA Y CARBAJAL 
 
 The Virgin and her Babe 76. . . . 
 
 FRANCISCO DE BORJA Y ESQU1LACHE 
 
 Sylvia's Smile 76. . . . 
 
 Epitaph 76. . . . 
 
 FRANCISCO DE Q.UEVEDO Y VILLEGAS 
 
 Sonnets 
 
 Rome Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Ruthless Time Herbert. . . 
 
 My Fortune T. Roscoe. 
 
 ESTEVAN MANUEL DE VILLEGAS ' 
 
 Ode Bryant. . . 
 
 The Nightingale T. Roscoe. 
 
 To the Zephyr Wiffen. . . 
 
 FRANCISCO DE RIOJA 
 
 Epistle to Fabio T^or. Rev. . . 
 
 PEDRO CALDERON DE LA BARCA 
 
 From El Magico Prodigioso Shelley. . . 
 
 PEDRO DE CASTRO Y ANAYA 
 
 The Rivulet Bryant. . . 
 
 THIRD PERIOD FROM 1700 TO IS14. 
 
 IGNACIO DE LUZAN 718 
 
 From the Address to La Academia, etc 718 
 
 Virtue 7"or. Quart. Rev. 718 
 
 Painting 76. ... 713 
 
 NICOLAS FERNANDEZ DE MORATIN 719 
 
 From tin Ode to Pedro Romero .... For. Rev. . .719 
 
 JOSE DE CADALSO 719 
 
 Anacreontic Fraser's Mng. 720 
 
 Imitation ofGongora 76. . . . 720 
 
 GASPAR MELCHIOR DE JOVELLANOS 720 
 
 To the Sun For. Qmrl. Rev. 720 
 
 TOMAS DE YRIARTE 721 
 
 From the Fahulas Literarial 721 
 
 The Ass and the Flute T. Roscoe. .721 
 
 The Bear and the Monkey 76. . . . JSI 
 
 JOSE IGLESIAS DE LA CASA 721 
 
 Song Bryant. . . 722 
 
 JUAN MFLENDEZ VALDES 722 
 
 Sacred Ode Fraser's Mag. 722 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Noon Fraser'sMag. 722 
 
 To Don GasparMelchior Jovellanoa . . . For. Rev. . .723 
 LEANDRO FERNANDKZ MORAT1N 724 
 
 From El Viejoy la Nina lb. . . . 721 
 
 From the Epislle to Laso lb. ... 725 
 
 JUAN BAUTISTA DE ARRIAZA Y SDPERVIELA . . .7*6 
 
 The Vain Resolution Anonymous. . 725 
 
 FRANCISCO MARTINEZ DE LA ROSA 726 
 
 TheAlhambra For. Quart. Rev. 727 
 
 ANGEL DE SAAVEDRA, DUQ.UE DE RIVAS .... 727 
 
 Ode to Ihe Lighthouse at Malta .... Anonymous. . 723 
 USE MARIA HEREDIA 728 
 
 Niagara U.S. Rev. . 728 
 
 PORTUGUESE. 
 
 PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE AND POETRY 730 
 
 FIRST PERIOD. — CENTURIES XII.-XV. 
 ANONYMOUS 735 
 
 Fragment or" an Old Historic Poem . . . T. Roscoe. .735 
 BERNARD1M RIBEYRO 735 
 
 From the Third Eclogue lb. ... 735 
 
 FRANCISCO DE PORTUGAL, CONDE DO YIMIOSO . 736 
 
 Love and Desire Bowring. . . 736 
 
 FERNANDO DE ALMEYDA 736 
 
 The Timbrel lb. ... 736 
 
 SECOND PERIOD CENTURIES XVI., XVII. 
 
 GIL VICENTE 736 
 
 Song H. W. Longfellow. 736 
 
 How fair the maiden Bowring. . . 736 
 
 The Nightingale lb. ... 737 
 
 FRANCISCO DE SAA DE MIRANDA 737 
 
 Sonnets 737 
 
 I know not, lady, by what nameless charm T. Roscoe. .737 
 As now the sun glows broader in the west . lb. . . . 737 
 
 The sun is high Adamson. . 737 
 
 That spirit pure lb. . . . 738 
 
 From bis Epislle to King John .... For. Quart. Rev. 738 
 
 O base Galician Bowring. . . 738 
 
 LUIS DE CAMOENS 738 
 
 From the Lusiad 740 
 
 Ignez de Castro Mickle. . . 740 
 
 The Spirit of the Cape lb. . . . 742 
 
 Cancao Slrangford. . 744 
 
 Canzonet lb. ... 744 
 
 Stanzas lb. ... 744 
 
 Cancao lb. ... 745 
 
 Cancao lb. ... 745 
 
 Stanzas.— To Nigbt lb. . . . 745 
 
 Canzonet lb. ... 745 
 
 Canzonet lb. ... 745 
 
 Cancao T. Roscoe. . 746 
 
 Sonnets 746 
 
 Few years I number, — years of anxious care 76. . . . 746 
 Ah, vain desires, weak wishes, hopes that fade lb. . . .746 
 What is there left in this vain -^orld to crave lb. . . .746 
 Sweetly was heard the anthem's choral strain Strangford. . 746 
 Silent and cool, now freshening breezes blow lb. ... 747 
 On the Death of Calharina de Altayda . . lb. . . . 747 
 High in the glowing heavens .... Mrs. Hemans. 747 
 Fair Teio 1 thou, whose calmly flowing tide lb. . . .747 
 Spirit beloved ! whose wing so soon hath flown lb. . . . 747 
 Saved from the perils of the stormy wave .lb. ... 747 
 Waves of Mondego, brilliant and serene . lb. . . .747 
 
 ANTONIO FERREIRA 748 
 
 Sonnets 748 
 
 O spirit pure, purer in realms above . . Adamson. . 7*18 
 To thy clear streams, Mondego, I return . lb. . . . 748 
 
 From the Tragedy of Ignez de Castro .748 
 
 Semi-chorus For. Quart. Rer. 748 
 
 Second Semi-chorus lb. . . . 74S 
 
 Dom Pedro's Lament Blackwood's Mag. 749 
 
 PEDRO DE ANDRADE CAMINHA 750 
 
 Sonnet Adamson. . 750 
 
 DIOGO BERNARDES 751 
 
 Sonnets 751 
 
 O Lima ! thou that in this valley's sweep .lb. ... 751 
 Iflhee, my friend, should Love, ofnature kind lb. . . .751 
 Since, now that Lueitania'6 king tenign . lb. . . .751 
 
 From the First Eclogue T. Roscoe. .751 
 
 From the Eclogue of Marilia .... For. Quart. Ren. 751 
 
 FRA AGOSTINHO DA CRUZ 752 
 
 Sonnet 752 
 
 To his Sorrowful Slate jtuamson. .752 
 
 To his Brother, Diogo Bernardes . ... 4.0. ... 752 
 
 FERNAO ALVARES DO ORIENTE 752 
 
 Sonnet Jb. ... 752 
 
 FRANCISCO RODRIGUEZ LOBO 753 
 
 Sonnets 753 
 
 Waters, which, pendent from your airy height lb. . . .753 
 How, lovely Tagus, different to our view .lb. . . . 753 
 
 MANOEL DE FARIA E SOUZA 753 
 
 Sonnet 76. ... 753 
 
 VIOLANTE DO CEO 753 
 
 Sonnet lb. ... 754 
 
 While to Belhlem we are going .... Bowring. . . 754 
 
 Night of Marvels lb. . . . 754 
 
 ANTONIO BARBOSA BACELLAR 754 
 
 Sonnet Adamson. . 754 
 
 THIRD PERIOD. — FROM 1700 TO 1844. 
 FRANCISCO DE VASCONCELLOS COUTINHO ... 755 
 
 Sonnets .755 
 
 To tell of sorrows doth the pangs increase Adamson. 
 . O thoughtless bird, that thus, with carol sweet lb. . . 
 
 To a Nightingale lb. . . 
 
 PEDRO ANTONIO CORREA GARCAO 
 
 Sonnets 
 
 The gentle youth, whoreadsmy haplesssirain lb. . . 
 In Moorish galley chained, unhappy slave . lb. . . 
 
 Dido. — A Cantata For. Quart. Rev 
 
 DOM1NGOS DOS REIS QUITA 
 
 The wretches, Love Adamson. 
 
 •T was on a time lb. . . 
 
 Amidst the storm6which chillingwinlerbrings lb. . . 
 
 CLAUDIO MANOEL DA COSTA 
 
 Sonnet lb. . . 
 
 The Lyre T. Roscoe. 
 
 JOAO XAVIER DE MATOS 
 
 Sonnet Adamson. 
 
 PAULINO CABRAL DE VASCONCELLOS 
 
 Sonnet ... 14. . . 
 
 J. A. DA CDNHA 
 
 Lines written during Severe Illness . . . T. Roscoe. 
 JOAQ.UIM FORTUNaTO DE VALADARES GAMBOA 
 
 nets 
 
 755 
 755 
 755 
 755 
 755 
 755 
 756 
 756 
 756 
 757 
 757 
 757 
 757 
 757 
 757 
 758 
 753 
 758 
 758 
 T5S 
 75S 
 758 
 759 
 759 
 
 My gentle love, — to bid this valiey smiie Adcmson. . 759 
 How calm and how serene yon river glides . /i, . . . 759 
 Adieu, ye Nine ! O, how much woe I prove lb. ... 759 
 
 ANTONIO D1NIZ DA CRUZ 760 
 
 Sonnets 760 
 
 One time, when Love /a. ... 760 
 
 Here, lonely in this cool and verdantseat .lb. . . .760 
 
 From O Hysope For. Quart. Rev. 760 
 
 FRANCISCO MANOEL DO NASCIMENTO 761 
 
 Sonnets 761 
 
 On ascending a Hill leading to a Convent Mrs. Hemans. 761 
 
 Descend, O Joy 1 descend in brightest guise Adamson. . 761 
 
 As yet unpractised in the ways of Love . . lb. . . .761 
 
 Ode. — Neptune to the Portuguese . . For. Quart. Rev. 762 
 
 MANOEL MARIA DE BARBOSA DU BOCAGE .... 762 
 
 Sonnets 762 
 
 Scarce was put off my infant swalbing-band .dri/imson. . 762 
 If it is sweet, in summer's gladsome day .lb. ... 762 
 The Fall of Goa ........ For. Quart. Rev. 763 
 
 The Wolf and tee Eve lb. . . . 763 
 
 CONDE DA BARCA 763 
 
 Sonnet Adamson. . 763 
 
 ANTONIO RIBEIUO DOS SANTOS . .' 764 
 
 Sonnet lb. ... 764 
 
 DOMINGOS MAXIMIANO TORRES 764 
 
 Sonnet lb. ... 764 
 
 BELCHIOR MANOEL CURVG SEMEDO 764 
 
 Sonnet Bryant. . . 764 
 
 JOAM BAPTISTA GOMEZ 764 
 
 From the Tragedy of Ignez de Castro . Blackwood's Mag. 764 
 
 JOSE AGOSTINHO DE MACEDO 765 
 
 A Meditation For. Quart. Rev. 765 
 
 JOAO EVANGELISTA DE MORAES SARMENTO . . 766 
 
 Ode on War lb. ... 766 
 
 J. B. LEITAO DE ALMEIDA GARRETT 76» 
 
 From Adozinda lb. ... 766 
 
 APPENDIX 767 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS 
 
CONTENTS OF THE SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Anonymous . . 794 
 
 794 
 
 Howitt .... 795 
 
 795 
 
 .76 795 
 
 796 
 
 " . .796 
 . . 797 
 . . 79S 
 . . 798 
 . . 799 
 . . 800 
 
 ICELANDIC. 
 
 Page 
 The Hava-Mal, from Sa;mund's Edda . Howitt .... 779 
 
 From the Solar-Liod " " 76 785 
 
 Eric's Death Song, from Njals Saga . . Dasent .... 786 
 
 DANISH. 
 
 ANDERS CHRISTENSEN ARREBOE 788 
 
 From the Hexaemeron Howitt .... 788 
 
 THOMAS KINGO 789 
 
 Copenhagen Watchman's Song . . . Anonymous . . 789 
 Sorrow and Gladness Howitt .... 790 
 
 HENRIK HERTZ 791 
 
 From King Rene's Daughter .... Martin . . . . 791 
 
 SWEDISH. 
 
 The Battle-Song of Gustavus Adolphus . 
 FRANZ MICHAEL FRANZEN . . . 
 
 The Horizon 
 
 JOHAN OLOF WALLIN 
 
 The One Hundred and Fourth Psalm 
 ERIC JOHAN STAGNELIUS 
 
 The Mystery of Sighs 76. . . . 
 
 The Angel and the Soul lb. . . . 
 
 JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG 
 
 Ensign Stal lb. . . . 
 
 Peasant Pavo lb. . . . 
 
 Ojan Pavo's Challenge lb. . . . 
 
 By the Brook a Lockwood . 
 
 GERMAN. 
 
 THE WEISSENBRUNM HYMN . . British Magazine 
 WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE 
 
 Lament Kroeger . . . 
 
 GOTTFRIED VON STRASSBURG 
 
 Blanchefleur at the Tournament . . . lb 
 
 Hymn to the Virgin 76 
 
 REYNARD THE FOX 
 
 Reynard and Brum Naylor . . . . 
 
 Reynard's Confession 76 
 
 GERMAN HYMNS OF THE XVI. AND XVII. CENT. 
 MARTIN LUTHER 
 
 In the Midst of Life Winkworth . . 
 
 Hymn of the Reformation Cox 
 
 Out of the Depths Winkworth . . 
 
 PAUL GERHARDT 
 
 Trust in Providence Wesley .... 
 
 Go forth, my Heart Winkworth . . 
 
 Good Friday 76 
 
 Be thou Content 76 
 
 Evening Hymn 76 
 
 DANIELE WULFFER 
 
 Eternity 76 
 
 FRIEDRICH VON CANITZ 
 
 Morning Hymn 76 
 
 FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU . - 
 
 Epigrams H. W. Longfellow 
 
 ANGELUS SILESIUS 
 
 From the Cherubic Pilgrim . . . . E. Vitalis Scherb 
 JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE 
 
 From the Second Part of Faust . . . Bayard Taylor 
 
 Wanderer's Night-Songs .... 77. IF. Longfellow 
 CHRISTIAN AUGUST GOTTLOB EBERHARD 
 
 Hannah in the Garden Cochrane . . . 
 
 LUDOLF ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO 
 
 Chateau Boncourt For. Quart. Rev. 
 
 % Don Quixote Home Journal . 
 
 ANDREAS JUSTINUS KERNER 
 
 The Two Coffins Dulcken . . . 
 
 The Saw-Mill Bryant . . . . 
 
 Page 
 
 FRANZ GRILLPARZER 824 
 
 From Sappho 825 
 
 Sappho and Phaon iliddleton ... 825 
 
 The Death of Sappho 76 827 
 
 WILHELM MULLER 828 
 
 Wandering Baskerville . . 828 
 
 AUGUST GRAF VON PLATEN 828 
 
 Remorse 77". W. Longfellow 828 
 
 Before the Convent of St. Just, 1556 . Trench .... 828 
 
 HEINRICH HEINE 828 
 
 Ballad Dulcken . . .828 
 
 Song Leland .... 829 
 
 My Weary Heart 76 820 
 
 Thalatta Anonymous . . 829 
 
 NICOLAUS LENAU 830 
 
 The Postilion Brooks .... 830 
 
 The Three Gypsies Baskerville . . 830 
 
 EMANUEL GEIBEL 831 
 
 A Rhine Legend Caldwell . . .831 
 
 Friedrich Rothbart J> 831 
 
 NICOLAUS BECKER 831 
 
 The German Rhine Dulcken ... 832 
 
 AUGUST SCHNEZLER 832 
 
 The Deserted Mill Mangan ... 832 
 
 ANONYMOUS 832 
 
 To Death Anonymous . . 832 
 
 DUTCH. 
 
 HENDRIK CORNELISZOON TOLLENS I 
 
 National Song Chambers's Miscellany I 
 
 TRENCH. 
 
 Anonymous 
 Oxenford . 
 
 Rossetti 
 
 Cary 
 
 OLIVIER BASSELIN .... 
 
 To my Nose 
 
 Apology for Cider 
 
 FRANCOIS VILLON .... 
 
 The Ballad of Dead Ladies . 
 REMI BELLAU 
 
 April 
 
 FRANCOIS DE MALHERBE 
 
 Consolation 77. FT. Longfellow 
 
 To Cardinal Richelieu 76. . . . 
 
 DU BARTAS 
 
 From the First Week Sylvester . . . 
 
 VOLTAIRE 
 
 To Madame du Chatelet J. R. Lowell . . 
 
 JEAN REBOUL 
 
 The Angel and the Child .... 77. W. Longfellow 
 JAQUES JASMIN 
 
 The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille 76. . . . 
 
 ALFRED DE MUSSET 
 
 From Rolla S. B. Wister . . 
 
 On Three Steps of Rose-colored Marble .76 
 
 Recollection 76 
 
 Pale Star of Even 76 
 
 A Last Word 76 
 
 FELIX ARVERS 
 
 My Secret 77. IF. Longfellow 
 
 ANONYMOUS 
 
 The Invincible Malhrough Anonymous . . 
 
 O, if my Lady now were by ! . . . . Oxeyiford . . . 
 
 &34 
 834 
 835 
 835 
 835 
 835 
 S35 
 836 
 837 
 837 
 837 
 839 
 841 
 841 
 841 
 843 
 843 
 844 
 848 
 8.50 
 851 
 8.53 
 S53 
 853 
 854 
 854 
 854 
 854 
 855 
 
 ITALIAN. 
 
 CIULLO D'ALCAMO 850 
 
 Lover and Lady Rossetti . . 856 
 
 FOLCACHIERO DE' FOLCACHIERI S58 
 
 Canzone 76 858 
 
 xvii 
 
CONTENTS OF THE SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 JACOPO DA LENTINO 839 
 
 Of his Lady in Heaven Rossetti . . .859 
 
 Of his Lady and of her Portrait 76 859 
 
 GIACOMINO PUGLIESI 860 
 
 Canzone 76 800 
 
 FOLGORE DA SAN" GEMINIANO 861 
 
 Of the Months 76 861 
 
 GUIDO CAVALCANTI 863 
 
 Canzone lb 864 
 
 To Dante Mighien lb 864 
 
 CINO DA PISTOIA 865 
 
 Canzone lb 865 
 
 GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO 865 
 
 Six Sonnets lb 865 
 
 VINCENZO DA FILICAJA 866 
 
 Providence I^gh Hunt . . 866 
 
 To Italy H. W. Longfellow 860 
 
 POETS OF THE XIX. CENTURY. 
 
 GIOVANNI BATTISTA NICCOLINI 867 
 
 From Arnold of Brescia Cornhill Mag. .867 
 
 GIACO^IO LEOPARDI SOS 
 
 The Younger Brutus CJtrist. Examiner 870 
 
 To Italy Westminster Rev. 872 
 
 On the Likeness of a Beautiful "Woman Howells . . . 872 
 To Sylvia lb 872 
 
 TOMMASO GROSSI 873 
 
 The Fair Prisoner to the Swallow .... 76 873 
 
 GIUSEPPE GIUSTI 874 
 
 The Chronicle of the Boot For. Quart. Rev. 875 
 
 Saint Ambrose Howells . . .876 
 
 LUIGI CARRER 877 
 
 The Duchess 76 878 
 
 Sonnet .76 878 
 
 GIOVANNI PRATI 878 
 
 The Midnight Ride 75 879 
 
 ALEARDO ALEARDI 880 
 
 From An Hour of my Youth 76 881 
 
 From the Primal Histories 76 881 
 
 From Monte Circello 76 882 
 
 GIULIO CARCANO 882 
 
 Nanna 76 883 
 
 FRANCESCO DALL' ONGARO 883 
 
 • Stornelli. Pio Nono 76 884 
 
 The Woman of Leghorn 76 884 
 
 The Sister Howells. . .884 
 
 The Lombard Woman lb 884 
 
 The Decoration lb 884 
 
 The Cardinals lb. . . .884 
 
 The Ring of the Last Doge 76 885 
 
 The Imperial Egg lb SS5 
 
 To my Songs lb. . . . 885 
 
 Willing or Loalh lb 885 
 
 LUIGI MERCANTINI 835 
 
 The Gleaner of Sapri Anonymous . . 8S5 
 
 SPANISH. 
 
 SANTA TERESA 886 
 
 Santa Teresa's Book-Mark . . . R. W. Longfellow 8S6 
 
 FRANCISCO DE RIOJA 886 
 
 The Ruins of ltalica W. C. Bryant .886 
 
 CALDERON DE LA BARCA 887 
 
 From Love the Greatest Enchantment Mac-Carthy . . 887 
 
 From The Physician of his own Honor . .76 888 
 
 From Belshazzar's Feast ....... lb 894 
 
 From Life is a Dream Trench . . . 900 
 
 ANTONIO DE MENDOZA 906 
 
 From Love for Love's Sake 907 
 
 JOSE ZORRILLA 908 
 
 The Dirge of Larra A.H.Everett .909 
 
 To Spain S. Eliot . . .910 
 
 In the Cathedral of Toledo lb 910 
 
 Calderon lb 911 
 
 Moorish Ballad Tb 911 
 
 To my Lyre 76 912 
 
 Aspiration 76 913 
 
 CAROLINA CORONADO 913 
 
 The Lost Bird W. C. Bryant . 914 
 
 To a Turtle-Dove Christ. Examiner 914 
 
 On the Bull-Fight 76. ... 915 
 
 PORTUGUESE. 
 
 GIL VICENTE 916 
 
 From the Seasons 916 
 
 The Song of Spring Quarterly Rev. 916 
 
 The Song of the Planet Jupiter . . . .lb.. . .913 
 
INDEX OF AUTHOES. 
 
 Page 
 
 Alamanni, Luigi 559 
 
 Alcazar, Baltasar del 676 
 
 Alfieri, Vittorio 601 
 
 Alfonso the Second, King of Aragon .... 634 
 
 Alfonso the Tenth, King of Castile ... 637 
 
 Alfred, King 23 
 
 Almeyda, Fernando de 736 
 
 Alvares do Oriente, Fernao 752 
 
 Anduze, Claire d' 431 
 
 Anhalt, Heinrich, Herzog von 197 
 
 Anslo, Reinier 390 
 
 Argensola, Bartolome Leonardo . . . .701 
 
 Argensola, Lupercio Leonardo .... 701 
 
 Ariosto, Lodovico 547 
 
 Arndt, Ernst Moritz 332 
 
 Arriaza y Superviela, Juan Eautista de . . 726 
 
 Ast, Dietmar von 196 
 
 Alhies, Hugues d' . . 425 
 
 Atterbom, Per Daniel Amadeus .... 170 
 
 Auersperg, Anton Alexander von .... 356 
 
 Auvergne, Pierre d' 435 
 
 Bacellar, Antonio Barbosa 754 
 
 Baggesen, Jens 89 
 
 Bai'f, Jean Antoine de . . 451 
 
 Barbe de Verrue 427 
 
 Baroier, Augusts .... . . 499 
 
 Basso, Andrea del 543 
 
 Bellamy, Jacob . . 771 
 
 Bellay, Joachim du 447 
 
 Belleau, Remi . . 450 
 
 Bembo, Pietro 546 
 
 Bentivoglio, Cornelio 592 
 
 Beranger, Pierre- Jean de 485 
 
 Berceo, Gonzalo de . . . . . . 635 
 
 Bernardes, Diogo 751 
 
 Berni, Francesco, da Bibbiena 560 
 
 Bertaut, Jean 453 
 
 Biarke, Bodvar . . 51 
 
 Bilderdijk, Willem 3P3 
 
 Blazon, Thibaud de . 426 
 
 Bocage, Manoel Maria de Barbosa du . . . 762 
 
 Boccaccio, Giovanni 533 
 
 Bodmer, Johann Jacob 242 
 
 Boileau Despreaux, Nicholas 464 
 
 Bojardo, Matteo Maria 539 
 
 Boner, Ulrich 229 
 
 Bonilla, Alonso de . . .... 703 
 
 Borger, Elias Anne ... ... 399 
 
 Borja y Esquilache, Francisco de . . . . 704 
 
 Born, Bertrand de 433 
 
 Borneil, Giraud de . ... 436 
 
 Boscan Almogaver, Juan 666 
 
 Brandenburg, Otho, Margrave of ... . 198 
 
 Brederode, Gerbrand 382 
 
 Breslau, Heinrich, Herzog von .... 199 
 
 Broekhuizen, Jan van . ... 392 
 
 Brulez, Gace . 426 
 
 Brune, Jan de 381 
 
 Buonarotti, Michel Angelo .... 553, 620 
 
 Burger, Gottfried August 274 
 
 Cabestaing, Guillaume de 430 
 
 Cadalso, JosS de 719 
 
 Ceedrnon 10 
 
 Calderon de la Barca, Pedro 708 
 
 Caminha, Pedro de Andrade 750 
 
 Camoens, Luis de 738 
 
 Cartagena, Alonso de 655 
 
 Casa, Giovanni della 565 
 
 Casaregi, Giovanni Bartolommeo .... 592 
 
 Casero, Cicala 620 
 
 Castillejo, Cristdval de 679 
 
 Castro y Anaya, Pedro de 718 
 
 Cats, Jacob 379 
 
 Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de 688 
 
 Chamisso, Ludolf Adalbert von .... 334 
 
 Chancellor, The 198 
 
 Charles d'Orleans 440 
 
 Chartier, Alain 438 
 
 Chateaubriand, Francois- Auguste, Vicomte de 481, 773 
 
 Chenedolle, Charles de 482 
 
 Chiabrera, Gabriello 577 
 
 Chison, Jaques de 427 
 
 Claudius, Matthias 267 
 
 Colonna, Vittoria ' . . 556 
 
 Contreras, Hieronimo de 695 
 
 Corneille, Pierre 455 
 
 Costanzo, Angelo di 565 
 
 Cotta, Giovanni 592 
 
 Coucy, Le Chatelain de 425 
 
 Coutinho, Francisco de Vasconcellos . . . 755 
 
 Cretin, Guillaume 443 
 
 Da Barca, Conde 763 
 
 Dach, Simon 240 
 
 Da Costa 400 
 
 Da Costa, Claudio Manoel 757 
 
 Da Cruz, Antonio Diniz 760 
 
 Da Cruz, Fra Agostinho ...... 752 
 
 Da Cunha, J. A. 758 
 
 Dalei, Benedikt 370 
 
 Daniel, Arnaud 431 
 
 Dante Alighieri 512 
 
 Decker, Jeremias de 388 
 
 D'Huxatime 454 
 
 Delavigne, Jean-Francois-Casimir .... 491 
 
 Desportes, Philippe 453 
 
 Dingelstedt, Franz .368 
 
 Do Ceo, Violante 753 
 
 Doete de Troies 427 
 
 Dorat, Jean 448 
 
 Ehenheim, Goesli von 200 
 
 Enzina, Juan de la 66C 
 
 Ercilla y Zuniga, Alonso da 684 
 
 xix 
 
xx INDEX 
 
 OF 
 
 AUTHORS. 
 
 
 
 191 
 
 
 
 
 6S7 
 
 
 
 
 83 
 
 
 
 
 
 Jovellanos, Gaspar Melchior de . 
 
 720 
 
 
 429 
 
 
 
 
 753 
 
 
 
 
 748 
 
 
 
 
 684 
 
 
 
 
 536 
 
 
 
 
 559 
 
 
 
 
 347 
 
 
 
 
 , 774 
 
 
 
 
 432 
 
 Klopstock, Friedrich Gottlieb 
 
 247 
 
 
 556 
 
 
 
 
 444 
 
 
 
 
 359 
 
 
 
 
 437 
 
 
 
 
 
 Kotzebue, August Friedrich Ferdinand von 
 
 . 319 
 
 Gamboa, Joaquim Fortunato de Valadares . . 
 
 759 
 
 
 
 
 755 
 
 
 
 Garrett, J. B. Leitao de Almeida .... 
 
 766 
 
 
 
 
 244 
 
 
 
 
 253 
 
 
 
 
 512 
 
 
 
 Gleim, Johann "Wilhelm Ludwig .... 
 
 246 
 
 
 
 
 2S1 
 
 
 
 
 595 
 
 
 
 
 764 
 
 
 
 
 693 
 
 
 
 
 596 
 
 
 
 
 353 
 
 
 
 
 476 
 
 
 
 
 331 
 
 
 
 
 620 
 
 
 
 
 567 
 
 
 
 
 589 
 
 
 
 
 560 
 
 
 
 
 423 
 
 
 
 
 511 
 
 Manoel do Nascimento, Francisco . . 
 
 761 
 
 
 511 
 
 
 . 655 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 201 
 
 Manzoni, Alessandro 
 
 . 613 
 
 
 242 
 
 Marsuerite de Valois, Reine de Navarre . 
 
 444 
 
 
 243 
 
 
 
 
 196 
 
 
 
 
 55 
 
 
 . 582, 773 
 
 
 316 
 
 
 
 
 83 
 
 Martial de Paris, dit D'Auvergne 
 
 . 442 
 
 
 349 
 
 Martinez de la Rosa, Francisco 
 
 726 
 
 Henri II 
 
 445 
 
 
 
 Henri IV 
 
 453 
 
 
 
 
 192 
 
 
 
 
 269 
 
 
 
 
 723 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 654 
 
 
 673 
 
 
 
 
 369 
 
 
 
 Hinojosa y Carbajal, Alvaro de .... 
 
 703 
 
 
 
 Hoffmann von Fallersleben, August Heinrich . 
 
 352 
 
 Millevoye, Charles-Hubert . . . 
 
 484 
 
 
 195 
 
 
 
 Hb'lty, Ludwig Heinrich Christoph . 
 
 279 
 
 Moliere, Jean-Baptiste Pocquelin de 
 
 459 
 
 
 379 
 
 
 
 
 53 
 
 
 
 
 494 
 
 
 
 
 336 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 721 
 
 Morun2. Heinrich von . . ^ 
 
 195 
 
 Ingemann, Bernhard Severin 
 
 123 
 443 
 
 
 
 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 xxi 
 
 Neubeck, Valerius WiUielm 327 
 
 Niccolini, Giovanni Battista 616 
 
 Nifen, Gottfried von 195 
 
 Ocana, Francisco de 695 
 
 Oehlenschl'ager, Adam Gottiob 91 
 
 Padilla, Pedro de 684 
 
 Padron, Rodriguez del 660 
 
 Parini, Giuseppe 599 
 
 Pellico, Silvio 617 
 
 Petrarca, Francesco 524 
 
 Pfeffel, Gottlieb Conrad 266 
 
 Pfizer, Gustav 359 
 
 Pindemonte, Ippolito 610, 774 
 
 Pisan, Christine de 433 
 
 Platen-HallermUnde, August, Graf von . . . 349 
 
 Poliziano, Angelo 541 
 
 Polo, Gaspar Gil 677 
 
 Provence, La Comtesse de .... 431 
 
 Pulci, Luigi 535 
 
 Quevedo y Villegas, Francisco de 
 Quita, Domingos dos Reis . 
 
 704 
 756 
 
 Racine, Jean 469 
 
 Rahbek, Knud Lyne ... ... 87 
 
 Ramler, Carl Wilhelm 251 
 
 Raprechtsweil, Albrecht von 199 
 
 Redi, Francesco .... . 583 
 
 Ribeiro dos Santos, Antonio 764 
 
 Ribera, Juan de 702 
 
 Ribeyro, Bereardim 735 
 
 Richard Creur-de-Lion 437 
 
 Rioja, Francisco de . . 707 
 
 Rispach, Heinrich von 190 
 
 Rivas, Duque de, Angel de Saavedra .... 727 
 
 Rogiers, Pierre 429 
 
 Ronsard, Pierre de 446 
 
 Rota, Bernardino 566 
 
 Rothenberg, Rudolph von 197 
 
 Rouget-de-1'Isle, Joseph 481 
 
 Ruckert, Friedrich 341 
 
 Rudel, Geoffroi 429 
 
 Ruiz, Juan, de Hita 640 
 
 Ssmund 37 
 
 Saint-Gelais, Mellin de 444 
 
 Salis, Johann Gaudenz von . . . 326 
 
 Sancta Clara, Abraham a . ... 241 
 
 San Jordi, Mossen Jordi de .... 633 
 
 Sannazzaro, Jacopo 544 
 
 Santa Teresa de Avila 676 
 
 Santillana, Marques de, Lope de Mendoza . . 653 
 
 Santob, or Santo, Rabbi Don 641 
 
 Sarmento, Joao Evangelista de Moraes . . . 766 
 
 Savioli, Luigi Vittorio 600 
 
 Schiller, Johann Christoph Friedrich von . . 305, 767 
 
 Schulze, Ernst Conrad Friedrich .... 339 
 
 Semedo, Belchior Manoel Curvo .... 764 
 
 Seven, Lutolt von 201 
 
 Sgricci, Tommaso 618 
 
 Silvestre, Gregorio 677 
 
 Simrock, Karl 355 
 
 Sjogren, Eric (Vitalis) . .... 177 
 
 Skaldaspillar, Eyvind 53 
 
 Smits, Dirk 393 
 
 Soissons, Raoul, Comte de 427 
 
 Stagnelius, Eric Johan 173 
 
 Sleinmar 197 
 
 Stolberg, Christian, Graf zu 278 
 
 Stolberg, Friedrich Leopold, Graf zu .... 297 
 
 Storm, Edward 84 
 
 Surville, Clotilde de 441 
 
 Suter, Halb 227 
 
 Tansillo, Luigi 566 
 
 Tarsia, Galeazzo di 556 
 
 Tasso, Bernardo 558 
 
 Tasso, Torquato 568 
 
 Tassoni, Alessandro 580 
 
 Tastu, Amable 497 
 
 Tegner, Esaias 146 
 
 Thaarup, Thomas 86 
 
 Thibaud, King of Navarre 426 
 
 Thuringian, The 200 
 
 Tibaldeo, Antonio 543 
 
 Tieck, Ludwig 333 
 
 Tiedge, Christoph August 303 
 
 Timoneda, Juan de 692 
 
 Toggenburg, Count Kraft of 197 
 
 Tollens, H .396 
 
 Tolomei, Claudio , 557 
 
 Tomiers 436 
 
 Torres, Domingos Maximiano 764 
 
 Tullin, Christian Brauman 83 
 
 Uhland, Johann Ludwig 336 
 
 Van der Goes, Joannes Antonides . . 391 
 
 Varchi, Benedetto .... . . 564 
 
 Vasconcellos, Paulino Cabral de 758 
 
 Vega Cajpio, Lope Felix de 696 
 
 Vega, Garcilaso de la 668 
 
 Velasco, Francisco de 702 
 
 Ventadour, Bernard de . . . . . 432 
 
 Vicente, Gil ..... . . 736 
 
 Vidal, Pierre 435 
 
 Villegas, Antonio de . . . 683 
 
 Villegas, Estevan Manuel de 706 
 
 Villon, Francois 442 
 
 Vimioso, Conde do, Francisco de Portugal . . 736 
 
 Visscher, Maria Tesselschade 330 
 
 Vogelweide, Walther von der 192 
 
 Voltaire, Francois-Marie Arouet de . . . . 472 
 
 Vondel, Joost van den 383 
 
 Voss, Johann Heinrich 300 
 
 "Wace, Robert 414 
 
 Weber, Veit 230 
 
 Werner, Friedrich Ludwig Zacharias . . . 328 
 
 Westerbaen, Jacob 387 
 
 Wieland, Christoph Martin 261 
 
 Winceslaus, King of Bohemia 201 
 
 Withuis 402 
 
 WUrtzburg, Conrad von 198 
 
 Yriarte, Tomas de 721 
 
 Zedlitz, Joseph Christian von 345 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 We read in history, that the beauty of 
 in ancient manuscript tempted King Alfred, 
 when a boy at his mother's knee, to learn 
 the letters of the Saxon tongue. A volume, 
 which that monarch minstrel wrote in after 
 years, now lies before me, so beautifully 
 printed, that it might tempt any one to learn 
 not only the letters of the Saxon language, but 
 the language also. The monarch himself is 
 looking from the ornamented initial letter of 
 the first chapter. He is crowned and care- 
 worn; having a beard, and long, flowing locks, 
 and a face of majesty. He seems to have just 
 uttered those remarkable words, with which 
 his Preface closes : " And now he prays, and 
 for God's name implores, every one of those 
 whom it lists to read this book, that he would 
 pray for him, and not blame him, if he more 
 rightly understand it than he could ; for every 
 man must, according to the measure of his un- 
 derstanding, and according to his leisure, speak 
 that which he speaks, and do that which he 
 does." 
 
 I would fain hope, that the beauty of this 
 and other Anglo-Saxon books may lead many 
 to the study of that venerable language. Through 
 such gateways will they pass, it is true, into 
 no gay palace of song ; but among the dark 
 chambers and mouldering walls of an old na- 
 tional literature, all weather-stained and in 
 ruins. They will find, however, venerable 
 names recorded on those walls ; and inscrip- 
 tions, worth th« trouble of deciphering. To 
 point out the most curious and important of 
 these is my present purpose ; and according to 
 the measure of my understanding, and accord- 
 ing to my leisure, I speak that which I speak. 
 
 The Anglo-Saxon language was the language 
 
 O Do O o 
 
 of our Saxon forefathers in England, though 
 they never gave it that name. They called it 
 English. Thus King Alfred speaks of trans- 
 lating " from book-latin into English" (of bee 
 Ledene on Englisc) ; Abbot iEIfric was request- 
 ed by JEthelward " to translate the book of 
 Genesis from Latin into English " (anwendan 
 of Ledene on Englise tha boo Genesis) ; and 
 Bishop Leofric, speaking of the manuscript he 
 gave to the Exeter Cathedral, calls it " a great 
 English book" (mycel Englisc boc). In other 
 words, it is the old Saxon, a Gothic tongue, as 
 spoken and developed in England. That it 
 was spoken and written uniformly throughout 
 the land is not to be imagined, when we know 
 that Jutes and Angles were in the country as 
 well as Saxons. But that it was essentially 
 the same language everywhere is not to be 
 doubted, when we compare pure West Saxon 
 1 
 
 texts with Northumbrian glosses and books of 
 Durham. Hickes speaks of a Dano-Saxon Pe- 
 riod in the history of the language. The Saxon 
 kings reigned six hundred years ; the Danish 
 dynasty, twenty only. And neither the Danish 
 boors, who were earthlings (yrtldingas) in the 
 country, nor the Danish soldiers, who were 
 dandies at the court of King Canute, could, in 
 the brief space of twenty years, have so over- 
 laid or interlarded the pure Anglo-Saxon with 
 their provincialisms, as to give it a new char- 
 acter, and thus form a new period in its history, 
 as was afterwards done by the Normans. 
 
 The Dano-Saxon is a dialect of the language, 
 not a period which was passed through in its 
 history. Down to the time of the Norman 
 Conquest, it existed in the form of two princi- 
 pal dialects ; namely, the Anglo-Saxon in the 
 South ; and the Dano-Saxon, or Northumbrian, 
 in the North. After the Norman Conquest, 
 the language assumed a new form, which has 
 been called, properly enough, Norman-Saxon 
 and Semi-Saxon. 
 
 This form of the language, ever flowing and 
 filtering through the roots of national feeling, 
 custom, and prejudice, prevailed about two 
 hundred years ; that is, from the middle of the 
 eleventh to the middle of the thirteenth cen- 
 tury, when it became English. It is impossible 
 to fix the landmarks of a language with any 
 great precision ; but only floating beacons, here 
 and there. Perhaps, however, it may be well, 
 while upon this subject, to say more than I 
 have yet said. I therefore subjoin, in a note, 
 a very lucid and brief account of the language; 
 perhaps the clearest and briefest that can be 
 given. It is by Mr. Cardale.* 
 
 * "Note on the Saxon Dialects. 
 
 "Hickes, in c. 19 of the Anglo-Saxon Grammar in his 
 Thesaurus, states, that there are three dialects of the 
 Saxon language, distinguishable from the pure and regular 
 language of which he has already treated, namely, that 
 found in the authors who flourished in the southern and 
 western parts of Britain. These dialects he arranges, ac- 
 cording to certain periods of history, as follows:, 1. The 
 Britanno-Saxon. which, he says, was spoken by our ances- 
 tors, from their original invasion of Britain till the entrance 
 of the Danes, being about 337 years. — 2. The Dano-Saxon, 
 which, he says, was used from the entrance of the Danes 
 till the Norman invasion, being 274 years, and more espe- 
 cially in the northern parts of England and the south of 
 Scotland. — 3. The Normanno- Dano-Saxon, spoken from 
 the invasion by the Normans till the time of Hen. II., 
 which towards the end of that time, he says, might be 
 termed Semi-Saxon. — Writers of considerable eminence 
 appear to have considered this arrangement of the dialects 
 as a complete history of the language, without adverting 
 to the circumstance of Hickes's distinguishing them all 
 A 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 It is oftentimes curious to consider the far-off 
 beginnings of great events, and to study the 
 aspect of the cloud no bigger than one's hand. 
 The British peasant looked seaward from his 
 harvest-field, and saw, with wondering eyes, 
 the piratical schooner of a Saxon Viking mak- 
 ing for the mouth of the Thames. A few 
 years — only a few years — afterward, while 
 the same peasant, driven from his homestead 
 north or west, still lives to tell the story to his 
 grandchildren, another race lords it over the 
 land, speaking a different language and living 
 under diTerent laws. This important event in 
 his history is more important in the world's 
 history. Thus began the reign of the Saxons 
 in England ; and the downfall of one nation, 
 and the rise of another, seem to us at this dis- 
 tance only the catastrophe of a stage-play. 
 
 The Saxons came into England about the 
 middle of the fifth century. They were pagans; 
 they were a wild and warlike people ; brave, 
 
 from 'the pure and regular language,' which is the primary 
 subject of his work. From this partial view, a notion has 
 become current, that the Dano-Saxon dialect, previously to 
 or during the reigns of the Canutes, became the general 
 language of this country, and that our present language 
 was formed by gradual alterations superinduced upon the 
 Dano-Saxon. This being taken for granted, it has appeared 
 easy to decide upon the antiquity of some of the existing 
 remains. Poems written in Dano-Saxon have been of 
 course ascribed to ' the Dano-Saxon period'; and 'Beowulf,' 
 and the poems of Caedmon, have been deprived of that 
 high antiquity which a perusal of the writings themselves 
 inclines us to attribute to them, and referred to a compara- 
 tively modern era. 
 
 "With all due respect for the learning of the author of 
 the Thesaurus, it may be said, that he has introduced an 
 unnecessary degree of complexity on the subject of the 
 dialects. His first dialect, the Britanno-Saxon, may be 
 fairly laid out of the question. The only indisputable 
 specimen of it, according to his account, is what he calls 
 'a fragment of the true Caedmon,' preserved in Alfred's 
 version of Bede, — a poem which has nothing in language 
 or style to distinguish it from the admitted productions of 
 Alfred. Dismissing the supposed Britanno-Saxon as un- 
 worthy of consideration, the principal remainsof the Saxon 
 language may be arranged in two classes, viz., those which 
 are written in pure Anglo-Saxon, and those which are 
 written in Dano-Saxon. These, in fact, were the two 
 great dialects of the language. The foimer was used (as 
 Hickes observes) in the southern and western parts of 
 England ; and the latter in the northerr parts of England 
 and the south of Scotland. It is entirely a gratuitous 
 supposition, to imagine that either of these dialects com- 
 menced at a much later period than the other. Each was 
 probably as old as the beginning of the heptarchy. We 
 know, that, among the various nations which composed it, 
 the Saxons became predominant in the southern and west- 
 ern parts, and the Angles in the northern. As these nations 
 were distinct in their original seats on the continent, so 
 they arrived at different times, and brought with them 
 different dialects. This variety of speech continued till 
 the Norman conquest, and even afterwards. It is not 
 affirmed, that the dialects were absolutely invariable. Each 
 would be more or less changed by time, and by intercourse 
 with foreigners. The mutual connexion, also, which sub- 
 sisted between the different nations of the heptarchy would 
 necessarily lead to some intermixture. But we may with 
 tafety assert, that the two great dia'.;cia _f the Saxon lan- 
 guage continued substantially distinct as lon 5 is the lan- 
 guage itself was in use, — that the Dano-Saxon, in uhort, 
 
 rejoicing in sea-storms, and beautiful in person, 
 with blue eyes, and long, flowing hair. Thei 
 warriors wore their shields suspended from 
 their necks by chains. Their horsemen were 
 armed with iron sledge-hammers. Their priests 
 rode upon mares, and carried into the battle- 
 field an image of the god Irminsula ; in figure 
 like an armed man ; his helmet crested with a 
 cock ; in his right hand a banner, emblazoned 
 with a red rose ; a bear carved upon his breast ; 
 and, hanging from his shoulders, a shield, on 
 which was a lion in a field of flowers. 
 
 Not two centuries elapsed before this whole 
 people was converted to Christianity. iElfric, 
 in his homily on the birthday of St. Gregory, 
 informs us, that this conversion was accom- 
 plished by the holy wishes of that good man, 
 and the holy works of St. Augustine and other 
 monks. St. Gregory beholding one day certain 
 slaves set for sale in the market-place of Rome, 
 who were " men of fair countenance and nobly- 
 
 never superseded the Anglo-Saxon. In a formal dissertation 
 on this subject, citations might be made from the ( Saxon 
 Laws' from Ethelbert to Canute, from the 'Saxon Chroni- 
 cle,' from charters, and from works confessedly written after 
 the Norman conquest, to show, that, whatever changes 
 took place in the dialect of the southern and western parts 
 of Britain, it never lost its distinctive character, or became 
 what can with any propriety be termed Dano-Saxon. After 
 the Norman conquest, both the dialects were gradually 
 corrupted, till they terminated in modern English During 
 this period of the declension of the Saxon language, noth- 
 ing was permanent; and whether we call the mixed and 
 changeable language 'Normanno-Dano-Saxon,' or 'Semi- 
 Saxon,' or leave it without any particular appellation, is 
 not very important. — An additional proof that the two 
 great dialects were not consecutive, but contemporary, 
 might be drawn from early writings in English, and even 
 from such as were composed long after the establishment 
 of the Normans. We find traces of the pure Anglo-Saxon 
 dialect in Robert of Gloucester, who wrote in the time of 
 Edward the First, and whose works are now understood 
 almost without the aid of a glossary; whereas the language 
 of Robert Langland, who wrote nearly a century later, is 
 more closely connected with the Dano-Saxon, and so differ- 
 ent from modern English as to be sometimes almost unin- 
 telligible. — Though these differences have been gradually 
 wearing away, our provincial glossaries afford evidence, 
 that, even at the present day, they are not entirely obliter- 
 ated. 
 
 "Alfred's language is esteemed pure Anglo-Saxon ; yet 
 we find in his poetical compositions some words, which, 
 according to Hickes, belong to the Dano-Saxon dialect. 
 This may be readily accounted for. It is extremely prob- 
 able that the works of the poets who flourished in the north 
 of England and the adjoining parts of Scotland, and who 
 composed their poems in Dano-Saxon, were circulated, if 
 not in writing, at least by itinerant reciters, in all the 
 nations of the heptarchy ; that they were imitated by the 
 southern poets; and that some particular words and phrases 
 were at length considered as a sort of poetical language, 
 and indispensable to that species of composition. Some 
 words which occur in the poems of Alfred, as well as in 
 'Beowulf,' Caedmon, &c, are seldom or never met with in 
 prose. Of Alfred's early attention to poetical recitations we 
 have a remarkable testimony in Asser: ' Saxonica poem- 
 ata die noctuque solers auditor relatu aliorum sozpissime 
 audiens, docibilis memoriter retinebat.' Wise's Asser, 
 p. 16." — King Alfred's Anglo-Saxon Version of Boethius; 
 with an English Translation and Notes. By T. S. Caedale. 
 London: 1829. fivo. 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 haired," and learning that they were heathens, 
 and called Angles, heaved a long sigh, and said : 
 " Well-away ! that men of so fair a hue should 
 be subjected to the swarthy devil ! Rightly 
 are they called Angles, for they have angels' 
 beauty ; and therefore it is fit that they in hea- 
 ven should be companions of angels." As soon, 
 therefore, as he undertook the popehood (pa- 
 panhad underfeng), the monks were sent to 
 their beloved work. In the Witena Gemot, or 
 Assembly of the Wise, convened by King Ed- 
 win of Northumbria to consider the propriety 
 of receiving the Christian faith, a Saxon Eal- 
 dorman arose, and spoke these noble words : 
 " Thus seemeth to me, O king, this present life 
 of man upon earth, compared with the time 
 which is unknown to us ; even as if you were 
 sitting at a feast, amid your Ealdormen and 
 Thegns in winter time. And the fire is lighted, 
 and the hall warmed, and it rains, and snows, 
 and storms without. Then cometh a sparrow, 
 and flieth about the hall. It cometh in at one 
 door, and goeth out at another. While it is 
 within, it is not touched by the winter's storm ; 
 but that is only for a moment, only for the least 
 space. Out of the winter it cometh, to return 
 again into the winter eftsoon. So also this life 
 of man endureth for a little space. What goeth 
 before it and what followeth after, we know 
 not. Wherefore, if this new lore bring aught 
 more certain and more advantageous, then is it 
 worthy that we should follow it." 
 
 Thus the Anglo-Saxons became Christians. 
 For the good of their souls they built monaste- 
 ries and went on pilgrimages to Rome. The 
 whole country, to use Malmesbury's phrase, 
 was "glorious and refulgent with relics." The 
 priests sang psalms night and day ; and so great 
 was the piety of St. Cuthbert, that, according 
 to Bede, he forgot to take off his shoes for 
 months together, — sometimes the whole year 
 round; — from which Mr. Turner infers, that 
 he had no stockings.* They also copied the 
 Evangelists, and illustrated them with illumin- 
 ations ; in one of which St. John is represented 
 in a pea-green dress with red stripes. They 
 also drank ale out of buffalo horns and wooden- 
 knobbed goblets. A Mercian king gave to the 
 Monastery of Croyland his great drinking-horn, 
 that the elder monks might drink therefrom at 
 festivals, and " in their benedictions remember 
 sometimes the soul of the donor, Witlaf." They 
 drank his health, with that of Christ, the Virgin 
 Mary, the Apostles, and other saints. Malmes- 
 bury says, that excessive drinking was the com- 
 mon vice of all ranks of people. We know 
 that King Hardicanute died in a revel ; and 
 King Edmund, in a drunken brawl at Puckle- 
 church, being, with all his court, much over- 
 taken by liquor, at the festival of St. Augustine. 
 Thus did mankind go reeling through the Dark 
 Ages ; quarrelling, drinking, hunting, hawking, 
 singing psalms, wearing breeches,! grinding in 
 
 * History of the Anglo-Saxons, Vol. II. p. 61. 
 
 t In an old Anglo-Saxon dialogue, a shoemaker says, that 
 
 mills, eating hot bread, rocked in cradles, buried 
 in coffins, — weak, suffering, sublime. Well 
 might King Alfred exclaim, " Maker of all 
 creatures ! help now thy miserable mankind." 
 A national literature is a subject which should 
 always be approached with reverence. It is diffi- 
 cult to comprehend fully the mind of a nation ; 
 even when that nation still lives, and we can 
 visit it, and its present history, and the lives of 
 men we know, help us to a comment on the writ- 
 ten text. But here the dead alone speak. Voices, 
 half understood ; fragments of song, ending 
 abruptly, as if the poet had sung no farther, 
 but died with these last words upon his lips ; 
 homilies, preached to congregations that have 
 been asleep for many centuries; lives of saints, 
 who went to their reward long before the 
 world began to scoff at sainthood ; and won- 
 derful legends, once believed by men, and now, 
 in this age of wise children, hardly credible 
 enough for a nurse's tale ; nothing entire, noth- 
 ing wholly understood, and no farther comment 
 or illustration than may be drawn from an iso- 
 lated fact found in an old chronicle, or per- 
 chance a rude illumination in an old manu- 
 script ! Such is the literature we have now to 
 consider. Such fragments, and mutilated re- 
 mains, has the human mind left of itself, com- 
 ing down through the times of old, step by 
 step, and every step a century. Old men and 
 venerable accompany us through the Past ; 
 and, pausing at the threshold of the Present, 
 they put into our hands, at parting, such written 
 records of themselves as they have. We should 
 receive these things with reverence. We should 
 respect old age. 
 
 " This leaf, is it not blown about by the wind ? 
 Woe to it for its fate ! 
 Alas ! it is old. " 
 
 What an Anglo-Saxon glee-man was, we 
 know from such commentaries as are mentioned 
 above. King Edgar forb.ide the monks to be 
 ale-poets (eala-scopas) ; and one of his accusa- 
 tions against the clergy of his day was, that 
 they entertained glee-men in their monasteries, 
 where they had dicing, dancing, and singing, 
 till midnight. The illumination of an old man- 
 uscript shows how a glee-man looked. It is a 
 frontispiece to the Psalms of David. The great 
 psalmist sits upon his throne, with a harp in 
 his hand, and his masters of sacred song around 
 him. Below stands the glee-man ; throwing 
 three balls and three knives alternately into 
 the air, and catching them as they fall, like a 
 modern juggler. But all the Anglo-Saxon poets 
 were not glee-men. All the harpers were not 
 hoppesteres, or dancers. The sceop, the creator, 
 the poet, rose, at times, to higher things. He 
 sang the deeds of heroes, victorious odes, 
 death-songs, epic poems ; or sitting in clois- 
 ters, and afar from these things, converted holy 
 writ into Saxon chimes. 
 
 The first thing which strikes the reader of 
 
 he makes "slippers, shoes, and leather breeches" (swt/ft- 
 leras, sceos, and lether-hose). 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 Anglo-Saxon poetry is the structure of the 
 verse ; the short exclamatory lines, whose 
 rhythm depends on alliteration in the emphatic 
 syllables, and to which the general omission 
 of the particles gives great energy and vivacity. 
 Though alliteration predominates in all Anglo- 
 Saxon poetry, rhyme is not wholly wanting. 
 It had line-rhymes and final rhymes ; which, 
 being added to the alliteration, and brought so 
 near together in the short, emphatic lines, pro- 
 duce a singular effect upon the ear. They ring 
 like blows of hammers on an anvil. For ex- 
 ample : 
 
 '•.Flah mah/Iitelh, 
 .Flan man hwitelh, 
 Burg sorg Aiteth, 
 Bald aid thwiteth, 
 VJ raec-fiec tcritheth, 
 Wrath alh smiteth." 
 
 The strong dart flitteth, 
 The spear man whetteth, 
 Care the city biteth, 
 Age the bold quelleth, 
 Vengeance prevaileth. 
 Wrath a city assaileth. 
 
 Other peculiarities of Anglo-Saxon poetry, 
 which cannot escape the reader's attention, are 
 its frequent inversions, its bold transitions, and 
 abundant metaphors. These are the things 
 which render Anglo-Saxon poetry so much more 
 difficult than Anglo-Saxon prose. But upon 
 these points I need not enlarge. It is enough 
 to have thus alluded to them. 
 
 One of the oldest and most important re- 
 mains of Anglo-Saxon literature is the epic po- 
 em of" Beowulf." Its age is unknown; but it 
 comes from a very distant and hoar antiquity ; 
 somewhere between the seventh and tenth cen- 
 turies. It is like a piece of ancient armor ; 
 rusty and battered, and vet strong. From with- 
 in comes a voice sepulchral, as if the ancient 
 armor spoke, telling a simple, straight-forward 
 narrative ; with here and there the boastful 
 speech of a rough old Dane, reminding one of 
 those made by the heroes of Homer. The style, 
 likewise, is simple, — perhaps one should sav, 
 austere. The bold metaphors, which charac- 
 terize nearly all the Anglo-Saxon poems we 
 have read, are for the most part wanting in this. 
 The author seems mainly bent upon telling us, 
 how his Sea-Goth slew the Grendel and the 
 Fire-drake. He is too much in earnest to mul- 
 tiply epithets and gorgeous figures. At times 
 he is tedious ; at times obscure ; and he who 
 undertakes to read the original will find it no 
 easy task. 
 
 The poem begins with a description of King 
 Hrothgar the Scylding, in his great hall of He- 
 ort, which reechoed with the sound of harp and 
 song. But not far off, in the fens and marshes 
 of Jutland, dwelt a grim and monstrous giant, 
 called Grendel, a descendant of Cain. This 
 troublesome individual was in the habit of occa- 
 sionally visiting the Scylding's palace by night, 
 to see, as the author rather quaintly says, " how 
 the doughty Danes found themselves after their 
 beer-carouse." On his first visit, he destroyed 
 some thirty inmates, all asleep, with beer in 
 their brains ; and ever afterwards kept the 
 whole land in fear of death. At length the 
 fame of these evil deeds reached the ears of 
 
 Beowulf, the Thane of Higelac, a famous Vi- 
 king in those days, who had slain sea-monsters, 
 and wore a wild-boar for his crest. Straight- 
 way he sailed with fifteen followers for the 
 court of Heort ; unarmed, in the great mead- 
 hall, and at midnight, fought the Grendel, tore 
 off one of his arms, and hung it up on the pal- 
 ace wall as a curiosity ; the fiend's fingers being 
 armed with long nails, which the author calls the 
 hand-spurs of the heathen hero (hmthenes hond- 
 sporu hilde-rinccs). Retreating to his cave, the 
 grim ghost (grima gast) departed this life ; 
 whereat there was great carousing at Heort. 
 But at night came the Grendel's mother, and 
 carried away one of the beer-drunken heroes of 
 the ale-wassail (beore druncne ofer eol-wcege). 
 Beowulf, with a great escort, pursued her to the 
 fen-lands of the Grendel ; plunged, all armed, 
 into a dark-rolling and dreary river, that flowed 
 from the monster's cavern ; slew worms and 
 dragons manifold ; was dragged to the bottom 
 by the old- wife ; and seizing a magic sword, 
 which lay among the treasures of that realm of 
 wonders, with one fell blow, let her heathen 
 soul out of its bone-house (ban-hits.) Having 
 thus freed the land from the giants, Beowulf, 
 laden with gifts and treasures, departed home- 
 ward, as if nothing special had happened ; and, 
 after the death of King Higelac, ascended the 
 throne of the Scylfings. Here the poem should 
 end, and, we doubt not, did originally end. But, 
 as it has come down to us, eleven more cantos 
 follow, containing a new series of adventures. 
 Beowulf has grown old. He has reigned fifty 
 years ; and now, in his gray old age, is troubled 
 by the devastations of a monstrous Fire-drake, 
 so that his metropolis is beleaguered, and he can 
 no longer flv his hawks and merles in the open 
 countrv. He resolves, at length, to fight with 
 this Fire-drake ; and, with the help of his at- 
 tendant, Wiglaf, overcomes him. The land is 
 made rich by the treasures found in the dragon's 
 cave ; but Beowulf dies of his wounds. 
 
 Thus departs Beowulf, the Sea-Goth, of the 
 world-kings the mildest to men, the strongest 
 of hand, the most clement to his people, the 
 most desirous of glory. And thus closes the 
 oldest epic in any modern language ; written in 
 fortv-three cantos and some six thousand lines. 
 The outline, here given, is filled up with abun- 
 dant episodes and warlike details. We have 
 ale-revels, and giving of bracelets, and presents 
 of mares, and songs of bards. The battles with 
 the Grendel and the Fire-drake are minutely 
 described ; as likewise are the dwellings and 
 rich treasure-houses of these monsters. The 
 fire-stream flows with lurid light ; the dragon 
 breathes out flame and pestilential breath ; the 
 gigantic sword, forged by the Jutes of old, dis- 
 solves and thaws like an icicle in the hero's 
 grasp ; and the swart raven tells the eagle how 
 he fared with the fell wolf at the death-feast. 
 Such is, in brief, the machinery of the poem. 
 It possesses great epic merit, and in parts is 
 strikingly graphic in its descriptions As we 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE AND POETRY 
 
 read, we can almost smell the brine, and hear 
 the sea-breeze ' blow, and see the main-land 
 stretch out its jutting promontories, those sea- 
 noses (sce-ruessas), as the poet calls them, into 
 the blue waters of the solemn main. 
 
 In the words of Mr. Kemble, I exhort the 
 reader " to judge this poem not by the measure 
 of our times and creeds, but by those of the times 
 which it describes ; as a rude, but very faithful 
 picture of an age, wanting indeed in scientific 
 knowledge, in mechanical expertness, even in 
 refinement ; but brave, generous, and right-prin- 
 cipled ; assuring him of what I well know, that 
 these echoes from the deserted temples of the 
 past, if listened to in a sober and understanding 
 spirit, bring with them matter both strengthen- 
 ing and purifying the heart."* 
 
 The next work to which I would call the 
 attention of my readers is very remarkable, 
 both in a philological and in a poetical point of 
 view ; being written in a more ambitious style 
 than "Beowulf." It is Csedmon's "Paraphrase 
 of Portions of Holy Writ." Caedmon was a 
 monk in the Minster of Whitby. He died in the 
 year 680. The only account we have of his 
 life is that given by the Venerable Bede in his 
 " Ecclesiastical History." 
 
 By some he is called the Father of Anglo- 
 Saxon Poetry, because his name stands first in 
 the history of Saxon song-craft ; by others, the 
 Milton of our Forefathers ; because he sang of 
 Lucifer and the Loss of Paradise. 
 
 The poem is divided into two books. The 
 first is nearly complete, and contains a para- 
 phrase of parts of the Old Testament and the 
 Apocrypha. The second is so mutilated as to 
 be only a series of unconnected fragments. It 
 contains scenes from the New Testament, and 
 is chiefly occupied with Christ's descent into 
 the lower regions ; a favorite theme in old 
 times, and well known in the history of mira- 
 cle-plays, as the " Harrowing of Hell." The 
 author is a pious, prayerful monk ; " an awful, 
 reverend, and religious man." He has all the 
 simplicity of a child. He calls his Creator the 
 Blithe-heart King ; the patriarchs, Earls ; and 
 their children, Noblemen. Abraham is a wise- 
 heedy man, a guardian of bracelets, a mighty 
 earl ; and his wife Sarah, a woman of elfin- 
 beauty. The sons of Reuben are called Sea- 
 Pirates. A laugher is a laughter-smith (hleah- 
 toT-smith) ; the Ethiopians, a people brown with 
 the hot coals of heaven (brune leode hatum heo- 
 fon-colum) . 
 
 Striking poetic epithets and passages are not, 
 however, wanting. They are sprinkled here 
 and there throughout the narrative. The sky 
 is called the roof of nations, the roof adorned 
 
 * The Anglo-Saxon Poems of Beowulf, the Traveller's 
 Song, and the Battle of Finnesburgh, edited, together with 
 a Glossary of the more Difficult Word3, and an Historical 
 Preface, by John M. Kemble, Esq., M. A. London : 
 1833. I2mo. 
 
 A Translation of the Anglo-Saxon Poem of Beowulf. By 
 Join M. Kemble, Esq., M. A. London: 1837. 12mo. 
 
 with stars. After the overthrow of Pharaoh and 
 his folk, he says, the blue air was with corrup- 
 tion tainted, and the bursting ocean whooptd a 
 Moody storm. Nebuchadnezzar is described as 
 a naked, unwilling wanderer, a wondrous wretch 
 and weedless. Horrid ghosts, swart and sinful, 
 "Wide through windy halls 
 Wail woful." 
 And, in the sack of Sodom, we are told how 
 many a fearful, pale-faced damsel must trem- 
 bling go into a stranger s embrace ; and how fell 
 the defenders of brides and bracelets, sick with 
 wounds. Indeed, whenever the author has a 
 battle to describe, and hosts of arm-bearing and 
 war-faring men draw from their sheaths the ring- 
 hilted sword of edges doughty (Jiring-mmled 
 sweord ecgum dihtig), he enters into the matter 
 with so much spirit, that one almost imagines 
 he sees, looking from under that monkish cowl, 
 the visage of no parish priest, but of a grim 
 war-wolf, as the brave were called, in the days 
 when Caedmon wrote. 
 
 The genuineness of these remains has been 
 called in question, or, perhaps I should say, 
 denied, by Hickes and others. They suppose 
 the work to belong to as late a period as the 
 tenth century, on account of its similarity in 
 style and dialect to other poems of that age. 
 Besides, the fragment of the ancient Caedmon, 
 given by Bede, describing the Creation, does 
 not correspond exactly with the passage on the 
 same subject in the Junian or Pseudo Caedmon ; 
 and, moreover, Hickes says he has detected so 
 many Dano-Saxon words and phrases in it, that 
 he " cannot but think it was written by some 
 Northymbrian (in the Saxon sense of the word), 
 after the Danes had corrupted their language." 
 Mr. Thorpe * replies very conclusively to all 
 this ; that the language of the poem is as pure 
 Anglo-Saxon as that of Alfred himself; that the 
 Danisms exist only in the " imagination of the 
 learned author of the Thesaurus " ; and that, if 
 the)' were really to be found in the work under 
 consideration, it would prove no more than that 
 the manuscript was a copy made by a Northum- 
 brian scribe, at a period when the language had 
 become corrupted. As to the passage in Bede, 
 the original of Caedmon was not given ; only a 
 Latin translation by Bede, which Alfred, in his 
 version of the venerable historian, has retrans- 
 lated into Anglo-Saxon. Hence the difference 
 between these lines and the opening lines of 
 the poem. In its themes the poem corresponds 
 exactly with that which Bede informs us Casd- 
 mon wrote ; and its claim to genuineness can 
 hardly be destroyed by such objections as have 
 been brought against it. 
 
 Such are the two great narrative poems of 
 the Anglo-Saxon tongue. Of a third, a short 
 fragment remains. It is a mutilated thing ; a 
 mere torso. Judith of the Apocrypha is the he- 
 
 * Caedmon's Metrical Paraphrase of Parts of the Holy 
 Scriptures in Anglo-Saxon; with an English Translation. 
 Notes, and a Verbal Index, by Benjamin Thorpe, F. S. A 
 London : 1832. Svo. 
 
 a2 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 roine. The part preserved describes the death 
 of Holofernes in a fine, brilliant style, de- 
 lighting the hearts of all Anglo-Saxon scholars. 
 The original will be found in Mr. Thorpe's 
 Jlnalecta* ; and translations of some passages in 
 Turner's " History." But a more important frag- 
 ment is that on the " Death of Byrhtnoth " at the 
 battle of Maldon. This, likewise, is in Thorpe ; 
 and a prose translation is given by Conybeare 
 in his " Illustrations."! It savors of rust and of 
 antiquity, like "Old Hildebrand " in German. 
 What a fine passage is this, spoken by an aged 
 vassal over the dead body of the hero, in the 
 thickest of the fight ! 
 
 "Byrhtwold spoke; he was an aged vassal; he raised 
 his shield ; he brandished his ashen spear ; he full boldly 
 exhorted the warriors. ' Our spirit shall be the hardier, our 
 heart shall be the keener, our soul shall be the greater, the 
 more our forces diminish. Here lieth our chief all mangled ; 
 the brave one in the dust ; ever may he lament his shame 
 that thinketh to fly from this play of weapons ! Old am I 
 in life, yet will I not stir hence ; but I think to lie by the 
 side of my lord, by that much loved man ! ' " 
 
 Shorter than either of these fragments is a 
 third on the "Fight of Finsborough." Its chief 
 value seems to be, that it relates to the same 
 action which formed the theme of one of 
 Hrothgar's bards in " Beowulf." Mr. Cony- 
 beare has given it a place in his work. In ad- 
 dition to these narrative poems and fragments, 
 two others, founded on Lives of Saints, are 
 mentioned, though they have never been pub- 
 lished. They are the " Life and Passion of 
 St. Juliana" ; and the " Visions of the Hermit 
 Guthlac." 
 
 There is another narrative poem, which I 
 must mention here on account of its subject, 
 though of a much later date than the forego- 
 ing. It is the " Chronicle of King Lear and 
 his Daughters," in Norman-Saxon ; not rhymed 
 throughout, but with rhymes too often recurring 
 to be accidental. As a poem, it has no merit, 
 but shows that the story of Lear is very old ; 
 for, in speaking of the old King's death and 
 burial, it refers to a previous account, " as the 
 book telleth" (ase the bock telleth). Cordelia 
 is married to Aganippus, king of France ; and, 
 after his death, reigns over England, though 
 Maglaudus, king of Scotland, declares, that it is 
 a " muckle shame, that a queen should be king 
 over the land." + 
 
 Besides these long, elaborate poems, the An- 
 glo-Saxons had their odes and ballads. Thus, 
 when King Canute was sailing by the abbey of 
 Ely, he heard the voices of the monks chanting 
 their vesper hymn. Whereupon he sang, in 
 
 * Analecta Anglo-Saxonica. A Selection, in Prose and 
 Verse, from Anglo-Saxon Authors of Various Ages, with 
 a Glossary. Designed chiefly as a First Book for Students. 
 By Benjamin Thorpe. London : 1834. 8vo. 
 
 t Illustrations of Anglo-Saxon Poetry. By John Josias 
 Conybeare. London : 1826. 8vo. 
 
 I For hit was swithe mochel same, 
 and eke hit was mochel grame, 
 that a cwene solde 
 be king in thisse land. 
 
 the best Anglo-Saxon he was master of, the fol- 
 lowing rhyme : 
 
 " Merry sang the monks in Ely, 
 As King Canute was steering by; 
 Row, ye knights, near the land, 
 And hear we these monks' song."* 
 
 The best, and, properly speaking, perhaps the 
 only, Anglo-Saxon odes we have, are those pre- 
 served in the " Saxon Chronicle," in recording 
 the events they celebrate. They are five in 
 number. " jEthelstan's Victory at Brunanburh," 
 A. D. 938; the "Victories of Edmund .Ethe- 
 ling," A. D. 942; the" Coronation of King Ed- 
 gar," A. D. 973; the "Death of King Edgar," 
 A. D. 975 ; and the " Death of King Edward," 
 A. D. 1065. The " Battle of Brunanburh " is 
 already pretty well known by the numerous 
 English versions, and attempts thereat, which 
 have been given of it. Tins ode is one of the 
 most characteristic specimens of Anglo-Saxon 
 poetry. What a striking picture is that of the 
 lad with flaxen hair, mangled with wounds ; 
 and of the seven earls of Anlaf, and the five 
 young kings, lying on the battle-field, lulled 
 asleep by the sword ! Indeed, the whole ode is 
 striking, bold, graphic. The furious onslaught ; 
 the cleaving of the wall of shields; the hewing 
 down of banners; the din of the fight; the hard 
 hand-play ; the retreat of the Northmen, in 
 nailed ships, over the stormy sea ; and the de- 
 serted dead, on the battle-ground, left to the 
 swart raven, the war-hawk, and the wolf; — 
 all these images appeal strongly to the imagina- 
 tion. The bard has nobly described this victo- 
 ry of the illustrious war-smiths (wlance wig- 
 smithas), the most signal victory since the com- 
 ing of the Saxons into England ; so say the 
 books of the old wise men. 
 
 And here I would make due and honorable 
 mention of the "Poetic Calendar," and of King 
 Alfred's " Version of the Metres of Boe'thius." 
 The " Poetic Calendar " is a chronicle of great 
 events in the lives of saints, martyrs, and apos- 
 tles, referred to the daj's on which they took 
 place. At the end is a strange poem, consisting 
 of a series of aphorisms, not unlike those that 
 adorn a modern almanac. 
 
 In addition to these narratives and odes and 
 didactic poems there is a vast number of minor 
 poems on various subjects, some of which have 
 been published, though for the most part they 
 still lie asleep in manuscripts, — hymns, allego- 
 ries, doxologies, proverbs, enigmas, paraphrases 
 of the Lord's Prayer, poems on Death and the 
 Day of Judgment, and the like. A great quan- 
 tity of them is contained in the celebrated Exe- 
 ter Manuscript ; a folio given by Bishop Leo- 
 fric to the Cathedral of Exeter in the eleventh 
 century, and called by the donor, a " mycel 
 Englisc hoc be gehwylcum thingum on leothwi- 
 san geworht" a great English book about every 
 
 . * Merie sungen the muneches binnen Ely, 
 Tha Cnut ching reuther by ; 
 Roweth, cnihtes, noer the land, 
 And here we thes muneches sang. 
 
ANGLO-SAXON LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 thing, composed in verse. A minute account 
 of the contents of this manuscript, with numer- 
 ous extracts, is given by Conybeare in his " Il- 
 lustrations." Among these is the beginning of 
 a very singular and striking poem, entitled, 
 " The Soul's Complaint against the Bod)'." 
 But perhaps the most curious poem in the Exe- 
 ter Manuscript is the Rhyming Poem, to which 
 I have before alluded. 
 
 I will close this introduction with a few 
 remarks on Anglo-Saxon Prose. At the very 
 boundary stand two great works, like land- 
 marks. These are the " Saxon Laws," pro- 
 mulgated by the various kings that ruled the 
 land; and the " Saxon Chronicle," * in which 
 all great historic events, from the middle of the 
 fifth to the middle of the twelfth century, are 
 recorded by contemporary writers, mainly, it 
 would seem, the monks of Winchester, Peter- 
 borough, and Canterbury. Setting these aside, 
 doubtless the most important remains of Anglo- 
 Saxon prose are the writings of King Alfred 
 the Great. 
 
 What a sublime old character was King Al- 
 fred ! Alfred, the Truth-teller ! Thus the an- 
 cient historian surnamed him, as others were 
 surnamed the Unready, Ironside, Harefoot. The 
 principal events of his life are known to all 
 men ; — the nine battles fought in the first year 
 of his reign ; his flight to the marshes and for- 
 ests of Somersetshire ; his poverty and suffer- 
 ing, wherein was fulfilled the prophecy of St. 
 Neot, that he should " be bruised like the ears 
 of wheat"; his life with the swineherd, whose 
 wife bade him turn the cakes, that they might 
 not be burnt, for she saw daily that 4ie was a 
 great eater ; t his successful rallv ; his victories, 
 and his future glorious reign ; these things are 
 known to all men. And not only these, which 
 are events in his life, but also many more, 
 which are traits in his character, and controlled 
 events ; as, for example, that he was a wise 
 and virtuous man, a religious man, a learned 
 man for that age. Perhaps they know, even, 
 how he measured time with his six horn lan- 
 terns ; also, that he was an author and wrote 
 many books. But of these books how few 
 pers-ons have read even a single line ! And 
 yet it is well worth one's while, if he wish to 
 see all the calm dignity of that great man's 
 character, and how in him the scholar and the 
 man outshone the king. For example, do we 
 not know him better, and honor him more, 
 when we hear from his own lips, as it were, 
 
 * The style of this Chronicle rises at times far above 
 that of most monkish historians. For instance, in record- 
 in? the death of William the Conqueror, the writer says : 
 " Sharp death, that passes by neither rich men nor poor, 
 seized him also. Alas ! how false and how uncertain is 
 this world's weal ! He that -was before a rich king, and 
 lord of many lands, had not then of all his land more than a 
 space of seven feet ! and he that was whilom enshrouded ir 
 gold and gems lay there covered with mould." A D 108^ 
 
 t "Wend thu thao hlafes, tha he ns forbeomen, fortnam 
 ic geseo deighamlice tha thu mycel ete eart." — Asser, 
 "Life of Alfred." See Turner. 
 
 such sentiments as these ? " God has made 
 all men equally noble in their original nature. 
 True nobility is in the mind, not in the flesh. 
 I wished to live honorably whilst I lived, and, 
 after my life, to leave to the men who were 
 after me my memory in good works ! " 
 
 The chief writings of this Royal Author are 
 his translations of Gregory's " Pastoralis," Boe- 
 thius's " Consolations of Philosophy," Bede's 
 "Ecclesiastical History," and the "History of 
 Orosius," known in manuscripts by the mys- 
 terious title of " Hormesta." Of these works 
 the most remarkable is the Boethius ; so much 
 of his own mind has Alfred infused into it. 
 Properly speaking, it is not so much a transla- 
 tion as a gloss or paraphrase ; for the Saxon 
 King, upon his throne, had a soul which was 
 near akin to that of the last of the Roman phi- 
 losophers in his prison. He had suffered, and 
 could sympathize with suffering humanity. He 
 adorned and carried out still farther the reflec- 
 tions of Boethius. He begins his task, how- 
 ever, with an apology, saying, " Alfred, king, 
 was translator of this book, and turned it from 
 book-latin into English, as he most plainly and 
 clearly could, amid the various and manifold 
 worldly occupations which often busied him 
 in mind and body " ; and ends with a prayer, 
 beseeching God, " by the sign of the holy cross, 
 and by the virginity of the blessed Mary, and 
 by the obedience of the blessed Michael, and 
 by the love of all the saints and their merits," 
 that his mind might be made steadfast to the 
 divine will and his own soul's need. 
 
 Other remains of Anglo-Saxon prose exist in 
 the tale of " Apollonius of Tyre " ; the " Bible- 
 translations " and " Colloquies " of Abbot M\- 
 fric ; " Glosses of the Gospels," at the close of 
 one of which, the conscientious scribe has writ- 
 ten, " Aldred, an unworthy and miserable priest, 
 with the help of God and St. Cuthbert, over- 
 glossed it in English " ; and, finally, various 
 miscellaneous treatises, among which the most 
 curious is a " Dialogue between Saturn and 
 Solomon." 
 
 Hardly less curious, and infinitely more val- 
 uable, is a " Colloquy " of JElfric, composed for 
 the purpose of teaching boys to speak Latin. 
 The Saxon is an interlinear translation of the 
 Latin. In this "Colloquy" various laborers 
 and handicraftsmen are introduced, — plough- 
 men, herdsmen, huntsmen, shoemakers, and 
 others ; and each has his say, even to the 
 blacksmith, who dwells in his smithy amid 
 iron fire-sparks and the sound of beating sledge- 
 hammers and blowing bellows (isenne fyr- 
 spearcan, and swegincga beatendra slecgea, and 
 blawendra byliga). 
 
 To speak farther of Anglo-Saxon prose would 
 lead me beyond my plan. I have only to re- 
 mark, that, in the selections from Anglo-Saxon 
 poetry which follow, I have, for the most part, 
 selected s.n pie prose translations, as best cal- 
 culated to convey a clear idea of the rhythmic 
 but unrhymed originals. 
 
POEM OF BEOWULF, 
 
 BEOWULF THE SHYLD. 
 
 Then dwelt in the cities 
 
 Beowulf the Shyld, 
 
 A king dear to the people 
 
 Long did he live 
 
 His country's father. 
 
 To him was born 
 
 Healfden the high ; 
 
 He, while he lived, 
 
 Reigned and grew old, 
 
 The delight of the Shylds. 
 
 To him four children 
 
 Grew up in the world, 
 
 Leaders of hosts, 
 
 Weorgar and Rothgar, 
 
 And Halga the good. 
 
 And I have heard 
 
 That Helen his queen 
 
 Was born of the Shefings. 
 
 Then was to Rothgar 
 
 Speedily given 
 
 The command of the army ; 
 
 Him his friends 
 
 Heard most willingly. 
 
 When to the youth 
 
 Was grown up a family, 
 
 It came to his mind 
 
 He would build them a hall. 
 
 Much was there to earn, 
 
 And men wrought at it, 
 
 And brought it to bear. 
 
 And there within 
 
 He dealt out ale 
 
 To young and to old, 
 
 As God sent them ; 
 
 Without stood the people 
 
 And sported afar. 
 
 And, as I have inquired, 
 
 The work was praised 
 
 In many a place 
 
 Amid the earth. 
 
 To found a folkstead 
 
 He first contrived 
 
 Among his liegemen ; 
 
 And when this was finished, 
 
 The first of halls, 
 
 Earth gave him a name, 
 
 So that his words 
 
 Had power afar. 
 
 He received guests, 
 
 And gave bracelets 
 
 To the friends of the feast ; 
 
 And the ceilings echoed 
 
 To the sound of the horn • 
 
 Ard hea hs were giver 
 
 In strong drin/c. 
 
 THE SAILING OF BEOWULF. 
 
 Famous was Beowulf; 
 Wide sprang the blood 
 Which the heir of the Shylds 
 Shed on the lands. 
 So shall the bracelets 
 Purchase endeavour, 
 Freely presented, 
 As by thy fathers ; 
 And all the young men, 
 As is their custom, 
 Cling round their leader 
 Soon as the war comes. 
 Lastly thy people 
 The deeds shall bepraise 
 Which their men have performed 
 When the Shyld had awaited 
 The time he should stay, 
 Came many to fare 
 On the billows so free. 
 His ship they bore out 
 To the brim of the ocean, 
 And his comrades sat down 
 At their oars as he bade : 
 A word could control 
 His good fellows, the Shylds. 
 There, at the Hythe, 
 *Stood his old father 
 Long to look after him. 
 The band of his comrades, 
 Eager for outfit, 
 Forward the Atheling. 
 Then all the people 
 Cheered their loved lord, 
 The giver of bracelets. 
 On the deck of the ship 
 He stood by the mast. 
 There was treasure 
 Won from afar 
 Laden on board. 
 Ne'er did I hear 
 Of a vessel appointed 
 Better for battle, 
 With weapons of war, 
 And waistcoats of wool, 
 And axes and swords. 
 
 BEOWULF'S EXPEDITION TO HEORT 
 
 Thus then, much care-worn, 
 The son of Healfden 
 Sorrowed evermore, 
 Nor might the prudent hero 
 His woes avert 
 
BEOWULF. 
 
 The war was too hard, 
 
 And broad sea-noses. 
 
 Too loath and longsome, 
 
 Then was the sea-sailing 
 
 That on the people came, 
 
 Of the Earl at an end. 
 
 Dire wrath and grim, 
 
 Then up speedily 
 
 Of night-woes the worst. 
 
 The Weather people 
 
 This from home heard 
 
 On the land went, 
 
 Higelac's Thane, 
 
 The sea-bark moored, 
 
 Good among the Goths, 
 
 Their mail-sarks shook, 
 
 Grendel's deeds. 
 
 Their war-weeds. 
 
 He was of mankind 
 
 God thanked they, 
 
 In might the strongest, 
 
 That to them the sea-journey 
 
 At that day 
 
 Easy had been. 
 
 Of this life, 
 
 Then from the wall beheld 
 
 Noble and stalwart. 
 
 The warden of the Scyldings, 
 
 He bade him a sea-ship, 
 
 He who the sea-cliffs 
 
 A goodly one, prepare. 
 
 Had in his keeping, 
 
 Quoth he, the war-king, 
 
 Bear o'er the balks 
 
 Over the swan's road, 
 
 The bright shields, 
 
 Seek he would 
 
 The war-weapons speedily. 
 
 The mighty monarch, 
 
 Him the doubt disturbed 
 
 Since he wanted men. 
 
 In his mind's thought, 
 
 For him that journey 
 
 What these men might be. 
 
 His prudent fellows 
 
 Went then to the shore, 
 
 Straight made ready, 
 
 On his steed riding, 
 
 Those that loved him. 
 
 The Thane of Hrothgar. 
 
 They excited their souls, 
 
 Before the host he shook 
 
 The omen they beheld. 
 
 His warden's-staff in hand, 
 
 Had the good-man 
 
 In measured words demanded : 
 
 Of the Gothic people 
 
 " What men are ye 
 
 Champions chosen, 
 
 War-gear wearing, 
 
 Of those that keenest 
 
 Host in harness, 
 
 He might find, 
 
 Who thus the brown keel 
 
 Some fifteen men. 
 
 Over the water-street 
 
 The sea-wood sought he. 
 
 Leading come 
 
 The warrior showed, 
 
 Hither over the sea? 
 
 Sea-crafty man ! 
 
 I these boundaries 
 
 The land-marks, 
 
 As shore-warden hold ; 
 
 And first went forth. 
 
 That in the Land of the Danes 
 
 The ship was on the waves, 
 
 Nothing loathsome 
 
 Boat under the cliffs. 
 
 With a ship-crew 
 
 The barons ready 
 
 Scathe us might. . . . 
 
 To the prow mounted. 
 
 Ne'er saw I mightier 
 
 The streams they whirled 
 
 Earl upon earth 
 
 The sea against the sands. 
 
 Than is your own, 
 
 The chieftains bore 
 
 Hero in harness. 
 
 On the naked breast 
 
 Not seldom this warrior 
 
 Bright ornaments, 
 
 Is in weapons distinguished ; 
 
 War-gear, Goth-like. 
 
 Never his beauty belies him, 
 
 The men shoved off, 
 
 His peerless countenance ! 
 
 Men on their willing way, 
 
 Now would I fain 
 
 The bounden wood. 
 
 Your origin know, 
 
 Then went over the sea-waves, 
 
 Ere ye forth 
 
 Hurried by the wind, 
 
 As false spies 
 
 The ship with foamy neck, 
 
 Into the Land of the Danes 
 
 Most like a sea-fowl, 
 
 Farther fare. 
 
 Till about one hour 
 
 Now, ye dwellers afar-off! 
 
 Of the second day 
 
 Ye sailors of the sea ! 
 
 The curved prow 
 
 Listen to my 
 
 Had passed onward 
 
 One-fold thought. 
 
 So that the sailors 
 
 Quickest is best 
 
 The land saw, 
 
 To make known 
 
 The shore-cliffs shining, 
 
 Whence your coming may be." 
 
 Mountains steep, 
 2 
 
 
10 
 
 ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 
 
 
 AN OLD MAN'S SORROW. 
 
 The court all rose, 
 The mingled-haired 
 
 
 Cakeful, sorrowing, 
 
 Old Scyiding 
 
 
 He seetii in his son's bower 
 
 Would visit his bed ; 
 
 
 The wine-hall deserted, 
 
 The Geat wished the 
 
 
 The resort of the wind noiseless ; 
 
 Renowned Warrior to rest 
 
 
 The Knight sleepeth, 
 
 Immeasurably w r ell. 
 
 
 The Warrior, in darkness ; 
 
 Soon him the foreigner, 
 
 
 There is not there 
 
 Weary of his journey, 
 
 
 Noise of the harp, 
 
 The hall-thane guided forth, 
 
 
 Joy in the dwellings, 
 
 Who, after a fitting manner, 
 
 
 As there was before ; 
 
 Provided all that 
 
 
 Then departeth he into songs, 
 
 The thane needed, 
 
 
 Singeth a lay of sorrow, 
 
 Whatsoever that day 
 
 
 One after one ; 
 
 The sailers over the deep 
 
 
 All seemed to him too wide, 
 
 Should have. 
 
 
 The plains and the dwelling-place 
 
 The magnanimous warrior rested 
 
 The house rose aloft 
 
 Curved and variegated with go] a 
 
 
 
 
 
 The stranger slept therein, 
 
 
 GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 Until the pale raven, 
 Blithe of heart, 
 
 
 The night-helm grew dusky, 
 
 Announced the joy of heaven, 
 
 
 Dark over the vassals ; 
 
 The h ight sun, to be come 
 
 
 C^D 
 
 MON. 
 
 
 THE FIRST DAY. 
 
 N"t grepn with grass ; 
 
 
 
 
 Ocean covered, 
 
 
 There had not here as yet, 
 
 Swart in eternal night, 
 
 
 Save cavern-shade, 
 
 Far and wide, 
 
 
 Aught been ; 
 
 The dusky ways 
 
 
 But this wide abyss 
 
 Then was the gJory-b.-ighi 
 
 
 Stood deep and dim, 
 
 Spirit of heaven's Guardian 
 
 
 Strange to its Lord, 
 
 Borne over the deep 
 
 
 Idle and useless ; 
 
 With utmost speed : 
 
 
 On which looked with his eyes 
 
 The Creator of angels bade, 
 
 
 The King firm of mind, 
 
 The Lord of life, 
 
 
 And beheld those places 
 
 Light to come forth 
 
 
 Void of joys ; 
 
 Over the spacious deep. 
 
 
 Saw the dark cloud 
 
 Quickly was fulfilled 
 
 
 Lower in eternal night, 
 
 The high King's behest; 
 
 
 Swart under heaven, 
 
 For him was holy light 
 
 
 Dark and waste, 
 
 Over the waste, 
 
 
 Until this worldly creation 
 
 As the Maker bade. 
 
 
 Through the word existed 
 
 Then sundered 
 
 
 Of the Glory-King. 
 
 The Lord of triumphs 
 
 
 Here first shaped 
 
 Over the ocean-flood 
 
 
 The Lord eternal, 
 
 Light from darkness, 
 
 
 Chief of all creatures, 
 
 Shade from brightness, 
 
 
 Heaven and earth ; 
 
 Then gave names to both 
 
 
 The firmament upreared, 
 
 The Lord of life. 
 
 
 And this spacious land 
 
 Light was first 
 
 
 Established, 
 
 Through the Lord's word 
 
 
 By his strong powers, 
 
 Named day ; 
 
 
 The Lord almighty. 
 
 Beauteous, bright creation ! 
 
 
 The earth as yet was 
 
 Well pleased 
 
CfiDMON. 11 
 
 The Lord at the beginning 
 
 Many words spake 
 
 The procreative time. 
 
 The angel of presumption : 
 
 The first day saw 
 
 Thought, through his own power, 
 
 The dark shade 
 
 How he for himself a stronger 
 
 Swart prevailing 
 
 Seat might make, 
 
 Over the wide abyss. 
 
 Higher in heaven : 
 
 
 Said that him his mind impelled, 
 
 
 That he west and north 
 
 
 Would begin to work, 
 
 THE FALL OF THE REBEL ANGELS. 
 
 Would prepare structures : 
 
 
 
 Said it to him seemed doubtful 
 
 The All-powerful had 
 
 That he to God would 
 
 Angel-tribes, 
 
 Be a vassal. 
 
 Through might of hand, 
 
 " Why shall I toil ? " said he ; 
 
 The holy Lord, 
 
 " To me it is no whit needful 
 
 Ten established, 
 
 To have a superior ; 
 
 In whom he trusted well 
 
 I can with my hands as many 
 
 That they his service 
 
 Wonders work ; 
 
 Would follow, 
 
 I have great power 
 
 Work his will ; 
 
 To form 
 
 Therefore gave he them wit, 
 
 A diviner throne, 
 
 And shaped them with his hands, 
 
 A higher in heaven. 
 
 The holy Lord. 
 
 Why shall I for his favor serve, 
 
 He had placed them so happily, 
 
 Bend to him in such vassalage ? 
 
 One he had made so powerful, 
 
 I may be a god as he. 
 
 So mighty in his mind's thought, 
 
 Stand by me strong associates, 
 
 He let him sway over so much, 
 
 Who will not fail me in the strife. 
 
 Highest after himself in heaven's king- 
 
 Heroes stern of mood, 
 
 dom. 
 
 They have chosen me for chief, 
 
 He had made him so fair, 
 
 Renowned warriors ! 
 
 So beauteous was his form in heaven, 
 
 With such may one devise counsel, 
 
 That came to him from the Lord of hosts, 
 
 With such capture his adherents ; 
 
 He was like to the light stars. 
 
 They are my zealous friends, 
 
 It was his to work the praise of the Lord, 
 
 Faithful in their thoughts ; 
 
 It was his to hold dear his joys in heaven, 
 
 I may be their chieftain, 
 
 And to thank his Lord 
 
 Sway in this realm : 
 
 For the reward that he had bestowed on 
 
 Thus to me it seemeth not right 
 
 him in that light ; 
 
 That I in aught 
 
 Then had he let him long possess it ; 
 
 Need cringe 
 
 But he turned it for himself to a worse 
 
 To God for any good ; 
 
 thing, 
 
 I will no longer be his vassal." 
 
 Began to raise war upon him, 
 
 When the All-powerful it 
 
 Against the highest Ruler of heaven, 
 
 All had heard, 
 
 Who sitteth in the holy seat. 
 
 That his angel devised 
 
 Dear was he to our Lord, 
 
 Great presumption 
 
 But it might not be hidden from him 
 
 To raise up against his Master, 
 
 That his angel began 
 
 And spake proud words 
 
 To be presumptuous, 
 
 Foolishly against his Lord, 
 
 Raised himself against his Master, 
 
 Then must he expiate the deed, 
 
 Sought speech of hate, 
 
 Share the work of war, 
 
 Words of pride towards him, 
 
 And for his punishment must have 
 
 Would not serve God, 
 
 Of all deadly ills the greatest. 
 
 Said that his body was 
 
 So doth every man 
 
 Light and beauteous, 
 
 Who against his Lord 
 
 Fair and bright of hue : 
 
 Deviseth to war, 
 
 He might not find in his mind 
 
 With crime against the great Ruler. 
 
 That he would God 
 
 Then was the Mighty angry, 
 
 In subjection, 
 
 The highest Ruler of heaven, 
 
 His Lord, serve : 
 
 Hurled him from the lofty seat ; 
 
 Seemed to himself 
 
 Hate had he gained at his Lord, 
 
 That he a power and force 
 
 His favor he had lost, 
 
 Had greater 
 
 Incensed with him was the Good in his 
 
 Than the holy God 
 
 mind, 
 
 Could have 
 
 Therefore must he seek the gulf 
 
 Of adherents. 
 
 Of hard hell-torment, 
 
12 ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 
 
 For that he had warred with heaven's 
 
 SATAN'S SPEECH. 
 
 Ruler. 
 
 
 
 He rejected him then from his favor, 
 
 Satan harangued, 
 
 And cast him into hell, 
 
 Sorrowing spake, 
 
 Into the deep parts, 
 
 He who hell henceforth 
 
 Where he became a devil : 
 
 Should rule, 
 
 The fiend with all his comrades 
 
 Govern the abyss. 
 
 Fell then from heaven above, 
 
 He was erst God's angel, 
 
 Through as long as three nights and days, 
 
 Fair in heaven, 
 
 The angels from heaven into hell ; 
 
 Until him his mind urged, 
 
 And them all the Lord transformed to 
 
 And his pride 
 
 devils, 
 
 Most of all, 
 
 Because they his deed and word 
 
 That he would not 
 
 Would not revere ; 
 
 The Lord of hosts' 
 
 Therefore them in a worse light, 
 
 Word revere ; 
 
 Under the earth beneath, 
 
 Boiled within him 
 
 Almighty God 
 
 His thought about his heart, 
 
 Had placed triumphless 
 
 Hot was without him 
 
 In the swart hell ; 
 
 His dire punishment. 
 
 There they have at even, 
 
 Then spake he the words : 
 
 Immeasurably long, 
 
 " This narrow place is most unlike 
 
 Each of all the fiends, 
 
 That other that we ere knew, 
 
 A renewal of fire ; 
 
 High in heaven's kingdom, 
 
 Then cometh ere dawn 
 
 Which my Master bestowed on me, 
 
 The eastern wind, 
 
 Though we it, for the All-powerful, 
 
 Frost bitter-cold, 
 
 May not possess, 
 
 Ever fire or dart ; 
 
 Must cede our realm ; 
 
 Some hard torment 
 
 Yet hath he not done rightly, 
 
 They must have, 
 
 That he hath struck us down 
 
 It was wrought for them in punishment, 
 
 To the fiery abyss 
 
 Their world (life) was changed : 
 
 Of the hot hell, 
 
 For their sinful course 
 
 Bereft us of heaven's kingdom, 
 
 He filled hell 
 
 Hath it decreed 
 
 With the apostates. 
 
 With mankind 
 
 The angels continued to hold 
 
 To people. 
 
 The heights of heaven's kingdom, 
 
 That of sorrows is to me the greatest, 
 
 Those who ere God's pleasure executed ; 
 
 That Adam shall, 
 
 The others lay fiends in the fire, 
 
 Who of earth was wrought, 
 
 Who ere had had so much 
 
 My strong 
 
 Strife with their Ruler ; 
 
 Seat possess, 
 
 Torment they suffer, 
 
 Be to him in delight, 
 
 Burning heat intense, 
 
 And we endure this torment, 
 
 In midst of hell, 
 
 Misery in this hell. 
 
 Fire and broad flames ; 
 
 Oh, had I power of my hands, 
 
 So also the bitter reeks 
 
 And might one season 
 
 Smoke and darkness ; 
 
 Be without, 
 
 For that they the service 
 
 Be one winter's space, 
 
 Of God neglected, 
 
 Then with this host I 
 
 Them their folly deceived, 
 
 But around me lie 
 
 The angel's pride, 
 
 Iron bonds, 
 
 They would not the All-powerful's 
 
 Presseth this cord of chain : 
 
 Word revere, 
 
 I am powerless ! 
 
 They had great torment; 
 
 Me have so hard 
 
 Then were they fallen 
 
 The clasps of hell, 
 
 To the fiery abyss, 
 
 So firmly grasped ! 
 
 Into the hot hell, 
 
 Here is a vast fire 
 
 Through frenzy 
 
 Above and underneath, 
 
 And through pride ; 
 
 Never did I see 
 
 They sought another land, 
 
 A loathlier landskip ; 
 
 That was void of light, 
 
 The flame abateth not, 
 
 And was full of flame, 
 
 Hot over hell. 
 
 A great receptacle of fire. 
 
 Me hath the clasping of these rings, 
 
 
 This hard-polished band, 
 
 
 Impeded in my course, 
 
 • 
 
 
 Debarred me from my way , 
 
C^DMON. 13 
 
 My feet are bound, 
 
 Begin we now about the warfare to con 
 
 My hands manacled, 
 
 suit : — 
 
 Of these hell-doors are 
 
 If to any follower 1 
 
 The ways obstructed, 
 
 Princely treasures 
 
 So that with aught I cannot 
 
 Gave of old, 
 
 From these limb-bonds escape : 
 
 While we in that good realm 
 
 About me lie 
 
 Happy sat 
 
 Of hard iron 
 
 And in our seats had sway, 
 
 Forged with heat 
 
 Then me he never, at time more precious 
 
 Huge gratings, 
 
 Could with recompense 
 
 With which me God 
 
 My gift rcpav, 
 
 Hath fastened by the neck. 
 
 If in return for it he would 
 
 Thus perceive I that he knoweth my 
 
 (Any of my followers) 
 
 mind, 
 
 Be my supporter ; 
 
 And that knew also 
 
 So that up from hence he 
 
 The Lord of hosts, 
 
 Forth might 
 
 That should us through Adam 
 
 Pass through these barriers, 
 
 Evil befall, 
 
 And had power with him, 
 
 About the realm of heaven, 
 
 That he with wings 
 
 Where I had power of my hands. 
 
 Might fly, 
 
 But we now suffer chastisement in hell, 
 
 Revolve in cloud, 
 
 Which is darkness and heat, 
 
 To where stand wrought 
 
 Grim, bottomless ; 
 
 Adam and Eye, 
 
 God hath us himself 
 
 On earth's kingdom, 
 
 Swept into these swart mists ; 
 
 With weal encircled, 
 
 Thus he cannot us accuse of any sin, 
 
 And we are hither cast 
 
 That we against him in the land framed 
 
 Into this deep den. — 
 
 evil : 
 
 Now yvith the Lord are they 
 
 Yet hath he deprived us of the light, 
 
 Far higher in esteem, 
 
 Cast us into the greatest of all torments : 
 
 And may for themselves that weal possess 
 
 We may not for this execute vengeance, 
 
 That we in heaven's kingdom 
 
 Reward him with aught of hostility-, 
 
 Should have, 
 
 Because he hath bereft us of the light. 
 
 Our realm by right : 
 
 He hath now devised a world 
 
 This counsel is decreed 
 
 Where he hath wrought man 
 
 For mankind. 
 
 After his own likeness, 
 
 That to me is in my mind so painful, 
 
 With whom he will repeople 
 
 Rueth in my thought, 
 
 The kingdom of heaven, with pure souls; 
 
 That they heaven's kingdom 
 
 Therefore must we strive zealouslv, 
 
 For ever shall possess. 
 
 That we on Adam, if we ever may, 
 
 If any of you may 
 
 And likewise on his offspring, our wrongs 
 
 With aught so turn it, 
 
 repair, 
 
 That they God's yvord 
 
 Corrupt him there in his will, 
 
 Through guile forsake, 
 
 If we may it in any way devise. 
 
 Soon shall they be the more hateful to him: 
 
 Now I have no confidence further in this 
 
 If they break his commandment, 
 
 bright state, 
 
 Then will he be incensed against them ; 
 
 That which he seems long destined to 
 
 Afterwards yvill the weal be turned from 
 
 enjoy, 
 
 them, 
 
 That bliss with his angels' power. 
 
 And for them punishment will be pre- 
 
 We cannot that ever obtain, 
 
 pared, 
 
 That we the mighty God's mind weaken ; 
 
 Some hard lot of evil. " 
 
 Let us avert it now from the children of 
 
 
 men, 
 
 
 That heavenly kingdom now we may not 
 
 • 
 
 have it ; 
 
 THE TEMPTATION OF EVE. 
 
 Let us so do that thev forfeit his favor, 
 
 
 
 That they pervert that which he with 
 
 Began" then himself equip 
 
 his word commanded ; 
 
 The apostate from God, 
 
 Then with them will he be wroth in mind, 
 
 Prompt in arms ; 
 
 Will cast them from his favor ; 
 
 He had a crafty soul. 
 
 Then shall they seek this hell, 
 
 On his head the chief his helmet set, 
 
 And these grim depths ; 
 
 And it full strongly bound, 
 
 Then may we them have to ourselves as 
 
 Braced it yvith clasps : 
 
 vassals, 
 
 He many speeches knew 
 
 The children of men, in this fast durance. 
 
 Of guileful yvords : 
 
 B 
 
14 
 
 ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 
 
 Wheeled up from thence, 
 
 Both must know 
 
 Departed through the doors of hell : 
 
 Every mortal, 
 
 (He nad a strong mind) 
 
 Evil and good : 
 
 Lion-like in air, 
 
 Waned in this world, 
 
 In hostile mood, 
 
 He in pain must ever, 
 
 Dashed the fire aside 
 
 With sweat and with sorrows, 
 
 With a fiend's power : 
 
 After live, 
 
 Would secretly 
 
 Whoe'er should taste 
 
 The subjects of the Lord, 
 
 Of what on this tree grew ; 
 
 With wicked deeds, 
 
 Age should from him take 
 
 Men deceive, 
 
 Of bold deeds 
 
 Mislead and pervert, 
 
 The joys and of dominion, 
 
 That they might become hateful to God. 
 
 And death be him allotted . 
 
 He journeyed then, 
 
 A little while he should 
 
 Through his fiend's might, 
 
 His life enjoy, 
 
 Until he Adam, 
 
 Then seek of lands 
 
 On earth's kingdom, 
 
 With fire the swartest, 
 
 The creature of God's hand, 
 
 To fiends should minister, 
 
 Found ready, 
 
 Where of all perils is the greatest 
 
 Wisely wrought, 
 
 To people for a long season. 
 
 And his wife also, 
 
 That the foe well knew, 
 
 Fairest woman ; 
 
 The devil's dark messenger, 
 
 Just as they knew many things 
 
 Who warred with God. 
 
 Of good to frame, 
 
 Cast him then into a worm's body, 
 
 Which to them, his disciples, 
 
 And then twined about 
 
 The Creator of mankind 
 
 The tree of death ; 
 
 Had himself pointed out ; 
 
 Through devil's craft : 
 
 And by them two 
 
 There took of the fruit, 
 
 Trees stood, 
 
 And again turned him thence 
 
 That were without 
 
 To where he knew the handiwork 
 
 Laden with fruit, 
 
 Of heaven's King to be. 
 
 With produce covered, 
 
 Began then ask him, 
 
 As them the powerful God, 
 
 With his first word, 
 
 High King of heaven, 
 
 The enemy with lies : 
 
 With his hands had set, 
 
 " Cravest thou aught, 
 
 That there the child of man 
 
 Adam, up with God ? 
 
 Might choose 
 
 I on his errand hither have 
 
 Of good and evil, 
 
 Journeyed from far, 
 
 Every man, 
 
 Nor was it now long since 
 
 Of weal and woe. 
 
 That with himself I sat, 
 
 The fruit was not alike : . . . 
 
 When he me bade to travel on this jour- 
 
 The one so pleasant was, 
 
 ney ; 
 
 Fair and beautiful, 
 
 Bade that of this fruit thou eat, 
 
 Soft and delicate ; 
 
 Said that thy power and strength 
 
 That was life's tree : 
 
 And thine understanding 
 
 He might for ever 
 
 Would become greater, 
 
 After live, 
 
 And thy body 
 
 Be in the world, 
 
 Brighter far, 
 
 Who of this fruit tasted, 
 
 Thy form more beauteous : 
 
 So that him after that 
 
 Said that to thee of any treasure need 
 
 Age might not impair, 
 
 Would not be in the world, 
 
 Nor grievous sickness ; 
 
 Now thou hast willingly 
 
 But he might ever be 
 
 Wrought the favor 
 
 Forthwith in joys, 
 
 Of heaven's King, 
 
 And his life hold ; 
 
 Gratefully served 
 
 The favor of heaven's King 
 
 Thy Master, 
 
 Here in the world have, 
 
 Hast made thee dear with thy Lord. 
 
 To him should be decreed 
 
 I heard him thy deeds and words 
 
 Honors in the high heaven 
 
 Praise in his brightness, 
 
 When he goeth hence : 
 
 And speak about thy life : 
 
 Then was the other 
 
 So must thou execute 
 
 Utterly black, 
 
 What hither, into this land, 
 
 Dim and dark ; 
 
 His angels bring. 
 
 That was death's tree, 
 
 In the world are broad 
 
 Which much of bitter bare • 
 
 Green places, 
 
CfflDMON. 
 
 15 
 
 And God ruleth 
 
 In the highest 
 
 Realm of heaven . — 
 
 The All-powerful above 
 
 Will not the trouble 
 
 Have himself, 
 
 That on this journey he should come, 
 
 The Lord of men ; 
 
 But he his vassal sendeth 
 
 To thy speech : 
 
 Now biddeth he thee, by messages, 
 
 Science to learn : — 
 
 Perform thou zealously 
 
 His message. 
 
 Take thee this fruit in hand ; 
 
 Bite it, and taste ; 
 
 In thy breast thou shalt be expanded, 
 
 Thy form the fairer ; 
 
 To thee hath sent the powerful God, 
 
 Thy Lord, this help 
 
 From heaven's kingdom." 
 
 Adam spake, 
 Where on earth he stood, 
 A self-created man : 
 " When I the Lord of triumph, 
 The mighty God, 
 Heard speak 
 With strong voice ; 
 And he me here standing bade 
 Hold his commandments, 
 And me gave this bride, 
 This wife of beauteous mien ; 
 And me bade beware 
 That in the tree of death 
 I were not deceived, 
 Too much seduced : 
 He said that the swart hell 
 Should inhabit 
 He who in his heart aught 
 Should admit of sin. 
 I know not (for thou mayest come with 
 
 lies, 
 Through dark design) 
 That thou art the Lord's 
 Messenger from heaven. 
 Nay, I cannot of thy orders, 
 Of thy words, nor courses, 
 Aught understand, 
 Of thy journey, nor of thy sayings. 
 I know what he himself commanded me, 
 Our Preserver, 
 When him last I saw : 
 He bade me his words revere 
 And well observe, 
 Execute his instructions. 
 Thou art not like 
 To any of his angels 
 That I before have seen, 
 Nor showest thou me 
 Any token 
 
 Which he to me in pledge 
 Hath sent, 
 
 My Lord, through favor ; 
 Therefore I thee cannot obey 
 But thou mayest take thee hence. 
 
 I have firm trust 
 
 On the almighty God above, 
 
 Who wrought me with his arms, 
 
 Here with his hands : 
 
 He can me, from his high realm, 
 
 Gift with each good, 
 
 Though he send not his vassal." 
 
 He turned him, wroth of mood, 
 To where he saw the woman, 
 On earth's realm, 
 Eve standing, 
 Beautifully formed ; 
 Said that the greatest ills 
 To all their offspring 
 From thenceforth 
 In the world would be. — 
 " I know the supreme God with you 
 Will be incensed, 
 As I to him this message 
 Myself relate, 
 
 When I from this journey come 
 Over a long way : 
 That ye will not well execute 
 Whatsoever errand he 
 From the east hither 
 At this time sendeth. 
 Now must he come himself 
 For your answer, 
 His errand may not 
 His messenger command ; 
 Therefore know I that he with you will 
 
 be angry, 
 The Mighty, in his mind. 
 If thou nathless wilt, 
 A willing woman, 
 My words obey, 
 
 Then for this mayest thou amply 
 Counsel devise : 
 Consider in thy breast, 
 That from you both thou mayest 
 Ward off punishment, 
 As I shall show thee 
 Eat of this fruit ; 
 
 Then will thine eyes become so clear, 
 That thou mayest so widely 
 Over all the world 
 See afterwards, 
 And the throne of himself 
 Thy Lord, and have 
 His grace henceforward. 
 Thou mightest Adam 
 Afterwards rule, 
 If thou his affection have, 
 And he trust in thy words ; 
 If thou soothly say to him 
 What monitions thou thyself 
 Hast in thy breast, 
 Wherefore thou God's mandate 
 By persuasion hast performed, — 
 He the hateful strife, 
 The evil answer, 
 Will abandon 
 In his breast's recess ; 
 So we both to him 
 One purpose speak : 
 
16 ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 
 
 Urge thou him zealously, 
 
 With bliss encircled, 
 
 That he may follow thy instruction ; 
 
 Him who formed this world. 
 
 Lest ye hateful to God 
 
 I see his angels 
 
 Your Lord 
 
 Encompass him 
 
 Should become. 
 
 With feathery wings, 
 
 If thou perfect this attempt, 
 
 Of all folks greatest, 
 
 Best of women, 
 
 Of bands most joyous. 
 
 I will conceal from your Lord 
 
 Who could to me 
 
 That to me so much calumny 
 
 Such perception give, 
 
 Adam spake, 
 
 If now it 
 
 Evil words, 
 
 God did not send, 
 
 Accuseth me of untruths, 
 
 Heaven's Buler ? 
 
 Sayeth that I am anxious for mischiefs, 
 
 I can hear from far, 
 
 A servant to the malignant, 
 
 And so widely see, 
 
 Not God's angel : 
 
 Through the whole world, 
 
 But I so readily know all 
 
 Over the broad creation ; 
 
 The angels' origins, 
 
 I can the joy of the firmament 
 
 The roofs of the high heavens, 
 
 Hear in heaven ; 
 
 So long was the while 
 
 It became light to me in mind, 
 
 That I diligently 
 
 From without and within, 
 
 Served God, 
 
 After the fruit I tasted : 
 
 Through faithful mind, 
 
 I now have of it 
 
 My> Master, 
 
 Here in my hand, 
 
 The Lord himself — 
 
 My good lord, 
 
 I am not like a devil." 
 
 I will fain give it thee ; 
 
 He led her thus with lies, 
 
 I believe that it 
 
 And with wiles instigated 
 
 Came from God, 
 
 The woman to that evil, 
 
 Brought by his command, 
 
 Until began within her 
 
 From what this messenger told me 
 
 The serpent's counsel boil : 
 
 With cautious words. 
 
 (To her a weaker mind had 
 
 It is not like to aught 
 
 The Creator assigned) 
 
 Else on earth ; 
 
 So that she her mood 
 
 But, so this messenger sayeth. 
 
 Began relax, after those allurements ; 
 
 That it directly 
 
 Therefore she of the enemy received, 
 
 Came from God." 
 
 Against the Lord's word, 
 
 She spake to him oft, 
 
 Of death's tree 
 
 And all day urged him 
 
 The noxious fruit. . . . 
 
 To that dark deed, 
 
 Then to her spouse she spake : 
 
 That they their Lord's 
 
 " Adam, my lord, 
 
 Will break. 
 
 This fruit is so sweet, 
 
 The fell envoy stood by, 
 
 Mild in the breast, 
 
 Excited his desires, 
 
 And this bright messenger 
 
 And with wiles urged him, 
 
 God's angel good ; 
 
 Dangerously followed him : 
 
 I by his habit see 
 
 The foe was full near 
 
 That he is the envoy 
 
 Who on that dire journey 
 
 Of our Lord, 
 
 Had fared 
 
 Heaven's King. 
 
 Over a long way ; 
 
 His favor it is for us 
 
 Nations he studied, 
 
 Better to gain 
 
 Into that great perdition 
 
 Than his aversion. 
 
 Men to cast, 
 
 If thou to him this day 
 
 To corrupt and to mislead, 
 
 Spake aught of harm, 
 
 That they God's loan, 
 
 Yet will he it forgive, 
 
 The Almighty's gift, 
 
 If we to him obedience 
 
 Might forfeit, 
 
 Will show. 
 
 The power of heaven's kingdom ; 
 
 What shall profit thee such hateful strife 
 
 For the hell-miscreant 
 
 With thy Lord's messenger? 
 
 Well knew 
 
 To us is his favor needful ; 
 
 That they God's ire 
 
 He may bear our errands 
 
 Must have 
 
 To the all-powerful 
 
 And hell-torment, 
 
 Heavenly King. 
 
 The torturing punishment 
 
 I can see from hence 
 
 Needs receive, 
 
 Where he himself sitteth, 
 
 Since they God's command 
 
 That is south-east, 
 
 Had broken, 
 
C IE. D M N. 
 
 17 
 
 What time he (the fiend) seduced 
 
 Pale stood 
 
 
 With lying words 
 
 Over the archers 
 
 
 To that evil counsel 
 
 The clear beams, 
 
 
 The beauteous woman, 
 
 The bucklers shone. 
 
 
 Of females fairest, 
 
 The shades prevailed ; 
 
 
 That she after his will spake, 
 
 Yet the falling nightly shadowe 
 
 
 Was as a help to him 
 
 Might not near 
 
 
 To seduce God's handiwork. 
 
 Shroud the gloom. 
 
 
 Then she to Adam spake, 
 
 The heavenly candle burnt, 
 
 
 Fairest of women, 
 
 The new night-ward 
 
 
 Full oft, 
 
 Must by compulsion 
 
 
 Till in the man began 
 
 Rest over the hosts, 
 
 
 His mind to turn ; 
 
 Lest them horror of the waste, 
 
 
 So that he trusted to the promise 
 
 The hoar heath 
 
 
 Which to him the woman 
 
 With its raging storms, 
 
 
 Said in words : 
 
 Should overwhelm, 
 
 
 Yet did she it through faithful mind, 
 
 Their souls fail. 
 
 
 Knew not that hence so many ills, 
 
 Had their harbinger 
 
 
 Sinful woes, 
 
 Fiery locks, 
 
 
 Must follow 
 
 Pale beams ; 
 
 
 To mankind, 
 
 A cry of dread resounded 
 
 
 Because she took in mind 
 
 In the martial host, 
 
 
 That she the hostile envoy's 
 
 At the hot flame, 
 
 
 Suggestions would obey; 
 
 That it in the waste 
 
 
 But weened that she the favor 
 
 Would burn up the host, 
 
 
 Of heaven's King 
 
 Unless they zealously 
 
 
 Wrought with the words 
 
 Moses obeyed. 
 
 
 Which she to the man 
 
 Shone the bright host, 
 
 
 Revealed, as it were a token, 
 
 The shields gleamed ; 
 
 
 And vowed them true, 
 
 The bucklered warriors saw 
 
 
 Till that to Adam 
 
 In a straight course 
 
 
 Within his breast 
 
 The sign over the bands, 
 
 
 His mind was changed, 
 
 Till that the sea-barrier, 
 
 
 And his heart began 
 
 At the land's end, 
 
 
 Turn to her will. 
 
 The people's force withstood, 
 
 
 He from the woman took 
 
 Suddenly, on their onward way. 
 
 
 Hell and death, 
 
 A camp arose ; — 
 
 
 Though it was not so called, 
 
 They cast them weary down ; 
 
 
 But it the name of fruit 
 
 Approached with sustenance 
 
 
 Must have : 
 
 The bold sewers ; 
 
 
 Yet was it death's dream, 
 
 They their strength repaired, 
 
 
 And the devil's artifice, 
 
 Spread themselves about, 
 
 
 Hell and death, 
 
 After the trumpet sang, 
 
 
 And men's perdition, 
 
 The sailors in the tents. 
 
 
 The destruction of human kind, 
 
 Then was the fourth station, 
 
 
 That they made for food 
 
 The shielded warriors' rest, 
 
 
 Unholy fruit ! 
 
 By the Red Sea. . . . 
 
 
 Thus it came within him, 
 
 Then of his men the mind 
 
 
 Touched at his heart. 
 
 Became despondent, 
 
 
 Laughed then and played 
 
 After that they saw, 
 
 
 The bitter-purposed messenger. 
 
 From the south ways, 
 The host of Pharaoh 
 Coming forth, 
 Moving over the holt, 
 
 
 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF THE ISRAELITES. 
 
 The band glittering. 
 
 
 
 
 The)- prepared their arms, 
 
 
 Loud was the shout of the host, 
 
 The war advanced, 
 
 
 The heavenly beacon rose 
 
 Bucklers glittered, 
 
 
 Each evening. 
 
 Trumpets sang, 
 
 
 Another stupendous wonder ! — 
 
 Standards rattled, 
 
 
 After the sun's 
 
 They trod the nation's frontier 
 
 
 Setting course, they beheld 
 
 Around them screamed 
 
 
 Over the people 
 
 The fowls of war, 
 
 
 A flame to shine, 
 
 Greedy of battle, 
 
 
 A burning pillar ; 
 3 
 
 Dewy-feathered; 
 
 b2 
 
 
18 ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 
 
 Over the bodies of the host 
 
 But from behind inclosed them 
 
 (The dark chooser of the slain) 
 
 Fate with the wave. 
 
 The wolves sung 
 
 Where ways ere lay, 
 
 Their horrid evensong, 
 
 Sea raged. 
 
 In hopes of food, 
 
 Their might was merged, 
 
 The reckless beasts, 
 
 The stream stood, 
 
 Threatening death to the valiant : 
 
 The storm rose 
 
 On the foes' track flew 
 
 High to heaven; 
 
 The army-fowl. 
 
 The loudest army-cry 
 
 The march-wards cried 
 
 The hostile uttered ; 
 
 At midnight; 
 
 The air above was thickened 
 
 Flew the spirit of death ; 
 
 With dying voices; 
 
 The people were hemmed in. 
 
 Blood pervaded the flood, 
 
 At length of that host 
 
 The shield-walls were riven, 
 
 The proud thanes 
 
 Shook the firmament 
 
 Met 'mid the paths, 
 
 That greatest of sea-deaths : 
 
 In bendings of the boundaries ; 
 
 The proud died, 
 
 To them there the banner-king 
 
 Kings in a body ; 
 
 Marched with the standard, 
 
 The return prevailed 
 
 The prince of men 
 
 Of the sea at length ; 
 
 Rode the marches with his band ; 
 
 Their bucklers shone 
 
 The warlike guardian of the people 
 
 High over the soldiers; 
 
 Clasped his grim helm, 
 
 The sea-wall rose, 
 
 The king, his visor. 
 
 The proud ocean-stream, 
 
 The banners glittered 
 
 Their might in death was 
 
 In hopes of battle ; 
 
 Fastly fettered. 
 
 Slaughter shook the proud. 
 
 The tide's neap, 
 
 He bade his warlike band 
 
 With the war-enginery obstructed, 
 
 Bear them boldly, 
 
 Laid bare the sand 
 
 The firm body. 
 
 To the fated host, 
 
 The enemy saw 
 
 When the wandering stream, 
 
 With hostile eyes 
 
 The ever cold sea, 
 
 The coming of the natives : 
 
 With its ever salt waves, 
 
 About him moved 
 
 Its eternal stations, 
 
 Fearless warriors. 
 
 A naked, involuntary messenger, 
 
 The hoar army wolves 
 
 Came to visit. 
 
 The battle hailed, 
 
 Hostile was the spirit of death 
 
 Thirsty for the brunt of war. 
 
 Who the foes overwhelmed; 
 
 
 The blue air was 
 
 
 With corruption tainted ; 
 The bursting ocean 
 
 
 
 Whooped a bloody storm, 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF PHARAOH. 
 
 The seamen's way ; 
 
 
 
 Till that the true God, 
 
 The folk was affrighted, 
 
 Through Moses' hand, 
 
 The flood-dread seized on 
 
 Enlarged its force, 
 
 Their sad souls ; 
 
 Widely drove it, 
 
 Ocean wailed with death, 
 
 It swept death in its embrace ; 
 
 The mountain heights were 
 
 The flood foamed, 
 
 With blood besteamed, 
 
 The fated died, 
 
 The sea foamed gore, 
 
 Water deluged the land, 
 
 Crying was in the waves, 
 
 The air was agitated, 
 
 The water full of weapons, 
 
 Yielded the rampart holds, 
 
 A death-mist rose ; 
 
 The waves burst over them, 
 
 The Egyptians were 
 
 The sea-towers melted. 
 
 Turned back ; 
 
 When the Mighty struck, 
 
 Trembling they fled, 
 
 With holy hand, 
 
 They felt fear : 
 
 The Guardian of heaven's kingdom, 
 
 Would that host gladly 
 
 The lofty warriors, 
 
 Find their homes ; 
 
 The proud nation : 
 
 Their vaunt grew sadder : 
 
 They might not have 
 
 Against them, as a cloud, rose 
 
 A safer path, 
 
 The fell rolling of the waves; 
 
 For the sea-stream's force, 
 
 There came not any 
 
 But it o'er many shed 
 
 Of that host to home, 
 
 Yelling horror. 
 
HISTORIC ODES. 19 
 
 Ocean raged, 
 
 Those armies slept, 
 
 Drew itself up on high, 
 
 Those bands of sinful 
 
 The storms rose, 
 
 Sunk with their souls 
 
 The corpses rolled ; 
 
 Fast encompassed, 
 
 Fated fell 
 
 The flood-pale host, 
 
 High from heaven 
 
 After that them in its gulfs 
 
 The hand-work of God : 
 
 The brown expanse, 
 
 Of the foamy gulfs 
 
 Of proud waves greatest, 
 
 The Guardian of the flood struck 
 
 All their power o'erthrew ; 
 
 The unsheltering wave 
 
 When was drowned 
 
 With an ancient falchion, 
 
 The flower of Egypt, 
 
 That in the swoon of death 
 
 Pharaoh with his folk. 
 
 HISTORIC ODES. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. 
 
 The mighty seed of Mars ! 
 
 A. D. 938. 
 
 With chosen troops, 
 
 
 Throughout the day, 
 
 ■ 
 
 The West-Saxons fierce 
 
 Here Athelstan king, 
 
 Pressed on the loathed bands ; 
 
 Of earls the lord, 
 
 Hewed down the fugitives, 
 
 Rewarder of heroes, 
 
 And scattered the rear, 
 
 And his brother eke, 
 
 With strong mill-sharpened blades. 
 
 Edmund atheling, 
 
 The Mercians, too, 
 
 Elder of ancient race, 
 
 The hard hand-play 
 
 Slew in the fight, 
 
 Spared not to any 
 
 With the edge of their swords, 
 
 Of those that with Anlaf 
 
 The foe at Brumby ! 
 
 Over the briny deep, 
 
 The sons of Edward 
 
 In the ship's bosom, 
 
 Their board-walls clove, 
 
 Sought this land 
 
 And hewed their banners, 
 
 For the hardy fight. 
 
 With the wrecks of their hammers. 
 
 Five kings lay 
 
 So were they taught 
 
 On the field of battle, 
 
 By kindred zeal, 
 
 In bloom of youth, 
 
 That they at camp oft 
 
 Pierced with swords; 
 
 'Gainst any robber 
 
 So seven eke 
 
 Their land should defend, 
 
 Of the earls of Anlaf; 
 
 Their hoards and homes. 
 
 And of the ship's crew 
 
 Pursuing fell 
 
 Unnumbered crowds. 
 
 The Scottish clans ; 
 
 There was dispersed 
 
 The men of the fleet 
 
 The little band 
 
 In numbers fell ; 
 
 Of hardy Scots, 
 
 'Midst the din of the field 
 
 The dread of Northern hordes ; 
 
 The warrior swate. 
 
 Urged to the noisy deep 
 
 Since the sun was up 
 
 By unrelenting fate ! 
 
 In morning-tide, 
 
 The king of the fleet, 
 
 Gigantic light ! 
 
 With his slender craft, 
 
 Glad over grounds, 
 
 Escaped with his life 
 
 God's candle bright, 
 
 On the felon flood ; — 
 
 Eternal Lord ! — 
 
 And so, too, Constantine, 
 
 Till the noble creature 
 
 The valiant chief, 
 
 Set in the western main : 
 
 Returned to the North 
 
 There lay many 
 
 In hasty flight. 
 
 Of the Northern heroes 
 
 The hoary Hildrinc 
 
 Under a shower of arrows, 
 
 Cared not to boast 
 
 Shot over shields; 
 
 Among his kindred. 
 
 And Scotland's boast, 
 
 Here was his remnant 
 
 A Scythian race, 
 
 Of relations and friends 
 
so 
 
 ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 
 
 Slain with the sword 
 
 In the crowded fight. 
 
 His son, too, he left 
 
 On the field of battle, 
 
 Mangled with wounds, 
 
 Young at the fight. 
 
 The fair-haired youth 
 
 Had no reason to boast 
 
 Of the slaughtering strife. 
 
 Nor old Inwood 
 
 And Anlaf the more, 
 
 With the wrecks of their army, 
 
 Could laugh and say, 
 
 That they on the field 
 
 Of stern command 
 
 Better workmen were, 
 
 In the conflict of banners, 
 
 The clash of spears, 
 
 The meeting of heroes, 
 
 And the rustling of weapons, 
 
 Which they on the field 
 
 Of slaughter played 
 
 With the sons of Edward. 
 
 The Northmen sailed 
 
 In their nailed ships, 
 
 A dreary remnant, 
 
 On the roaring sea ; 
 
 Over deep water 
 
 Dublin they sought, 
 
 And Ireland's shores, 
 
 In great disgrace. 
 
 Such then the brothers, 
 
 Both together, 
 
 King and atheling, 
 
 Sought their country, 
 
 West-Saxon land, 
 
 In fight triumphant. 
 
 They left behind them, 
 
 Raw to devour, 
 
 The sallow kite, 
 
 The swarthy raven 
 
 With horny nib, 
 
 And the hoarse vulture, 
 
 With the eagle swift 
 
 To consume his prey ; 
 
 The greedy goshawk, 
 
 And that gray beast, 
 
 The wolf of the weald. 
 
 No slaughter yet 
 
 Was greater made 
 
 E'er in this island, 
 
 Of people slain, 
 
 Before this same, 
 
 With the edge of the sword ; 
 
 As the books inform us 
 
 Of the old historians ; 
 
 Since hither came 
 
 From the eastern shores 
 
 The Angles and Saxons, 
 
 Over the broad sea, 
 
 And Britain sought, — 
 
 Fierce battle-smiths, 
 
 O'ercame the Welsh, 
 
 Most valiant earls, 
 
 And gained the land. 
 
 THE DEATH OF KING 
 A. D. 975. 
 
 EDGAR. 
 
 Here ended 
 
 His earthly dreams 
 
 Edgar, of Angles king ; 
 
 Chose him other light, 
 
 Serene and lovely, 
 
 Spurning this frail abode, 
 
 A life that mortals 
 
 Here call lean 
 
 He quitted with disdain. 
 
 July the month, 
 
 By all agreed 
 
 In this our land, 
 
 Whoever were 
 
 In chronic lore 
 
 Correctly taught ; 
 
 The day the eighth, 
 
 When Edgar young, 
 
 Rewarder of heroes, 
 
 His life — his throne — resigned. 
 
 Edward his son, 
 
 Unwaxen child, 
 
 Of earls the prince, 
 
 Succeeded then 
 
 To England's throne. 
 
 Of royal race, 
 
 Ten nights before, 
 
 Departed hence 
 
 Cyneward the good, — 
 
 Prelate of manners mild. 
 
 Well known to me 
 
 In Mercia then, 
 
 How low on earth 
 
 God's glory fell 
 
 On every side : 
 
 Chased from the land, 
 
 His servants fled, — 
 
 Their wisdom scorned ; 
 
 Much grief to him 
 
 Whose bosom glowed 
 
 With fervent love 
 
 Of great Creation's Lord ! 
 
 Neglected then 
 
 The God of wonders, 
 
 Victor of victors, 
 
 Monarch of heaven, — 
 
 His laws by man transgressed ! 
 
 Then, too, was driven 
 
 Oslac beloved 
 
 An exile far 
 
 From his native land 
 
 Over the rolling waves, — 
 
 Over the ganet-bath, 
 
 Over the water-throng, 
 
 The abode of the whale, — 
 
 Fair- haired hero, 
 
 Wise and eloquent, 
 
 Of home bereft ! 
 
 Then, too, was seen, 
 
 High in the heavens, 
 
 The star on his station, 
 
 That far and wide 
 
 Wise men call — 
 
POEM FROM THE POETIC CALENDAR. 
 
 Lovers of truth 
 
 And heavenly lore — 
 
 Cometa by name. 
 
 Widely was spread 
 
 God's vengeance then 
 
 Throughout the land, 
 
 And famine scoured the hills. 
 
 May heaven's Guardian, 
 
 The glory of angels, 
 
 Avert these ills, 
 
 And give us bliss again ; 
 
 That bliss to all 
 
 Abundance yields 
 
 From earth's choice fruits, 
 
 Throughout this happy isle. 
 
 THE DEATH OF KING EDWARD. 
 A. D. 1065. 
 
 Here Edward king, 
 
 Of Angles lord, 
 
 Sent his steadfast 
 
 Soul to Christ. 
 
 In the kingdom of God 
 
 A holy spirit ! 
 
 He in the world here 
 
 Abode awhile, 
 
 In the kingly throng 
 
 Of counsel sage. 
 
 Four and twenty 
 
 Winters wielding 
 
 The sceptre freely, 
 
 Wealth he dispensed. 
 
 In the tide of health, 
 
 The vouthful monarch, 
 
 Offspring of Ethelred ! 
 
 Ruled well his subjects ; 
 
 The Welsh and the Scots, 
 
 And the Britons also, 
 
 Angles and Saxons, — 
 
 Relations of old. 
 
 So apprehend 
 
 The first in rank, 
 That to Edward all,. 
 The noble king, 
 Were firmly held 
 High-seated men. 
 Blithe-minded aye 
 Was the harmless king ; 
 Though he long ere, 
 Of land bereft, 
 Abode in exile 
 Wide on the earth ; 
 When Knute o'ercame 
 The kin of Ethelred, 
 And the Danes wielded 
 The dear kingdom 
 Of Engle-land. 
 Eight and twenty 
 Winters' rounds 
 They wealth dispensed. 
 Then came forth 
 Free in his chambers, 
 In royal array, 
 Good, pure, and mild, 
 Edward the noble ; 
 By his country defended, - 
 By land and people. 
 Until suddenly came 
 The bitter Death, 
 And this king so dear 
 Snatched from the earth. 
 Angels carried 
 His soul sincere 
 Into the light of heaven. 
 But the prudent king 
 Had settled the realm 
 On high-born men, — 
 On Harold himself, 
 The noble earl ; 
 Who in every season 
 Faithfully heard 
 And obeyed his lord, 
 In word and deed ; 
 Nor gave to any 
 What might be wanted 
 By the nation's king. 
 
 POEM FROM THE POETIC CALENDAR. 
 
 The King shall hold the Kingdom; 
 Castles shall be seen afar, 
 The work of the minds of giants, 
 That are on this earth ; 
 The wonderful work of wallstones. 
 
 The wind is the swiftest in the sky ; 
 Thunder is the loudest of noises ; 
 Great is the majesty of Christ ; 
 Fortune is the strongest ; 
 
 Winter is the coldest ; 
 
 Spring has the most hoar-frost ; 
 
 He is the longest cold; 
 
 Summer sun is most beautiful ; 
 
 The air is then hottest ; 
 
 Fierce harvest is the happiest ; 
 
 It bringeth to men 
 
 The tribute-fruits 
 
 That to them God sendeth. 
 
22 
 
 ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 
 
 Truth is most deceiving ; 
 
 Will roll with the skate ; 
 
 Treasures are most precious. 
 
 The shower in the heavens, 
 
 Gold, to every man ; 
 
 Mingled with wind, 
 
 And age is the wisest, 
 
 Will come on the world. 
 
 Sagacious from ancient days, 
 
 The thief will go out 
 
 From having before endured much. 
 
 In dark weather. 
 
 Woe is a wonderful burden ; 
 
 The Thyrs i will remain in the fen, 
 
 Clouds roam about ; 
 
 Alone in the land. 
 
 The young Etheling 
 
 A maiden with secret arts, 
 
 Good companions shall 
 
 A woman, her friend will seek, 
 
 Animate to war, 
 
 If she cannot 
 
 And to the giving of bracelets. 
 
 In public grow up, 
 
 Strength in the earl, 
 
 So that men may buy her with bracelet* 
 
 The sword with the helm, 
 
 The salt ocean will rage ; 
 
 Shall abide battle. 
 
 The clouds of the supreme Ruler, 
 
 The hawk in the sea-cliff 
 
 And the water-floods, 
 
 Shall live wild ; 
 
 About every land 
 
 The wolf in the grove ; 
 
 Will flow in expansive streams. 
 
 The eagle in the meadow ; 
 
 Cattle in the earth 
 
 The boar in the wood, 
 
 Will multiply and be reared. 
 
 Powerful with the strength of his tusk. 
 
 Stars will in the heavens 
 
 The good man in his country 
 
 Shine brightly, 
 
 Will do justice. 
 
 As their Creator commanded them. 
 
 With the dart in the hand, 
 
 God against evil, 
 
 The spear adorned with gold, 
 
 Youth against age, 
 
 The gem in the ring 
 
 Life against death, 
 
 Will stand pendent and curved 
 
 Light against darkness, 
 
 The stream in the waves 
 
 Army against army, 
 
 Will make a great flood. 
 
 Enemy against enemies, 
 
 The mast in the keel 
 
 Hate against hate, 
 
 Will groan with the sail -yards. 
 
 Shall everywhere contend ; 
 
 The sword will be in the bosom, 
 
 Sin will steal on. 
 
 The lordly iron. 
 
 Always will the prudent strive 
 
 The dragon will rest on his hillock, 
 
 About this world's labor 
 
 Crafty, proud with his ornaments. 
 
 To hang the thief; 
 
 The fish will in the water 
 
 And compensate the more honest 
 
 Produce a progeny. 
 
 For crime committed 
 
 The king will in the hall 
 
 Against mankind. 
 
 Distribute bracelets. 
 
 The Creator alone knows 
 
 The bear will be on the heath 
 
 Whither the soul 
 
 Old and terrible. 
 
 Shall afterwards roam, 
 
 The water will from the hill 
 
 And all the spirits 
 
 Bring down the gray earth. 
 
 That depart in God. 
 
 The army will be together 
 
 After their death-day 
 
 Strong with the bravest. 
 
 They will abide their judgment 
 
 Fidelity in the earl ; 
 
 In their Father's bosom. 
 
 Wisdom in man ! 
 
 Their future condition 
 
 The woods will on the ground 
 
 Is hidden and secret : 
 
 Blow with fruit ; 
 
 God only knows it, 
 
 The mountains in the earth 
 
 The preserving Father ! 
 
 Will stand green. 
 
 None again return 
 
 God will be in heaven 
 
 Hither to our houses, 
 
 The judge of deeds. 
 
 That any truth 
 
 The door will be to the hall 
 
 May reveal to man, 
 
 The mouth of the roomy mansion. 
 
 About the nature of the Creator, 
 
 The round will be on the shield, 
 
 Or the people's habitations of glory 
 
 The fast fortress of the fingers. 
 
 Which he himself inhabits. 
 
 Fowl aloft 
 Will sport in the air ; 
 Salmon in the whirlpool 
 
 t 
 
 
 1 A Thyrs was among the Northerns a giant, or wild 
 
 mountain savage, a sort of evil being, somewhat super- 
 natural. 
 
KING ALFRED'S METRES OF BOETHIUS. 
 
 23 
 
 KING ALFRED'S METRES OF BOETHIUS. 
 
 METRE III. 
 
 Alas ! in how grim 
 And how bottomless 
 A gulf labors 
 The darkling mind, 
 When it the strong 
 Storms lash 
 Of worldly cares ; 
 When it, thus contending, 
 Its proper light 
 Once forsakes, 
 And in woe forgets 
 The everlasting joy, 
 And rushes into the darkness 
 Of this world, 
 Afflicted with cares ! 
 Thus has it now befallen 
 This my mind ; 
 Now it no more knows 
 Of good for God, 
 But lamentations 
 For the external world : 
 To it is need of comfort 
 
 METRE VI 
 
 Then Wisdom again 
 
 His treasury of words unlocked, 
 
 Sung various maxims, 
 
 And thus expressed himself. 
 
 When the sun 
 
 Clearest shines, 
 
 Serenest in the heaven, 
 
 Quickly are obscured 
 
 Over the earth 
 
 All other stars : 
 
 Because their brightness is not 
 
 Brightness at all, 
 
 Compared with 
 
 The sun's light. 
 
 When mild blows 
 
 The south and western wind 
 
 Under the clouds, 
 
 Then quickly grow 
 
 The flowers of the field, 
 
 Joyful that they may. 
 
 But the stark storm, 
 
 When it strong comes 
 
 From north and east, 
 
 It quickly takes away 
 
 The beauty of the rose. 
 
 And also the northern storm, 
 
 Constrained by necessity, 
 
 That it is strongly agitated, 
 
 Lashes the spacious sea 
 Against the shore. 
 Alas ! that on earth 
 Aught of permanent 
 Work in the world 
 Does not ever remain . 
 
 METRE XIII. 
 
 I will with songs 
 
 Still declare, 
 
 How the Almighty 
 
 All creatures 
 
 Governs with his bridle, 
 
 Bends where he will, — 
 
 With his well ordered 
 
 Power 
 
 Wonderfully 
 
 Well moderates. 
 
 The Ruler of the heavens 
 
 Has so controlled 
 
 And encompassed 
 
 All creatures, 
 
 And bound them with his chains, 
 
 That they cannot find out 
 
 That they ever from them 
 
 May slip : 
 
 And yet every thing, 
 
 Of various creatures, 
 
 Tends with proneness, 
 
 Strongly inclined, 
 
 To that nature 
 
 Which the King of angels, 
 
 The Father, at the beginning 
 
 Firmly appointed them. 
 
 Thus every one of things. 
 
 Of various creatures, 
 
 Thitherward aspires, 
 
 Except some angels, 
 
 And mankind ; 
 
 Of whom much too many, 
 
 Dwellers in the world, 
 
 Strive against their nature. 
 
 Though now on land, 
 
 A docile lion, 
 
 A pleasing creature, 
 
 Well tamed, 
 
 Her master 
 
 Much love, 
 
 And also fear, 
 
 Every day ; 
 
 If it ever happen 
 
 That she any 
 
 Blood should taste, 
 
 No man need 
 
24 
 
 ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 
 
 Expect the chance, 
 
 That she well afterwards 
 
 Her tameness will keep : 
 
 But I think 
 
 That she this new tameness 
 
 Will naught regard ; 
 
 But will remember 
 
 The wild habits 
 
 Of her parents. 
 
 She will begin in earnest 
 
 Her chains to sever, 
 
 To roar, 
 
 And first will bite 
 
 Her own 
 
 Master ; 
 
 And quickly afterwards, 
 
 Every man 
 
 Whom she can seize. 
 
 She will not let go 
 
 Any living thing, 
 
 Of cattle or men : 
 
 She will seize all she finds. 
 
 So do the wood birds, 
 
 Though they are 
 
 Well tamed : 
 
 If they are among trees 
 
 In the midst of the wood, 
 
 Immediately their teachers 
 
 Are despised, 
 
 Though they long before 
 
 Taught and tamed them. 
 
 They, wild in the trees, 
 
 In their old nature 
 
 Ever afterwards 
 
 Willingly remain ; 
 
 Though to them would 
 
 Each of their teachers 
 
 Skilfully offer 
 
 The same meat 
 
 That he before 
 
 Tamed them with ; 
 
 The branches seem to them 
 
 Even so merry, 
 
 That they for meat care not : 
 
 It seems to them so pleasant, 
 
 That to them the forest echoes; 
 
 When they hear 
 
 Other birds 
 
 Spread their sound, 
 
 They their own 
 
 Voice raise : 
 
 They stun the ears altogether 
 
 With their joyful song, 
 
 The wood all resounds. 
 
 So is it with all trees 
 
 Which are in their own soil, 
 
 That each in the wood 
 
 Highest shall grow. 
 
 Though thou any bough 
 
 Bendest towards the earth, 
 
 It is upwards, 
 
 As soon as thou lettest it go : 
 
 Wide at will, 
 
 It turns to its nature. 
 
 So does also the sun, 
 
 When she is declining, 
 
 After mid- day, — 
 
 The great candle 
 
 Verges to her setting, 
 
 The unknown way 
 
 Of night subdues : 
 
 Again north and east 
 
 Appears to men, 
 
 Brings to earth's inhabitants 
 
 Morning greatly splendid. 
 
 She over mankind goes 
 
 Continually upwards, 
 
 Until she again comes 
 
 Where her highest 
 
 Natural station is. 
 
 So every creature, 
 
 With all its might, 
 
 Throughout this wide wDrld, 
 
 Strives and hastens, 
 
 With all its might, 
 
 Again ever inclines 
 
 Towards its nature, 
 
 And conies to it when it may. 
 
 There is not now over the earth 
 
 Any creature 
 
 Which does not desire 
 
 That it should come 
 
 To that region 
 
 Which it came from, 
 
 That is, security 
 
 And eternal rest ; 
 
 Which is clearly 
 
 Almighty God. 
 
 There is not now over the earth 
 
 Any creature 
 
 Which does not revolve, 
 
 As a wheel does, 
 
 On itself; 
 
 For it so turns 
 
 That it again comes 
 
 Where it before was. 
 
 When it is first 
 
 Put in circular motion, 
 
 Then it altogether is 
 
 Turned round ; 
 
 It must again do 
 
 That which before it did, 
 
 And also be 
 
 What it before was. 
 
 METRE XXI. 
 
 Well, O children of men, 
 
 Throughout the middle earth ! 
 
 Let every one of the free 
 
 Aspire to the 
 
 Eternal good 
 
 Which we are speaking about, 
 
 And to the felicities 
 
 That we are telling of. 
 
 Let him, who is now 
 
 Straitly bound 
 
 With the vain love 
 
KING ALFRED'S METRES OF BOETHIUS. 25 
 
 Of this great 
 
 The clear brightness 
 
 Middle earth, 
 
 Of heaven's light, 
 
 Also quickly seek for himself 
 
 Then will he say, 
 
 Full freedom, 
 
 That the brightness of the sun 
 
 That he may arrive 
 
 Is darkness 
 
 At the felicities, 
 
 To every man, 
 
 For the good of souls. 
 
 Compared with 
 
 For that is the only rest 
 
 That great light 
 
 Of all labors, 
 
 Of God Almighty, 
 
 The desirable haven 
 
 That is to every soul 
 
 To the lofty ships 
 
 Eternal without end, 
 
 Of our mind ; 
 
 To blessed souls. 
 
 A great tranquil station ; 
 
 
 That is the only haven 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Which ever is, 
 
 METRE XXIII. 
 
 After the waves 
 
 
 Of our labors, 
 
 Lo ! now on earth is he 
 
 And every storm, 
 Always calm. 
 That is the refuge 
 And the only comfort 
 
 In every thing 
 A happy man, 
 If he may see 
 The clearest 
 
 Of all the wretched, 
 After these 
 
 Heaven-shining stream, 
 The noble fountain 
 
 Worldly labors. 
 
 Of all good ; 
 
 That is a pleasant place, 
 
 And of himself 
 
 After these miseries, 
 
 The swarthy mist, 
 
 
 To possess. 
 
 The darkness of the mind, 
 
 But I well know, 
 
 That neither golden vessels, 
 
 Nor heaps of silver, 
 
 Can dispel ! 
 We will as yet, 
 With God's help, 
 
 Nor precious stones, 
 
 With old and fabulous 
 
 Nor the wealth of the middle earth, 
 
 
 The eyes of the mind 
 Ever enlighten, 
 
 Stories instruct 
 
 Thy mind ; 
 
 That thou the better mayest 
 
 Nor aught improve 
 
 Discover to the skies 
 
 Their sharpness 
 To the contemplation 
 Of true felicities j 
 But they rather 
 
 The right path, 
 
 To the eternal region 
 
 Of our souls. 
 
 The mind's eyes 
 
 
 
 Of every man 
 
 
 Make blind in their breasts, 
 
 METRE XXVII. 
 
 Than make them clearer. 
 
 
 
 For everything 
 
 Why will ye ever 
 
 That in this present 
 
 With unjust hatred 
 
 Life delights 
 
 Your mind trouble, 
 
 Are poor 
 
 As the ocean's 
 
 Earthly things, 
 
 Waves lift up 
 
 Ever fleeting. 
 
 The ice-cold sea, 
 
 But wonderful is that 
 
 And agitate it through the wind? 
 
 Splendor and brightness, 
 
 Why upbraid ye 
 
 Which every one of things 
 
 Your fortune, 
 
 With splendor enlightens, 
 
 That she no power possesses ? 
 
 And afterwards 
 
 Why cannot ye now wait 
 
 Entirely rules. 
 
 For the bitter state 
 
 The Ruler wills not 
 
 Of that death 
 
 That our souls 
 
 Which for you the Lord ordained 
 
 Shall perish ; 
 
 Now he each day 
 
 But he himself will them 
 
 Hastens towards you ? 
 
 With a ray illumine, 
 
 Cannot ye see 
 
 The Ruler of life ! 
 
 That he is always seeking 
 
 If, then, any man, 
 
 After every 
 
 With the clear eyes 
 
 Earthly offspring, 
 
 Of his mind, may 
 
 Beasts and birds ? 
 
 Ever behold 
 
 Death also in like manner 
 
 4 
 
 C 
 
26 
 
 ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 
 
 After mankind seeks, 
 
 That he another 
 
 Throughout this middle earth, 
 
 With his thoughts 
 
 Terrific hunter ! 
 
 Should hate in his breast, 
 
 And devours in pursuit. 
 
 Like a bird or beast. 
 
 He will not any track 
 
 But it would be most right, 
 
 Ever forsake, 
 
 That every man 
 
 Until he has seized 
 
 Should render to other 
 
 That which he before 
 
 Dwellers in the world 
 
 Sought after. 
 
 Reward proportionable 
 
 It is a wretched thing, 
 
 To his deserts, 
 
 That citizens 
 
 In every thing : 
 
 Cannot wait for him ; 
 
 That is, that he should love 
 
 Unhappy men 
 
 Every one of the good, 
 
 Are rather desirous 
 
 As he best may ; 
 
 To anticipate him : 
 
 And have mercy on the wicked, 
 
 As birds, 
 
 As we before said. 
 
 Or wild beasts, 
 
 He should the man 
 
 When they contend, 
 
 With his mind love, 
 
 Each one would 
 
 And his vices • 
 
 The other destroy. 
 
 All hate, 
 
 But it is wicked 
 
 And destroy, 
 
 In every man, 
 
 As he soonest may. 
 
 POEM OF JUDITH. 
 
 THE REVEL OF HOLOFERNES. 
 
 They then to the feast 
 Went to sit, 
 Eager to drink wine ; 
 All his fierce chiefs, 
 Bold, mail-clad warriors ! 
 There were often carried 
 The deep bowls 
 Behind the benches; 
 So likewise vessels 
 And orcas full 
 To those sitting at supper. 
 They received him, soon about to die, 
 The illustrious shield-warriors : 
 Though of this the powerful one 
 Thought not ; the fearful 
 Lord of earls. 
 
 Then was Holofernes 
 Exhilarated with wine ; 
 In the halls of his guests, 
 He laughed and shouted, 
 He roared and dinned ; 
 Then might the children of men 
 Afar off hear 
 How the stern one 
 Stormed and clamored, 
 Animated and elated with wine. 
 He admonished amply 
 That they should bear it well 
 To those sitting on the bench. 
 
 So was the wicked one, 
 
 Over all the day, 
 
 The lord and his men, 
 
 Drunk with wine, 
 
 The stern dispenser of wealth ; 
 
 Till that they swimming lay 
 
 Over-drunk, 
 
 All his nobility, 
 
 As they were death-slain ; 
 
 Their property poured about. 
 
 So commanded the Baldor of men 
 
 To fill to them sitting at the feast, 
 
 Till that to the children of men 
 
 The dark night approached. 
 
 Then commanded he, 
 
 The man so overpowered, 
 
 The blessed virgin 
 
 With speed to fetch 
 
 To his bed-rest, 
 
 With bracelets laden, 
 
 With rings adorned. 
 
 Then quickly hurried 
 
 The subjected servants, 
 
 As their elder bade them • 
 
 The mailed warriors 
 
 Of the illustrious lord 
 
 Stepped to the great place. 
 
 There they found Judith, 
 
 Prudent in mind ; 
 
 And then, firmly, 
 
 The bannered soldiers 
 
 Began to lead 
 
 The illustrious virgin 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 27 
 
 To the high tent. 
 
 She with the twisted locks 
 
 There the powerful one 
 
 Struck the hateful enemy, 
 
 His rest on the feast-night 
 
 Meditating hate, 
 
 Within was enjoying, 
 
 With the red sword, 
 
 The odious Holofernes. 
 
 Till she had half cut off his neck ; 
 
 There was the fair, 
 
 So that he lay in a swoon, 
 
 The golden fly-net 
 
 Drunk and mortally wounded. 
 
 About the chief's bed hung, 
 
 He was not then dead, 
 
 That the mischief-full 
 
 Not entirely lifeless ; 
 
 Might look through, 
 
 She struck then earnest, 
 
 The Baldor of the soldiers, 
 
 The woman illustrious in strength, 
 
 On every one 
 
 Another time, 
 
 That there within came 
 
 The heathen hound; 
 
 Of the children of men ; 
 
 Till that his head 
 
 And on him no one 
 
 Rolled forth upon the floor. 
 
 Of man-kind ; 
 
 The foul one lay without a coffer ; 
 
 Unless the proud one 
 
 Backward his spirit turned 
 
 Any man of his illustrious soldiers 
 
 Under the abyss, 
 
 Commanded to come 
 
 And there was plunged below, 
 
 Near him to council. 
 
 With sulphur fastened ; 
 
 
 For ever afterwards wounded by worms 
 Bound in torments, 
 
 
 
 Hard imprisoned, 
 
 THE DEATH OF HOLOFERNES. 
 
 In hell he burns. 
 
 
 After his course, 
 
 
 She took the heathen man 
 
 He need not hope, 
 
 Fast by his hair ; 
 
 With darkness overwhelmed, 
 
 She drew him by his limbs 
 
 That he may escape 
 
 Towards her disgracefully; 
 
 From that mansion of worms ; 
 
 And the mischief-full, 
 
 But there he shall remain 
 
 Odious man 
 
 Ever and ever, 
 
 At her pleasure laid, 
 
 Without end, henceforth, 
 
 So as the wretch 
 
 In that cavern-home, 
 
 She might the easiest well command. 
 
 Void of the joys of hope. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE EXILE'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 I set forth this lay 
 Concerning myself, full sad, 
 And my own journeyings. 
 I may declare 
 
 What calamities I have abode 
 Since I grew up, 
 Recently or of old. 
 No man hath experience the like ; 
 But I reckon the privations 
 Of my own exiled wanderings the first. 
 My lord departed 
 Hence from his people 
 Over the expanse of the waves ; 
 I had some care 
 Where my chieftain 
 In the lands might be ; 
 
 Then I departed on my journey, 
 
 To seek my following (my chieftain), 
 
 A friendless exile's travel. 
 
 The necessities of my sorrows began, 
 
 Because this man's 
 
 Kindred plotted 
 
 Through malevolent counsel 
 
 That they should separate us, 
 
 That we, far remote 
 
 In the regions of the world, 
 
 Should live most afflicted. 
 
 This weary state 
 
 My lord hath ordained me 
 
 Here in hardship to endure ; 
 
 I have few dear to me 
 
 In this country, 
 
 Few faithful friends. 
 
 Therefore is my mind sad : 
 
 So that, as a perfect mate to me, 
 
28 ANGLO-SAXON POETRY. 
 
 I can find no man 
 
 Great sorrow of mind, 
 
 So unhappy, 
 
 And remembereth too often 
 
 Sad in mind, 
 
 His happier home. 
 
 Debilitated in spirit, 
 
 Woe shall be to them 
 
 And intent on thoughts of death. 
 
 That shall to length 
 
 Blithe in our bearing, 
 
 Of life abide. 
 
 Full oft we two promised 
 
 
 That nothing should separate us, 
 Save death alone. 
 
 
 
 But this is reversed ; 
 
 THE SOUL'S COMPLAINT AGAINST 
 
 And now as though it had never been 
 
 THE BODY. 
 
 Is our friendship become. 
 
 
 
 Afar off is it the lot 
 
 Much it behoveth 
 
 Of my well-beloved 
 
 Each one of mortals, 
 
 To endure enmity. 
 
 That he his soul's journey 
 
 I am compelled to sojourn 
 
 In himself ponder, 
 
 In woodland bowers, 
 
 How deep it may be. 
 
 Beneath the oak-tree, 
 
 When Death cometh, 
 
 In this earthy cavern. 
 
 The bonds he breaketh 
 
 Cold is this earthy mansion ; 
 
 By which united 
 
 I am all wearied out ; 
 
 Were body and soul 
 
 Dark are the dells, 
 
 
 And steep the mountains ; 
 
 Long it is thenceforth 
 
 A horrid dwelling among branches, 
 
 Ere the soul taketh 
 
 Overgrown with briers ; 
 
 From God himself 
 
 A joyless abode. 
 
 Its woe or its weal ; 
 
 Here full oft adversity 
 
 As in the world erst, 
 
 Hath overtaken me from the journey of 
 
 Even in its earth-vessel, 
 
 my lord : 
 
 It wrought before. 
 
 My friends are in the earth ; 
 
 1 
 
 Those beloved in life 
 
 The soul shall come 
 
 The sepulchre guardeth ; 
 
 Wailing with loud voice, 
 
 Then I around 
 
 After a sennight, 
 
 In solitude wander 
 
 The soul, to find 
 
 Under the oak-tree 
 
 The body 
 
 By this earth-cave : 
 
 That it erst dwelt in ; — 
 
 There must I sit 
 
 Three hundred winters, 
 
 The summer-long day ; 
 
 Unless ere that worketh 
 
 There may I weep 
 
 The Eternal Lord, 
 
 My exiled wanderings 
 
 The Almighty God, 
 
 Of many troubles; 
 
 The end of the world. 
 
 Therefore I can never 
 
 
 From the care 
 
 Crieth then, so care-worn, 
 
 Of my mind rest, 
 
 With cold utterance, 
 
 From all the weariness 
 
 And speaketh grimly, 
 
 That hath come upon me in this life. 
 
 The ghost to the dust : 
 
 Let the young man strip ofi" 
 
 " Dry dust ! thou dreary one ! 
 
 To be sad of mind, 
 
 How little didst thou labor for me ' 
 
 Hardhearted thoughts ; 
 
 In the foulness of earth 
 
 The same that shall now have 
 
 Thou all wearest away 
 
 A blithe bearing 
 
 Like to the loam ! 
 
 Shall hereafter also have in the care of 
 
 Little didst thou think 
 
 his breast 
 
 How thy soul's journey 
 
 The endurance of constant sorrows ; 
 
 Would be thereafter, 
 
 Although long may abide with him 
 
 When from the body 
 
 All his worldly joy, 
 
 It should be led forth." 
 
 And distant be the foe 
 
 
 Of the far country ; 
 
 
 
 In which my friend sitteth 
 
 
 Beneath the stony mountain, 
 
 THE GRAVE. 
 
 Hoary with the storm, 
 
 
 
 (My companion weary in his spirit) 
 
 For thee was a house, built 
 
 The waters streaming 
 
 Ere thou wert born ; 
 
 Around his dreary abode ; 
 
 For thee was a mould meant 
 
 This my friend sufFereth 
 
 .. 
 
 Ere thou of mother earnest. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 29 
 
 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. 
 
 THE RUINED WALL-STONE. 
 
 Reared and wrought full workmanly 
 By earth's old giant progeny, 
 The wall-stone proudly stood. It fell 
 When bower, and hall, and citadel, 
 And lofty roof, and barrier gate, 
 And tower, and turret bowed to fate, 
 And, wrapt in flame and drenched in gore, 
 The lofty burgh might stand no more. 
 Beneath the Jutes' long vanished reign, 
 Her masters ruled the subject plain ; 
 
 But they have mouldered side by side, — 
 The vassal crowd, the chieftain's pride ; 
 And hard the grasp of earth's embrace, 
 That shrouds for ever all the race. 
 So fade they, countless and unknown, 
 The generations that are gone. 
 
 Fair rose her towers in spiry height, 
 From bower of pride and palace bright, 
 Echoing with shout of warriors free, 
 And the gay mead-hall's revelry ; 
 Till Fate's stern hour and Slaughter's day 
 Swept in one ruin all away, 
 And hushed in common silence all, 
 War-shout and voice of festival. 
 Their towers of strength are humbled low, 
 Their halls of mirth waste ruins now, 
 That seem to mourn, so sad and drear, 
 Their masters' blood-stained sepulchre. 
 The purple bower of regal state, 
 Roofless and stained and desolate, 
 Is scarce from meaner relics known, 
 The fragments of the shattered town. 
 There store of heroes, rich as bold, 
 Elate of soul, and bright with gold, 
 Donned the proud garb of war, that shone 
 With silvery band and precious stone : 
 So marched they once, in gorgeous train, 
 In that high seat of wide domain. 
 How firmly stood in massy proof 
 The marble vaults and fretted roof, 
 Till, all-resistless in its force, 
 The fiery torrent rolled its course, 
 And the red wave and glowing flood 
 Wrapt all beneath its bosom broad ! 
 
 THE SONG OF SUMMER. 
 
 Summer is a coming in, 
 
 Loud sing, cuckow; 
 Groweth seed, and bloweth mead, 
 
 And springeth the wood now. 
 
 Sing, cuckow, cuckow. 
 
 Ewe bleateth after lamb, 
 
 Loweth calf after cow, 
 Bullock starteth, byck departeth ; 
 
 Merry sing, cuckow, 
 
 Cuckow, cuckow. 
 Well singeth the cuckow, 
 Nor cease to sing now ; 
 
 Sing, cuckow, now, 
 , Sing, cuckow. 
 
ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 The Icelandic language is that form of the 
 Gothic which was once spoken in Denmark, 
 Norway, Sweden, and Iceland. It is called in 
 literary history the Donsk Tunga ; Norraena 
 Tunga; Norraent MAI; Sueo-Gothic; Norse; 
 old Scandinavian. 
 
 The name Icelandic has been given to it in 
 modern times, because in Iceland the language 
 has been preserved, unchanged, to the present 
 day. As Purchas says, in his "Pilgrims":* 
 " Concerning the language of the Islanders, the 
 matter itself speaketh, that it is the Norwegian ; 
 I say, that old and naturall speech, derived 
 from the ancient Gottish, which onely the 
 Islanders now use uncorrupted ; and therefore 
 we call it Islandish." The written alphabet 
 was called the Runic ; the letters, Runes. The 
 most ancient specimens of the language are the 
 Rune Stones ; rings and wooden tablets, with 
 inscriptions in the old Runic character.! 
 
 Iceland was peopled in 874. A few years 
 previous to this, old Norse pirates, from time 
 to time, had hovered about the island like 
 birds of prey, and then one by one settled 
 down, and built themselves nests for a season 
 among its icebergs. But in this year multitudes 
 of the Norwegians, fleeing from the tyranny of 
 Harald Harfager, took refuge here. The de- 
 scendants of these people became poets and 
 historians. In their sea-girt home they had 
 leisure to record the achievements of their an- 
 cestors. The long, sunless winter was cheered 
 by the Saga and the Song, and we are indebted 
 to Iceland for the most remarkable remains of 
 Norse poetry. 
 
 The Northern Skalds, or Minstrels, accom- 
 panied the armies in war, and were with the 
 king in battle, that they might witness his 
 prowess, and describe it more truly in their 
 songs. Thus, in the battle of Stiklastad, 1030, 
 King Olaf had his Skalds beside him, within 
 his body-guard (Skialldborg, or Citadel of 
 Shields). " Ye shall be here," said he, " that 
 ye may see with your own eyes what is 
 achieved this day, and have no occasion, when 
 ye shall afterwards celebrate these actions in 
 song, to depend upon the reports of others." t 
 As the battle was about to begin, one of them, 
 by the name of Thormod, " sang the ancient 
 Biarkemaal, in so loud a voice," says one of 
 
 * Vol. III. p. 658. See also Petersen, Danske, Norske 
 og Svenske Sprogs Historie, Vol. I. p. 24. 
 
 t See Run-Lara, af J. G. Lilejgren : Stockholm : 1832 ; 
 and Run Urkunder, by the same : Stockholm: 1833. 
 
 I Henderson's Iceland, p. 53S. 
 
 the old Sagas,* "that all the army heard it.' 
 During the battle, he was shot down by an ar- 
 row, and died with songs upon his lips.t 
 
 Harald Harfager had at his court four principal 
 Skalds, who were his friends and counsellors, and 
 to whom he assigned the highest seats at his ta- 
 ble. Canute the Great had, also, several Skalds 
 among his retainers ; and, on one occasion, when 
 Thoraren, having composed a short poem in his 
 praise, craved an audience of the king in order 
 to recite it, assuring him it was very short, 
 Canute replied, in anger, " Are you not ashamed 
 to do what none but yourself has dared, — to 
 write a short poem upon me ? Unless, by the 
 hour of dinner to-morrow, you produce a Drapa, 
 above thirty strophes long, on the same subject, 
 your life shall pay the penalty." The poet 
 having produced the song, the king rewarded 
 him with fifty marks of silver. 
 
 Among the Skalds were many crowned heads 
 and distinguished warriors, as, for example, Reg- 
 ner Lodbrok, and Starkother the Old. There 
 were also female Skalds, who, like Miriam, 
 sang the achievements of heroes, and the pro- 
 phetic mysteries of religion. 
 
 The memory of the Skalds was the great re 
 pository of the poetic lore of the North, when 
 oral tradition held the place of written records. 
 One of them having sung before King Harald 
 Sigurdson sixty different songs in one evening, 
 the king asked him if he knew any others, to 
 which he replied, that he could sing as many 
 more.! 
 
 The most prominent feature in the Ice- 
 landic versification, as in the Anglo-Saxon, is 
 alliteration. There are, also, other striking 
 analogies in the poetry of the two nations. 
 The Icelandic is as remarkable as the Anglo- 
 Saxon for its abruptness, its obscurity, and the 
 boldness of its metaphors. Poets are called 
 Songsmiths ; — poetry, the Language of the 
 Gods ; — gold, the Daylight of Dwarfs ; — the 
 heavens, the Skull of Ymer; — the rainbow, 
 the Bridge of the Gods; — a battle, a Bath of 
 Blood, the Hail of Odin, the Meeting of 
 Shields ; — the- tongue, the Sword of Words ; 
 
 * Fostbrodresaga. IWaller, Sagabibliothek, I. p. 57. 
 
 t Robert Wace, in the Romance of Le Brut d'Ang/eterre, 
 speaking of the army of William the Conqueror, says : 
 "Taillefer, who sang full well, I wot, 
 Mounted on steed that was swift of foot, 
 Went forth before the armed train, 
 Singing of Roland and Charlemain, 
 Of Olivere, and the brave vassals 
 Who died at the Pass of Roncesvals." 
 
 t Wheaton, History of the Northmen, chap. IV. 
 
ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 31 
 
 — rivers, the Sweat of the Earth, the Blood 
 of the Valleys; — arrows, the Daughters of 
 Misfortune, the Hailstones of Helmets ; — the 
 earth, the Vessel that floats on the Ages; — the 
 sea, the Field of Pirates ; — a ship, the Skate 
 of Pirates, the Horse of the Waves. The an- 
 cient Skald smote the strings of his harp with 
 as bold a hand as the Berserk smote his foe. 
 When heroes fell in battle, he sang of them in 
 his Drapa, or death-song, that they had gone to 
 drink " divine mead in the secure and tranquil 
 palaces of the gods," in that Valhalla, upon 
 whose walls stood the watchman Heimdal, 
 whose ear was so acute, that he could hear the 
 grass grow in the meadows of earth, and the wool 
 on the backs of sheep. He lived in a credulous 
 age ; in the dim twilight of the past. He was 
 " The sky-lark in the dawn of years, 
 The poet of the morn." 
 In the vast solitudes around him, the heart of 
 Nature beat against his own. From the mid- 
 night gloom of groves, the deep-voiced pines 
 answered the deeper-voiced and neighbouring 
 sea. To his ear, these were not the voices of 
 dead, but of living things. Demons rode the 
 ocean like a weary steed, and the gigantic pines 
 flapped their sounding wings to smite the spirit 
 of the storm. 
 
 Still wilder and fiercer were these influences 
 of Nature in desolate Iceland, than on the main- 
 land of Scandinavia. Fields of lava, icebergs, 
 geysers, and volcanoes were familiar sights. 
 When the long winter came, and snowy Hecla 
 roared through the sunless air, and the flames 
 of the Northern Aurora flashed along the sk}', 
 like phantoms from Valhalla, the soul of the 
 poet was filled with images of terror and dis- 
 may. He bewailed the death of Balder, the 
 sun ; and saw in each eclipse the horrid form 
 of the wolf Managamer, who swallowed the 
 moon, and stained the sky with blood. 
 
 The most important collection of Icelandic 
 poetry is the " Edda Ssemundar hinns Froda " 
 (the Edda of Saemund the Learned).* This is 
 usually called the Elder, or Poetic Edda, and 
 contains thirty-eight poems on various subjects 
 connected with the Northern Mythology. It 
 was partly written and partly collected by Sa> 
 mund Sigfusson, an Icelander by birth, who 
 flourished in the latter half of the eleventh cen- 
 tury. Of the name Edda, Mallet says : " The 
 most probable conjecture is that it is derived 
 from an old Gothic word, signifying Grand- 
 mother." t This conjecture, however, seems 
 rather improbable. That of Rilhs is better : 
 " Edda is the feminine form of Othr, which 
 signifies Reason and Poetry, and is therefore 
 called Poetics, or a Guide to the Art of Poetry."! 
 Olafsen derives the name from the obsolete 
 
 * Edda Seemundar hins Froda. Cum Interpretatione La- 
 tina, &c. 3 vols. 4to. Copenhagen: 1787, 1318-28.— Edda 
 Sremundar hinns Frdda. Ex Recensione Erasmi Christiani 
 Rask. Stockholm: 1818. 8vo. 
 
 t Northern Antiquities, Introduction to Vol.11, p. xxiv. 
 
 I Die Edda, nebst einer Einleitung, von F. Runs, p. 121. 
 
 verb ada, to teach, which seems the most prob- 
 able etymology.* Of these poems numerous 
 specimens will be given ; though, it is to be 
 feared, the reader will find them too often like 
 the songs of the Bards in the old Romance, who 
 " came and recited verses before Arthur, and no 
 man understood those verses but Kadyriaith 
 only, save that they were in Arthur's praise." 
 
 At the commencement of the thirteenth cen- 
 tury, Snorro Sturleson, another Icelandic schol- 
 ar, author of the " Heimskringla," or History 
 of Norway, who came to a bloody death by 
 the hand of an assassin, wrote a new Edda, in 
 a simple prose form. He represents Gylfe, an 
 ancient king in Sweden, famous for skill in 
 magic, as visiting Asgard to question the gods 
 on certain important subjects. These questions 
 and the answers to them form the Mythological 
 Fables of the Prose Edda.t Appended to these, 
 are the " Scalda," or Scandinavian Ars Poetica, 
 and several other treatises, on Grammar, Rhet- 
 oric, &c. As a specimen of this curious work, 
 I subjoin, from Bishop Percy's Translation of 
 Mallet, a few of the fables, containing an ac- 
 count of the god Thor's adventures among the 
 Jotuns. 
 
 OF THE GOD THOR. 
 
 Gangler proceeds and says: " Did it nevei 
 happen to Thor, in his expeditions, to be over 
 come, either by enchantment or downright 
 force ? " Har replied to him : " Few can take 
 upon them to affirm that ever any such acci- 
 dent befel this god ; nay, had he in reality 
 been worsted in any rencounter, it would not 
 be allowable to make mention of it, since all 
 the world ought to believe that nothing can 
 resist his power." " I have put a question, 
 then," says Gangler, " to which none of you 
 can give any answer." Then Jafnhar took up 
 the discourse and said : " True indeed, there are 
 some such rumors current among us ; but they 
 are hardly credible ; yet there is one present who 
 can impart them to you ; and you ought the rath- 
 er to believe him, in that having never yet told 
 you a lie, he will not now begin to deceive you 
 with false stories." "Come, then," says Gan- 
 gler, interrupting him, " I await your explica- 
 tion ; but, if you do not give satisfactory answers 
 to the questions I have proposed, be assured I 
 shall look upon you as vanquished." " Here, 
 then," says Har, "begins the history you desire 
 me to relate : 
 
 " One day the god Thor set out with Loke, 
 in his own chariot, drawn by two he-goats ; but, 
 night coming on, they were obliged to put up 
 at a peasant's cottage. The god Thor imme- 
 diately slew his two he-goats, and, having skin- 
 ned them, ordered them to be dressed for sup- 
 per. When this was done, he sat down to 
 table, and invited the peasant and his children 
 
 * Henderson's Iceland, p. 539. 
 
 t Snorra-Edda. Utgefin af R. Kr. Rask. Stockholm 
 1818. 8vo. 
 
32 
 
 ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND x'OETRVT. 
 
 to partake with him. The son of his host was 
 named Thialfe, the daughter Raska. Thor bade 
 them throw all the bones into the skins of the 
 goats, which he held extended near the table ; 
 but young Thialfe, to come at the marrow, 
 broke, with his knife, one of the shank-bones of 
 the goats. Having passed the night in this 
 place, Thor arose early in the morning, and, 
 dressing himself, reared the handle of his ham- 
 mer ; which he had no sooner done, than the 
 two goats reassumed their wonted form, only that 
 one of them now halted upon one of his hind 
 legs. The god, seeing this, immediately judged 
 that the peasant, or one of his family, had han- 
 dled the bones of this goat too roughly. En- 
 raged at their folly, he knit his eyebrows, roll- 
 ed his eyes, and, seizing his hammer, grasped it 
 with such force, that the very joints of his fin- 
 gers were white again. The peasant, trembling, 
 was afraid of being struck down by one of his 
 looks ; he therefore, with his children, made 
 joint suit for pardon, offering whatever they 
 possessed in recompense of any damage that 
 had been done. TIiot at last suffered himself 
 to be appeased, and was content to carry away 
 with him Thialfe and Raska. Leaving, then, 
 his he-goats in that place, he set out on his 
 road for the country of the Giants ; and, com- 
 ing to the margin of the sea, swam across it, 
 accompanied by Thialfe, Raska, and Loke. 
 The first of these was an excellent runner, and 
 carried Thor's wallet or bag. When they had 
 made some advance, they found themselves in 
 a vast plain, through which they marched all 
 day, till they were reduced to great want of 
 provisions. When night approached, they 
 searched on all sides for a place to sleep in, 
 and at last, in the dark, found the house of a 
 certain giant ; the gate of which was so large, 
 that it took up one whole side of the mansion. 
 Here they passed the night ; but about the mid- 
 dle of it were alarmed by an earthquake, which 
 violently shook the whole fabric. Thor, rising 
 up, called upon his companions to seek along 
 with him some place of safety. On the right 
 they met with an adjoining chamber, into which 
 they entered ; but Thor remained at the entry ; 
 and whilst the others, terrified with fear, crept 
 to the farthest corner of their retreat, he armed 
 himself with his hammer, to be in readiness to 
 defend himself at all events. Meanwhile they 
 heard a terrible noise ; and when the morning 
 was come, Thor went out, and observed near 
 him a man of enormous bulk, who snored 
 pretty loud. Thor found that this was the noise 
 which had so disturbed him. He immediately 
 girded on bis belt of prowess, which hath the 
 virtue of increasing strength ; but the giant 
 awaking, Thor, affrighted, durst not launch his 
 hammer, but contented himself with asking his 
 name. ' My name is Skrymner,' replied the 
 other ; ' as for you, I need not inquire whether 
 you are the god Thor; pray, tell me, have not 
 you picked up my glove ? ' Then presently 
 stretching forth his hand to take it up, Thor 
 
 perceived that the house wherein they had 
 passed the night was that very glove ; and the 
 chamber was only one of its fingers. Here- 
 upon Skrymner asked whether they might not 
 join companies ; and Thor consenting, the gi- 
 ant opened his cloak-bag, and took out some- 
 thing to eat. Thor and his companions having 
 done the same, Skrymner would put both their 
 wallets together, and, laying them on his shoul- 
 der, began to march at a great rate. At night, 
 when the others were come up, the giant went 
 to repose himself under an oak, showing Thor 
 where he intended to lie, and bidding him help 
 himself to victuals out of the wallet. Mean- 
 while he fell to snore strongly. But, what is 
 very incredible, when Thor came to open the 
 wallet, he could not untie one single knot. Vex- 
 ed at this, he seized his hammer, and launched 
 it at the giant's head. He, awaking, asks, what 
 leaf had fallen upon his head, or what other 
 trifle it could be. Thor pretended to go to 
 sleep under another oak ; but observing about 
 midnight that Skrymner snored again, he took 
 his hammer and drove it into the hinder part 
 of his head. The giant, awaking, demands of 
 Thor, whether some small grain of dust had 
 not fallen upon his head, and why he did not 
 go to sleep. Thor answered, he was going ; 
 but, presently after, resolving to have a third 
 blow at his enemy, he collects all his force, and 
 launches his hammer with so much violence 
 against the giant's cheek, that it forced its way 
 into it up to the handle. Skrymner, awaking, 
 slightly raises his hand to his cheek, saying, 
 ' Are there any birds perched upon this tree ? 
 I thought one of their feathers had fallen upon 
 me.' Then he added, ' What keeps you awake, 
 Thor ? I fancy it is now time for us to get up, 
 and dress ourselves. You are now not very far 
 from the city of Utgard. I have heard you 
 whisper to one another, that I was of very tall 
 stature ; but you will see many there much 
 larger than myself. Wherefore I advise you, 
 when you come thither, not to take upon you 
 too much ; for in that place they will not bear 
 with it from such little men as you. Nay, I 
 even believe that your best way is to turn back 
 again ; but if you still persist in your resolu- 
 tion, take the road that leads eastward ; for, as 
 for me, mine lies to the north.' Hereupon he 
 threw his wallet over his shoulder, and entered 
 a forest. I never could hear that the god Thor 
 wished him a good journey ; but proceeding on 
 his way, along with his companions, he per- 
 ceived, about noon, a city situated in the mid- 
 dle of a vast plain. This city was so lofty, 
 that one could not look up to the top of it, 
 without throwing one's head quite back upon 
 the shoulders. The gate-way was closed with 
 a grate, which Thor never could have opened ; 
 but he and his companions crept through the 
 bars. Entering in, they saw a large palace, 
 and men of a prodigious stature. Then ad- 
 dressing themselves to the king, who was nam- 
 ed Utgarda-Loke, they saluted him with great 
 
ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 33 
 
 respect. The king, having at last discerned 
 them, broke out into such a burst of laughter 
 as discomposed every feature of his face. ' It 
 would take up too much time,' says he, ' to ask 
 you concerning the long journey you have per- 
 formed ; yet, if I do not mistake, that little man 
 whom I see there should be Thor : perhaps, 
 indeed, he is larger than he appears to me to 
 be ; but in order to judge of this,' added he, 
 addressing his discourse to Thor, ' let me see a 
 specimen of those arts by which you are distin- 
 guished, you and your companions ; for no body 
 is permitted to remain here, unless he under- 
 stand some art, and excel in it all other men.' 
 Loke then said, that his art consisted in eating 
 more than any other man in the world, and 
 that he would challenge any one at that kind 
 of combat. ' It must, indeed, be owned,' repli- 
 ed the king, ' that you are not wanting in dex- 
 terity, if you are able to perform what you 
 promise. Come, then, let us put it to the proof.' 
 At the same time he ordered one of his cour- 
 tiers, who was sitting on a side-bench, and 
 whose name was Loge (i. e. Flame), to come 
 forward, and try his skill with Loke in the art 
 they were speaking of. Then he caused a great 
 tub or trough full of provisions to be placed 
 upon the bar, and the two champions at each 
 end of it ; who immediately fell to devour the 
 victuals with so much eagerness, that they pres- 
 ently met in the middle of the trough, and were 
 obliged to desist. But Loke had only eat the 
 flesh of his portion ; whereas the other had de- 
 voured both flesh and bones. All the company 
 therefore adjudged that Loke was vanquished." 
 
 " Then the king asked what that young man 
 could do, who accompanied Thor. Thialfe an- 
 swered, that, in running upon skates, he would 
 dispute the prize with any of the courtiers. 
 The king owned that the talent he spoke of 
 was a very fine one ; but that he must exert 
 himself, if he would come off" conqueror. He 
 then arose and conducted Thialfe to a ' snowy ' 
 plain, giving him a young man, named Hugo, 
 (Spirit or Thought) to dispute the prize of swift- 
 ness with him. But this Hugo so much out- 
 stripped Thialfe, that, in returning to the barrier 
 whence they set out, they met face to face. 
 Then says the king, ' Another trial, and you 
 may perhaps exert yourself better.' They there- 
 fore ran a second course, and Thialfe was a full 
 bow-shot from the boundary when Hugo ar- 
 rived at it. They ran a third time ; but Hugo 
 had already reached the goal before Thialfe had 
 got half way. Hereupon all who were present 
 cried out, that there had been a sufficient trial 
 of skill in this kind of exercise." 
 
 " Then the king asked Thor, in what art he 
 would choose to give proof of that dexterity for 
 which he was so famous. Thor replied, that 
 he would contest the prize of drinking with 
 any person belonging to his court. The king 
 consented, and immediately went into his pal- 
 5 
 
 ace to look for a large horn, out of which his 
 courtiers were obliged to drink when they had 
 committed any trespass against the customs of 
 the court. This the cup-bearer filled to the 
 brim, and presented to Thor, whilst the king 
 spake thus : ' Whoever is a good drinker will 
 empty that horn at a single draught ; some per- 
 sons make two of it ; but the most puny drink- 
 er of all can do it at three.' Thor looked at the 
 horn, and was astonished at its length ; howev- 
 er, as he was very thirsty, he set it to his mouth, 
 and, without drawing breath, pulled as long and 
 as deeply as he could, that he might not be 
 obliged to make a second draught of it ; but 
 when he withdrew the cup from his mouth, in 
 order to look in, he could scarcely perceive any 
 of the liquor gone. To it he went again with 
 all his might, but succeeded no better than be- 
 fore. At last, full of indignation, he again set 
 the horn to his lips, and exerted himself to the 
 utmost to empty it entirely ; then looking in, 
 he found that the liquor was a little lowered ; 
 upon this, he resolved to attempt it no more, 
 but gave back the horn. ' I now see plainly,' 
 says the king, ' that thou art not quite so stout 
 as we thought thee ; but art thou willing to 
 make any more trials ?' ' I am sure,' says Thor, 
 ' such draughts as I have been drinking would 
 not have been reckoned small among the gods : 
 but what new trial have you to propose ? ' ' We 
 have a very trifling game, here,' replied the 
 king, ' in which we exercise none but children : 
 it consists in only lifting my cat from the ground ; 
 nor should I have mentioned it, if I had not 
 already observed that you are by no means 
 what we took you for.' Immediately a large 
 iron-colored cat leaped into the middle of the 
 hall. Thor, advancing, put his hand under the 
 cat's belly and did his utmost to raise him from 
 the ground ; but the cat, bending his back, had 
 only one of his feet lifted up. ' The event,' 
 says the king, ' is just what I foresaw ; the cat 
 is large, but Thor is little in comparison of the 
 men here.' ' Little as I am,' says Thor, ' let me 
 see who will wrestle with me.' The king, look- 
 ing round him, says, ' I see nobody here who 
 would not think it beneath him to enter the 
 lists with you ; let somebody, however, call 
 hither my nurse Hela (i. e. Death) to wrestle 
 with this god Thor ; she hath thrown to the 
 ground many a better man than he.' Immedi- 
 ately a toothless old woman entered the hall. 
 ' This is she,' says the king, ' with whom you 
 must wrestle.' — I cannot, says Jafnhar, give 
 you all the particulars of this contest, only, in 
 general, that the more vigorously Thor assail- 
 ed her, the more immovable she stood. At 
 length the old woman had recourse to strata- 
 gems, and Thor could not keep his feet so 
 steadily, but that she, by a violent struggle, 
 brought him upon one knee. Then the king 
 came to them and ordered them to desist ; add- 
 ing, there now remained nobody in his court, 
 whom he could ask with honor to condescend 
 to fight with Thor." 
 
34 
 
 ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 " Thor passed the night in that place with 
 his companions, and was preparing to depart 
 thence early the next morning, when the king 
 ordered him to be sent for, and gave him a 
 magnificent entertainment. After this he ac- 
 companied him out of the city. When they 
 were just going to bid adieu to each other, the 
 king asked Thor what he thought of the success 
 of his expedition. Thor told him, he could 
 lot but own that he went away very much 
 ashamed and disappointed. ' It behooves me, 
 then,' says the king, ' to discover now the truth 
 to you, since you are out of my city ; which 
 you shall never reenter whilst I live and reign. 
 And I assure you, that, had I known before- 
 hand you had been so strong and mighty, I 
 would not have suffered you to enter now. 
 But I enchanted you by my illusions ; first of 
 all in the forest, where I arrived before you. 
 And there you were not able to untie your wal- 
 let, because I had fastened it with a magic 
 chain. You afterwards aimed three blows at 
 me with your hammer : the first stroke, though 
 slight, would have brought me to the ground, 
 had I received it : but when you are gone hence, 
 you will meet with an immense rock, in which 
 are three narrow valleys of a square form, 
 one of them in particular remarkably deep : 
 these are the breaches made by your hammer ; 
 for I at that time lay concealed behind the rock, 
 which you did not perceive. I have used the 
 same illusions in the contests you have had 
 with the people of my court. In the first, Loke, 
 like hunger itself, devoured all that was set be- 
 fore him : but his opponent, Loge, was nothing 
 else but a wandering Fire, which instantly con- 
 sumed not only the meat, but the bones, and 
 the very trough itself. Hugo, with whom Thi- 
 alfe disputed the prize of swiftness, was no 
 other than Thought or Spirit; and it was impos- 
 sible for Thialfe to keep pace with that. When 
 you attempted to empty the horn, you perform- 
 ed, upon my word, a deed so marvellous, that 
 I should never have believed it, if I had not 
 seen it myself; for one end of the horn reached 
 to the sea, a circumstance you did not observe : 
 Dut, the first time you go to the sea-side, you 
 will see how much it is diminished. You per- 
 formed no less a miracle in lifting the cat; and, 
 to tell you the truth, when we saw that one of 
 her paws had quitted the earth, we were all 
 extremely surprised and terrified ; for what you 
 took for a cat was in reality the great Serpent 
 of Midgard, which encompasses the earth ; and 
 he was then scarce long enough to touch the 
 earth with his head and tail ; so high had your 
 nand raised him up towards heaven. As to 
 your wrestling with an old woman, it is very 
 astonishing that she could only bring you down 
 upon one of your knees ; for it was Death you 
 wrestled with, who, first or last, will bring every 
 one low. But now, as we are going to part, 
 set me tell you, that it will be equally for your 
 advantage and mine, that you never come near 
 me again ; for, should you do so, I shall again 
 
 defend myself by other illusions and enchant- 
 ments, so that you will never prevail against 
 me.' — As he uttered these words, Thor, in a 
 rage, laid hold of his hammer, and would have 
 launched it at the king, but he suddenly disap- 
 peared ; and when the god would have return- 
 ed to the city to destroy it, he found nothing 
 all around him but vast plains covered with 
 verdure. Continuing, therefore, his course, he 
 returned, without ever stopping, to his palace." 
 
 Other important remains of old Norse poetry 
 are the Odes and Death-Songs, interspersed 
 through the Sagas or Chronicles. These Sagas 
 are very numerous. Milller, in his Sagabiblio- 
 thek,* gives an analysis of sixty of them ; and 
 the Arne Magnusen collection in Copenha- 
 gen contains 1554 manuscripts. They were 
 mainly written by Icelanders ; and conspicuous 
 among the lovers and preservers of this lore 
 are Abbot Karl and the Benedictine monks of 
 the monastery of Thingeyre. Many of these 
 old chronicles perished in the overthrow of the 
 convents, at the time of the Lutheran Reforma- 
 tion ; so that what had been their asylum for 
 a season became at length their grave. Many, 
 however, have been published by the Society 
 of Northern Antiquaries, and some of them 
 translated into Danish by its Secretary, the 
 learned and excellent Rafn.t 
 
 From the days of Regner Lodbrok to those 
 of Snorro Sturleson, that is to say, from the 
 close of the eighth to the beginning of the 
 thirteenth century, flourished more than two 
 hundred Skalds, whose names have come down 
 to us, with fragments of their songs. From this 
 time their numbers seem to have diminished rap- 
 idly. Some relics of the fifteenth century have 
 been published, under the title of " Rimur," 
 consisting mostly of rhymed versions, or para- 
 phrases, of romances of chivalry ; and we have a 
 collection of poems of the seventeenth century 
 by Stephen Olafson (published in 1823), under 
 the title of " Liodmaeli." During the last century 
 flourished Paul Vidalin, Eggert Olafson, and some 
 others; and the best known poets of the present 
 are, Jon Thorlakson, who has translated into his 
 native tongue Milton's "Paradise Lost" and 
 Pope's "Essay on Man"; Thorvald Bodvar- 
 son, the translator of Pope's " Messiah " ; Pro- 
 fessor Magnusen, Benedict Grondal, Jon Jonson, 
 and Sigurd Peterson. t 
 
 Such is in brief the Poetry of Iceland. Since 
 
 * Sagabibliothek, af Peter Erasmus Muller. 3 vols. 12mo. 
 Copenhagen: 1817-13-20. 
 
 t The Royal Society of Northern Antiquities in Copen- 
 hagen have published the following Sagas: "Formanna 
 SSgur," 12 vols. 8vo. ; the same in Latin, under the title 
 of "Scripta Historica Tslandoram," 3 vols. 8vo. (four more 
 remain to be published), and in modern Danish, under the 
 title of " Oldnordiske Sageer," 12 vols. 8vo. ; "Islendinga 
 Sb'gur," 2 vols. 8vo. ; "Fasreyinga Saga," 3 vols. 8vo , and 
 a German translation of the same; "Fornaldar Sb'gur Nor- 
 delanda," 3 vols. 8vo., and the same in modem Danish, 3 
 vols. 8vo. 
 
 I Henderson, p. 544. 
 
ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 35 
 
 its pa'. ;iy days in the Middle Ages, "few are 
 the memorials of the dead standing by the way- 
 side." The Skalds have disappeared, like the 
 foiests of their native land ; the modern Ice- 
 lander, as he warms his hands at the fire of 
 drift-wood from the shores of Greenland, may, 
 in the pride of his heart, repeat the old national 
 proverb : " Island er hinn besta land sem solinn 
 skinnar uppa" (Iceland is the best land which 
 the sun shines upon) ; but he no longer sings 
 the dirge of the Berserk, nor records the achieve- 
 ments of a Harald Blue-tooth or a Hakon Jarl. 
 The Skald and the Sagaman have departed. 
 
 As a still further introduction to the pieces 
 that follow, I will here give an extract from 
 Carlyle's " Lectures on Heroes and Hero- Wor- 
 ship." 
 
 "In that strange island, Iceland, — burst up, 
 the geologists say, by fire, from the bottom of 
 the sea ; a wild land of barrenness and lava ; 
 swallowed many months of ever}' year in black 
 tempests, yet with a wild gleaming beauty in 
 summer-time ; towering up there, stern and 
 grim, in the North Ocean ; with its snow- 
 jokuls, roaring geysers, sulphur pools, and hor- 
 rid volcanic chasms, like the waste, chaotic 
 battle-field of Frost and Fire, — where, of all 
 places, we least looked for literature or written 
 memorials, the record of these things was writ- 
 ten down. On the seaboard of this wild land 
 is a rim of grassy country, where cattle can 
 subsist, and men by means of them and of what 
 the sea yields ; and it seems they were poetic 
 men these, men who had deep thoughts in 
 them, and uttered musically their thoughts. 
 Much would be lost, had Iceland not been burst 
 up from the sea, not been discovered by the 
 Northmen ! The old Norse poets were many 
 of them natives of Iceland. 
 
 " Saemund, one of the early Christian priests 
 there, who perhaps had a lingering fondness for 
 Paganism, collected certain of their old Pagan 
 songs, just about becoming obsolete then, — 
 Poems, or Chants, of a mythic, prophetic, mostly 
 all of a religious character : this is what Norse 
 critics call the Elder or Poetic Edda. Edda, a 
 word of uncertain etymology, is thought to sig- 
 nify Ancestress. Snorro Sturleson, an Iceland 
 gentleman, an extremely notable personage, 
 educated by this Ssemund's grandson, took in 
 hand next, near a century afterwards, to put 
 together, among several other books he wrote, 
 a kind of Prose Synopsis of the whole mythol- 
 ogy, elucidated by new fragments of tradition- 
 ary verse, — a work constructed really with 
 great ingenuity, native talent, what one might 
 call unconscious art ; altogether a perspicuous, 
 clear work, pleasant reading still : this is the 
 Younger or Prose Edda. By these and the 
 numerous other Sagas, mostly Icelandic, with 
 the commentaries, Icelandic or not, which go 
 on zealously in the North to this day, it is pos- 
 sible to gain some direct insight even yet, and 
 see that old Norse system of belief, as it were, 
 face to fate. Let us forget that it is erroneous 
 
 Religion ; let us look at it as old Thought, and 
 try if we cannot sympathize with it somewhat. 
 
 " The primary characteristic of this old North- 
 land mythology I find to be Impersonation of 
 the visible workings of Nature, — earnest, sim- 
 ple recognition of the workings of Physical 
 Nature, as a thing wholly miraculous, stupen- 
 dous, and divine. What we now lecture of, as 
 Science, they wondered at, and fell down in 
 awe before, as Religion. The dark, hostile 
 Powers of Nature they figured to themselves as 
 Jotuns, Giants, — huge, shaggy beings, of a de- 
 monic character. Frost, Fire, Sea, Tempest ; 
 these are Jotuns. The friendly Powers again, 
 as Summer-heat, the Sun, are Gods. The em- 
 pire of this Universe is divided between these 
 two ; they dwell apart, in perennial internecine 
 feud. The Gods dwell above in Asgard, the 
 Garden of the Asen or Divinities ; Jotunheim, 
 a distant, dark, chaotic land, is the Home of 
 the Jotuns. 
 
 " Curious all this ; and not idle or inane, if 
 we will look at the foundation of it ! The 
 power of Fire, or Flame, for instance, which 
 we designate by some trivial chemical name, 
 thereby hiding from ourselves the essential 
 character of wonder that dwells in it, as in all 
 things, is, with these old Northmen, Loge, a 
 most swift, subtle Demon, of the brood of the 
 Jotuns. The savages of the Ladrones Islands, 
 too (say some Spanish voyagers), thought Fire, 
 which the)' never had seen before, was a Devil 
 or God, that bit you sharply when you touched 
 it, and lived there upon dry wood. From us, 
 too, no chemistry, if it had not stupidity to help 
 it, would hide that Flame is a wonder. What 
 is Flame ? — Frost the old Norse seer discerns to 
 be a monstrous, hoary JStun, the Giant TJiryrn, 
 Hrym ; or Rime, the old word now nearly ob- 
 solete here, but still used in Scotland to signify 
 hoar-frost. Rime was not then, as now, a dead, 
 chemical thing, but a living Jotun or Devil ; 
 the monstrous Jotun Rime drove home his 
 horses at night, sat ' combing their manes,' — 
 which horses were Hail-clouds, or fleet Frost- 
 winds. His Cows — No, not his, but a kins- 
 man's, the Giant Hymir's Cows — are Icebergs: 
 this Hymir ' looks at the rocks ' with his devil- 
 eye, and they split in the glance of it. 
 
 " Thunder was not then mere Electricity, 
 vitreous or resinous ; it was the God Donner 
 (Thunder) or Thor, — God also of beneficent 
 Summer-heat. The thunder was his wrath ; 
 the gathering of the black clouds is the drawing 
 down of Thor's angry brows ; the fire-bolt 
 bursting out of heaven is the all-rending Ham- 
 mer flung from the hand of Thor : he urges his 
 loud chariot over the mountain-tops, — that is 
 the peal : wrathful he ' blows in his red beard,' 
 — that is the rustling storm-blast before the 
 thunder begin. Balder again, the White God, 
 the beautiful, the just and benignant (whom the 
 early Christian missionaries found to resemble 
 Christ), is the Sun, — beautifullest of visible 
 things; wondrous, too, and divine still, after all 
 
36 
 
 ICELANDIC LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 our Astronomies and Almanacs ! But perhaps 
 the notablest god we hear tell of is one of whom 
 Grimm, the German Etymologist, finds trace : 
 the God Wlinsch, or Wish. The God Wish ; 
 who could give us all that we wished! Is not 
 this the sincerest and yet rudest voice of the 
 spirit of man ? The rudest ideal that man ever 
 formed ; which still shows itself in the latest 
 forms of our spiritual culture. Higher consid- 
 erations have to teach us that the God Wish is 
 not the true God. 
 
 " Of the other Gods or Jotuns, I will mention 
 only for etymology's sake, that Sea-tempest is 
 the Jotun Aegir, a very dangerous JStun ; — 
 and now to this day, on our river Trent, as I 
 learn, the Nottingham bargemen, when the 
 river is in a certain flooded state (a kind of 
 backwater or eddying swirl it has, very dan- 
 gerous to them), call it Eager ; they cry out, 
 ' Have a care, there is the Eager coming ! ' 
 Curious ; that word surviving, like the peak of 
 a submerged world ! The oldest Nottingham 
 bargemen had believed in the God Aegir. In- 
 deed, our English blood, too, in good part, is 
 Danish, Norse ; or rather, at bottom, Danish 
 and Norse and Saxon have no distinction, ex- 
 cept a superficial one, — as of Heathen and 
 Christian, or the like. But all over our island 
 we are mingled largely with Danes proper, — 
 from the incessant invasions there were : and 
 this, of course, in a greater proportion along 
 the east coast ; and greatest of all, as I find, in 
 the North Country. From the Humber up- 
 wards, all over Scotland, the speech of the 
 common people is still in a singular degree Ice- 
 landic ; its Germanism has still a peculiar Norse 
 tinge. They, too, are ' Normans,' Northmen, — 
 if that be any great beauty ! 
 
 " Of the chief God, Odin, we shall speak by 
 and by. Mark at present so much ; what the 
 essence of Scandinavian, and, indeed, of all Pa- 
 ganism is: a recognition of the forces of Nature 
 as godlike, stupendous, personal Agencies, — 
 as Gods and Demons. Not inconceivable to us. 
 It is the infant Thought of man opening itself, 
 with awe and wonder, on this ever-stupendous 
 Universe. To me there is in the Norse system 
 something very genuine, very great and man- 
 like. A broad simplicity, rusticity, so very 
 different from the light gracefulness of the old 
 Greek Paganism, distinguishes this Scandina- 
 vian system. It is Thought ; the genuine 
 thought of deep, rude, earnest minds, fairly 
 opened to the things about them ; a face-to-face 
 and heart-to-heart inspection of the things, — 
 the first characteristic of all good thought in 
 all times. Not graceful lightness, half-sport, as 
 in the Greek Paganism ; a certain homely 
 truthfulness and rustic strength, a great rude 
 sincerity, discloses itself here. It is strange, 
 after our beautiful Apollo statues and clear 
 Bmiling mythuses, to come down upon the Norse 
 Gods ' brewing ale ' to hold their feast with 
 Aegir, the Sea-J6tun ; sending out Thor to get 
 !he caldron for thein in the Jotun country ; 
 
 Thor, after many adventures, clapping the pot 
 on his head, like a huge hat, and walking off 
 with it, — quite lost in it, the ears of the pot 
 reaching down to his heels ! A kind of vacant 
 hugeness, large, awkward gianthood, character- 
 izes that Norse system ; enormous force, as yet 
 altogether untutored, stalking, helpless, with 
 large, uncertain strides. Consider only their 
 primary mythus of the Creation. The Gods, 
 having got the Giant Ymer slain, — a giant made 
 by ' warm winds ' and much confused work out 
 of the conflict of Frost and Fire, — determined 
 on constructing a world with him. His blood 
 made the Sea ; his flesh was the Land, the 
 Rocks his bones ; of his eyebrows they formed 
 Asgard, their Gods'-dwelling ; his skull was the 
 great blue vault of Immensity, and the brains 
 of it became the Clouds. What a Hyper-Brob- 
 dignagian business ! Untamed Thought, great, 
 giantlike, enormous; — to be tamed in due time 
 into the compact greatness, not giantlike, but 
 godlike and stronger than gianthood, of the 
 Shakspeares, the Goethes ! — Spiritually, as 
 well as bodily, these men are our progenitors. 
 
 " I like, too, that representation they have 
 of the Tree Igdrasil. All Life is figured by 
 them as a Tree. Igdrasil, the Ash-tree of Ex- 
 istence, has its roots deep down in the king- 
 dom of Hela or Death ; its trunk reaches up 
 heaven-high, spreads its boughs over the whole 
 Universe : it is the Tree of Existence. At the 
 foot of it, in the Death-kingdom, sit Three 
 Nomas, Fates, — the Past, Present, Future ; 
 watering its roots from the Sacred Well. Its 
 ' boughs,' with their buddings and disleafings, 
 — events, things suffered, things done, catas- 
 trophes, — stretch through all lands and times. 
 Is not every leaf of it a biography, every fibre 
 there an act or word ? Its boughs are Histories 
 of Nations. The rustle of it is the Noise of 
 Human Existence, onwards from of old. It 
 grows there, the breath of Human Passion 
 rustling through it; — or storm-tost, the storm- 
 wind howling through it like the voice of all 
 the Gods. It is Igdrasil, the Tree of Existence. 
 It is the past, the present, and the future ; what 
 was done, what is doing, what will be done ; 
 ' the infinite conjugation of the verb To do.' 
 Considering how human things circulate, each 
 inextricably in communion with all, — how the 
 word I speak to you to-day is borrowed, not 
 from Ulfila the Moesogoth only, but from all 
 men since the first man began to speak, — I 
 find no similitude so true as this of a Tree. 
 Beautiful ; altogether beautiful and great. The 
 ' Machine of the Universe,' — alas, do but think 
 of that in contrast ! " 
 
 For a more elaborate account of the Skalds 
 and the Eddaic poems the reader is referred to 
 " The Literature and Romance of Northern Eu- 
 rope," by William and Mary Howitt, London, 
 1852, 2 vols.; — and to "The Religion of the 
 Northmen," by Rudolf Keyser ; translated by 
 Barclay Pennock, New York, 1854. 
 
S^MUND'S EDDA, 
 
 THE VOLUSPA: 
 
 OR THE ORACLE OF THE PROPHETESS VOLA. 
 
 The Prophetess, having imposed silence on 
 all intellectual beings, declares that she is go- 
 ing to reveal the decrees of the Father of Na- 
 ture, the actions and operations of the gods, 
 which no person ever knew before herself. She 
 then begins with a description of the chaos ; 
 and proceeds to the formation of the world, and 
 of that of its various species of inhabitants, gi- 
 ants, men, and dwarfs. She then explains the 
 employments of the fairies, or destinies ; the 
 functions of the gods ; their most remarkable 
 adventures ; their quarrels with Loke, and the 
 vengeance that ensued. At last she concludes 
 with a long description of the final state of the 
 universe, its dissolution and conflagration; the 
 battle of the inferior deities and the evil beings; 
 the renovation of the world ; the happy lot of 
 the good, and the punishment of the wicked. 
 
 Give silence, all 
 Ye sacred race, 
 Both great and small, 
 Of Heimdal sprung : 
 Vol-father's deeds 
 I will relate, 
 The ancient tales 
 Which first I learned. 
 
 I know giants 
 Early born, 
 My ancestors 
 Of former times ; 
 Nine worlds I know, 
 With their nine poles 
 Of tender wood, 
 Beneath the earth. 
 
 In early times, 
 When Ymer lived, 
 Was sand, nor sea, 
 Nor cooling wave ; 
 No earth was found, 
 Nor heaven above ; 
 One chaos all, 
 And nowhere grass : 
 
 Until Bor's sons 
 Th' expanse did raise, 
 By whom Midgard 
 The great was made. 
 From th' south the sun 
 Shone on the walls ; 
 Then did the earth 
 Green herbs produce. 
 
 The sun turned south ; 
 The moon did shine ; 
 Her right hand held 
 The horse of heaven. 
 The sun knew not 
 His proper sphere ; 
 The stars knew not 
 Their proper place ; 
 The moon knew not 
 Her proper power. 
 
 Then all the powers 
 Went to the throne, 
 The holy gods, 
 And held consult : 
 Night and cock-crowing 
 Their names they gave, 
 Morning also, 
 And noon-day tide, 
 And afternoon, 
 The years to tell. 
 
 The Asas met 
 On Ida's plains, 
 Who altars raised 
 And temples built ; 
 Anvils they laid, 
 And money coined ; 
 Their strength they tried 
 In various ways, 
 When making songs, 
 And forming tools. 
 
 On th' green they played 
 In joyful mood, 
 Nor knew at all 
 The want of gold, 
 Until there came 
 Three Thursa maids, 
 Exceeding strong, 
 From Jotunheim : 
 
 Until there came 
 Out of the ranks, 
 Powerful and fair, 
 Three Asas home, 
 And found on shore, 
 In helpless plight, 
 Ask and Embla 
 Without their fate. 
 
 They had not yet 
 Spirit or mind, 
 Blood, or beauty, 
 Or lovely hue. 
 Odin gave spirit, 
 Heinir gave mind, 
 D 
 
33 
 
 ICELANDIC POETRY. 
 
 Lothur gave blood 
 
 Bad luck to seethe, 
 
 And lovely hue. 
 
 And mischief was 
 
 
 Her only sport. 
 
 I know an ash, 
 
 
 Named Ygg-drasill, 
 
 She murder saw, 
 
 A stately tree, 
 
 The first that e'er 
 
 With white dust strewed. 
 
 Was in the world, 
 
 Thence come the dews 
 
 When Gullveig was 
 
 That wet the dales ; 
 
 Placed on the spear, 
 
 It stands aye green 
 
 When in Harr's hall 
 
 O'er Urda's well. 
 
 They did her burn : 
 
 
 Thrice she was burnt, 
 
 Thence come the maids 
 
 Thrice she was born, 
 
 Who much do know ; 
 
 Oft, not seldom, 
 
 Three from the hall 
 
 And yet she lives. 
 
 Beneath the tree ; 
 
 
 One they named Was, 
 
 When all the powers 
 
 And Being next, 
 
 Went to the throne, 
 
 The third, Shall be, 
 
 The holy gods, 
 
 On the shield they cut. 
 
 And held consult : 
 
 
 What punishment 
 
 She sat without 
 
 They should inflict 
 
 When th' Ancient came, 
 
 On th' Asas now 
 
 The awful god, 
 
 For bad advice ; 
 
 And viewed his eye. 
 
 Or whether all 
 
 
 The gods should hold 
 
 What ask ye me ? 
 
 Convivial feasts : 
 
 Why tempt ye me ? 
 
 
 Full well I know, 
 
 Were broken now 
 
 Great Odin, where 
 Thine eye thou lost ; 
 In Mimi's well, 
 The fountain pure, 
 Mead Mimir drinks 
 Each morning new, 
 With Odin's pledge. 
 Conceive ye this ? 
 
 To her the god 
 Of battles gave 
 Both costly rings 
 And shining gold, 
 The art of wealth, 
 And witchcraft wise, 
 By which she saw 
 Through every world. 
 
 She saw Valkyries 
 Come from afar, 
 Ready to ride 
 To th' tribes of god ; 
 Skuld held the shield, 
 Skaugul came next, 
 Gunnr, Hildr, Gaundul, 
 And Geir-skaugul. 
 Thus now are told 
 The Warrior's Norns, 
 Ready to ride 
 The Valkyries. 
 
 Heith she was named 
 Where'er she came ; 
 The prophetess 
 Of cunning arts. 
 She knew right well 
 
 The castle-walls 
 Of Asaborg, 
 By murderous Vanes 
 Who took the field : 
 Forth Odin flew 
 And shot around : 
 This murder was 
 The first that e'er 
 Was in, the world. 
 
 When all the powers 
 Went to the throne, 
 The holy gods, 
 And held consult : 
 Who had the air 
 Involved in flames, 
 Or Odder's maid 
 To giants given : 
 
 There Thor alone 
 Was in ill mood ; 
 He seldom sits 
 When told the like ; 
 Broken were oaths 
 And promises 
 And all contracts 
 That had been made. 
 
 She knows where hid 
 Lies Heimdal's horn, 
 Full deep beneath 
 The sacred tree : 
 She sees a flood 
 Rush down the fall 
 From Odin's pledge : 
 Conceive ye yet ? 
 
SjEMUND'S edda. 
 
 39 
 
 The sun turns pale ; 
 The spacious earth 
 The sea ingulfs ; 
 From heaven fall 
 The lucid stars : 
 At the end of time, 
 The vapors rage, 
 And playful flames 
 Involve the skies. 
 
 She sees arise, 
 The second time, 
 From th' sea, the earth 
 Completely green : 
 Cascades do fall ; 
 The eagle soars, 
 That on the hills 
 Pursues his prey. 
 
 The gods convene 
 On Ida's plains, 
 And talk of man, 
 The worm of dust : 
 They call to mind 
 Their former might, 
 And th' ancient runes 
 Of Fimbultyr. 
 
 The fields unsown 
 Shall yield their growth ; 
 All ills shall cease ; 
 Balder shall come, 
 And dwell with Hauthr 
 In Hropt's abodes. 
 Say, warrior-gods, 
 Conceive ye yet ? 
 
 A hall she sees 
 Outshine the sun, 
 Of gold its roof, 
 It stands in heaven : 
 The virtuous there 
 Shall always dwell, 
 And evermore 
 Delights enjoy. 
 
 THE HAVA-MAL: 
 
 THE SUBLIME DISCOURSE OF ODIN. 
 
 Youngling, ere you rove abroad, 
 Fasten well the doors behind : 
 111 sped he, at whose return 
 Ambushed foes beset his home. 
 
 On guests who come with frozen knees 
 Bestow the genial warmth of fire : 
 Who far has walked, and waded streams, 
 Needs cheering food and drier clothes. 
 
 To him, about to join your board, 
 Clear water bring, to cleanse his hands ; 
 And treat him freely, would you win 
 The kindly word, the thankful heart. 
 
 Wisdom he needs who goes abroad: 
 A churl has his own sway at home ; 
 But they must bend to others' ways 
 Who aim to sit with polished men. 
 
 Who comes unbidden to a feast 
 Should rarely and should lowly speak: 
 The humble listener learns of all, 
 And wins their welcome and their praise. 
 
 Happy is he whom others love, 
 His efforts shall at last succeed ; 
 For all that mortals undertake 
 Requires the helping hand of man. 
 
 He best is armed to journey far 
 Who carries counsel in his head : 
 More than the metal in the purse 
 The mighty heed the marks of mind. 
 
 Beware of swallowing too much ale ; 
 The more you drink, the worse you think ; 
 The bird forgetfulness shall spread 
 Her wings across the drunkard's brow. 
 
 Voracity but swallows death : 
 The wise despise the greedy man : 
 Flocks know the time to quit the field ; 
 But human gluttons feast and choke. 
 
 The coward thinks to live for ever, 
 If he avoids the weapon's reach ; 
 But age, which overtakes at last, 
 Twines his gray hair with pain and shame 
 
 The merry man, who jeers at all, 
 Becomes himself a laughing-stock : 
 Let him beware of taunts and gibes 
 Who has not learned to curb himself. 
 
 The senseless, indecisive man 
 Ponders and re-resolves all night ; 
 But when the morning breaks on high, 
 Has still to choose his doubtful course : 
 Yet he believes the caution wise 
 Which baffles action by delay, 
 And has a string of reasons ready 
 On every question men devise. 
 
 Many seem knit by ties of love, 
 Who fail each other at the proof. 
 
 To slander idle men are prone ; 
 The host backbites the parting guest. 
 
 Home still is home, however homely, 
 And sweet the crust our kin partake ; 
 But he who feasts at others' boards 
 Must often bite a writhing lip. 
 
 None give so freely but they count 
 Their givings as a secret loan ; 
 Nor with o'erflowing soul reject 
 The present brought them in return. 
 
 The interchange of gifts is good ; 
 For clothing, arms ; for bacon, ale : 
 
40 
 
 ICELANDIC POETRY. 
 
 Who give and take each other's feast, 
 Each other's booty, long are friends. 
 
 Love your own friends, and also theirs ; 
 But favor not your foeman's friend : 
 Peace with perfidious men may last 
 Four days or five, but not a week. 
 
 When young, I often strolled alone, 
 And gladly joined the chance- way stranger : 
 To human hearts, the heart is dear; 
 To human eyes, the human face. 
 
 Affect not to be over-wise ; 
 Nor seek to know the doom of fate : 
 The prying man has little sleep, 
 And alters not the will of gods. 
 
 Rise early, would you fill your store ; 
 Rise early, would you smite your foe : 
 The sleepy wolf foregoes his prey; 
 The drowsy man, his victory. 
 
 They ask me to a pompous meal, 
 A breakfast were enough for me ; 
 He is the faithful friend who spares 
 Out of his pair of loaves the one. 
 
 Let us live well, while life endures : 
 The hoarder lights a sparing fire; 
 But death steals in, perhaps, before 
 The gathered sticks are burnt to ashes. 
 
 Have children ; better late than never : 
 Who but our offspring will inscribe 
 Our deeds on the sepulchral stone ? 
 
 Riches have wings ; the cattle stray ; 
 Friends may forsake ; and we must die : ' 
 This only mocks the arm of fate, 
 The judgment which our deeds deserve. 
 
 Who dictates is not truly wise : 
 Each in his turn must bend to power ; 
 And oft the modest man is found 
 To sway the scorners of the proud. 
 
 Praise the day at set of sun ; 
 Praise the woman you have won ; 
 Praise the sword you 've tried in fight; 
 Praise a girl her wedding-night ; 
 Praise the ice you 've stept upon ; 
 Praise the ale you 've slept upon. 
 
 Trust not to a maiden's word ; 
 Trust not what a woman utters : 
 Lightness in their bosom dwells ; 
 Like spinning-wheels, their hearts turn 
 round. 
 
 Trust not the ice of yesternight ; 
 Trust not the serpent that 's asleep ; 
 Trust not the fondness of a bride ; 
 Trust not the sword that has a flaw ; 
 Trust not the sons of mighty men ; 
 Trust not the field that 's newly sown 
 
 Trust not the friendliness of scolds, 
 The horse on ice, who 's not rough-shod, 
 The vessel which has lost her helm, 
 The lame man who pursues a goat. 
 
 Let him who wooes be full of chat, 
 And full of flattery and all that, 
 And carry presents in his hat : 
 Skill may supplant the worthier man. 
 
 No sore so sad as discontent. 
 
 The heart alone can buy the heart ; 
 The soul alone discern the soul. 
 
 If to your will you wish to bend 
 Your mistress, see her but by stealth, 
 By night, and always by yourself: 
 What a third knows of ever fails. 
 
 Forbear to woo another's wife. 
 
 Whoso you meet on land or sea, 
 Be kind and gentle while you may. 
 
 Whose wallet holds a hearty supper 
 Sees evening come without dismay. 
 
 Tell not your sorrows to the unkind; 
 They comfort not, they give no help. 
 
 If you 've a friend, take care to keep him, 
 And often to his threshold pace ; 
 Bushes and grass soon choke the path 
 On which a man neglects to walk. 
 
 Be not first to drop a friend ; 
 Sorrow seeks the lonely man : 
 Courtesy prepares for kindness ; 
 Arrogance shall dwell alone. 
 
 With wicked men avoid dispute ; 
 
 The good will yield what 's fit and fair : 
 
 Yet 't is not seemly to be silent, 
 
 When charged with woman-heartedness. 
 
 Do not be wary overmuch ; 
 Yet be so, when you swallow ale, 
 When sitting by another's wife, 
 When sorting with a robber-band. 
 
 Accustom not yourself to mock, 
 And least at any stranger-guest : 
 Who stays at home oft undervalues 
 The wanderer coming to his gate. 
 
 What worthy man without a blemish I 
 What wicked man without a merit ? 
 
 Jeer not at age : from mumbling lips 
 The words of wisdom oft descend. 
 
 Fire chases plague ; the mistletoe 
 Cures rank disease ; straws scatter spells . 
 The poet's runes revoke a curse ; 
 Earth drinks up floods ; death, enmities. 
 
SjEMUND'S edda. 
 
 41 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI'S-MAL : 
 
 THE DISCOURSE OF VAFTHRUDNI. 
 ODIN. 
 
 Friga, counsel thou thy lord, 
 Whose unquiet bosom broods 
 A journey to Vafthrudni's hall, 
 With the wise and crafty Jute 
 To contend in runic lore. 
 
 Father of a hero race, 
 In the dwelling-place of Goths 
 Let me counsel thee to stay ; 
 For to none among the Jutes 
 Is Vafthrudni's wisdom given. 
 
 Far I 've wandered, much sojourned, 
 In the kingdoms of the earth ; 
 But Vafthrudni's royal hall 
 I have still the wish to know. 
 
 Safe departure, safe return, 
 May the fatal sisters grant ! 
 The father of the years that roll 
 Shield my daring traveller's head ! 
 
 Odin rose with speed, and went 
 To contend in runic lore 
 With the wise and crafty Jute. 
 To Vafthrudni's royal hall 
 Came the mighty king of spells. 
 
 Hail, Vafthrudni, king of men ! 
 To thy lofty hall I come, 
 Beckoned by thy wisdom's fame. 
 Art thou, I aspire to learn, 
 First of Jutes in runic lore ? 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 Who art thou, whose daring lip 
 Doubts Vafthrudni's just renown ? 
 Know that to thy parting step 
 Never shall these doors unfold, 
 If thy tongue excel not mine 
 In the strife of mystic lore. 
 
 Gangrath, monarch, is my name. 
 Needing hospitality, 
 To thy palace-gate I come ; 
 Long and rugged is the way 
 Which my weary feet have trodden. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 Gangrath, on the stool beneath 
 Let thy loitering limbs repose ; 
 Then begin our strife of speech. 
 
 ODIN. 
 
 When a son of meanness comes 
 To the presence of the great, 
 
 Let him speak the needful word, 
 But forbear each idle phrase, 
 If he seek a listening ear. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 Since upon thy lowly seat 
 Still thou court the learned strife, — 
 Tell me how is named the steed 
 On whose back the morning comes. 
 
 Skin-faxi is the skyey steed 
 Who bears aloft the smiling day 
 To all the regions of mankind : 
 His the ever-shining mane. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 Since upon thy lowly seat 
 Still thou court the learned strife, — 
 Tell me how is named the steed, 
 From the east who bears the night, 
 Fraught with showering joys of love. 
 
 Hrim-faxi is the sable steed, 
 From the east who brings the night, 
 Fraught with showering joys of love : 
 As he champs the foamy bit, 
 Drops of dew are scattered round 
 To adorn the vales of earth. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 Since upon thy lowly seat 
 Still thou court the learned strife, — 
 Tell me how is named the flood, 
 From the dwellings of the Jutes, 
 That divides the haunt of Goths. 
 
 Ifing's deep and murky wave 
 Parts the ancient sons of earth 
 From the dwellings of the Goths : 
 Open flows the mighty flood, 
 Nor shall ice arrest its course 
 While the wheel of ages rolls. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 Since upon thy lowly seat 
 Still thou court the learned strife, — 
 Tell me how is named the field 
 Where the Goths shall strive in vair 
 With the flame-clad Surtur's might. 
 
 ODIN. 
 
 Vigrith is the fatal field 
 Where the Goths to Surtur bend : 
 He who rides a hundred leagues 
 Has not crossed the ample plain. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 Gangrath, truly thou art wise ; 
 Mount the footstep of my throne, 
 And, on equal cushion placed, 
 Thence renew the strife of tongues, 
 Big with danger, big with death. 
 d2 
 
42 
 
 ICELANDIC PObTRY. 
 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Whence, the first of all the Jutes, 
 Father Aurgelmer is sprung. 
 
 
 ODIN. 
 
 
 
 First, if thou can tell, declare 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 
 Whence the earth, and whence the sky. 
 
 From the arm of Vagom fell 
 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 The curdled drops of teeming blood 
 That grew and formed the first of Jutes 
 Sparks that spurted from the south 
 
 
 Ymer's flesh produced the earth ; 
 
 
 Ymer's bones, its rocky ribs ; 
 
 Informed with life the crimson dew. 
 
 
 Ymer's skull, the skyey vault ; 
 
 
 
 Ymer's teeth, the mountain ice ; 
 
 ODIN. 
 
 
 Ymer's sweat, the ocean salt. 
 
 Yet a seventh time declare, 
 
 
 ODIN. 
 
 If so far thy wisdom reach, 
 
 
 Next, if thou can tell, declare 
 
 How the Jute begat his brood, 
 
 
 Who was parent to the moon, 
 
 Though denied a female's love. 
 
 
 That shines upon the sleep of man ; 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 
 And who is parent to the sun. 
 
 Within the hollow of his hands 
 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 To the water-giant grew 
 
 
 Know that Mundilfrer is hight 
 
 Both a male and female seed ; 
 
 
 Father to the moon and sun : 
 
 Also foot with foot begat 
 
 
 Age on age shall roll away 
 
 A son in whom the Jute might joy. 
 
 
 While they mark the months and years. 
 
 ODIN. 
 
 
 ODIN. 
 
 I conjure thee, tell me, now, 
 
 
 If so far thy wisdom reach, 
 
 What, within the bounds of space, 
 
 
 Tell me whence arose the day, 
 
 First befell of all that 's known. 
 
 
 That smiles upon the toil of man ; 
 
 
 
 And who is parent to the night. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 While the yet unshapen earth 
 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 
 
 Lay concealed in wintry womb, 
 
 
 Delling is the sire of day ; 
 
 Bergelmer had long been born : 
 
 
 But from Naurvi sprang the night, 
 
 First of all recorded things 
 
 
 Fraugnt with showering joys of love, 
 
 Is, that his gigantic length 
 
 
 Who bids the moon to wax and wane, 
 
 Floated on the ocean-wave. 
 
 
 Marking months and years to man. 
 
 ODIN. 
 
 
 ODIN. 
 
 Once again, if thou can say, 
 And so far thy wisdom reach, 
 
 
 If so far thy wisdom reach, 
 
 
 Tell me whence the winter comes ; 
 
 Tell me whence proceeds the wind, 
 
 
 Whence the soothing summer's birth, 
 
 O'er the earth and o'er the sea 
 
 
 Showers of fruitage who bestows. 
 
 That journeys, viewless to mankind. 
 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 
 Vindsual is the name of him 
 
 Hraesvelger is the name of him 
 
 
 Who begat the winter's god ; 
 
 Who sits beyond the ends of heaven, 
 And winnows wide his eagle-wings, 
 
 
 Summer from Suasuthur sprang : 
 
 
 Both shall walk the way of years 
 
 Whence the sweeping blasts have birth. 
 
 
 Till the twilight of the gods. 
 
 
 ODIN. 
 
 ODIN. 
 
 
 Once again, if thou can tell, 
 
 If thy all-embracing mind 
 
 
 Name the first of Ymer's sons, 
 
 Know the whole lineage of the gods, 
 
 
 Eldest of the Asa-race. 
 
 Tell me whence is Niord sprung : 
 Holy hills anii nails hath he, 
 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 Though not born of Asa-race. 
 
 
 While the yet unshapen earth 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 
 Lay concealed in wintry womb, 
 
 
 
 Bergelmer had long been born : 
 
 For him the deftly delving showers 
 
 
 He from Thrugelmer descends, 
 
 In Vaunheim scooped a watery home, 
 
 
 Aurgelmer's unbrothered son. 
 
 And pledged it to the upper gods : 
 But when the smoke of ages climbs, 
 
 
 ODIN. 
 
 He with his Vauns shall stride abroad, 
 
 
 Once again, if thou can tell, 
 
 Nor spare the long-respected shore. 
 
SfiMUND'S EDDA. 
 
 43 
 
 If thy all-embracing mind 
 Know the whole of mystic lore, 
 Tell me how the chosen heroes 
 Live in Odin's shield-decked hall 
 Till the rush of ruined gods. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 All the chosen guests of Odin 
 Daily ply the trade of war ; 
 From the fields of festal fight 
 Swift they ride in gleaming arms, 
 And gayly, at the board of gods, 
 Quaff the cup of sparkling ale, 
 And eat Saehrimni's vaunted flesh. 
 
 Twelfthly, tell me, king of Jutes, 
 What of all thy runic lore 
 Is most certain, sure, and true. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 I am versed in runic lore 
 
 And the counsels of the gods ; 
 
 For I 've wandered far and wide : 
 
 Nine the nations I have known ; 
 
 And, in all that overarch 
 
 The murky mists and chills of hell, 
 
 Men are daily seen to die. 
 
 Far I 've wandered, much sojourned, 
 In the kingdoms of the earth ; 
 But I 've still a wish to know 
 How the sons of men shall live, 
 When the iron winter comes. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 Life and warmth shall hidden lie 
 In the well-head that Mimis feeds 
 With dews of morn and thaws of eve : 
 These again shall wake mankind. 
 
 Far I 've wandered, much sojourned, 
 In the kingdoms of the earth ; 
 But I 've still a wish to know 
 Whence, to deck the empty skies, 
 Shall another sun be drawn, 
 When the jaws of Fenrir ope 
 To ingorge the lamp of day. 
 
 VAFTHRFDNI. 
 
 Ere the throat of Ffcurir yawn 
 Shall the sun a daughter bear, 
 Who, in spite of shower and sleet, 
 Rides the road her mother rode. 
 
 I have still a wish to know 
 Who the guardian-maidens are, 
 That hover round the haunts of men. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 Races three of elfin maids 
 
 Wander through the peopled earth : 
 One to guard the hours of love ; 
 One to haunt the homely hearth ; 
 One to cheer the festal board. 
 
 I have still a wish to know 
 Who shall sway the Asa-realms, 
 When the flame of Surtur fades. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 Vithar's then and Vali's force 
 Heirs the empty realm of gods ; 
 Mothi's then and Magni's might 
 Sways the massy mallet's weight, 
 Won from Thor, when Thor must fall. 
 
 I have yet the wish to know 
 Who shall end the life of Odin, 
 When the gods to ruin rush. 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 Fenrir shall with impious tooth 
 Slay the sire of rolling years: 
 Vithar shall avenge his fall, 
 And, struggling with the shaggv wolf, 
 Shall cleave his cold and gory jaw. 
 
 Lastly, monarch, I inquire, 
 What did Odin's lip pronounce 
 To his Balder's hearkening ear, 
 As he climbed the pyre of death ? 
 
 VAFTHRUDNI. 
 
 Not the man of mortal race 
 
 Knows the words which thou hast spoken 
 
 To thy son in days of yore. 
 
 I hear the coming tread of death ; 
 
 He soon shall raze the runic lore, 
 
 And knowledge of the rise of gods, 
 
 From his ill-fated soul who strove 
 
 With Odin's self the strife of wit. 
 
 Wisest of the wise that breathe, 
 
 Our stake was life, and thou hast won. 
 
 THRTM'S QUIDA: 
 
 THE SONG OF THRYM. OR THE RECOVERY OF 
 THE HAMMER. 
 
 Wroth waxed Thor, when his sleep was flown, 
 And he found his trusty hammer gone ; 
 He smote his brow, his beard he shook, 
 The son of earth 'gan round him look ; 
 And this the first word that he spoke : 
 " Now listen what I tell thee, Loke ; 
 Which neither on earth below is known, 
 Nor in heaven above : my hammer 's gone." 
 Their way to Freyia's bower they took, 
 And this the first word that he spoke : 
 " Thou, Freyia, must lend a winged robe, 
 To seek my hammer round the globe." 
 
44 
 
 ICELANDIC POETRY. 
 
 FREYIA sang. 
 " That shouldst thou have, though 't were of gold, 
 And that, though 'twere of silver, hold." 
 
 Away flew Loke ; the winged robe sounds, 
 
 Ere he has left the Asgard grounds, 
 
 And ere he has reached the Jotunheim bounds. 
 
 High on a mound, in haughty state, 
 
 Thrym, the king of the Thursi, sat; 
 
 For his dogs he was twisting collars of gold, 
 
 And trimming the manes of his coursers bold. 
 
 thrym sang. 
 " How fare the Asi ? the Alfi how ? 
 Why com'st thou alone to Jotunheim now ? " 
 
 LOKE sang. 
 " III fare the Asi ; the Alfi mourn ; 
 Thor's hammer from him thou hast torn." 
 
 thrym sang. 
 " I have the Thunderer's hammer bound 
 Fathoms eight beneath the ground ; 
 With it shall no one homeward tread, 
 Till he bring me Freyia to share my bed." 
 
 Away flew Loke ; the winged robe sounds, 
 Ere he has left the Jotunheim bounds, 
 And ere he has reached the Asgard grounds. 
 At Mitgard Thor met crafty Loke, 
 And this the first word that he spoke : 
 " Have you your errand and labor done ? 
 Tell from aloft the course you run : 
 For, setting oft, the story fails ; 
 And, lying oft, the lie prevails." 
 
 loke sang. 
 " My labor is past, mine errand I bring ; 
 Thrym has thine hammer, the giant king : 
 With it shall no one homeward tread, 
 Till he bear him Freyia to share his bed." 
 
 Their way to lovely Freyia they took, 
 
 And this the first word that he spoke : 
 
 " Now, Freyia, busk, as a blooming bride ; 
 
 Together we must to Jotunheim ride." 
 
 Wroth waxed Freyia with ireful look ; 
 
 All Asgard's hall with wonder shook ; 
 
 Her great bright necklace started wide : 
 
 " Well may ye call me a wanton bride, 
 
 If I with ye to Jotunheim ride." 
 
 The Asi did all to council crowd, 
 
 The Asiniae all talked fast and loud ; 
 
 This they debated, and this they sought, 
 
 How the hammer of Thor should home be 
 
 brought. 
 Up then and spoke Heimdallar free, 
 Like the Vani, wise was he : 
 " Now busk we Thor, as a bride so fair ; 
 Let him that great bright necklace wear; 
 Round him let ring the spousal keys, 
 And a maiden kirtle hang to his knees, 
 And on his bosom jewels rare ; 
 And high and quaintly braid his hair." 
 Wroth waxed Thor with godlike pride : 
 " Well may the Asi me deride, 
 If I let me be dight as a blooming bride." 
 Then up spoke Loke, Laufeyia's son : 
 
 " Now hush thee, Thor ; this must be done : 
 
 The giants will strait in Asgard reign, 
 
 If thou thy hammer dost not regain." 
 
 Then busked they Thor, as a bride so fair, 
 
 And the great bright necklace gave him to wear ; 
 
 Round him let ring the spousal keys, 
 
 And a maiden kirtle hang to his knees, 
 
 And on his bosom jewels rare ; 
 
 And high and quaintly braided his hair. 
 
 Up then arose the crafty Loke, 
 
 Laufeyia's son, and thus he spoke : 
 
 " A servant I thy steps will tend, 
 
 Together we must to Jotunheim wend." 
 
 Now home the goats together hie ; 
 
 Yoked to the axle the)' swiftly fly. 
 
 The mountains shook, the earth burned red, 
 
 As Odin's son to Jotunheim sped. 
 
 Then Thrym, the king of the Thursi, said : 
 
 " Giants, stand up ; let the seats be spread : 
 
 Bring Freyia, Niorder's daughter, down, 
 
 To share my bed, from Noatun. 
 
 With horns all gilt each coal-black beast 
 
 Is led to deck the giants' feast ; 
 
 Large wealth and jewels have I stored ; 
 
 I lack but Freyia to grace my board." 
 
 Betimes at evening they approached, 
 
 And the mantling ale the giants broached. 
 
 The spouse of Sifia ate alone 
 
 Eight salmons, and an ox full-grown, 
 
 And all the cates, on which women feed ; 
 
 And drank three firkins of sparkling mead. 
 
 Then Thrym, the king of the Thursi, said : 
 
 " Where have ye beheld such a hungry maid ? 
 
 Ne'er saw I bride so keenly feed, 
 
 Nor drink so deep of the sparkling mead." 
 
 Then forward leaned the crafty Loke, 
 
 And thus the giant he bespoke : 
 
 " Naught has she eaten for eight long nights, 
 
 So did she long for the nuptial rites." 
 
 He stooped beneath her veil to kiss, 
 
 But he started the length of the hall, I wiss : 
 
 " Why are the looks of Freyia so dire ? 
 
 It seems as her eyeballs glistened with fire." 
 
 Then forward leaned the crafty Loke, 
 
 And thus the giant he bespoke : 
 
 " Naught has she slept for eight long nights, 
 
 So did she long for the nuptial rites." 
 
 Then in the giant's sister came, 
 
 Who dared a bridal gift to claim : 
 
 " Those rings of gold from thee I crave, - 
 
 If thou wilt all my fondness have, 
 
 All my love and fondness have." 
 
 Then Thrym, the king of the Thursi, said : 
 
 " Bear in the hammer to plight the maid ; 
 
 Upon her lap the bruiser lay, 
 
 And firmly plight our hands and fay." 
 
 The Thunderer's soul smiled in his breast, 
 
 When the hammer hard on his lap was placed 
 
 Thrym first, the king of the Thursi, he slew, 
 
 And slaughtered all the giant crew. 
 
 He slew that giant's sister old, 
 
 Who prayed for bridal gifts so bold ; 
 
 Instead of money and rings, I wot, 
 
 The hammer's bruises were her lot. 
 
 Thus Odin's son his hammer got. 
 
SjEMUND'S edda. 
 
 45 
 
 SKIRNIS-FOR: 
 SKIRNER'S EXPEDITION 
 
 Freyr, son of Niorder, dwelt in Hlidskialf, 
 and discerned the whole world. He looked 
 towards Jotunheim, and there he saw a beauti- 
 ful virgin going to her bower from the hall of 
 her father. Hence was his mind grievously 
 affected. His attendant was named Skirner. 
 Niorder bade him ask for a conference with 
 Freyr. Then Scada sang : 
 
 " Skirner, arise ! and swiftly run, 
 Where lonely sits our pensive son : 
 Bid him to parley, and inquire 
 'Gainst whom he teems with sullen ire." 
 
 skirner sang. 
 " 111 words, I fear, my lot will prove, 
 If I thy son attempt to move ; 
 If I bid parley, and inquire 
 Why teems his soul with savage ire." 
 
 skirner sang. 
 " Prince of the gods and first in fight, 
 Speak, honored Freyr, and tell me right : 
 Why spends my lord the tedious day 
 In his lone hall, to grief a prey ? " 
 
 freyr sang. 
 " O, how shall I, fond youth, disclose 
 To thee my bosom's heavy woes ? 
 The ruddy god shines every day, 
 But dull to me his cheerful ray." 
 
 SKIRNER aang. 
 
 " Thy sorrows deem not I so great, 
 That thou the tale shouldst not relate : 
 Together sported we in youth, 
 And well may trust each other's truth." 
 
 freyr sang. 
 " In Gymer's court I saw her move, 
 The maid who fires my breast with love ; 
 Her snow-white arms and bosom fair 
 Shone lovely, kindling sea and air. 
 Dear is she to my wishes more 
 Than e'er was maid to youth before • 
 But gods and elfs, I wot it well, 
 Forbid that we together dwell." 
 
 SKIRNER sang. 
 
 " Give me that horse of wondrous breed 
 To cross the nightly flame with speed ; 
 And that self-brandished sword to smite 
 The giant race with strange affright." 
 
 freyr sang. 
 " To thee I give this wondrous steed 
 To pass the watchful fire with speed ; 
 And this, which, borne by valiant wight, 
 Self-brandished, will his foemen smite." 
 
 SKIRNER addressed his horse. 
 " Dark night is spread ; 't is time, I trow, 
 
 To climb the mountains hoar with snow : 
 Both shall return, or both remain 
 In durance, by the giant ta"en." 
 
 Skirner rode into Jotunheim, to the court of 
 Gymer : furious dogs were tied there before 
 the door of the wooden enclosure which sur- 
 rounded Gerda's bower. He rode towards a 
 shepherd who was sitting on a mound, and ad- 
 dressed him : 
 
 " Shepherd, who sittest on the mound, 
 And turn'st thy watchful eyes around, 
 How may I lull these bloodhounds ? say ; 
 How speak unharmed with Gymer's may ? " ' 
 
 THE SHEPHERD sang. 
 
 " Whence and what art thou ? doomed to die ? 
 
 Or dead revisitest the sky ? 
 
 For, ride by night, or ride by day, 
 
 Thou ne'er shall come to Gymer's may." 
 
 skirner sang. 
 " I grieve not, I ; a better part 
 Fits him who boasts a ready heart : 
 At hour of birth our lives were shaped ; 
 The doom of Fate can ne'er be 'scaped." 
 
 gerda sang. 
 " What sounds unknown mine ears invade, 
 Frighting this mansion's peaceful shade ? 
 The earth's foundation rocks withal, 
 And trembling shakes all Gymer's hall." 
 
 THE ATTENDANT sang. 
 
 " Dismounted stands a warrior sheen ; 
 His courser crops the herbage green." 
 
 gerda sang. 
 " Haste, bid him to my bower with speed, 
 To quaff unmixed the pleasant mead : 
 And good betide us ! for I fear 
 My brother's murderer is near. — 
 
 " What art thou ? Elf, or Asian son ? 
 Or from the wiser Vanians sprung ? 
 Alone, to visit our abode, 
 O'er bickering flames why hast thou rode ? '' 
 
 SKIRNER sang. 
 
 " Nor elf am I, nor Asian son ; 
 
 Nor from the wiser Vanians sprung : 
 
 Tet o'er the bickering flames I rode 
 
 Alone to visit your abode. 
 
 Eleven apples here I hold, 
 
 Gerda, for thee, of purest gold ; 
 
 Let this fair gift thy bosom move 
 
 To grant young Freyr thy precious love." 
 
 gerda sang. 
 " Eleven apples take not I 
 From man, as price of chastity •■ 
 While life remains, no tongue shall tell, 
 That Freyr and I together dwell.'' 
 
 May, maid. 
 
46 
 
 ICELANDIC POETRY. 
 
 SKIRNER sang. 
 " Gerda, for thee this wondrous ring, 
 Burnt on young Balder's pile, I bring; 
 On each ninth night shall other eight 
 Drop from it, all of equal weight." 
 
 gerda sang. 
 " I take not, I, that wondrous ring, 
 Though it from Balder's pile you bring. 
 Gold lack not I, in Gymer's bower ; 
 Enough for me my father's dower." 
 
 skirner sang. 
 " Behold this bright and slender brand, 
 Unsheathed and glittering in my hand ; 
 Deny not, maiden ! lest thine head 
 Be severed by the trenchant blade." 
 
 gerda sang. 
 " Gerda will ne'er by force be led 
 To grace a conqueror's hateful bed : 
 But this I trow, with main and might 
 Gymer shall meet thy boast in fight." 
 
 skirner sang. 
 " Behold this bright and slender brand, 
 Unsheathed and glittering in my hand ! 
 Slain by its edge thy sire shall lie ; 
 That giant old is doomed to die. 
 
 " E'en as I list, the magic wand 
 Shall tame thee ! Lo, with charmed hand 
 I touch thee, maid ! There shalt thou go, 
 Where never man shall learn thy woe. 
 On some high pointed rock, forlorn, 
 Like eagle, shalt thou sit at morn ; 
 Turn from the world's all-cheering light, 
 And seek the deep abyss of night. 
 Food shall to thee more loathly show 
 Than slimy serpent creeping slow. 
 When forth thou com'st, a hideous sight, 
 Each wondering eye shall stare with fright ; 
 By all observed, yet sad and lone ; 
 'Mongst shivering Thursians wider known 
 Than him, who sits unmoved on high, 
 The Guard of heaven with sleepless eye. 
 'Mid charms, and chains, and restless woe, 
 Thy tears with double grief shall flow. 
 Now seat thee, maid, while I declare 
 Thy tide of sorrow and despair. 
 Thy bower shall be some giant's cell, 
 Where phantoms pale shall with thee dwell ; 
 Each day, to the cold Thursian's hall, 
 Comfortless, wretched, shalt thou crawl ; 
 Instead of joy and pleasure gay, 
 Sorrow, and tears, and sad dismay ; 
 With some three-headed Thursian wed, 
 Or pine upon a lonely bed ; 
 From morn till morn love's secret fire 
 Shall gnaw thine heart with vain desire ; 
 Like barren root of thistle pent 
 In some high, ruined battlement. 
 
 " O'er shad)' hill, through greenwood round, 
 I sought this wand ; the wand I found. 
 Odin is wroth, and might)- Thor ; 
 E'en Freyr shall now thy name abhor. 
 
 But ere o'er thine ill-fated head 
 The last dread curse of Heaven be spread, 
 Giants and Thursians far and near, 
 Suttungur's sons, and Asians, hear, 
 How I forbid with fatal ban 
 This maid the joys, the fruit of man 
 Cold Grimmer is that giant bight, 
 Who thee shall hold in realms of night ; 
 Where slaves in cups of twisted roots 
 Shall bring foul beverage from the goats ; 
 Nor sweeter draught, nor blither fare, 
 Shalt thou, sad virgin, ever share. 
 
 " 'T is done ! I wind the mystic charm ; 
 Thus, thus, I trace the giant form ; 
 And three fell characters below, 
 Fury, and Lust, and restless Woe. 
 E'en as I wound, I strait unwind 
 This fatal spell, if thou art kind." 
 
 gerda sang. 
 " Now hail, now hail, thou warrior bold ! 
 Take, take this cup of crystal cold, 
 And quaff the pure metheglin old. 
 Yet deemed I ne'er that love could bind 
 To Vanian youth my hostile mind." 
 
 skirner sang. 
 "I turn not home to bower or hall, 
 Till I have learnt mine errand all ; 
 Where thou wilt yield the night of joy 
 To brave Niorder's gallant boy." 
 
 gerda sang. 
 " Barri is bight the seat of love ; 
 Nine nights elapsed, in that known grove 
 Shall brave Niorder's gallant boy 
 From Gerda take the kiss of joy." 
 
 Then rode Skirner home. Freyr stood forth 
 and hailed him, and asked, what tidings. 
 
 " Speak, Skirner, speak, and tell with speed ' 
 Take not the harness from thy steed, 
 Nor stir thy foot, till thou ha»t said, 
 How fares my love with Gymer's maid ! " 
 
 skirner sang. 
 " Barri is hight the seat of love ; 
 Nine nights elapsed, in that known grove 
 To brave Niorder's gallant boy 
 Will Gerda yield the kiss of joy." 
 
 freyr sang. 
 " Long is one night, and longer twain ; 
 But how for three endure my pain ? 
 A month of rapture sooner flies 
 Than half one night of wishful sighs." 
 
 
 BRYNHILDA'S RIDE TO HELL. 
 
 After the death of Brynhilda, two funeral 
 piles were constructed; one for Sigurd, and 
 that was burnt first ; but Brynhilda was burnt 
 
SfiMUND'S EDDA 
 
 47 
 
 on the other, and she was borne on a vehicle 
 tented with precious cloth. It is said, that 
 Brynhilda went in this vehicle along the road 
 to Hell, and passed by a habitation where 
 dwelt a certain giantess. The giantess sang : 
 
 " Hence, avaunt ! nor dare invade 
 This pillared mansion's rocky shade ; 
 Better at home thy needle ply, 
 Than thus our secret dwelling spy : 
 
 faithless head of Valland's race, 
 Dar'st thou approach this charmed place ? 
 Many a wolf, that howled for food, 
 Thou didst sate with human blood !" 
 
 BRYNHILDA sang. 
 
 " Maid of the rock, upbraid not me, 
 Though pirate-like I ploughed the sea . 
 Those who kenned my early merit 
 Shall ever praise my lofty spirit." 
 
 GIANTESS sang. 
 
 " I know thee well, ill-fated dame ! 
 Thy sire was Budla, Brynhilda thy name : 
 Thou didst Giuka's race destroy, 
 And turn to plaint his kingdom's joy." 
 
 BRYNHILDA sang. 
 
 " Hateful head, if thou wouldst know, 
 
 1 will tell my tale of woe ; 
 How the heirs of Giuka's realm 
 Did my perjured love o'erwhelm. 
 Beneath an oak, by mournful spell, 
 The angry monarch garred me dwell. 
 Twelve years I counted, and no more, 
 When faith to Sigurd young I swore. 
 'Mongst Hlyndale's warriors was I hight 
 Hilda clad in helmet bright. 
 Helmgunnar old this arm did fell ; 
 
 This falchion sent his soul to hell : 
 
 Glory I gave Audbrodur young ; 
 
 But Odin's wrath waxed fierce and strong : 
 
 His powerful wand my senses bound, 
 
 And burnished shields were piled around ; 
 
 And he should break my sleep alone, 
 
 Who ne'er the breath of fear had known. 
 
 Wide around my strange abode 
 
 With blazing fire the forest glowed ; 
 
 And none might pass, though wise and bold, 
 
 Save who should bring stern Fofner's gold. 
 
 The generous lord stout Grana bore, 
 
 Whose might had won that precious store. 
 
 My foster-father bade me wed 
 
 The stranger to my lonely bed ; 
 
 And seemed that youth alone more bold 
 
 Than all the chiefs that Denmark told. 
 
 Darkling we slept from eve till morn, 
 
 As he had been my brother born ; 
 
 Eight nights the peaceful couch we shared, 
 
 Nor hand was stirred, nor touch was dared. 
 
 Yet hence did proud Gudruna say, 
 
 In Sigurd's arms Brynhilda lay : 
 
 This well I wot, Brynhilda ne'er 
 
 Would brook their foul, disloyal snare. 
 
 Women and men were born in strife 
 To spend the anxious hours of life ; 
 Now, joined by death's all-healing power, 
 Sigurd and I shall part no more. — 
 Giantess, avaunt ! . 
 
 After this (says Noma Gests Saga) the gi- 
 antess howled frightfully, and rushed into the 
 caverns of the mountain. 
 
 GROTTA-SAVNGR: 
 
 THE QUERN-SONG. 
 
 Gold is called by the poets the meal of Fro 
 ihi; the origin of which is found in this story. 
 Odin had a son called Skioldr (from whom the 
 Skioldvngar are descended), who settled and 
 reigned in the land which is now called Dan- 
 maurk, but was then called Gotland. Skioldr 
 had a son named Frithleif, who reigned after 
 him. Frithleif 's son was called Frothi, and sue-' 
 ceeded him on the throne. At the time that the 
 Emperor Augustus made peace over the whole 
 world, Christ was born. But, as Frothi was the 
 most powerful of all the monarchs of the North, 
 that peace, wherever the Danish language was 
 spoken, was imputed to him ; and the Northmen 
 called it Frothi's peace. 
 
 At this time no man hurt another, even if lie 
 found the murderer of his father or brother, 
 loose or bound. Theft and robbery were then 
 unknown, insomuch that a gold ring lay for a 
 long time untouched in Jalangursheath. 
 
 Frothi chanced to go on a friendly visit to a 
 certain king in Sweden, named Fiolnir; and 
 there purchased two female slaves, called Fenia 
 and Menia, equally distinguished for their stature 
 and strength. In those days there were found in 
 Danmaurk two Quernstones of such a size that 
 no one was able to move them ; and these mill- 
 stones were endued with such virtue, that the 
 Quern in grinding produced whatever the grind- 
 er wished for. The quern was called Grotti ; he 
 who presented this quern to Frothi was called 
 Hengikioptr {Hanging-chops) . The king caused 
 these slaves to be brought to the quern, and or- 
 dered them to grind gold, peace, and prosperity 
 for Frothi ; allowing them no longer rest or sleep 
 than while the cuckow was silent, or a verse 
 could be recited. Then they are said to have 
 sung the lay which is called Grotta-Savngr , 
 and, before they ended their song, to have ground 
 a hostile army against Frothi, insomuch, that a 
 certain sea-king, called Mysingr, arriving the 
 same night, slew Frothi, taking great spoil, and 
 so ended Frothi's Peace. Mysingr took with 
 him the quern Grotti, with Fenia and Menia, 
 and ordered them to grind salt. About midnight, 
 they asked Mysingr whether he had salt enough. 
 On his ordering them to go on grinding, they 
 went on a little longer, till the ship sunk under 
 the weight of the salt. A whirlpool was pro 
 
duced where the waves are sucked up by the 
 mill-eye, and the waters of the sea have been 
 salt ever since ! 
 
 FENIA AND MENIA. 
 
 Now are we come 
 To the king's house, 
 Two foreseers, 
 Fenia and Menia. 
 
 These were at Frothi's house, 
 Frithleif 's son, 
 (Mighty maidens) 
 Held as thralls. 
 
 They to the Quern-eye 
 Were led, 
 
 And the gray millstone 
 Were bid set a going. 
 He promised to neither 
 Rest nor relief, 
 Ere he heard 
 The maidens' lay. 
 
 They made to rumble, 
 
 Ceasing silence, 
 
 With their arms, the Quern's 
 
 Light stones. 
 
 He bade again the maidens, 
 
 That they should grind. 
 
 They sang, and whirled 
 
 The grumbling stone, 
 
 So that Frothi's folk ' 
 
 Mostly slept. 
 
 Then thus sang Menia, 
 
 Who had come to the grinding ■ 
 
 MENIA. 
 
 Let us grind riches to Frothi ' 
 Let us grind him, happy 
 In plenty of substance, 
 On our gladdening Quern ! 
 
 Let him brood over treasures! 
 
 Let him sleep on down ! 
 
 Let him wake to his will ! 
 
 There is well ground ! 
 
 Here shall no one 
 
 Hurt another, 
 
 To plot mischief, 
 
 Or to work bane, 
 
 Nor strike therefore 
 
 With sharp sword, 
 
 Though lus brother's murderer 
 
 Bound he found. 
 
 But he spake no 
 
 Word before this : 
 
 " Sleep not ye, 
 
 Nor the cuckows without, 
 
 Longer than while 
 
 I sing one strain." 
 
 Thou wast not, Frothi, 
 Sufficiently provident, 
 Though persuasively eloquent, 
 When thou boughtest slaves. 
 Thou boughtest for strength, 
 And for outward looks ; 
 But of their ancestry 
 Didst nothing ask. 
 
 Hardy was Hrungnir 
 And his father ; 
 Yet was Thiassi 
 Stouter than they. 
 Ithi and Amir, 
 Our relations, 
 
 Mountain-ettin's brethren, — 
 Of them are we born. 
 
 The Quern had not come 
 From the gray fell, 
 Nor thus the hard 
 Stone from the earth, 
 Nor thus had ground 
 The mountain-ettin maiden, 
 If her race known 
 Had not been to her. 
 
 We, nine winters, 
 
 Playful weird-women, 
 
 Were reared to strength, 
 
 Under the earth. 
 
 We maidens stood 
 
 To our great work ; 
 
 We ourselves moved 
 
 The set mountain from its place. 
 
 We whirled the Quern 
 
 At the giant's house, 
 
 So that the earth 
 
 Therewith quaked : 
 
 So swung we 
 
 The whirling stone, 
 
 The heavy rock, 
 
 That the subterraneans heard it. 
 
 FENIA. 
 
 But we since then, 
 In Sweden, 
 Two foreseers, 
 Have fought. 
 We have fed bears, 
 And cleft shields ; 
 Encountered 
 Gray-shirted men. 
 
 We 've cast down one prince ; 
 Stayed up another : 
 We gave the good 
 Guttormi help : 
 Unstably we sat, 
 Till the heroes fell. 
 
SjEMUND'S edda. 
 
 49 
 
 Forward held we 
 These six months so 
 That we in conflicts 
 Were known. 
 There scored we 
 With sharp spears , 
 
 Blood from wounds, 
 And reddened brands. 
 
 Now are we come 
 
 To the king's house, 
 
 Unpitied, 
 
 And held as thralls. 
 
 The earth bites our feet beneath, 
 And the cold above ; 
 We drive an enemy's Quern ; 
 Sad is it at Frothi's house ! 
 
 Hands shall rest ; 
 The stone must stand ; 
 I 've ground for my part 
 With diligence. 
 
 Now must not to hands 
 Rest well be given, 
 Till enough ground 
 Frothi thinks 
 
 Hands of men shall 
 Harden swords, 
 Blood-dropping weapons. 
 
 FENIA. 
 
 Awake thou, Frothi ! 
 Awake thou, Frothi ! 
 If thou wilt listen to 
 Our song 
 And prophetic sayings. 
 
 I see fire burn 
 
 East of the town ; 
 
 The war-heralds wake ; 
 
 It must be called the beacon. 
 
 An army must come 
 
 Hither forthwith, 
 
 And burn the town 
 
 For the prince. 
 
 Thou must no more hold 
 The throne of state, 
 Nor red rings, 
 Nor stone edifice. 
 Let us drive the Quern, 
 Maiden, more sharply ! 
 We shall not be armed 
 In the bloody fray. 
 
 My father's daughter 
 Ground more furiously, 
 Because the near deaths she 
 Of many men saw. 
 Wide sprung the large 
 
 7 
 
 Prop (from the quern-eye) 
 Of iron to a distance. — 
 Yet let us grind on ! 
 
 FENIA. 
 
 Yet let us grind on ! 
 
 Yrsu's son must 
 
 With the Kalfdani 
 
 Revenge Frothi. 
 
 So must he of his mother 
 
 Be called 
 
 Son and brother : — 
 
 We both know that. 
 
 The maidens ground, 
 
 And bestowed their strength. 
 
 The young women were in 
 
 Ettin mood. 
 
 The spindle flew wide ; 
 
 The hopper fell off; 
 
 Burst the heavy 
 
 Nether millstone in two ! 
 
 But the mountain-giantess 
 
 Women these words said : 
 
 " We have ground, Frothi ! 
 
 Now must we finish : 
 
 Full long stood 
 
 We maidens at the grinding." 
 
 VEGTAM'S QVIDA: 
 
 THE SONG OF VEGTAM, OR THE DESCENT 
 
 OF ODIN. 
 
 Odin resolved to visit the tomb of a cele- 
 brated Vala, or prophetess, and to learn from 
 her the secrets of the dead. Gray's beautiful 
 version of his journey is well known ; but, as it 
 was taken from Bartholin's Latin translation, 
 and as no literal one has ever been published in 
 English, the following may not be deemed su- 
 perfluous. 
 
 Up rose Odin, 
 The watcher of time, 
 And upon Sleipner 
 Laid the saddle : 
 Downwards he rode 
 To death's spectre-realm ; 
 He met a hound 
 Coming from Hela. 
 
 Clotted blood 
 Was on its breast, 
 Round its savage fangs, 
 And its jowl beneath. 
 Against the father of song 
 It bayed fearfully, 
 Opened wide its jaws, 
 And howled aloud. 
 
 On rode Odin ; 
 The earth shook ; 
 E 
 
50 
 
 * > 
 
 ICELANDIC POETRY. 
 
 
 He came to Hela's 
 
 WANDERER. 
 
 
 Drear abode : 
 
 Be not silent, Vala ! 
 
 
 Then he rode 
 
 I will question thee 
 
 
 Eastwards before the gate, 
 
 Until I learn all ; 
 
 
 Where a Vala 
 
 More I must know. 
 
 
 Lay interred. 
 
 Who shall on Hodur 
 Pour out vengeance, 
 
 
 He sang for the wise one 
 
 And Balder's bane 
 
 
 Dead men's songs; 
 
 Lay on the bier ? 
 
 
 Then towards north 
 
 
 Laid the magic letters, 
 
 VALA. 
 
 
 Muttered incantations, 
 
 Rinda bears a son 
 
 
 Summoned wizard words, 
 
 In the western halls : 
 
 
 Till he forced the dead 
 
 On the day of his birth, 
 
 
 To rise and speak. 
 
 He shall lay low the son of Odin 
 
 
 VALA. 
 
 His hand he shall not lave, 
 Nor comb his hair, 
 
 
 Who is the man, 
 
 Ere that he placeth on the bier 
 The adversary of Balder. 
 
 
 Unknown to me, 
 
 
 Who disturbs 
 
 Force hath made me speak; 
 Now will I be silent. 
 
 
 My spirit's rest ? 
 
 ■ 
 
 Enwrapped in snow, 
 
 
 
 Drenched with rain, 
 
 WANDERER. 
 
 
 Moistened by dew, 
 
 Be not silent, Vala ! 
 
 
 Long have I lain in death. 
 
 I will question thee. 
 
 
 WANDERER. 
 
 Who are the maids 
 Who will not weep, 
 
 
 Wanderer is my name, 
 
 But suffer their veils 
 
 
 Valtam's son am I ; 
 
 To float towards heaven ' 
 
 
 Tell me of Hela's realm, 
 
 Tell me this only ; 
 Thou sleepest not before. 
 
 
 I will tell thee of earth : 
 
 
 For whom are prepared 
 
 
 The decorated seats, 
 
 VALA. 
 
 
 The lordly couch 
 
 Thou art no wanderer, 
 
 
 Radiant with gold? 
 
 As I believed ; 
 
 
 VALA. 
 
 Surely art thou Odin, 
 The watcher of time. 
 
 
 Here standeth mead, 
 
 
 
 For Balder brewed ; 
 
 ODIN. 
 
 
 A shield covers 
 
 Thou art not a Vala, 
 
 
 The clear liquor ; 
 
 Nor a wise woman ; 
 
 
 The race of Aser 
 
 But rather the mother 
 
 
 Yield to despair. 
 
 Of three giants. 
 
 
 Force hath made me speak ; 
 
 
 Now will I be silent. 
 
 VALA. 
 
 Ride home, Odin, 
 
 
 WANDERER. 
 
 And boast of thy journey : 
 
 
 Be not silent, Vala ! 
 
 For never again 
 
 
 I will question thee 
 
 Shall another disturb me, 
 
 
 Until I have learned all ; 
 
 Until Loke shall break 
 
 
 More I must know. 
 
 Loose from his chains, 
 
 
 Who shall compass 
 
 And the last twilight 
 
 
 Balder's death ? 
 
 Fall on the gods. 
 
 
 Who Odin's son • 
 
 
 
 Deprive of life ? 
 
 
 
 
 VALA. 
 
 GUNLAUG AND RAFEN. 
 
 
 Hodur beareth 
 
 FROM THE " SOLAE-LIOD " : THE LAY OP THE SUN. 
 
 
 The fated plant ; 
 
 
 
 
 He shall be cause 
 
 The rich delights of love 
 
 
 Of Balder's death, 
 
 To many fatal prove ; 
 
 
 And Odin's son 
 
 From women oft does sorrow spring : 
 
 
 Deprive of life. 
 
 Much evil do they bear, 
 
 
 Force hath made me speak , 
 
 Though fashioned purely fair 
 
 
 Now will I be silent. 
 
 And chaste by heaven's almighty King 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 51 
 
 To Gunlaug fondly joined 
 
 Mournful and sad to them 
 
 In peace was Rafen's mind , 
 
 Each night's dark shadow came, 
 
 Each was the other's dearest joy : 
 
 Nor ever found they slumbers sweet ; 
 
 Ere they, to fury moved, 
 
 But from their hapless fate 
 
 One beauteous woman loved, 
 
 Waxed quickly savage hate 
 
 Whose peerless charms did both destroy. 
 
 Between true friends with deadly heat. 
 
 Nor after heeded they 
 
 Passions of strange excess 
 
 Or sports or light of day, 
 
 Beget severe distress, 
 
 All for that blooming maiden bright ; 
 
 And punishment of keenest woe : 
 
 Nor any other form 
 
 The single fight they tried, 
 
 Their wildered thoughts could warm, 
 
 For that delightful bride, 
 
 Save that fair body's lovely light. 
 
 And each received the fatal blow. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE BIARKEMAAL, 
 
 eighth century. The original may be found in 
 
 OR BATTLE-SONG OF BIARKE. — A FRAGMENT. 
 
 " Literatur. Runic. Olaj Wormij "; and in Per- 
 
 
 
 cy's "Five Pieces of Runic Poetry," London : 
 
 This song was composed in the sixth centu- 
 
 1763. 
 
 ry, by Bodvar Biarke, one of Hrolf Krake's 
 
 
 
 warriors. The following lines are but the com- 
 
 We smote with swords ; nor long, before 
 
 mencement of it ; the remainder is lost. The 
 
 In arms I reached the Gothic shore, 
 
 original may be found in Sturleson's " Heims- 
 
 To work the loathly serpent's death. 
 
 kringla," and a Latin version in Saxo-Gram- 
 
 I slew the reptile of the heath ; 
 
 maticus. 
 
 My prize was Thora ; from that fight, 
 
 
 
 'Mongst warriors am I Lodbrock hight. 
 
 The bird of morn has risen, 
 
 I pierced the monster's scaly side 
 
 The rosy dawn 'gins break; 
 
 With steel, the soldier's wealth and pride. 
 
 'Tis time from sleepy prison 
 
 
 Vil's sons to toil should wake. 
 
 We smote with swords ; in early youth 
 
 Wake from inglorious slumber ! 
 
 I fought by Eyra's billowy mouth. 
 
 The warrior's rest is short, — 
 
 Where high the echoing basnites rung 
 
 Wake ! whom our chiefs we number, — 
 
 To the hard javelin's iron tongue, 
 
 The lords of Adil's court. 
 
 The wolf and golden-footed bird 
 
 
 Gleaned plenteous harvest of the sword. 
 
 Har, strong of arm, come forth ! 
 
 Dark grew the ocean's swollen water ; 
 
 Rolf, matchless for the bow ! 
 
 The raven waded deep in slaughter. 
 
 Both Northmen, of good birth, 
 
 
 Who ne'er turned face from foe ! 
 
 We smote with swords ; ere twenty years 
 
 Wake not for foaming cup, 
 
 Were numbered, in the din of spears 
 
 Wake not for maiden's smile, 
 
 I reared my armed hand, and spread 
 
 Men of the North ! wake up, 
 
 The tide of battle fierce and red. 
 
 For iron Hilda's toil ! 
 
 Eight earls my weighty arm subdued, 
 
 
 Eastward by Dwina's icy flood ; 
 
 
 There the gaunt falcon lacked not food. 
 
 
 
 The sweat of death distained the wave ; 
 
 THE DEATH-SONG OF REGNER 
 
 The army tined ] its warriors brave. 
 
 LODBROCK. 
 
 
 
 
 We smote with swords ; fierce Hedin's queen 
 
 Regner Lodbrock, king of Denmark, being 
 
 'Mid the hot storm of war was seen, 
 
 taken in battle by Ella, king of Northumber- 
 
 When Helsing's youths to Odin's hall 
 
 land, was thrown into a dungeon to be stung to 
 
 We bade, and garred her prowess fall. 
 
 death by serpents. While dying, he composed 
 
 Our vessels ploughed through Ifa's flood ; 
 
 this song ; though it is conjectured that a great 
 
 The arrows stung ; the stream was blood. 
 
 part of it was the work of some other Skald. 
 Regner Lodbrock died about the close of the 
 
 
 i Lost. 
 
52 
 
 ICELANDIC POETRY. 
 
 Brands grated on the mail, and through 
 Cleft shields the death-fraught lances flew. 
 
 We smote with swords ; none fled, I trow, 
 
 Ere on the masted galley's prow 
 
 Bold Herraud fell : no fairer earl 
 
 Did e'er his bellying sail unfurl 
 
 On winged steeds, that spurn the main, 
 
 Cleaving the seafowl's lonely reign ; 
 
 No lord in stour' 2 more widely feared 
 
 To distant port his vessel steered. 
 
 That glorious chieftain's glowing heart 
 
 In fight aye sought the foremost part. 
 
 We smote with swords ; in fierce- affray 
 The warriors cast their shields away : 
 By rifling steel with fury driven 
 Many a fearless breast was riven ; 
 And, 'midst the din, from Skarpa's rock 
 Echoed the falchion's sounding shock. 
 The iron orbs with blood were dyed, 
 Ere sunk King Rafen's youthful pride. 
 Hot streaming from each valiant head 
 Sweat on coats of mail was shed. 
 
 We smote with swords ; near Inder's shore 
 A sumptuous meal the ravens tore ; 
 Nor carnage lacked to glut those steeds 
 On which the sorceress Vala speeds. 
 'T was hard to 'scape unharmed that day : 
 When peered the sun's first dawning ray, 
 Shafts saw I starting from the string ; 
 The bent bow made the metal ring. 
 
 We smote with swords; loud clanged the 
 
 plain, 
 Ere Ulla's field saw Eysteinn slain. 
 With gold adorned, our conquering band 
 Strode o'er the desolated land ; 
 And swift to meet each helmed head 
 The pointed flames of arrows sped : 
 Down many a neck the purple gore 
 Trickled from the burning sore. 
 
 We smote with swords ; near Hadning's bay 
 (Hilda's sport and Hilda's fray) 
 Every noble warrior held 
 High in air his charmed shield. 
 Bucklers brast, 3 and men were slain ; 
 Stoutest skulls were cleft in twain. 
 'T was not, I trow, like wooing rest 
 On gentle maiden's snowy breast. 
 
 We smote with swords ; the iron sleet 
 Against the shields with fury beat. 
 On Northumbrian hostile shore 
 Heroes weltered in their gore : 
 Our foes at early dawn of light 
 Fled not from the sport of fight, 
 Hilda's sport, where falchions keen 
 Bit the helmet's surface sheen. 
 'T was not like kissing widow sweet 
 Reclining in the highest seat. 
 
 2 War. 
 
 3 Broke until noise 
 
 We smote with swords; at dawn of day 
 
 Hundred spearmen gasping lay, 
 
 Bent beneath the arrowy strife. 
 
 Egill reft my son of life ; 
 
 Too soon my Agnar's youth was spent, 
 
 The scabbard-thorn his bosom rent : 
 
 The whiles each warrior's clashing steel 
 
 Contentious rung a dreadful peal 
 
 On the gray hauberks, Hamder's pride ; 
 
 And our bright standards glittered wide. 
 
 We smote with swords ; at morn I viewed 
 The fair-haired prince by fate subdued ; 
 Gay Aurn (whose voice the widows loved, 
 Whose charms the blooming virgins moved) 
 Fainting, waning to his end : 
 In Ila's sound that day he kenned 
 Other sport ; 't was not, I ween, 
 Like quaffing from the goblet sheen 
 Fuming wine by maidens poured : 
 Yet, ere he fell, the battle roared, 
 The fulgent orbs in twain were cleft, 
 And lifeless many a kemp 4 was left. 
 
 We smote with swords ; the sounding blades, 
 
 Ruddy with gold, assailed our heads. 
 
 In after-times on Anglesey 
 
 Shall mortals trace the bloody fray, 
 
 Where Hilda's iron vesture rung, 
 
 Where kings marched forth, and spears were 
 
 flung. 
 Like winged dragons, red with gore 
 Our lances hissed along the shore. 
 
 We smote with swords ; what fairer fate 
 Can e'er the sons of men await, 
 Than long amid the battle's blast 
 To front the storm, and fall at last ? 
 Who basely shuns the gallant strife 
 Nathless must lose his dastard life. 
 When waves of war conflicting roll, 
 'T is hard to whet the coward soul 
 To deeds of worth ; the timid heart 
 Will never act a warrior's part. 
 
 We smote with swords ; this deem I right, 
 Youth to youth in sturdy fight 
 Each his meeting falchion wield ; 
 Thane to thane should never yield. 
 Such v/as aye the soldier's boast, 
 Firm to face the adverse host. 
 Boldest, who prize fair maidens' love, 
 Must in the din of battle move. 
 
 We smote with swords ; I hold, that all 
 By destiny or live or fall : 
 Each his certain hour awaits ; 
 Few can 'scape the ruling Fates. 
 When I scattered slaughter wide, 
 And launched my vessels to the tide, 
 I deemed not, I, that Ella's blade 
 Was doomed at last to bow my head ; 
 But hewed in every Scottish bay 
 Fresh banquets for the beasts of prey. 
 
 1 Warrior. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 53 
 
 We smote with swords ; my parting breath 
 
 empire, and made him the first king of Norway. 
 
 Rejoices in the pang of death. 
 
 This victory is the subject of the song. The 
 
 Where dwells fair Balder's father dread, 
 
 original may be found in Sturleson's " Heims- 
 
 The board is decked, the seats are spread ! 
 
 kringla." 
 
 In Fiolner's court, with costly cheer, 
 
 
 
 Soon shall I quaff the foaming beer, 
 
 Lodd in Hafur's echoing bay 
 
 From hollow skulls of warriors slain ! 
 
 Heard ye the battle fiercely bray, 
 
 Heroes ne'er in death complain ; 
 
 'Twixt Kiotva rich and Harald bold ? 
 
 To Vider's hall I will not bear 
 
 Eastward sail the ships of war ; 
 
 The dastard wortls of weak despair. 
 
 The graven bucklers gleam afar, 
 
 
 And monstrous heads adorn the prows of gold. 
 
 We smote with swords ; their falchions bright 
 
 
 (If well they kenned their father's plight, 
 
 Glittering shields of purest white, 
 
 How, venom-filled, a viperous brood 
 
 And swords, and Celtic falchions bright, 
 
 Have gnawed his flesh and lapped his blood) 
 
 And western chiefs the vessels bring : 
 
 Thy sons would grasp, Aslauga dear, 
 
 Loudly scream the savage rout, 
 
 And vengeful wake the battle here. 
 
 The maddening champions wildly shout, 
 
 A mother to my bairns I gave 
 
 And long and loud the twisted hauberks ring. 
 
 Of sterling worth, to make them brave. 
 
 
 
 Firm in fight they proudly vie 
 
 We smote with swords ; cold death is near, 
 
 With him, whose might will gar them fly, 
 
 My rights are passing to my heir. 
 
 Imperial Utstein's warlike head : 
 
 Grim stings the adder's forked dart ; 
 
 Forth his gallant fleet he drew, 
 
 The vipers nestle in my heart. 
 
 Soon as the hope of battle grew ; 
 
 But soon, I wot, shall Vider's wand 
 
 But many a buckler brast, ere Haklang bled. 
 
 Fixed in Ella's bosom stand. 
 
 
 My youthful sons with rage will swell, 
 
 Fled the lusty Kiotva then 
 
 Listening how their father fell : 
 
 Before the fair-haired king of men, 
 
 Those gallant boys in peace unbroken 
 
 And bade the islands shield his flight. 
 
 Will never rest, till I be wroken. 
 
 Warriors, wounded in the fray, 
 
 
 Beneath the thwarts all gasping lay, 
 
 We smote with swords ; where javelins fly, 
 
 Where, headlong cast, they mourned the loss 
 
 Where lances meet, and warriors die, 
 
 of light. 
 
 Fifty times and one I stood 
 
 
 Foremost on the field of blood. 
 
 Galled by many a missive stone 
 
 Full young I 'gan distain my sword, 
 
 (Their golden shields behind them thrown), 
 
 Nor feared I force of adverse lord ; 
 
 Homeward the grieving soldiers speed : 
 
 Nor deemed I then that any arm 
 
 Fast from Hafur's bay they hie, 
 
 By might or guile could work me harm. 
 
 East-mountaineers o'er Jadar fly, 
 
 Me to their feast the gods must call ; 
 
 And thirst for goblets of the sparkling mead. 
 
 The brave man wails not o'er his fall. 
 Cease, my strain ! I hear a voice 
 
 
 
 From realms where martial souls rejoice : 
 
 DEATH-SONG OF HAKON. 
 
 I hear the maids of slaughter call, 
 
 
 
 Who bid me hence to Odin's hall : 
 
 This song was written by Eyvind Skaldaspil- 
 
 High-seated in their blest abodes 
 
 lar, the most celebrated of all the Skalds. He 
 
 I soon shall quaff the drink of gods. 
 
 flourished in the latter half of the tenth century, 
 
 The hours of life have glided by ; 
 
 at the court of Hakon the Good The original 
 
 I fall ; but smiling shall I die. 
 
 may be found in Sturleson's " Hennskringla," 
 
 
 and in Percy. 
 
 Skogul and Gondula 
 
 
 THE BATTLE OF HAFUR'S BAY. 
 
 The god Tyr sent 
 
 
 
 To choose a king 
 
 This poem was written by Thorbiorn Horn- 
 
 Of the race of Ingva, 
 
 klove, one of the Skalds of Harald Harfager. 
 
 To dwell with Odin 
 
 Gyda, daughter of Eric, prince of Hordaland, 
 
 In roomy Valhalla. 
 
 would not consent to become the bride of Har- 
 
 
 ald, until, for her sake, he had conquered all 
 
 The brother of Biorn 
 
 Norway. Whereupon he made a solemn vow 
 
 They found unmailed ; 
 
 neither to cut nor comb his hair until he had 
 
 Arrows were sailing, 
 
 subdued the land. The battle of Hafur's Bay, 
 
 Foes were falling, 
 
 in 885, in which he gained the victory over 
 
 Hoisted was the banner, 
 
 Kiotva and his son Haklang, established his 
 
 The hider of heaven. 
 e2 
 
51 
 
 ICELANDIC POETRY. 
 
 
 The wicked sea-king 
 
 The king beheld 
 
 
 Had summoned Haleyg ; 
 
 The beautiful maids 
 
 
 The slayer of earls 
 
 Sitting on their horses 
 
 
 With a gang of Norsemen 
 
 In shining armure, 
 
 
 Against the islanders 
 
 Their shields before them, 
 
 
 Was come in his helmet. 
 
 Solemnly thoughtful. 
 
 
 The father of the people, 
 
 The king heard 
 
 
 Bare of his armure, 
 
 The words of their lips, 
 Saw them beckoi* 
 
 
 Sported in the field ; 
 
 
 And was hurling coits 
 
 With pale hands, 
 
 And thus bespake them : 
 
 
 With the sons of the nobles. 
 
 
 Glad was he to hear 
 
 "Mighty goddesses, 
 
 
 A shouting for battle : 
 And soon he stood 
 In his helmet of gold ; 
 
 Were we not worthy 
 You should choose us 
 
 
 A better doom ? " 
 
 
 Soon was the sword 
 
 
 
 A sickle in his hand 
 
 Skogul answered : 
 
 " Thy foes have fallen, 
 
 
 The blades glittered, 
 
 Thy land is free, 
 
 
 The hauberks were cleft ; 
 
 Thy fame is pure ; 
 
 
 Blows of weapons 
 
 Now we must ride 
 
 
 Dinned on the skulls : 
 
 To greener worlds, 
 
 
 Trodden were the shields 
 
 To tell Odin 
 
 
 Of the death-doomed of Tyr, 
 
 That Hakon comes." 
 
 
 Their rings and their crests, 
 
 
 
 By the hard-footed Norsemen. 
 
 The father of battles 
 Heard the tidings, 
 
 
 The kings broke through 
 
 And said to his sons : 
 
 
 The hedges of shields, 
 
 " Hermode and Braga, 
 
 
 And stained them with blood : 
 
 Greet the chieftain 
 
 
 Red and reeking, 
 
 Who comes to our hall." 
 
 
 As if on fire, 
 
 
 
 The hot swords leaped 
 
 They rose from their seats, 
 
 
 From wound to wound : 
 
 They led Hakon, 
 
 
 Curdling gore 
 
 Bright in his arms, 
 
 
 Trickled along the spears 
 
 Red in his blood, 
 
 
 On to the shore of Storda ; 
 
 To Odin's board. 
 
 
 Into the waves fell 
 
 " Stern are the gods," 
 
 
 Corses of the slain. 
 
 Hakon said, 
 
 " Not on my soul 
 
 Doth Odin smile." 
 
 
 The care of plunder 
 
 
 Was busy in the fight : 
 
 
 
 For rings they strove, 
 Amid the storm of Odin, 
 And strove the fiercer. 
 Men of marrow bent 
 Before the stream of blades, 
 And lay bleeding 
 Behind their shields. 
 
 
 
 Braga replied : 
 
 " Here thou shalt find 
 
 
 Peace with the heroes. 
 
 
 Eight of thy brothers 
 Quaff already 
 The ale of gods." 
 
 
 Their swords blunted, 
 
 " Like them I will wear 
 
 
 Their actons pierced, 
 
 The arms I loved," 
 
 
 The chieftains sat down ; 
 
 Answered the king; 
 
 
 And the host no more 
 
 " 'T is well to keep 
 
 
 Struggled to reach 
 
 One's armure on ; 
 
 
 The halls of the dead. 
 
 'T is well to keep 
 One's sword at hand." 
 
 
 When, lo ! Gondula, 
 
 
 
 Pointing with her spear, 
 
 Now it was seen 
 
 
 Said to her sister : 
 
 How duly Hakon 
 
 
 " Soon shall increase 
 
 Had paid his offerings ; 
 
 
 The band of the gods : 
 
 For the lesser gods 
 
 
 To Odin's feast 
 
 All came to welcome 
 
 
 Hakon is bidden." 
 
 The guest of Valhalla. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 55 
 
 " Hallowed be the day, 
 
 Praised the year, 
 
 When a king is born 
 
 Whom the gods love ! 
 
 By him, his time 
 
 And his land shall be known 
 
 " The wolf Fenrir, 
 Freed from the chain, 
 Shall range the earth, 
 Ere on this shore 
 His like shall rule. 
 
 " Wealth is wasted, 
 
 Kinsmen are mortal, 
 
 Kingdoms are parted ; 
 
 But Hakon remains 
 
 High among the gods, 
 
 Till the trumpet shall sound." 
 
 THE SONG OF HARALD THE HARDY. 
 
 Harald the Hardy reigned in Norway the 
 latter half of the eleventh century. The Rus- 
 sian maiden, alluded to in the following poem, 
 was the daughter of Jarisleif, king of Garda- 
 rike (a part of Russia). In this song he vaunts 
 his own prowess, as was the custom of the 
 Northern sea-rovers ; though, in his feats of 
 dexteritv, he hardly equalled his predecessor, 
 Olaf Trvggvason, of whom it is said, that he 
 could walk on the oars outside of his boat while 
 the men were rowing. The original may be 
 found in Bartholinus's " De Causis Contemptae 
 a Danis Mortis,"' and in Percy. 
 
 Mr bark around Sicilia sailed ; 
 Then were we gallant, proud, and strong : 
 The winged ship, by youths impelled, 
 Skimmed (as we hoped) the waves along. 
 My prowess, tried in martial field, 
 Like fruit to maiden fair shall yield. 
 With golden ring in Russia's land 
 To me the virgin plights her hand. 
 
 Fierce was the fight on Trondhiem's heath •, 
 
 I saw her sons to battle move ; 
 
 Though few, upon that field of death, 
 
 Long, long, our desperate warriors strove. 
 
 Toung from mv king in battle slain 
 
 I parted on that bloody plain. 
 
 With golden ring in R^sia's land 
 To me the virgin plights her hand. 
 
 With vigorous arms the pump we plied, 
 Sixteen (no more) my dauntless crew, 
 And high and furious waxed the tide ; 
 O'er the deep bark its billows flew. 
 My prowess, tried in hour of need, 
 Alike with maiden fair shall speed. 
 With golden ring in Russia's land 
 To me the virgin plights her hand. 
 
 Eight feats I ken : the sportive game, 
 
 The war array, the fabrile art ; 
 
 With fearless breast the waves I stem ; 
 
 I press the steed ; I cast the dart ; 
 
 O'er ice on slippery skates I glide; 
 
 Mv dexterous oar defies the tide. 
 With golden ring in Russia's land 
 To me the virgin plights her hand. 
 
 Let blooming maid and widow say, 
 'Mid proud Byzantium's southern walls 
 What deeds we wrought at dawn of day ! 
 What falchions sounded through their halls ' 
 What blood distained each weighty spear ! 
 Those feats are famous far and near ! 
 With golden ring in Russia's land 
 To me the virgin plights her hand. 
 
 Where snow-clad Uplands rear their head, 
 My breath I drew 'mid bowmen strong; 
 But now mv bark, the peasant's dread, 
 Kisses the sea its rocks among. 
 'Midst barren isles, where ocean foamed, 
 Far from the tread of man I roamed. 
 With golden ring in Russia's land 
 To me the virgin plights her hand. 
 
 SONG OF THE BERSERKS. 
 
 FE05I THE HEETARAS SAGA. 
 
 " The wind was brisk, and lifted the stream- 
 ers; the sun was bright; and the ship, with its 
 twelve heroes, scudded hissing along the waves 
 toward Samsey, while the crew thus sang : 
 
 Brows are our ships, 
 But the Vauns admire 
 The haunts of the brave ; 
 Horses of the sea, 
 Thev carrv the warrior 
 To the winning of plunder. 
 
 The wandering home 
 Enriches the fixed one ; 
 Welcome to woman 
 Is the crosser of ocean ; 
 Merrv are children 
 In strange attire. 
 
 Narrow are our beds, 
 
 As graves of the nameless ; 
 
 But mighty our rising, 
 
 As the storms of Thor ; 
 
 He fears not man, 
 
 Who laughs at the tempest. 
 
 Who feeds with corses 
 The whales of iEger 
 Shall deck his hall 
 With far-fetched booty, 
 And quaff at will 
 The wine of the South. 
 
56 
 
 ICELANDIC POETRY. 
 
 THE 
 
 COMBAT OF HIALMAR AND 
 ODDUR. 
 
 FROM THE HERVARAR SAGA. 
 
 Hialmar, what does thee betide? 
 Has thy color waxed pale ? 
 Mighty wounds have wrought thee woe ; 
 Sad I sing the mournful tale. 
 Furious blows have cleft thine helm, 
 On thy side have rent thy mail ; 
 Now thy life is nearly spent ; 
 Sad I sing the mournful tale. 
 
 HIALMAR. 
 
 Sixteen wounds my body bears, 
 And my mail is rent in twain ; 
 Darkness hangs before my sight ; 
 111 my limbs their weight sustain. 
 Angantyr's enchanted blade 
 Stings my heart with fatal pain ; 
 Keenly piercing is the point, 
 Hard, and steeped in deadly bane. 
 
 Proud domains and palaces 
 Five I ruled with puissant hand ; 
 Yet I never could abide 
 Peaceful in my native land. 
 Hopeless now of light and life, 
 Rest I on a foreign strand, 
 Here on Samsey's joyless shore, 
 Wounded by the piercing brand. 
 
 Seated at the royal board, 
 
 Many lords of high degree 
 
 In the court of Upsala 
 
 Quaff the ale with mirth and glee; 
 
 Many with the liquor filled 
 
 On the ground lie heavily : 
 
 Me the sword's keen wounds afflict, 
 
 Circled by the lonely sea. 
 
 Youthful beauty's fairest flower 
 Me, the monarch's daughter, led 
 To the shore of Agnafit, 
 Soon a foreign coast to tread. 
 True I find the fatal words 
 Which the parting damsel said : 
 That I never should return 
 Blithe to claim her promised bed. 
 
 Thence unwilling did I wend, 
 Severed from the festive lay 
 Which the lovely women sing 
 East of Sota's spacious bay. 
 In the swiftly sailing bark 
 O'er the waves I took my way ; 
 Faithful friends the vessel trimmed ; 
 Here we sped with short delay. 
 
 From my finger draw the ring, 
 E'en in death my dearest pride ; 
 To the blooming Ingebiorg 
 Bear it o'er the billows wide. 
 In her bosom fair and young 
 Constant sorrow shall abide, 
 
 When she hears I ne'er return 
 Blithe to claim my promised bride. 
 
 O'er the rugged desert wild 
 East the hungry raven flies ; 
 And behind on stronger wing 
 Swift the lordly eagle hies : 
 Soon to glut his hasty rage 
 Here my feeble body lies ; 
 He will gorge the welling blood, 
 As I close my dying eyes. 
 
 THE DYING SONG OF ASBIORN. 
 
 FROM ORMS STOROLFSENS SAGA. 
 
 Know, gentle mother, know, 
 Thou wilt not comb my flowing hair, 
 
 When summer sweets return 
 In Denmark's valleys, Svanvhide fair ' 
 
 O, whilom had I fondly vowed 
 To hie me to my native land ! 
 
 Now must my panting side be torn 
 By my keen foe's relentless brand ! 
 
 Not such those days of yore, 
 When blithe we quaffed the foaming ale ; 
 
 Or urged across the waves 
 From Hordaland the flying sail ; 
 
 Or gladly drank the sparkling mead, 
 While social mirth beguiled the hour. 
 
 Now, lonely in the narrow den, 
 I mourn the giant's savage power. 
 
 Not such those days of yore, 
 When forth we went in warlike show ; 
 
 Storolf 's all-glorious son 
 Stood foremost on the armed prow, 
 
 As, sailing fast to Oresound, 
 The long-keeled vessels cleft the wave. 
 
 Now, tolled into the fatal snare, 
 I mourn beneath the sorcerer's cave. 
 
 Not such those days of yore, 
 When conquest marked proud Ormur's way, 
 
 Stirring the storm of war, 
 To glut the greedy beasts of prey : 
 
 Beneath his thundering falchion's stroke 
 Flowed the deep waters red with gore, 
 
 And many a gallant warrior fell 
 To feed the wolves on Ifa's shore. 
 
 Not such those days of yore, 
 When, south on Elfa's rocky coast, 
 
 Warring with weapons keen, 
 I fiercely smote the adverse host : 
 
 Oft from the loudly sounding bow 
 Ormur's unerring arrows flew, 
 
 Deadly, whene'er his wrath pursued 
 The bold sea-rover's trusty crew. 
 
 Not such those days of yore, 
 When, swift to meet the haughty foe, 
 
 We roused the strife of swords, 
 Nor e'er declined the hostile blow: 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 57 
 
 Seldom did I the steel withhold, 
 
 Warriors many, good and proud, 
 
 Or let to sting the warrior's side ; 
 
 Did to the monarch's vessel crowd : 
 
 But aye did Ormur's ruthless arm 
 
 Bork, and Bryniulf 's hardy might ; 
 
 Hunihle our foemen's sturdy pride. 
 
 Bolverk, Haco fierce in fight ; 
 
 
 Eigill was there, and Erling young, 
 
 O, did thy generous soul 
 
 Wighty ' sons of Aslac strong. 
 
 Thy dying fere's 1 last anguish know, 
 Ormur, thine heart would rise, 
 
 Foremost of the martial crew 
 
 Alf and my brother Hroke I knew ; 
 
 Thy warlike eyes with fury glow ! 
 
 Styr and Steinar did I ken, 
 
 Friendship, to venge my fatal wrongs 
 
 Sons of Gunlad, warlike men. 
 
 (If power remain), will point the way; 
 
 Hring and Halfdan bravely stood, 
 
 And soon beneath thy biting glaive 
 
 Right-judging Danes, and Dag the proud 
 
 My torturer rue this cruel day ! 
 
 Stare, and Steingrim, Stafe, and Gaut ; 
 
 
 Doughtier would be vainly sought; 
 
 
 Vale, and Hauk, sea-rovers bold, 
 Did to our monarch firmly hold ; 
 
 
 THE SONG OF HROKE THE BLACK. 
 
 Champions more sturdy than the twain, 
 
 FEOM SALTS SAGA. 
 
 Few lived in Haco's wide domain. 
 
 
 
 Nor I amid that warlike race 
 
 By Hamund's son now be it told, 
 
 Did e'er my father's arm disgrace ; 
 
 That two we were in battle bold ; 
 
 They said, none earned a higher name, 
 
 Greater was our father's fame, 
 
 For each upheld his comrade's fame. 
 
 Mightier than thy Haco's name. 
 
 Woe worth Vemund, who did slay 
 
 Let Vifill be to none preferred, 
 
 Berse and Biorn upon a day, 
 
 Of those who wait on Hamund's herd ! 
 
 Before the king, who boldly trained 
 
 Never swine-herd saw I there 
 
 His dauntless troops, while life remained ' 
 
 Mean of soul as Hiedin's heir. 
 
 That precious life was not preserved 
 
 Happier was my active fate, 
 
 Long, as fearless deeds deserved ; 
 
 When I followed Alfur great. 
 
 Scarce twelve years old he first 'gan fight, 
 
 In war united did we stand, 
 
 Just thirty on the fatal night. 
 
 And harried each surrounding land. 
 
 'T is this which gars me little sleep, 
 
 Dauntless warriors then we led, 
 
 And watchful bids me nightly weep ; 
 
 Where glory crowns the valiant head; 
 
 Still mindful of my brother's fate, 
 
 In polished helmets did we shine, 
 
 Burnt alive with Alfur great. 
 
 Roaming through mighty regions nine. 
 
 Of all the hours that mortals know, 
 
 In either hand, without his shield, 
 
 This caused me heaviest, deepest woe ; 
 
 The sword I 've seen the monarch wield ; 
 
 Taught since then by angry Heaven 
 
 Nor warrior lived, or near, or wide, 
 
 To follow friendly counsel given. 
 
 With stouter heart and nobler pride. 
 
 Vengeance for my fallen king 
 
 Yet some have said, who little wissed, 
 
 Alone can joy and comfort bring ; 
 
 Haleyga's lord all reason missed. 
 
 If I through Asmund's recreant heart 
 
 I never saw the valiant king 
 
 Might drive the sword or piercing dart. 
 
 Lack what prudent counsels bring. 
 
 Vengeance for Alfur brave be ta'en, 
 
 He bade his warriors never quail, 
 
 Deceived in peace, and foully slain ! 
 
 Nor in pain of death bewail ; 
 
 Murder was wrought in evil hour 
 
 None beneath his banners wait, 
 
 By treacherous Asmund's baneful power. 
 
 Save who embraced their leader's fate ; 
 
 Mine the task in arms to prove, 
 
 None groan upon the battle's ground, 
 
 When Swein and I to battle move, 
 
 Though pierced and galled by many 
 
 Which is most in combat brave, 
 
 wound ; 
 
 Hamund's son, or Haco's slave. 
 
 Nor pause to bind the sores that burn, 
 
 Thus have I sung to maiden fair ; 
 
 Before the morning sun's return ; 
 
 Thus to Brynhilda love declare : 
 
 None afflict the captive foe, 
 
 If Hroke, great Hamund's son, might know 
 
 Nor work the matron's shame and woe; 
 
 That she to him would favor show. 
 
 Maidens chaste their honor hold, 
 
 Hope should I have, if we were joined, 
 
 Ransomed by their parents' gold. 
 
 Warriors wise and bold to find ; 
 
 Never bark, though stoutly manned, 
 
 For maid more peerless, well I ween, 
 
 Garred us fly the hostile band ; 
 
 Than Haco's daughter, ne'er was seen ; 
 
 Small our force, but firm and good, 
 
 With every charm and virtue fraught, 
 
 One against eleven stood. 
 
 That e'er my youthful wishes sought. 
 
 Where'er we moved in armed array, 
 
 Now seem I here unknown to stand 
 
 To conquest still he led the way ; 
 
 A nameless wight in Haco's land ; 
 
 No chief so swift to wield the sword, 
 
 Higher rank his vassals hold 
 
 Save Sigurd famed at Giuka's board. 
 
 Than the kemps of Alfur bold. 
 
 1 Companion. 
 
 1 Stout, active. 
 
o8 
 
 ICELANDIC POETRY. 
 
 THE LAMENTATION OF STARKADER. 
 
 ORIGINAL IN BARTHOLINOS. 
 
 That chief I followed whom I kenned 
 
 Mightiest in battle's strife ; 
 Those were the happiest, fairest days 
 
 Of all my varied life : 
 
 Before (as angry fate decreed), 
 
 Where evil spirits led, 
 For the last time in joyful trim 
 
 To Hordaland I sped : 
 
 There, by each hateful curse pursued, 
 
 To work a deed of shame ; 
 And (such, alas ! my bitter lot) 
 
 To gain a traitor's name. 
 
 Vikar my king (stout Geirthiof 's bane, 
 
 And famed in deadly stour) 
 Aloft, sad victim to the gods, 
 
 I hung in evil hour. 
 
 My weapon to the chieftain's heart 
 Thrust deep the deadly blow ; 
 
 Of all the works my hand hath wrought, 
 This caused me keenest woe. 
 
 Thence hapless have I wandered on 
 
 A wild, ill-fated road ; 
 Abhorred of every Hordian boor, 
 
 And bent by sorrow's load : 
 
 Without or wealth to soothe my cares, 
 
 Or joy of honest fame ; 
 No king to guide my pathless way, 
 
 No thought, but woe and shame. 
 
 GRYMUR AND HIALMAR. 
 
 FBOM THE RHYME OP KARL AND GRYMOR IN BIORNER's 
 RIMUR. 
 
 Grymur stands on Gothic land ; 
 
 Wolves shall lick the bloody strand, 
 
 If the sturdy warriors fight 
 
 Proudly for the virgin bright. 
 
 On the shore each eye was bent ; 
 
 The land was decked with many a tent; 
 
 Bright the host with princely show ; 
 
 Hialmar ruled that host, I trow. 
 
 Loud he cried, " Ye strangers free, 
 
 Whose yon fleet that stems the sea ? " 
 
 Forth stepped, and named him, Grymur strong : 
 
 "Thee have I sought this summer long." — 
 
 " Now welcome, Grymur ! good thy fare, 
 
 Health and honor be thy share ! 
 
 Gold, and wine of fairest hue, 
 
 Will I give thee, not untrue." — 
 
 " I take not, I, thy bidding fair; 
 
 This heart is bent on savage war. 
 
 Gird thee, gird thee, for the fight ! 
 
 We must feed the wolves to-night! " — 
 
 " Rather be our thoughts of peace " 
 
 (Hialmar spoke with courteous phrase) ; 
 
 " Let us dwell, like brothers sworn, 
 
 Joined in sweet friendship night and morn ! 
 
 Wake we not the strife of shields ! 
 
 Well this arm the falchion wields ; 
 
 But the lovely virgin's hand 
 Now I woo from Swedish land." 
 
 Fierce and furious waxed the knight ; 
 Loud he cried, with wounded spite, 
 " Bowne ' thee quick to smite my shield ; 
 Shrink not from the martial field ! " — 
 " Costly rings I give to thee 
 With my sister fair to see, 
 Biarmaland and princely sway, 
 So we feed not birds of prey." — 
 " I thy sister will not see ; 
 Bid not thou such gifts to me ! 
 Cowards linger, slow from fear ; 
 This the noble maid will hear." 
 Hialmar cries, with passion sore, 
 " Youth, I scorn to soothe thee more ! 
 Stand the fight ! on bucklers sheen 
 Prove we straight our weapons keen ! " 
 
 He has ta'en his hauberk white, 
 Trusty blade, and helmet bright ; 
 And his buckler gleams afar ; 
 Stouter ne'er was held in war. 
 First by lot must Grymur smite ; 
 Armed he was to stir the fight. 
 He clove the buckler with his brand, 
 And struck to ground Hialmar's hand. 
 But never flinched that warrior true, 
 Nor deigned, though maimed, for peace to sue. 
 His glaive, upraised with dauntless main, 
 Split Grymur's helm and mail in twain. 
 Streaming flowed apace the gore ; 
 The sharp-edged sword had smote him sore : 
 His breast and entrails felt the wound, 
 And the blade shivered on the ground. 
 Hialmar cried, " The stroke is light ; 
 My trusty falchion failed to bite : 
 Had both mine arms discharged the blow, 
 Warrior, thou hadst now been low." 
 Grymur fierce, with either hand, 
 Reckless upheaved his deadly brand ; 
 He smote the helm ; his weapon's point 
 Cleft head and brain with dreadful dint. 
 Clanged in the steel the ringing sword ; 
 The host beheld their prostrate lord. 
 Nor long the fainting Grymur stood, 
 For gushing welled the stream of blood. 
 Hialmar good lies buried there ; 
 Grymur home his soldiers bare. 
 As he neared the Swedish ground, 
 Swelled apace his burning wound ; 
 Strength and life began to fail : 
 The king, the maiden, heard the tale. 
 Whence, but from her, the leech's aid ? 
 And who, but Grymur, claimed the maid ? 
 
 Wassail was kept in the monarch's hall, 
 And proudly dight were the courtiers all. 
 Each heart was brisk, as the wine did flow ; 
 No goblet of water was poured, I trow. 
 The nuptial feast was blithe and gay ; 
 The gifts of the king were large that day : 
 Bracelet, or necklace, or ring of gold, 
 Must every trusty liegeman hold. 
 The virgin blessed the youth of her choice, 
 And bridegroom and bride did both rejoice. 
 
 i Make ready. 
 
 
DANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 The Danish language is a daughter of the 
 old Norse, or Icelandic. It began to assume 
 new forms, and to take the character of a sepa- 
 rate language, about the beginning of the twelfth 
 century. Petersen, in his history of the lan- 
 guage, divides the various changes it has under- 
 gone into four periods:* 1. Oldest Danish, 
 from 1100 till 1250; 2. Older Danish, from 
 1250 till 1400 ; 3. Old Danish, from 1400 till 
 1530; 4. Modern Danish, from 1530 till 1700. 
 Through these changes the old Icelandic pass- 
 ed into the Danish of the present day. 
 
 The Danish language is not confined to Den- 
 mark only, but is the language of literature and 
 of cultivated society in Norway also. The Norse, 
 or Norwegian, exists only in the form of dia- 
 lects, of which the principal are : 1. The Guld- 
 brandsdalske ; 2. The Hardangerske ; 3. The 
 Nordalske ; 4. The Sogns dialect ; 5. Dialect 
 of the Orkney Islands; 6. Dialect of the Faroe 
 Islands. t 
 
 In these dialects, spoken by the peasantry 
 in the mountains of Norway, are found many 
 words of the ancient mother tongue, no longer 
 in use in towns ; as snow and ice remain un- 
 melted in the mountain ravines, long after they 
 have disappeared from the thoroughfares and 
 cultivated fields. " The remains of the old 
 Norwegian language," says Hallager, " are not 
 to be sought for in the commercial towns of 
 Norway, nor in their environs, where the lan- 
 guage, like the manners, is Danish ; but in the 
 interior of the country, in the highlands, and 
 particularly among the peasantry, who have 
 little or no communication with the sea-port 
 towns. This language, then, is nothing more 
 than what it is generally called, — a peasant 
 language (et Bondemaal) ; but it contains a 
 great number of very significant expressions, 
 and so many ancient Danish words, no longer 
 in use elsewhere, that, on this account even, it 
 merits the attention of linguists. The Norwe- 
 gian is distinguished from the other two North- 
 ern (Scandinavian) languages, not only by a 
 rich vocabulary of words peculiar to itself, its 
 own pronunciation and inflections, but also by 
 a peculiar combination of words, or syntax ; so 
 that we may say, that only literary cultivation 
 is wanting to render it an independent lan- 
 guage, like the others." $ 
 
 * Det Danske, Norske og Svenske Sprogs Historie, af H. 
 M. Petersen, 2 vols. Copenhagen: 1S29. 12mo. 
 
 t Norske Ordsamling; udgivet ved Laurents Hallager. 
 Copenhagen: 1S02. Svo. 
 
 I Norske Ordsamling ; Preface, p. i. 
 
 The first name on the records of Danish po- 
 etry is that of Peder Laale. Who he was, and 
 when he lived, have not been very clearly made 
 out ; though, as near as can be ascertained, he 
 flourished during the first half of the fifteenth 
 century. His only work is a volume of popu- 
 lar proverbs in rather uncouth rhymes. In the 
 days of old, the Danish Muse stammered in 
 these proverbs, says Ole Borch (Balbuticbant 
 olim vernaculi numeri in Petri Laalii proverbi- 
 is). Resting on so slight a foundation, Peder's 
 chance for immortality would seem to be but 
 small ; but they have placed him at the head of 
 the poetic catalogue; and, on the title-page of 
 the first edition of his book, he is called the 
 light of the Danes, and the bright exemplar 
 and specimen of men (Danorum lux et docto- 
 rum virorum evidens exemplum atque specimen).* 
 In the latter half of the same century lived 
 Broder Niels (Friar Nicholas), a monk in the 
 Cistercian convent of Soroe, and author of the 
 old Danish "Rhyme-Chronicle," in which he 
 has versified some of the wonderful fables of 
 Saxo-Grammaticus. At the same period flour- 
 ished, likewise, a better poet than either of the 
 foregoing, Herr Mikkel of Odense, a priest who 
 wrote .poems upon the "Rosary of the Virgin 
 Mary," the " Creation of the World," "Human 
 Life," and a few psalms. 
 
 The sixteenth century commences with Gott- 
 fried of Gemen's publication of the romance 
 of " Flores og Blantzeflor," which, in some form 
 or other, had been current in Denmark for two 
 centuries previous. Euphemia, Queen of Nor- 
 way, at the commencement of the fourteenth 
 century, being much addicted to novel-reading, 
 caused this romance to be translated into the 
 Northern tongue ; but the text of Gottfried's edi 
 tion is of later date, so that the romance be 
 longs, properly speaking, to the beginning of the 
 sixteenth century. To the same period belong 
 the " History of Broder Rus " (Friar Rush) ; 
 the " Fasmthen Teghn " (the Fifteen Signs of 
 Christ's Coming) ; and the " Sjaels Kjasremaal 
 over Kroppen " (the Soul's Complaint of the 
 Body), being a translation from the Latin, and 
 not unlike the Anglo-Saxon poem on the same 
 subject. 
 
 In the first half of this century, appears the 
 earliest of the Danish dramatic writers, Chris- 
 ten Hansen, schoolmaster in Odense. He is 
 the author of three dramatic pieces, belonging 
 to that class known in the Middle Ages as 
 
 * See Den Danske Digtekunsts Historie, ved R. Nyerup 
 og K. L. Rahbek. 2 vols. Copenhagen : 1828. 8vo. 
 
60 
 
 DANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 Mysteries and Moralities. These pieces are 
 entitled, " The Tale of the Old Woman, who, 
 with the Help of her Dog, seduced a Damsel to 
 her Undoing," in which the characters are Ma- 
 ritus, Uxor, Vir Rusticus, Bagnio-Keeper, Mu- 
 lier, Monachus, Aulicus, Vetula, Diabolus, and 
 Prsco or Prologue ; " The Judgment of Par- 
 is " ; and " The Comedy of Saint Dorothea, a 
 Mystery," in which the author, to use the 
 words of Boileau, 
 
 " Soltement zele en sa simplicite, 
 Joua les Saints, la Vierge et Dieu par pieteV' 
 
 The same subject has been treated by some of 
 the old French playwrights, and later by Mas- 
 singer, in his beautiful play of " The Virgin- 
 Martyr." 
 
 To the same period belong " A Dialogue on 
 the Popish Mass " ; "A Book of Vigils, or Sat- 
 ires against the Catholic Clergy " ; "A Dia- 
 logue between Peder Smid and Adger Bonde, 
 on certain Dogmas of the Church " ; " The 
 Dance of Death," in the spirit of the Spanish, 
 German, and other death-dances of the time ; 
 and twenty-two writers of psalms, whose names 
 I will not repeat here, but whose labors may 
 be fcund in the psalm-books of the day. In 
 the same century occur the names of Herman 
 Weigere, translator of " iEsop's Fables," and 
 the renowned German satire of"Reineke Fos," 
 called in Danish, " Rsevebog or Mikkel Rsev " 
 (the Book of the Fox, or Michael Fox) ; — Niels 
 Jensen, who translated from the German of Hans 
 Sachs apiece entitled " The Bagnio of Hell, 
 a merry Story, in which the Devil laments 
 that his Realm is growing too small for him, 
 and sends for Workmen to make it larger, and 
 how Matters went on there " ; — Henrich Chris- 
 tensen, translator of the rhymed novel of " King 
 Persenober and Queen Constantianobis," to 
 whom probably belong, also, a translation of the 
 "Alphabetum Aulicum," in which the life of the 
 court is described in a series of lines, beginning 
 with the letters of the alphabet in succession, 
 and "The Chronicle of Bergen" in rhyme; — 
 Rasmus Hansen Reravius, author of the "CEco- 
 nomia, or how the Father of a Family should 
 behave himself," and " The Coronation and Bri- 
 dal of King Frederick the Second and Queen 
 Sophia"; — and Anders Sorensen Vedel, a man 
 of much distinction, who remodelled Herr Mik- 
 kel's poem on " Human Life," wrote a poetical 
 history of the Popes, under the title of " Anti- 
 christus Romanus," and, what is of far greater 
 importance to the literary history of his coun- 
 try, made two collections of old Danish ballads, 
 one of heroic ballads, under the title of " Kjem- 
 peviser," published in 1591, another of bal- 
 lads of love (Elskovsviscr), which he entitled 
 " Tragica," and which was not published until 
 after his death. 
 
 I must here interrupt, for a moment, the 
 chronological order of writers, to say a word of 
 these popular ballads. Their dates are vari- 
 ous and uncertain, extending over a period of 
 several centuries, from the thirteenth to the 
 
 eighteenth. A few years ago, a new collection 
 was published by Abrahamson, Nyerup, and 
 Rahbek, containing two hundred and twenty- 
 two ballads and songs ; and, still later, two ad- 
 ditional volumes by Nyerup, containing one 
 hundred and thirty-nine.* These ballads con- 
 stitute one of the most interesting portions of 
 Danish literature. Some of them celebrate the 
 achievements of historic characters, and others 
 the more wonderful deeds of the heroes of ro- 
 mance. Olger, the Dane, and Tidrick of Bern 
 (Theodoric of Verona), occupy the foreground ; 
 and various giants, dwarfs, and elves fill up the 
 picture. The fierce old champion quaffs the 
 blood of his foe ; 
 
 " Up he struck his helmet, 
 He drank of human blood ; 
 ' hi nomine Domini .' ' 
 
 Was Hero Hogen's word."t 
 
 The sea-rovers hoist their silken sails upon 
 
 yards of gold ; the maiden sits in her bower, 
 
 white as a lily, and slim as a reed , 
 
 "Her mouth is, like the roses, red, 
 
 Her eyes, like a falcon's, gray ; 
 
 And every word she utters 
 Is like a minstrel's lay." J 
 The little foot-page leads forth the palfrey gray, 
 with his saddle of silver and bridle of gold ; the 
 knight grasps his sword so firmly that the blood 
 starts from his nails ; his armor flashes through 
 the darkness ; his drinking-horn is silver with- 
 in and gold without ; the damsel is changed, by 
 magic, to a sword, hanging at her hero's side 
 by day, and sleeping under his pillow by night ; 
 the dead mother in the grave hears her chil- 
 dren cry ; she comes back to earth to comfort 
 them, and the dogs howl as she passes through 
 the streets of the village. 
 
 In these ballads, the old popular traditions, 
 so numerous in the North, § found an expression 
 
 * Udvalgte Danske Viser fra Middelalderen. 5 vols. 
 12mo. Copenhagen : 1812-1814. — Udvalg af Danske Vi- 
 ser, fra Midten af det 16de Aarhundrede til henimod Mid- 
 ten af det 18de, med Melodier. 2 vols. 12mo. Copenhagen : 
 1821. 
 
 t Second ballad of " Grimhild's Hevn." Danske Viser. 
 I. 122. 
 
 I Ballad of " Edmund og Benedikt." Danske Viser. III. 
 296. 
 
 § Thiele, in his " Danske Folkesagn." 4 vols., Copenha- 
 gen, 1820-1823, gives more than five hundred of these. 
 Those who are curious in nursery lore will find in the same 
 work many of those magic rhymes by which children are 
 made happy, and which boys repeat so fluently in their 
 sports; as, for example: 
 
 " Ikkede, vikkede sukkede so', 
 
 Abel, dabel, dommer no, 
 
 Is, as, 
 
 Ole fas, 
 
 Fame ni, 
 
 Fante ti, 
 
 Slikkum, stakkum sti, 
 
 Du staaer og er reent, skJEer, klar fri." — Vol. IV. p 183. 
 Here, too, is the famous " House that Jack built": 
 
 " Der har du det Huus, som Jacob bygde ! 
 
 Der har du der Malt, som laae i det Huus, som Jacob 
 bygde ! 
 
 Der har du den Muus, som gnaved' delMalt, som. &c. 
 
 Der har du den Kat, som beed den Muus, som, &c. 
 
DA.NISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 61 
 
 The ease with which the knight looks over the 
 tree-tops in the forest, or leaps his steed over 
 the castle wall, is equalled by the unhesitating 
 manner in which the minstrel repeats the story, 
 as if he expected it to be believed. This sim- 
 plicity runs through most of the ballads ; through 
 many of them, also, sounds a strange, wild bur- 
 den, repeated after every stanza, and having, 
 often, no very close connexion with the subject 
 of the ballad ; as, for example ; " There stands 
 a fortress hight Bern, and therein dwelleth King 
 Tidrick " ; " Up, up before day, so come we 
 well over the heath " ; " There make they peace 
 on the salt sea, where sail the Northmen," and 
 the like. In this point, as well as in many 
 others, they resemble the old Scottish ballads. 
 The affinity between the Danish and the Low- 
 land Scotch is so great, that the ballads of the 
 one may be rendered in the other with the ut- 
 most fidelity. On this account Mr. Jamieson's 
 translations are to be preferred to any others. 
 
 Let us now return to the chronological order 
 of writers. During the latter half of the six- 
 teenth century, flourished two more dramatists, 
 Peder Jensen Hegeland, author of six plays : 
 the tragi-comedy of " Susanna," " Cain and 
 Abel," "Abraham," " The Resurrection of Laz- 
 arus," "The Leper," and "The Rich Man and 
 Lazarus," of which the first alone remains ; — 
 and Hieronymus Justesen Ranch, author of 
 " King Solomon's Glory," " Samson's Impris- 
 onment," and " Karrig Nidding " (the Niggardly 
 Miser). In " Samson's Imprisonment," Deli- 
 lah's maidens sing Samson asleep with a song 
 about Vulcan and Mars ; and, when he is grind- 
 ing at the mill, the miller's men sing a ditty, 
 commencing, 
 
 " Turn about ! turn about ! 
 
 Till the sack 19 out, 
 
 Turn about ! turn about ! 
 
 " Although it may come 
 From the Pope in Rome, 
 
 Turn about ! turn about ! " 
 "Karrig Nidding" holds the same place in the 
 Danish drama that " Gammer Gurton's Nee- 
 dle " does in the English, and " La Farce de 
 Pathelin " in the French. 
 
 To close the literary history of this century, 
 
 Der har du den Hund, som jog den Kat, som, &c. 
 
 Der har du den Koe. som stanged' den Hund, som, fee. 
 
 Der har du den Pige. som var ferloren, der mallced' den 
 Koe med de krummeHorn, som stanged' den Hund, 
 som, &c. 
 
 Der har du den Skriver med Pen og Blaekhorn, 
 
 Som asgted den Pige, som var ferloren, 
 
 Som malked' den Koe med de krumme Horn, 
 
 Som stanged' den Hund, 
 
 Som jog den Kat, 
 
 Som beed den Muus, 
 
 Som gnaved' det Malt, 
 
 Som laae i det Huus, 
 
 Som Jacob bygde." — Vol. in. p. 146. 
 
 For an account of popular tales and romances of the 
 North, the reader is referred to Nyerup's "Almindelig 
 Morskabslaesning i Danmark ogNorge," Copenhagen, 1816, 
 where he will find due mention made of Whittington and 
 his Cat, Tom Thumb, and Robinson Crusoe. 
 
 we find the names of Hans Christenson Stheni- 
 us, author of " Fortune's Wheel," and a book 
 of songs ; Ole Pedersen Kongstad, or Regiosta- 
 danus, whose name is the longest thing ho 
 has left behind him ; Jacob Madsen Kioben- 
 havn, who translated into Danish the poems 
 of David Lindsay, the Scotch poet; and, final- 
 ly, Thomas Willumsen, author of a rhymed 
 paraphrase of the Psalms. Two anonymous 
 productions, " A Dialogue between our Lord 
 and Saint Peter," and " The Life of Margaret 
 Vestenie," whose death is described with sim- 
 ple pathos, conclude the catalogue. 
 
 In the seventeenth century, the taste for 
 dramatic writing seems to have increased. At 
 the beginning of the century, we find two an- 
 onymous plays, " Kortvending " (Vicissitude), 
 and a translation of Terence's " Eunuch," — both 
 pieces in verse. The first author mentioned is 
 Peder Thogersen, who translated from the Latin 
 Rudolph Walter's sacred comedy ->f " Nabal," 
 and wrote a play in three acts, called " De Mun- 
 do et Paupere," in which, for the sake of earthly 
 vanities, a poor man sells himself to the world, 
 as Dr. Faustus, the Duke of Luxembourg, and 
 sundry other individuals did to the Devil. In 
 the same manuscript are two anonymous plays, 
 the comedy of " Tobias," and the comedy of 
 " Hecastus," and one or two others that have 
 been mentioned before. Other dramatic wri- 
 ters of the same period are Hans Thomeson 
 Stege, author of the tragedy of " Cleopatra"; 
 Anders Kjeldson Tybo, author of the historic 
 drama of "Absalom"; Jens Kjeldsen, author 
 of" Joseph's History " ; and Erik Pontoppidan, 
 author of "The Bridal of Tobias." 
 
 To the first half of the seventeenth century 
 belong, also, Jacob Jacobsen Volf, who com- 
 piled a " Chronicle of the Jews," from the Sa- 
 cred Scriptures and Josephus ; Claus Chris- 
 tophersen Lyschander, called by some the En- 
 nius of Denmark, and author of the " Green- 
 land Chronicles," the " Triumphus Calmarien- 
 sis, or the Union of Calmar," and a poem on 
 Christian the Fifth ; and Anders Arrebo, a 
 voluminous writer of psalms and other sacred 
 songs, the most famous of which is the " Hexa- 
 emeron," or a paraphrase of the six days of the 
 creation, from Genesis. The latter half of the 
 seventeenth century presents but few names, 
 and none of great distinction. The most prom- 
 inent are, Anders Bording, better known as the 
 editor of the "Danish Mercury," than as a 
 poet; and Thomas Kingo, author of "The Spir- 
 itual Choir," and editor of the old " Danish 
 Psalrnbook." 
 
 With the eighteenth century, begins a more 
 glorious epoch in the annals of Danish poetry ; 
 for now appears upon their pages the name of 
 Ludvig Holberg, who is to his country what 
 Moliere is to France, and Cervantes to Spain. 
 He was born in Bergen in 1684, and in 1702 
 entered the University of Copenhagen as a 
 theological student. On leaving the University, 
 he travelled in Holland ; and afterwards visited 
 F 
 
62 
 
 DANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 England, passing nearly two years at the Uni- 
 versity of Oxford. On his return, he established 
 himself in Copenhagen, as a teacher of lan- 
 guages. In 1714, he was made Professor Ex- 
 traordinary ; and, after a few years, again trav- 
 elled on the continent, visiting Holland, France, 
 and Italy. In 17] 6, he returned to Copenhagen, 
 and, in 1718, became Professor of Metaphysics ; 
 in 1720, of Eloquence; in 1730, of History and 
 Geography ; and in 1737, Quaestor of the Uni- 
 versity. He was created Baron in 1747, and 
 died in 1754. 
 
 His principal works are his historical writ- 
 ings ; the mock-heroic poem of" Peder Paars "; 
 thirty-five comedies ; " Nicholas Klimm's Jour- 
 ney to the World under Ground," an imitation 
 of " Gulliver's Travels," originally written in 
 Latin ; and an autobiography, which is not the 
 least interesting and amusing of his productions. 
 It was written chiefly in 1726. 
 
 " Peder Paars " is a poem in four books, re- 
 lating the adventures of the hero on his voyage 
 from Callundborg to Aars : 
 
 " I sing here of a hero, the mighty Peder Paars, 
 Who undertook a journey from Callundborg to Aars " : 
 and is a satire upon those who in their writings 
 magnify trifles into great events and make 
 much ado about nothing. In his autobiography, 
 he says of it: — "This poem was differently 
 received according to the different character and 
 disposition of its readers. Some were secretly 
 displeased with it; others openly avowed the 
 indignation it excited ; some imagined them- 
 selves to be attacked under fictitious names ; 
 and others, feeling equally guilty, and expecting 
 similar treatment, joined in the abuse of the au- 
 thor. Some, whose reading had never extend- 
 ed beyond epithalamiums, epitaphs, and pane- 
 gyrics, were alarmed at the novelty of this pro- 
 duction, and condemned the audacity of the 
 satirist; others, conceiving their enemies to be 
 the objects of attack, read the poem with laugh- 
 ter and delight, and took every opportunity of 
 repeating what they considered the severest 
 passages in the hearing of those to whom the 
 satire was supposed to apply. The vulgar, 
 whose opinions are commonly superficial, deem- 
 ed it the work of an idler; and some literary 
 characters, in their excessive anxiety to show 
 their penetration, were equally at fault with the 
 vulgar. There were some, however, who form- 
 ed a more favorable judgment of the merits of this 
 production, and who applauded me, when my 
 name became known, for my attempt to combine 
 satire with pleasantry, and to temper the severi- 
 ty of reproof by the graces of poetical embel- 
 lishment. In their opinion, my poem was so 
 far from meriting the light estimation in which 
 some critics held it, that they considered its ap- 
 pearance an era in the literature of the country. 
 ' The Danes,' said they, ' have at length a poem 
 in their native language, which they need not 
 be ashamed to show to Frenchmen and to Eng- 
 lishmen.' By their persuasions I was induced 
 to continue this poem till it reached four books, 
 
 and formed a considerable volume, of which 
 not less than three editions were sold in the 
 space of a year and a half; a degree of success 
 which had never before attended any book writ- 
 ten in the Danish language."* 
 
 Of his plays he says : — " Weary of continu- 
 ing pursuits from which I derived but little 
 profit, and which exposed me to so much cal- 
 umny and misconstruction, I abandoned poetry, 
 and betook myself to my former studies, deter- 
 mining to complete a work which I had begun 
 some years before, comprehending a succinct 
 account of the civil and ecclesiastical state of 
 both kingdoms. But while I was engaged in 
 this work, some of my friends — among whom 
 were many persons of the first distinction, who 
 wished to introduce into this country regular 
 plays, like those of other nations, written in the 
 Danish language, and who, judging from the 
 success of my poem and satires, thought me 
 capable of succeeding equally in the drama — 
 solicited me to turn my attention to this branch 
 of writing. It was not easy for me to resist 
 these solicitations, on the one hand ; but, on the 
 other, I was afraid of adding fuel to the malice 
 of my enemies, from which I had already suf- 
 fered enough to convince me how dangerous an 
 enterprise it is to make war against the follies 
 and prejudices of mankind. I was at length, 
 however, prevailed upon to undertake the task, 
 and I wrote those plays which have since been 
 collected into several volumes, and which are 
 now in every body's hands. I made it my chief 
 object, in these comedies, to attack follies and 
 vices which had escaped other dramatic writers, 
 and which, in some instances, were peculiar to 
 the people of this country. I at first contented 
 myself with reading these plays to my friends, 
 find was for some time in doubt whether I 
 should suffer them to be exhibited on the stage ; 
 but I yielded to continued importunity, and 
 gave the first five to the company of comedians." 
 
 In the continuation of his autobiography, 
 in 1737, he speaks thus of " Nicholas Klimm's 
 Journey " : — " There are many persons of both 
 sexes in my country who speak confidently ot 
 their intercourse with fairies and supernatural 
 beings, and who are ready to take their corporal 
 oaths that they have been carried away by sub- 
 terranean spirits to hills and mountain-caves. 
 This foolish superstition, which suggested ma- 
 terials for the fiction, is ridiculed in Klimius, 
 the hero of the tale. The characters interspersed 
 through the work are so numerous and various, 
 that they may be said to illustrate a complete 
 system of ethics; hence a key would be required 
 for almost every page. I confess that the way 
 in which vices are animadverted upon may give 
 this production the air of a satire ; but, as man- 
 kind generally is the object of these animad- 
 
 * Memoirs of Lewis Holberg. Written by himself in 
 Latin, and now first translated into English. London: 
 1827. Forming Vol. XII. of Hunt and Clarke's Autobiog- 
 raphy, in 33 vols. 18mo. 
 
DANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 63 
 
 versions, it is a satire not unworthy of a philos- 
 opher. To many, on the other hand, the style 
 may seem too feeble, cautious, and restrained ; ! 
 for it is necessary, in works of this kind, so to 
 temper the poignancy of the satire as to com- 
 bine instruction with amusement. Above all, 
 it is necessary that authors should confine them- 
 selves within prudent limits, and cautiously ab- 
 stain from directing their shafts against individ- 
 uals. If this rule be observed, they may make 
 satire, which when it is general is deprived of 
 all its malignity, the vehicle of solid instruction, 
 instead of an instrument of torture. Thus, there 
 is less danger in attacking mankind generally 
 than a whole nation, and a whole nation than a 
 particular family; and even a particular family 
 may be more safely made the subject of animad- 
 version than a single individual. The ' Journey 
 to the World under Ground ' is to be considered 
 as a philosophical romance, and the characters 
 exhibited in it will suit any nation. There is 
 no occasion for a key, therefore, where the door 
 stands open, or for a solution, where there is no 
 knot to untie. Nevertheless, for the benefit of 
 key-searchers, I will proceed to give an expla- 
 nation of the whole matter. 
 
 " The story, which is only a vehicle for mor- 
 al precepts and reflections, is a mere trifle. 
 The materials, as I have just stated, are derived 
 from a popular superstition, prevalent among 
 my countrymen. The hero of the story is sup- 
 posed to be conveyed into the world under 
 ground, where he meets with a number of sur- 
 prising adventures, calculated to astonish and 
 delight the reader. Many wonderful creatures, 
 such as nobody ever imagined before, are suf- 
 fered to be inhabitants of this new world ; trees, 
 for instance, are introduced endowed with the 
 gift of speech, and musical instruments are here 
 capable of discussing questions of philosophy or 
 finance. The catastrophe of the story is as 
 striking as the incidents which delight the read- 
 er in the course of the narrative ; for in the 
 space of half an hour the founder of a great 
 monarchy is transformed into a poor bachelor 
 of arts. Such being the nature of the work, 
 many persons have read the ' Journey to the 
 World under Ground,* as a mere book of 
 amusement. It is true that this production is 
 a literary trifle, but it is not altogether a useless 
 trifle ; since instruction may in this way be in- 
 sinuated into many readers who would shrink 
 from a regular didactic treatise ; and as Trimal- 
 chio had his epitaph written upon a sun-dial, 
 that every body who consulted it might read his 
 name, so a work of pleasantry may be made the 
 medium of instruction to those who will read 
 nothing but books of amusement. A fisherman 
 must bait his hook to the taste of the little fish- 
 es, if he expects to catch them ; and, in like 
 manner, philosophers of the greatest note have 
 from time to time conveyed instruction through 
 the medium of apologues and entertaining tales." 
 
 The other most distinguished names of the 
 
 eighteenth century are Christian Falster, a writ- 
 er of satires, and translator of parts of Ovid 
 and Juvenal ; — Jens Schelderup Sneedorf, au- 
 thor of several allegorical poems, and his son, 
 Hans Christian, who wrote the well known 
 ballad on Herr Henrik, the improver of the 
 Copenhagen docks; — Johan Clemens Tode, 
 a very voluminous writer, translator of Smol- 
 lett's novels, and author of several lyrical dra- 
 mas ; — Johan Herman Wessel, a comic writer 
 of great merit, authior of the tragi-comedy, 
 "Love without Stockings" (Kierlighed uden 
 StrOmper), and the "Tale of the Fork" (Gaffe- 
 len), in which an old woman and her husband 
 having three wishes allowed them by the go'.s, 
 she instantly wishes for a fork, he wishes it 
 were stuck into her body, and she wishes it 
 were out again; — Ole Johan Samsoe, author 
 of the tragedy of " Dyveke," and translator of 
 Florian's plays; — Johan Nordal Brun, author 
 of " Zarine," the first original Danish tragedy 
 ever brought upon the stage; — Claus Friman, 
 and his brother, Peder Harboe, both lyric writ- 
 ers of note; — Peter Magnus Troiel, celebrated 
 for his satires; — and Christen Pram, author 
 of " Staerkodder," a poem in fifteen cantos. In 
 addition to these may be mentioned Christian 
 Brauman Tullin, Johannes Evald, Edward 
 Storm, and Thomas Thaarup, all of whom will 
 be more particularly noticed hereafter. 
 
 The principal poetic names of the present 
 century are Knud Lyne Rahbek, Peter Andreas 
 Heiberg, Jens Baggesen, Adam Gottlob Oehlen- 
 schlager, and Bernhard Severin Ingemann, of 
 whom biographical sketches will be given in 
 connection with the extracts from their writings. 
 To these may be added Christian Levin Sander, 
 a successful dramatic writer; — Nicolai F. S. 
 Grundtvig, author of "Bjowulfs Drape," a 
 rhymed paraphrase of the old Anglo-Saxon 
 "Beowulf"; — Christian Hertz, author of the 
 "Journey to Helicon," a heroic poem in four 
 cantos; — his brother, Jens Michael, author of 
 "Israel Delivered," an epic poem; — and a 
 crowd of lyric writers of less distinction, though 
 not unknown to fame, specimens of whose 
 poems may be found in the various collections 
 aud anthologies of Danish poetry. For a more 
 particular account of the whole series of Dan- 
 ish poets from Arrebo to the present time, the 
 reader is referred to Nyerup and Kraft's 
 " Almindeligt Litteratur-lexicon for Danmark, 
 Norge og Island," 2 vols., Copenhagen, 1820, 
 4to. ; — Rahbek and Nyerup's "Danske Dig- 
 tekunsts Middelalder fra Arrebo til Tullin," 
 2 vols., Copenhagen, 1805, 12mo.; — Molbeeh's 
 " Dansk Poetisk Anthologie," 2 vols., Copen- 
 hagen, 1830, 12mo. ; — "Poesier," published 
 bv Schultz, 4 vols., Copenhagen, 1786 — 90, 
 12mo. ; — the two collections of " Selskabs- 
 sange," published by Pulsen, Copenhagen, 
 1793-1801, 16mo., and that of Schaldemose, 
 Copenhagen, 1816, 16mo. See also Flora 
 "Dansk Laesebog," Kiel, 1835, 8vo. 
 
BALLADS, 
 
 STARK TIDERICK AND OLGER 
 
 DANSKE. 
 
 Stark Tidrick bides him intill Bern, 
 
 Wi' his bald brithers acht ; ' 
 Twall 2 stalwart sons had they ilk ane, 
 O' manhead and great macht. 
 
 (Now the strife it stands northward 
 under Jutland.) 
 
 And he had fifteen sisters, 
 
 And twall sons ilk ane had ; 
 
 The youngest she had thirteen ; — 
 
 Their life they downa redd. 3 
 
 (Now the strife it stands northward 
 under Jutland.) 
 
 Afore the Berners they can stand 
 Fiel 4 stalwart kempis 6 Strang : 
 The sooth to say, they kythit 6 o'er 
 The beech-tree taps sae lang. 
 
 (Now the strife it stands northward 
 under Jutland.) 
 
 " Now striven hae we for mony a year, 
 Wi' kemps and knightis stark : 
 
 Sae mickle we hear o' Olger Danske, 
 He bides in Dannemarck. 
 
 " This hae we heard o' Olger Danske, — 
 
 He bides in North Jutland ; 
 He 's gotten him crown'd wi' red goud, 
 
 And scorns to be our man." 
 
 Up Sverting hent a stang 7 o' steel, 
 
 And shook it scornfullie : 
 " A hunder o' King Olger's men 
 
 I wadna reck a flie ! " 
 
 " Hear thou, Sverting, thou laidly ° pag?., 
 
 Ill sets thee sae to flout ; 
 I tell thee King Olger's merry men 
 
 Are stalwart lads and stout. 
 
 " Nae fear for either glaive or swerd 
 Or grounden 9 bolt hae they ; 
 
 The bloody stour 's 10 their blythest hour ; 
 They count it bairns' play." 
 
 This word heard the high Bermeris, 
 And took tent 11 o' the same : 
 
 " We will ride us till Dannemarck, 
 See an Olger be at hame." 
 
 * Eight. 5 Champions. s Sharp. 
 
 2 Twelve. 6 Appear. io Battle. 
 
 3 Do not care for. 7 Took a bar. u Heed. 
 
 4 Many. 3 Loathsome. 
 
 They drew out o' the Berner's land ; 
 
 Acht thousand Strang they were : 
 " King Olger we will visit now, 
 
 And a' till Danmarck fare." 
 
 King Tidrick sent a messager, 
 
 Bade him till Olger say : 
 " Whilk will ye loor now, 12 stand the stour, 
 
 Or to us tribute pay ? " 
 
 Sae grim in mood King Olger grew, 
 111 could he thole 13 sic taunts : 
 
 "Thou bid them bide us on the bent; 14 - 
 See wha the payment vaunts ! 
 
 " Tribute the Dane to nae man pays, 
 But dane-gelt 1S a' gate 16 taks ; 
 
 And tribute gin ye will hae, ye 's hae 't 
 Laid loundring 17 on your backs ! " 
 
 King Olger till his kempis said : 
 " I 've selccuth 1S news to tell ; 
 
 Stark Tidrick has sent us a messager 
 That we maun pay black-mail. 
 
 " And he black-mail maun either hae, 
 Or we maun fecht 19 him here ; 
 But he is na the first king, 
 
 Will Danmarck win this year." 
 
 Syne 20 till King Tidrick's messager 
 Up spak that kemp sae stout : 
 
 " Come the Berners but till Danmarck in, 
 Uneath 21 they '11 a' win out." 
 
 Sae glad was he then, Ulf of Aim, 
 
 Whan he that tidings fand ; 
 Sae leugh 22 he, Hero Hogen ; 
 
 And they green'd 23 the stour to stand. 
 
 It was Vidrich Verlandson, 
 
 He grew in mood sae fain ; 
 And up and spak he, young Child Orme, 
 
 " We '11 ride the Berners foregain." 24 
 
 " The foremaist on the bent I 'se be ! " 
 
 That said Sir Iver Blae ; 
 " Forsuith I 'se nae the hindmaist be ! " 
 
 Answer'd Sir Kulden Gray. 
 
 King Olger and Stark Tiderick, 
 
 They met upon the muir ; 
 They laid on load in furious mood, 
 
 And made a fearfu' stour. 
 
 12 Rather. 
 
 13 Bear. 
 
 14 Field. 
 
 15 Black-mail. 
 
 16 Always. 
 
 17 Beating. 
 
 18 Strange. 
 '9 Fight. 
 20 Then. 
 
 21 Uneasily. 
 
 22 Laughed. 
 
 23 Longed. 
 
 24 Against. 
 
BALLADS. 65 
 
 They fought ae day ; for three they fought ; 
 
 Neither could win the gree ; 2b 
 The manfu' Danes their chieftain ware, 26 
 
 Nae ane will flinch or flee. 
 
 It was the Hero Hogen, 
 
 He 's gane out to the strand, 
 
 And there he fand the Ferryman 
 All upo' the white sand. 
 
 The bluid ran bullering 27 in burns 
 Bedown baith hill and dale ; 
 
 Dane-gelt the Berners now maun pay, 
 That ween'd to get black-mail. 
 
 " Hear thou now, gude Ferryman, 
 Thou row me o'er the sound, 
 
 And I '11 gie thee my goud ring; 
 It weighs well fifteen pound." 
 
 The yowther 28 drifted sae high i' the sky ; 
 
 The sun worth 29 a' sae red : 
 Great pity was it there to see 
 
 Sae mony stalwart dead ! 
 
 " I winna fare thee o'er the sound, 
 
 For a' thy goud sae red ; 
 For and thou come till Hvenild's land, 
 
 Thou wilt be slaen dead." 
 
 There lay the steed ; here lay the man ; 
 
 Gude friends that day did twin : 30 
 They leuch 31 na a' to the feast that cam, 
 
 Whan the het bluid-bath was done. 
 
 'T was then the Hero Hogen, 
 His swerd out he drew, 
 
 And frae the luckless Ferryman 
 The head afF he hew. 
 
 High Bermeris bethought him then, 
 
 All sadly as they lay : 
 " There scarce live a hunder o' our men ; 
 
 How should we win the day ? " 
 
 He strak the goud ring frae his arm, 
 Gae it the Ferryman's wife : 
 
 " Hae, tak thou this, a gudely gift, 
 For the Ferryman's young life." 
 
 Then took Tiderick till his legs, 
 And sindle 32 luikit back ; 
 
 Sverting forgat to say gude-night ; 
 And the gait till Bern they tak. 
 
 It was the Hero Hogen, 
 
 He danner'd 6 on the strand ; 
 
 And there he fand the Mer-lady 
 Sleeping on the white sand. 
 
 Tidrick he turn'd him right about, 
 And high in the lift 33 luik'd he : 
 
 " To Bern I trow is our safest gait ; 
 Here fa' we scoug nor lee ! " 34 
 
 " Heal, heal to thee, dear Mer-lady, 
 Thou art a cunning wife ; 
 
 And I come in till Hvenild's land, 
 It 's may I brook 7 my life ? " 
 
 Syne stay'd him Vidrich Verlandson, 
 All under a green know : 35 
 
 " Ye 've little to ruse ye o' your raid 36 
 The Danish kemps to cow ! '" 
 
 " It 's ye hae mony a Strang castell, 
 And mickle goud sae red ; 
 
 And gin ye come till Hvenoe land, 
 Ye will be slaen dead." 
 
 That tyde they drew frae Bernland out, 
 Acht thousand Strang were they : 
 
 And back to Bern but only five 
 And fifty took their way. 
 
 'T was then the Hero Hogen, 
 His swerd swyth 8 he drew, 
 
 And frae the luckless Mer-lady 
 Her head afF he hew. 
 
 
 Sae he has taen the bloody head, 
 And cast it i' the sound : 
 
 The body's croppen 9 after, 
 And join'd it at the ground. 
 
 LADY GRIMILD'S WRACK. 
 
 It was proud Lady Grimild 
 
 Garr'dmask 1 the mead sae free, 
 
 And she has bidden the hardy knights 
 Frae ilka frem 2 countrie. 
 
 Sir Grimmer and Sir Germer 
 They launch'd sae bald and free, 
 
 Sae angry waxt the wild winds, 
 And stormy waxt the sea. 
 
 She bade them come, and nae deval, 3 
 To bargane 4 and to strife ; 
 
 And there the Hero Hogen 
 Forloot 5 his young life. 
 
 Sae angry waxt the wild winds, 
 And fierce the sea did rair ; 
 
 In twain in Hero Hogen's hand 
 Is brast the iron air. 10 
 
 In twain it brast, the iron air, 
 In Hero Hogen's hand ; 
 
 25 Victory. 31 Laughed. i Made mingle. 
 2« Defend. 32 Seldom. 2 Far. 
 
 27 Bubbling. 33 Sky. 3 Delay. 
 
 28 Vapor. 34 Shelter nor peace. 4 Battle. 
 
 29 Became. 3S Knoll. i Lost, 
 so Part. 36 Praise for your deed. 
 
 9 
 
 6 Sauntered. 8 Straightway. 10 Oar. 
 t Preserve. 9 Corpse. 
 p2 
 
66 DANISH 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 And wi' twa gilded shields then 
 
 " Here sit ye a', my merry men, 
 
 The knights they steer'd to land. 
 
 And drink baith mead and wine ; 
 
 
 But wha will Hero Hogen sla', 
 
 Whan they were till the land come, 
 
 Allerdearest brither mine ? 
 
 They ilk ane scour'd his brand, 
 
 
 And there sae proud a maiden 
 
 " It 's he that will the guerdon fa', 20 
 
 Saw what they had in hand. 
 
 And sla' this Hogen dead, 
 
 
 Sail steward o' my castell be, 
 
 Her stature it was stately, 
 
 And win my goud sae red." 
 
 Her middle jimp ll and sma' ; 
 
 
 Her body short, her presence 
 
 It 's up and spak a kemp syne, 
 
 Was maiden-like witha'. 
 
 A lording o' that land • 
 
 
 " It 's I will win your guerdon, 
 
 They 've doe'n 12 them till Norborg, 
 
 Forsooth, wi' this right hand. 
 
 And to the yett 13 sae free : 
 
 
 " O, whare is now the porter 
 
 " It 's I will fa' your guerdon ; 
 
 That here should standing be ? " 
 
 Sla' Hero Hogen dead ; 
 
 
 Be steward o' your castell, 
 
 " It 's here am I, the porter, 
 
 And win your goud sae red." 
 
 That here stand watch and ward ; 
 
 
 I 'd bear your tidings gladly, 
 
 And up spake Folqvar Spillemand, 
 
 Wist I but whence ye far'd." 
 
 Wi 's burly iron stang : 
 
 
 " Come thou within my arms' length, 
 
 " Then hither are we come frae 
 
 I '11 mark thee or thou gang ! " 
 
 A' gaits 14 whare we hae gane ; 
 
 
 Lady Grimild 's our sister ; — 
 
 The first straik fifteen kempis 
 
 It 's a' the truth I 've sayn." 
 
 Laigh to the eard 21 did strik : 
 
 
 " Ha, ha, Folqvar Spillemand ! 
 
 In syne cam the porter, 
 
 Well wags thy fiddlestick ! " 
 
 And stood afore the deas ; 15 
 
 
 Fu' canny i' the tongue was he, 
 
 Syne dang he down the kempis 
 
 And well his words could place. 
 
 Wi' deadly dints and dour; 22 
 
 
 And braid and lang the brigg M was 
 
 Fu' canny i' the tongue was he, 
 
 Whare they fell in that stour. 
 
 And well his words could wale : 16 
 
 
 " There out afore your yett stand 
 
 Aneath were spread wet hides, and 
 
 Twa wordy 17 kemps but 18 fail. 
 
 Aboon were pease sae sma', 
 
 
 And Hero Hogen stumbled, 
 
 " It 's out there stand afore your yett 
 
 And was the first to fa'. 
 
 Twa sae well-wordy men ; 
 
 
 The tane he bears a fiddle, 
 
 It was the Hero Hogen, 
 
 The tither a gilded helm. 
 
 He wad win up again : 
 
 
 " Hald, hald, my dearest brither, 
 
 " He that bears a fiddle bears 't 
 
 Our paction well ye ken. 
 
 For nae lord's meat or fee ; 
 
 
 And wharesoe'er they come frae, 
 
 "Ye keep your troth, my brither; 
 
 Duke's sons I wat they be." 
 
 Still keepit it maun be ; 
 
 
 And ance thou till the eard fa', 
 
 It was proud Lady Grimild 
 
 Nae rising is for thee." 
 
 Put on the pilche 19 sae fine, 
 
 
 And she is to the castell yett 
 
 Sae moody Hero Hogen is, 
 
 To bid her brithers in. 
 
 Still keep his word will he ; 
 
 
 Till he has got his death-straik, 
 
 " Will ye gae till the chamber 
 
 A-fighting on his knee. 
 
 And drink the mead and wine ; 
 
 
 And sleep upon a silken bed 
 
 Yet dang he down three kempis ; 
 
 Wi' twa fair ladies mine ? " 
 
 Nane o' the least were they : 
 
 
 Wi' hammers syne he brast whare 
 
 It was proud Lady Grimild 
 
 His father's treasures lay. 
 
 Put on the pilche sae braw, 
 
 
 And she 's intill the ha' gane 
 
 And him betid a luck sae blyth, 
 
 Afore her kempis a'. 
 
 He gat the lady's fere ; 
 
 11 Slender. 14 Places. 17 Worthy. 
 
 
 12 Betaken. « Table. 18 Without. 
 
 20 Get. 22 Hard. 
 
 13 Gate. i« Choose. " Fur mantle. 
 
 21 Low to the earth. 23 Bridge. 
 
BALLADS. 
 
 67 
 
 And she was the proud Hvenild, that 
 A son to him did bear. 
 
 Ranke, hight that kemp, that 
 Reveng'd his father's dead: 
 
 Grimild in the treasury, 
 
 She quail'd for want o' bread. 
 
 Sae drew he frae that land out 
 
 Till Bern in Lombardy ; 
 There liv'd amang the Danish men, 
 
 And kyth'd 24 his valor hy. 
 
 His mither she gaed hame again, 
 And Hvenske-land bears her name ; 
 
 'Mang gallant knights and kempis 
 Sae wide is spread their fame. 
 
 THE ETTIN LANGSHANKS. 
 
 King Tidrick sits intill Bern, 
 
 He rooses ' him of his might ; 
 Sae mony has he in battle cow'd, 
 Baith kemp and doughty knight. 
 (There stands a fortress hight Bern, and 
 thereintill dwelleth King Tidrick.) 
 
 King Tidrick stands at Bern, 
 
 And he looks out sae wide : 
 " Wold God I wist of a kemp sae bold 
 
 Durst me in field abide ! " 
 
 Syne answer'd Master Hildebrand, 
 
 In war sae ware and wight : 2 
 " There liggs 3 a kemp in Birting's Bierg; — 
 
 Dare ye him rouse and fight ? " 
 
 " Hear thou, Master Hildebrand, 
 
 Thou art a kemp sae rare : 
 Ride thou the first i' the shaw 4 the day, 
 
 Our banner gay to bear." 
 
 Syne answer'd Master Hildebrand ; 
 
 He was a kemp sae wise : 
 " Nae banner will I bear the day, 
 
 For sae unmeet a prize." 
 
 Syne answer'd Vidrich Verlandson, 
 
 He spoke in full good mood : 
 " The first i' the press I 'se be the day, 
 
 To march to Birting's wood. 
 
 Up spak he, Vidrich Verlandson, 
 
 And an angry man he grew: 
 " Thro' hauberk as thro' hacketon 
 
 The smith's son's swerd sail hew." 
 
 They were well three hunder kemps, 
 They drew to Birting's land : 
 
 They sought the Ettin 5 Langshanks, 
 And in the shaw him fand. 
 
 -* Showed 
 1 Boasts. 
 
 2 Stout and strong. 
 
 3 Lies. 
 
 4 Wood. 
 
 5 Giant. 
 
 Syne up spak Vidrich Verlandson : 
 
 "A selcouth game you 's see, 
 Gin ye lat me ride first to the wood, 
 
 And lippen 6 sae far to me. 
 
 " Here bide ye a', ye kingis men, 
 Whare twa green roads are met, 
 
 While I ride out in the wood alane, 
 To speer 7 for you the gate." 8 
 
 It was Vidrich Verlandson, 
 
 Into the wood he rade ; 
 And there he fand a little foot-path, 
 
 To the Ettin's lair that led. 
 
 Syne up spak he, King Tidrick : 
 
 " Hear what I say to thee ; 
 Find ye the Ettin Langshanks, 
 
 Ye healna 9 it frae me." 
 
 It was Vidrich Verlandson, 
 To Birting's hythe 10 he wan ; 
 
 And there the Ettin Langshanks 
 Laidly and black he fand. 
 
 It was Vidrich Verlandson 
 Strak the Ettin wi' his stang : 
 
 " Wake up, ye Langshanks Ettin ; 
 Ye sleep baith hard and lang ! " 
 
 " On this wild moor I 've lien and slept 
 
 For lang and mony a year : 
 Nor ever a kemp has challeng'd me, 
 
 Or dar'd my rest to steer." " 
 
 " Here am I, Vidrich Verlandson, 
 
 With good swerd by my side, 
 And here I dare thy rest to steer, 
 
 And dare thy wrath abide." 
 
 It was the Ettin Langshanks, 
 
 He wink'd up wi' his ee' : 
 " And whence is he, the page sae bald, 
 
 Dares say sic words to me ? " 
 
 " Verland was my father hight, 
 
 A smith of cunning rare ; 
 Bodild was my mother call'd, 
 
 A kingis daughter fair. 
 
 " My full good shield, that Skrepping hight, 
 Has mony a dent and clour ; 12 
 
 On Blank, my helmet, mony a swerd 
 Has brast, of temper dour. 
 
 " My noble steed is Skimming hight, 
 
 A wild horse of the wood ; 
 My swerd by men is Mimmering nam'd, 
 
 Temper'd in heroes' blood. 
 
 " And I hight Vidrich Verlandson, 
 
 All steel-clad as you see ; 
 And, but thy lang shanks thou bestir, 
 
 Sorely shalt thou abie. 13 
 
 6 Trust. 
 T Ask. 
 8 Way. 
 
 9 Hide not. 
 io Heath. 
 it Disturb. 
 
 i = Bruise. 
 13 Suffer. 
 
68 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 " Hear thou, Ettin Langshanks, 
 
 A word I winna 14 lie ; 
 The king is in the wood, and he 
 
 Maun tribute hae frae thee." 
 
 " What gold I have full well I know 
 
 Sae well to guard and ware, 
 Nor saucy page sail win 't frae me, 
 
 Nor groom to claim it dare." 
 
 " Thou to thy cost salt find, all young 
 
 And little as I be, 
 Thy head I '11 frae thy shoulders hew, 
 
 And win thy gold frae thee." 
 
 It was the Ettin Langshanks 
 
 Nae langer lists to sleep : 
 " Young kemp, away, and to thy speed, 
 
 If thou thy life wilt keep." 
 
 Wi' baith his hooves up Skimming sprang 
 
 On the Ettin's side belyve; 16 
 There seven o' his ribs he brake ; — 
 
 Sae they began to strive. 
 
 It was the Ettin Langshanks 
 Grip'd his steel stang in hand ; 
 
 He strak a stroke at Vidrich, 
 
 That the stang i' the hill did stand. 
 
 It was the Ettin Langshanks, 
 
 He ween'd to strike him stythe ; 16 
 
 But he his firsten straik has mist, 
 The steed sprang afF sae swyth. 17 
 
 'T was then the Ettin Langshanks, 
 And he took on to yammer : I8 
 
 " Now lies my stang i' the hillock fast 
 As it were driven wi' hammer." 
 
 It was Vidrich Verlandson, 
 And wroth in mood he grew : 
 
 " Skimming, about ! Good Mimmering, 
 Now see what thou canst do ! " 
 
 In baith his hands he Mimmering took, 
 And strak sae stern and fierce, 
 
 That through the Langshanks Ettin's breast 
 The point his thairms " did pierce. 
 
 Then first the Ettin Langshanks 
 
 Felt of a wound the pain ; 
 And gladly, had his strength remain'd, 
 
 Wad paid it back again. 
 
 " Accursed, Vidrich, be thy arm, 
 
 Accursed be thy brand, 
 For the deadly wound that in my breast 
 
 I 've taken frae thy hand ! " 
 
 " Ettin, I 'II hew and scatter thee 
 
 Like leaves before the wind, 
 But and thou tell me in this wood 
 
 Whare I thy gold may find." 
 
 '■» Will not. 
 >» Forthwith. 
 
 ie Stiff. 
 " Swiftly. 
 
 '8 Lament. 
 ■9 Entrails. 
 
 " O, spare me, Vidrich Verlandson, 
 
 And never strike me dead ! 
 Sae will I lead thee to the house 
 
 Roof 'd with the gold sae red." 
 
 Vidrich rode and the Ettin crept ; 
 
 Deep in the wood they 're gone ; 
 They found the house with gold sae red 
 
 Like burning light that shone. 
 
 " Away ye heave that massy stane, 
 Lift frae the bands the door ; 
 
 And mair gold nor 's in a' this land 
 Within ye '11 find in store." 
 
 Syne answer'd Vidrich Verlandson ; 
 
 Some treason he did fear : 
 " The kemp is neither ware nor wise 
 
 That sic a stane wad steer." 
 
 " Well Vidrich kens to turn a steed ; 
 
 'T is a' he understands : 
 But I '11 do mair wi' twa fingers 
 
 Nor thou wi' baith thy hands." 
 
 Sae he has taen that massy stane, 
 
 And lightly o'er did turn : 
 Full grimly Vidrich ettled 20 then 
 
 That he should rue that scorn. 
 
 "There 's mair gold in this treasury 
 Nor fifteen kings can shaw : 
 
 Now hear thou, Vidrich Verlandson, 
 The first thou in salt ga." 
 
 Syne up spak Vidrich Verlandson, 
 His cunning well he knew : 
 
 " Be thou the first to venture in, 
 As fearless kemp should do." 
 
 It was the Ettin Langshanks, 
 
 In at the door he saw : 
 Stark Vidrich strak wi' baith his hands, 
 
 And hew'd his head him fra. 
 
 And he has taen the Ettin's blood 
 And smear'd wi' it his steed : 
 
 Sae rade he to King Tidrick, 
 
 Said, " Foul has been my speed ! " 
 
 And he has taen the Ettin's corpse, 
 
 Set it against an aik ; 
 And all to tell the wondrous feat 
 
 His way does backward take. 
 
 " Here bide ye a', my doughty feres, 21 
 
 Under this green hill fair : 
 How Langshanks Ettin 's handled me, 
 
 To tell you grieves me sair." 
 
 " And has the Ettin maul'd thee sae f 
 That is foul skaith and scorn ; 
 
 Then never anither sail be foil'd ; — 
 We '11 back to Bern return." 
 
 20 Determined. 
 
 21 Companions. 
 
BALLADS. 09 
 
 " Thou turn thee, now, King Tidrick, 
 
 And neist 1 cam Hero Hogen 
 
 Thou turn thee swythe wi' me ; 
 
 Afore them to sing. 
 
 And a' the gold the Ettin had 
 
 
 I '11 shew belyve to thee." 
 
 Up wak'd the queen o' Danmarck ; 
 
 
 In her bower she lay : 
 
 " And hast thou slain the Ettin the day ? 
 
 " O, whilken o' my ladies 
 
 That mony a man sail weet ; 
 
 Strikes the harp sae ? " 
 
 And the baldest kemp i' the warld wide 
 
 
 Thou never need fear to meet." 
 
 " It is nane o' your ladies 
 
 
 Whase harp ye hear ; 
 
 It was then King Tidrick's men, 
 
 It is Hero Hogen 
 
 They green'd 22 the Ettin to see ; 
 
 Singing sae clear." 
 
 And loud they leuch at his laidly bouk, " 3 
 
 
 As it stood by the tree. 
 
 " Ye a' get up, my maidens, 
 
 
 Rose chaplets on your hair ; 
 
 They ween'd that he his lang shanks 
 
 Forth we will us a' ride, 
 
 Yet after them might streek ; 
 
 Wassel to share." 
 
 And nae ane dared to nigh him near, 
 
 
 Or wake him frae his sleep. 
 
 First rade the queen o' Danmarck, 
 
 
 In red scarlet tho ; 2 
 
 It was Vidrich Verlandson, 
 
 Syne ladies rade, and maidens, 
 
 Wi' mickle glee he said : 
 
 And maries a-row. 
 
 " How would ye bide his living look, 
 
 
 That fleys 24 ye sae whan dead ? " 
 
 Fu' lightly rade the queen round 
 
 
 And round the dance sae free ; 
 
 He slrak the body wi' his staff; 
 
 'T was a' on noble Hogen aye 
 
 The head fell to the eard : 
 
 Turned her ee'. 
 
 " In sooth that Ettin was a kemp 
 
 
 That ance might well be fear'd." 
 
 'T was then Hero Hogen, 
 
 
 His hand raught 3 he : 
 
 And they hae taen the red gold, 
 
 " O, list ye, gracious lady, 
 
 What booty there did stand ; 
 
 To dance wi' me ? " 
 
 And Vidrich got the better part, 
 
 
 Well won with his right hand. 
 
 Now dances Hero Hog<:n ; 
 
 
 He dances wi' the queen ; 
 
 But little he reck'd a spoil sae rich ; 
 
 And mickle glee, the sooth to say, 
 
 'T was a' to win the gree, 
 
 There passes them atween. 
 
 And as the Ettin-queller wide 
 
 
 O'er Danmarck fam'd to be. 
 
 Up there stood a little may 4 
 
 
 In kirtle blue : 
 
 Sae gladly rode they back to Bern ; 
 
 " O, 'ware ye 'fore the fause claverers;' 
 
 But Tidrick maist was glad ; 
 
 They lyth to you." 
 
 And Vidrich o' his menyie a' 
 
 
 The foremost place aye had. 
 
 It was the king o' Danmarck, 
 
 
 And he can there speer: 
 
 
 " What does the queen o' Danmarck 
 
 
 
 A-dancing here ? 
 
 HERO HO GEN AND THE QUEEN OF 
 
 
 DANMARCK. 
 
 " Far better in her bower 't were 
 
 
 
 On her goud harp to play, 
 
 The king he 's sitting in Ribe ; 
 
 Nor dancing here sae lightly 
 
 He 's drinking wine ; 
 
 Wi' Hogen thus to gae." 
 
 Sae he has bidden the Danish knights 
 
 
 To propine. 
 
 Up there stood a little may 
 
 (Sae nobly dances he. Hogen !) 
 
 In kirtle red : 
 
 
 « 'Ware now, my gracious lady ; 
 
 "Ye stand up a', my merry men 
 
 My lord 's grim, I rede." 
 
 And knightis bold, 
 
 
 And gayly tread the dance wi' me 
 
 " I 've just but i' the dance come in ; 
 
 O'er the green wold." 
 
 It 's nae near till an en' ; 
 
 (Sae nobly dances he, Hogen !) 
 
 And sae my lord the king may 
 
 
 Mak himsell blythe again." 
 
 Now lists the king o' Danmarck 
 To dance in the ring ; 
 
 
 
 
 i Next. 3 Reached. * Idle talkers. 
 2 Then. * Maiden. 
 
 22 Longed. 23 Body. 24 Affrights. 
 
70 DANISH 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 Up there stood a little page 
 
 It was Sir Ifver Blaa, 
 
 Intill a kirtle green : 
 
 To the east he turn'd about : 
 
 " 'Ware ye, my gracious lady ; — 
 
 " Help now, Ulf and Ismer Grib ! 
 
 My lord is riding hame." 
 
 I hear a kemp thereout." 
 
 Shame fa' Hero Hogen, 
 
 It was Sir Ifver Blaa, 
 
 That e'er he sang sae clear; 
 
 And he look'd to the west : 
 
 The queen sits in her bower up, 
 
 " Thereout I hear Sir Guncelin : 
 
 And dowy 6 is her cheer. 
 
 Help, Otthin ! as thou can best. 
 
 (Sae nobly dances he, Hogen !) 
 
 
 
 It was the Earl Sir Guncelin, 
 
 
 And helm o'er neck he flang ; 
 Sae heard, though mony a mile away, 
 
 
 
 His mother dear the clang. 
 
 SIR GUNCELIN. 
 
 
 
 
 That lady she waken'd at still midnight, 
 
 It was the Earl Sir Guncelin, 
 
 And till her lord she said : 
 
 To his mother he can say, 
 
 " May God Almighty rightly rede x 
 
 " It 's I will ride me up-o-land, 
 
 That our son may well be sped ! " 
 
 My manhood to essay." 
 
 
 (Up, up afore day, sae come we well 
 
 The firsten tilt they thegither rode, 
 
 over, the heath-O ! ) 
 
 Those kemps sae stark and bold, 
 
 
 Wide on the field Sir Ifver Blaa 
 
 " And wilt thou ride thee up-o-land, 
 
 Was cast upon the mold. 
 
 And dost thou tell me sae ? 
 
 
 Then I '11 gie thee a steed sae good, 
 
 "Hear thou, Earl Guncelin, 
 
 Men call him Karl the gray. 
 
 An' thou will lat me live, 
 
 (Up, up afore day, sae come we well 
 
 I hae me a betrothed bride, 
 
 over the heath-0 ! ) 
 
 And her to thee I '11 give." 
 
 " Then I '11 gie thee a steed sae good, 
 
 " I '11 none of thy betrothed bride ; 
 
 Men call him Karl the gray ; 
 
 Yet wedded would I be : 
 
 Te ne'er need buckle on a spur 
 
 Give me Salenta, sister thine, 
 
 Or helm, whan him ye hae. 
 
 As better liketh me." 
 
 " At never a kemp maun ye career, 
 
 Sae rode they to the bride-ale ; 
 
 Frae never ane rin awa', 
 
 They roundly rode in fere ; 
 
 Untill ye meet with him, the kemp 
 
 And they hae bidden the kempery men 
 
 That men call Ifver Blaa." 
 
 To come frae far and near. 
 
 It was the Earl Sir Guncelin 
 
 They bade him, Vidrich Verlandson, 
 
 Can by a green hill ride ; 
 
 Stark Tidrick out of Bern, 
 
 There met he him, little Tilventin, 
 
 And Holger Danske, that aye for feats 
 
 And bade him halt and bide. 
 
 Of chivalry did yearn. 
 
 "Well met, well met, young Tilventin! 
 
 Child Sivard Snaren they hae bidden, 
 
 Whare did ye lie last night? " 
 
 Afore the bride to ride ; 
 
 " I lay at Bratensborg, whare they 
 
 And Ettin Langshanks he maun be 
 
 Strike fire frae helmets bright." 
 
 All by the bridegroom's side. 
 
 It was the Earl Sir Guncelin 
 
 They 've bidden Master Hildebrand, 
 
 Look'd under his helmet red : 
 
 And he the torch maun bear ; 
 
 "Sae be 't wi' little Tilventin ! — 
 
 Him followed twice sax kemps, and they 
 
 Thou 's spoken thy ain dead." 
 
 Drank and made lusty cheer. 
 
 It was the Earl Sir Guncelin, 
 
 And hither came Folquard Spillemand ; 
 
 He his swerd out drew ; 
 
 For that the kemps sail pay ; 
 
 It was little Tilventin 
 
 And hither came King Sigfrid Home, 
 
 He in pieces hew. 
 
 As he shall rue the day. 
 
 Sae rade he till Bratensborg, 
 
 It was proud Lady Grimild 
 
 He rapped at the yate : 
 
 Was bidden to busk 2 the bride ; 
 
 "Is there here ony kemp within 
 
 But hard and fast her feet and hands 
 
 That dares wi' me debate ? " 
 
 Wi' fetters they hae tied. 
 
 6 Doleful. 
 
 l Ordain. 2 Dress. 
 
BALLADS. 
 
 71 
 
 Theretill came Lady Gunde Hette, 
 
 In Norden Field that bade ; 
 She drank and she danced, 
 
 And luckily was sped. 
 
 There in came Lady Brynial, 
 And she carved for the bride ; 
 
 Her follow'd seven sma' damsels, 
 And sat the kemps beside. 
 
 They follow'd the bride to the chamber m, 
 
 Their breakfast there to eat ; 
 Of groats four barrels she ate up, 
 
 Sae well she lik'd that meat. 
 
 Sax oxen she ate up, theretill 
 
 Eight flitches of the brawn ; 
 Seven hogsheads of the ale she drank, 
 
 Or she to yex 3 began. 
 
 They follow'd the bride intill the ha' ; 
 
 Sae bowden 4 was her skin, 
 They dang down five ells o' the wa' 
 
 Ere they could get her in. 
 
 They led the bride to the bride-bench, 
 
 And gently set her down : 
 Her weight it brake the marble bench, 
 
 And she came to the ground. 
 
 They serv'd her wi' the best o' fare ; 
 
 She made na brocks 5 o' meat ; 
 Five oxen and ten gude fat swine 
 
 Clean up the witch did eat. 
 
 That mark'd the bridegroom (well he 
 might!), 
 
 'T was little to his wish : 
 " I never yet saw sae young a bride 
 
 Lay her lugs G sae in a dish ! " 
 
 Up syne sprang the kempery men ; 
 
 Thegither they advise : 
 " Whilk will ye rather, pitch the bar, 
 
 Or kemp in knightly guise ? " 
 
 The kempery men a ring they drew 
 
 All on the sward sae green ; 
 And there, in honor o' the bride, 
 
 The courtly game begin. 
 
 The young bride wi' the mickle nieves 7 
 Up frae the bride-bench sprang : 
 
 And up to tulzie 8 wi' her there lap 
 The Ettin wi' shanks sae lang. 
 
 There danced and dinnled 9 bench and 
 board, 
 
 And sparks frae helmets fly ; 
 Out then leapt the kemps sae bold : 1 
 
 " Help, Mother Skratt ! " they cry. 
 
 And there a sturdy dance began, 
 Frae Ribe, and intill Slie : 
 
 The least kemp in the dance that was 
 Was five ell under the knee. 
 
 The least kemp in the dance that was 
 Was little Mimmering Tand ; 
 
 He was amang that heathen folk 
 The only Christian man. 
 
 RIBOLT AND GULDBORG. 
 
 Ribolt was the son of an earl gude ; 
 
 (Sae be that ye are willing ; ) 
 Guldborg he lang in secret lo'ed. 
 
 (There 's a hue and cry for them.) 
 
 Whan she was a bairn he lo'ed her sair, 
 
 (Sae be that ye are willing,) 
 And aye as she grew he lo'ed her the mair. 
 
 (There 's a hue and cry for them.) 
 
 " Guldborg, will ye plight your troth to me, 
 And I '11 till a better land bring thee. 
 
 " Till a better land I will thee bear, 
 Whare there never comes or dule ■ or care. 
 
 " I will bring thee untill an 6e, 2 
 Whare thou salt live and nagate 3 die." 
 
 " It 's till nae land can ye me bear, 
 Whare there never comes or dule or care ; 
 
 " Nor me can ye bring to sic an 6e ; 
 For to God I owe that I should die." 
 
 "There leeks are the only grass that springs 
 And the gowk 4 is the only bird that sings ; 
 
 " There a' the water that rins is wine : 
 Ye well may trow this tale o' mine." 
 
 " O, how sail I frae the castell win, 
 Sae fiel 5 they watch me out and in ? 
 
 " I 'm watch'd by my father, I 'm watch'd by 
 
 my mither, 
 I 'm watch'd by my sister, I 'm watch'd by my 
 
 brither ; 
 
 " My bridegroom watches wharever I ga, 
 And that watch fears me maist ava ! " 6 
 
 " And gin a' your kin were watching ye, 
 Te maun bide by what ye hecht 7 to me. 
 
 " And ye maun put on my brynie 8 blae ; 
 My gilded helmet ye sail hae ; 
 
 3 Hiccup. 
 * Swollen. 
 » Waste. 
 
 6 Eara. 
 1 Fists. 
 
 Wrestle. 
 Jingled. 
 
 i Sorrow. 
 
 2 Island. 
 
 3 Nowise. 
 
 * Cuckoo. 
 
 * Many. 
 6 Of aU. 
 
 1 Promised. 
 8 Cuirass. 
 
72 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 " My gude brand belted by your side ; 
 Sae unlike a lady ye will ride : 
 
 1 Wi' gouden spur at your heel sae braw, 
 Ye may ride thro' the mids o' your kindred a'." 
 
 His mantel blue he has o'er her thrown, 
 And his ambler gray he has set her upon. 
 
 As o'er the muir in fere they rade, 
 They met a rich earl that till them said : 
 
 " O, hear ye, Ribolt, dear compere mine, 
 Whare gat ye that page sae fair and fine ? " 
 
 " O, it is nane but my youngest brither, 
 And I gat him frae nane but my mither." 
 
 " In vain ye frae me the truth wad heal • 
 Guldborg, Guldborg, I ken ye weel. 
 
 " Your red scarlet ye well may len ; 9 
 But your rosy cheeks fu' well I ken. 
 
 " I' your father's castell I did sair, 10 
 And I ken you well by your yellow hair. 
 
 " By your claiths and your shoon I ken ye ill, 
 But I ken the knight ye your troth gae till ; 
 
 "And the Brok u I ken, that has gotten your 
 
 han' 
 Afore baith priest and laic man." 
 
 He 's taen the goud bracelet frae his hand, 
 And on the earlis arm it band : 
 
 " Whaever ye meet, or wharever ye gae, 
 Ye naething o' me maun to nae man say." 
 
 The earl he has ridden to Kallo-house, 
 Whare, merrily-drinking, the kemps carouse. 
 
 Whan Sir Truid's castell within cam he, 
 Sir Truid at the deas he was birling 12 free : 
 
 " Here sit ye, Sir Truid, drinking mead and 
 
 wine ; 
 Wi' your bride rides Ribolt roundly hyne." I3 
 
 Syne Truid o'er the castell loud can ca' : 
 " Swyth on wi' your brynies, my merry men 
 a'!" 
 
 They scantly had ridden a mile but four, 
 Guldborg she luikit her shoulder o'er : 
 
 " O, yonder see I my father's steed, 
 And I see the knight that I hae wed ! " 
 
 " Light down, Guldborg, my lady dear, 
 And hald our steeds by the renyies I4 here. 
 
 9 Conceal 
 io Serve. 
 
 11 Badger. 
 
 12 Drinking. 
 
 13 Hence. 
 
 14 Reins. 
 
 " And e'en sae be that ye see me fa', 
 Be sure that ye never upon me ca' ; 
 
 " And e'en sae be that ye see me bleed, 
 Be sure that ye namena me till dead." 
 
 Ribolt did on his brynie blae ; 
 Guldborg she clasp'd it, the sooth to say. 
 
 Sir Truid and her father dear he 's slain. 
 
 I' the nexten shock, he hew'd down there 
 Her twa brethren wi' their gouden hair. 
 
 " Hald, hald, my Ribolt, dearest mine, 
 Now belt thy brand, for it 's mair nor time ! 
 
 " My youngest brither ye spare, O, spare 
 To my mither the dowy news to bear ; 
 
 " To tell o' the dead in this sad stour ! — 
 O, wae, that ever she dochter bure ! " 
 
 Whan Ribolt's name she nam'd that stound, 16 
 'T was then that he gat his deadly wound. 
 
 Ribolt he has belted his brand by his side : 
 " Ye come now, Guldborg, and we will ride." 
 
 As on to the Rosen-wood they rade, 
 The never a word till ither they said. 
 
 " O, hear ye now, Ribolt, my love, tell me, 
 Why are ye na blythe as ye wont to be ? " 
 
 " O, my life-blood it rins fast and free, 
 And wae is my heart, as it well may be ! 
 
 "And soon, fu' soon, I 'II be cald in the clay. 
 And my Guldborg I maun a maiden lea'." 
 
 " It 's I '11 tak my silken lace e'en now, 
 And bind up your wound the best I dow." 17 
 
 " God help thee, Guldborg, and rue on thee ; 
 Sma' boot can thy silken lace do me ! " 
 
 Whan they cam till the castell yett, 
 His mither she stood and leant thereat. 
 
 " Ye 're welcome, Ribolt, dear son mine, 
 And sae I wat is she, young bride thine. 
 
 " Sae pale a bride saw I never air, 18 
 
 That had ridden sae far but goud on her hair." 
 
 " Nae wonder, nae wonder, tho' pale she be, 
 Sae hard a fecht as she 's seen wi' me ! 
 
 " Wold God I had but an hour to live ! — 
 But my last bequests awa' I '11 give. 
 
 15 Battle. 16 Time. 17 Can. 18 Till now. 
 
BALLADS. 73 
 
 " To my father my steed sae tall I gie ; 
 
 " And who is he, that noble child 
 
 Dear mither, ye fetch a priest to me ! 
 
 That rides sae bold and free? " 
 
 " To my dear brither, that stands me near, 
 
 Syne up and spak the maiden fair 
 
 I lea' Guldborg that I hald sae dear." 
 
 Was next unto the bride ; 
 
 
 " It is the Young Child Dyre 
 
 " How glad thy bequest were I to fang, 19 
 
 That stately steed does ride." 
 
 But haly kirk wad ca' it wrang." 
 
 
 
 " And is 't the Young Child Dyre 
 
 " Sae help me God at my utmost need, 
 
 That rides sae bold and free ? 
 
 As Guldborg for me is a may indeed. 
 
 God wot, he 's dearer that rides that steed 
 
 
 Nor a' the lave 1 to me ! " 
 
 " Ance, only ance, with a lover's lyst, 
 
 
 And but only ance, her mouth I kist." 
 
 All rode they there, the bridal train, 
 
 
 Each rode his steed to stall, 
 
 " It ne'er sail be said, till my dying day, 
 
 All but Child Dyre, that look'd whaije he 
 
 That till twa brithers I plight my fay." 
 
 Should find his seat in the hall. 
 
 Ribolt was dead or the cock did craw ; 
 
 " Sit whare ye list, my lordings ; 
 
 Guldborg she died or the day did daw. 
 
 For me, whate'er betide, 
 
 
 Here I shall sickerly 2 sit the day, 
 
 Three likes 20 frae that bower were carried in 
 
 To hald the sun frae the bride." 
 
 fere, 
 
 
 And comely were they withouten peer : 
 
 Than up spak the bride's father, 
 
 
 And an angry man was he : 
 
 Sir Ribolt the leal, and his bride sae fair, 
 
 " Whaever sits by my dochter the day, 
 
 (Sae be that ye are willing,) 
 
 Ye better awa' wad be." 
 
 And his mither that died wi' sorrow and care. 
 
 
 (There 's a hue and cry for them.) 
 
 " It 's I have intill Paris been, 
 
 
 And well my drift can spell ; 
 And aye whatever I have to say, 
 
 
 YOUNG CHILD DYRING. 
 
 I tell it best mysell." 
 
 
 
 " Sooth thou hast intill Paris lear'd ° 
 
 It was the Young Child Dyring, 
 
 A worthless drift to spell : 
 
 Wi' his mither rede did he : 
 
 And aye whatever thou hast to say, 
 
 " I will me out ride 
 
 A rogue's tale thou must tell." 
 
 Sir Magnus's bride to see." 
 
 
 (His leave the page takes to-day frae 
 
 Ben stept he, Young Child Dyre, 
 
 his master.) 
 
 Nor reck'd he wha might chide ; 
 
 
 And he has taen a chair in hand, 
 
 " Wilt thou thee out ride, 
 
 And set him by the bride. 
 
 Sir Magnus's bride to see ? 
 
 
 Sae beg I thee by Almighty God 
 
 'T was lang i' the night ; the bride-folk 
 
 Thou speed thee home to me." 
 
 Ilk ane look'd for his bed ; 
 
 (His leave the page takes to-day frae 
 
 And Young Child Dyre amang the lave 
 
 his master.) 
 
 Speer'd whare he should be laid. 
 
 Syne answer'd Young Child Dyre ; — 
 
 " Without, afore the stair steps, 
 
 He rode the bride to meet ; 
 
 Or laigh 4 on the cawsway stane, 
 
 The silk but and the. black sendell 
 
 And there may lye Sir Dyre ; 
 
 Hang down to his horse's feet. 
 
 For ither bed we 've nane." 
 
 All rode they there, the bride-folk, 
 
 'T was late intill the evening, 
 
 On row sae fair to see ; 
 
 The bride to bed maun ga ; 
 
 Excepting Sir Svend Dyre, 
 
 And out went he, Child Dyring, 
 
 And far about rode he. 
 
 To rouse his menyie a'. 
 
 It was the young Child Dyre rode 
 
 "Now busk and don your harnass, 
 
 Alone along the strand ; 
 
 But and your brynies blae ; 
 
 The bridle was of the red gold 
 
 And boldly to the bride-bower 
 
 That glitter'd in his hand. 
 
 Full merrily we '11 gae." 
 
 'T was then proud Lady Ellensborg, 
 
 Sae follow'd they to the bride-bower 
 
 And under weed smil'd she : 
 
 That bride sae young and bright : 
 
 19 Take. 20 Corpses. 
 10 
 
 1 Rest. 2 Surely. 3 Learned. 4 Low. 
 G 
 
74 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 And forward stept Child Dyre, 
 And quench'd the marriage light. 
 
 The cresset they 've lit up again, 
 
 But and the taper clear, 
 And follow'd to the bride-bower 
 
 That bride without a peer. 
 
 And up Child Dyre snatch'd the bride, 
 
 All in his mantle blae ; 
 And swung her all so lightly 
 
 Upon his ambler gray. 
 
 They lock'd the bower, they lit the torch ; 
 
 'T was hurry-scurry a' ; 
 While merrily aye the lovers gay 
 
 Rode roundly to the shaw 
 
 In Rosen-wood they turn'd about 
 
 To pray their bridal prayer : 
 " Good night and joy, Sir Magnus ! 
 
 For us ye '11 see nae mair." 
 
 Sae rode he to the green wood, 
 
 And o'er the meadow green, 
 Till he came to his mither's bower, 
 
 Ere folks to bed were gane. 
 
 Out came proud Lady Metelild, 
 
 In menevair sae free ; 
 She 's welcom'd him, Child Dyring, 
 
 And his young bride him wi'. 
 
 Now joys attend Child Dyring, 
 
 Sae leal but and sae bold ; 
 
 He 's taen her to his ain castell, 
 
 His bride-ale there to hold. 
 
 (His leave the page takes to-day frae 
 his master.) 
 
 CHILD AXELVOLD. 
 
 The kingis men they ride till the wold, 
 
 There they hunt baith the hart and the hind ; 
 
 And they, under a linden sae green, 
 Sae wee a bairn find. 
 
 (I' the loft whare sleeps she, the proud Eline.) 
 
 That little dowie up they took, 
 
 Swyl'd J him in a mantle blae; 
 They took him till the kingis court, 
 
 Till him a nourice gae. 
 (I' the loft whare sleeps she, the proud Eline.) 
 
 And they hae carried him till the kirk, 
 
 And christen'd him by night ; 
 And they 've ca'd him Young Axelvold, 
 
 And hidden him as they might. 
 
 They foster'd him for ae winter, 
 
 And sae for winters three ; 
 And he has grown the bonniest bairn 
 
 That man on mold mat see. 
 
 i Swathed. 
 
 And they hae foster'd him sae lang, 
 
 Till he was now eighteen ; 
 And he has grown the wordiest child 
 
 Was in the palace seen. 
 
 The kingis men till the court are gane, 
 
 To just, and put the stane ; 
 And out stept he, Child Axelvold, 
 
 And waur'd them ilka ane. 
 
 " 'T were better ye till the house gang in, 
 
 And for your mither speer, 
 Nor thus wi' courtly knights to mell, 
 
 And dare and scorn them here." 
 
 Up syne spak Young Axelvold, 
 
 And his cheek it grew wan : 
 " I 's weet whaso my mither is, 
 
 Or ever we kemp 2 again." 
 
 It was the Young Axelvold 
 
 Thought mickle, but said nae mair ; 
 And he is till the bower gane 
 
 To speer for his mither there. 
 
 " Hear ye this, dear foster-mither, 
 
 What I now speer at thee ; 
 Gin aught ye o' my mither weet, 
 
 Ye quickly tell it me." 
 
 " Hear ye this, dear Axelvold, 
 
 Why will ye tak on sae ? 
 Nor living nor dead ken I thy mither, 
 
 I tell thee on my fay. " 
 
 It was then Young Axelvold, 
 
 And he drew out his knife : 
 " Ye 's tell me wha my mither is, 
 
 Or it sail cost thy life." 
 
 hen gae thou till the ladies' bower, 
 e hendly 3 greet them a' ; 
 
 " The 
 
 Ye hendly 3 greet Wcu 
 Her a goud coronet that wears, 
 
 Dear mither ye may ca'." 
 
 It was then Young Axelvold 
 Put on his pilche sae braw, 
 
 And he 's up till the ladies' bower, 
 'Fore dames and maidens a'. 
 
 " Here sit ye, ladies and maries, 
 
 Maiden and courtly fre ; 4 
 But and allerdearest mither mine 
 
 I' the mids o' you should be." 
 
 All sat they there, the proud maidens, 
 Nae ane durst say a word ; 
 
 But it was proud Lady Eline, 
 She set her crown o' the board. 
 
 " Here sit ye, my right mither, 
 Wi' hand sae saft and fair : 
 
 Whare is the bairn ye bure in dern, 5 
 Albe goud crown ye wear ? " 
 
 2 Strive. 
 
 3 Gently 
 
 4 Dame. 
 
 5 Secrei. 
 
BALLADS. 
 
 75 
 
 Lang stuid she, the proud Eline, 
 
 Nor answer'd ever a word ; 
 Her cheeks, sae richly red afore, 
 
 Grew haw 6 as ony eard. 
 
 She doff'd her studded stemmiger, 
 
 And will of rede 7 she stuid : 
 " I bure nae bairn, sae help me God 
 
 But and our Lady gude ! " 
 
 " Hear ye this, dear mither mine ; 
 
 Forsooth it is great shame 
 For you sae lang to heal that ye 
 
 Was mither to sic a man. 
 
 " And hear ye this, allerdearest mither, 
 
 What now I say to thee ; 
 Gin aught ye o' my father weet, 
 
 Ye heal 't nae mair frae me." 
 
 " To the king's palace then ye maun pass ; 
 
 And, trow ye well my word, 
 Your dear father ye may ca' him there 
 
 That has knights to serve at his board. 
 
 " And do ye till the kingis ha', 
 'Fore knights and liegemen a', 
 
 And see ye Erland the kingis son, 
 Ye may him your father ca'." 
 
 It was then Young Axelvold 
 
 Put on the scarlet red, 
 And in afore the Danish king 
 
 I' the kingis ha' he gaed. 
 
 " Here sit ye, knight and child, and drink 
 
 The mead and wine sae free ; 
 But and allerdearest father mine 
 
 I' the mids o' you should be. 
 
 " Here sit ye, dearest father mine : 
 
 Men me a foundling name ; 
 And a man like me sae scorn'd to be, 
 
 Forsooth it is great shame ! " 
 
 All sat they then, the kingis men, 
 
 As haw as ony eard ; 
 But it was Erland the kingis son, 
 
 And he spak the first word. 
 
 Up spak he, Erland, the kingis son, 
 
 Right unassur'd spak he : 
 " I 'm nae thy father, Axelvold, 
 
 Sic like thou say'st I be." 
 
 It was then Young Axelvold, 
 
 And he drew out his knife : 
 " My mither ye sail either wed, 
 
 Or it sail cost thy life." 
 
 " Wi' knight and squire it were foul scorn 
 
 And deadly shame for me, 
 That I should father a bastard bairn, 
 
 A kingis son that be. 
 
 e Pale. 
 
 ^ Bewildered. 
 
 " But hear thou this, Young Axelvold, 
 
 Thou art a prince sae fine, 
 Then gie thou me, my wife to be, 
 
 Eline, mither thine." 
 
 And glad were they in the kingis courl , 
 
 Wi' lyst and mickle game ; 
 Axelvold 's gi'en his mither awa ; 
 
 His father her has taen. 
 
 It was the Young Axelvold 
 
 Gae a dunt 8 the board upon . 
 " I' the court I was but a foundling brat ; 
 The day I 'm a kingis son ! " 
 (I' the loft whare sleeps she, the proud Eline.) 
 
 THE WASSEL DANCE. 
 
 The night is the night o' the wauk ; 1 
 
 (There wauk may he that will ;) 
 There 's fiel come to dance and wassel mak. 
 (Whare wauks she, the proud Signelild, 
 under sae green an 6e.) 
 
 Proud Signild speer'd at her mither right, 
 (There wauk may he that will,) 
 
 " May I gae till the wauk the night ? " 
 
 (Whare wauks she, the proud Signelild, 
 under sae green an oe.) 
 
 " O, what will ye at the wauk-house do, 
 But sister or brither to gang wi' you ? 
 
 " Brither or gude-brither hae ye nane, 
 
 Nor gang ye to wauk-house the night alane." 
 
 That maiden fine has prigget 2 sae lang, 
 Her mither at last gae her leave to gang. 
 
 " Thou gang, thou gang now, dochter mine, 
 But to nae wauk-house gangs mither thine. 
 
 "The king he is coming wi' a' his men ; 
 Sae lyth 3 my rede, and bide at hame." 
 
 " There comes the queen wi' her maries a' ; 
 To talk wi' them, mither, lat me fa'." 
 
 She to the green wood her way has taen, 
 And she is till the wauk-house gaen. 
 
 Afore she wan the green strath 4 o'er, 
 The queen was gane to bed in her bower. 
 
 Ere she to the castell yett can win, 
 The wassel dance it was begun. 
 
 There danced all the kingis men, 
 
 And the king himsell he danced wi' them. 
 
 The king raught out his hand sae free : 
 " Fair maiden, will ye dance wi' me ? " 
 
 8 Blow, i Wake. 2 Entreated. 3 Listen. 4 Plain. 
 
76 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 " I 'm only come o'er the dale, to see 
 An the Danish queen can speak to me." 
 
 " Ye dance wi' us a wee but fear, 
 
 And the queen hersell will soon be here." 
 
 Out stept Signild, jimp and sma' ; 
 
 The king gae 'r his hand, and they danced awa'. 
 
 " Hear ye what, Signild, I say to thee ; 
 A lay o' love ye maun sing to me." 
 
 " In lays o' love nae skill I hae, 
 But I '11 sing anither the best I may." 
 
 Proud Signild can sing a sang wi' that; 
 This heard the queen in her bower that sat. 
 
 This heard the queen in her bower that lay : 
 " Whilk ane o' my ladies is singing sae ? 
 
 " Whilk ladies o' mine dance at this late hour ? 
 Why didna they follow me up to my bower ? " 
 
 Syne up spak a page in kirtle red : 
 
 " It 's nane o' your ladies, I well ye rede ; 
 
 " Nae ane o' your ladies I reckon it be, 
 But it is proud Signild under 6e." 
 
 " Ye bring my scarlet sae fine to me, 
 And I will forth this lady to see." 
 
 Whan she came till the castell yett, 
 The dance gaed sae merrily and sae feat. 
 
 Around and around they dancing gae; 
 The queen she stood and saw the deray ; 5 
 
 And bitter the pangs her heart did wring, 
 Whan she saw Signild dance wi' the king. 
 
 It 's Sophi' says till her bower-woman ; 
 " Bring a horn o' wine sae swyth ye can ; 
 
 " A horn o' goud come hand to me, 
 And lat it wi' wine well filled be." 
 
 The king raught out his hand sae free : 
 " Will ye, Sophia, dance wi' me ? " 
 
 " To dance wi' thee nor can I nor will, 
 'Less first proud Signild drink me till." 
 
 She hent the horn, and she drank sae free : — 
 Her heart it brast, and dead fell she. 
 
 Lang luikit the king in speechless wae, 
 As dead at his feet the maiden lay : 
 
 " Sae young and sae fair ! wae, wae is me, 
 Thy dowie sakeless 6 weird 7 to see ! " 
 
 Sair grat the women and maries there, 
 As intill the kirk her like they bare. 
 
 6 Merriment. 
 
 6 Guiltless. 
 
 7 Destiny. 
 
 Had she but lythit her mither's rede, 
 (There wauk may he that will,) 
 
 That maiden she never sae ill had sped. 
 
 (Whare wauks she, the proud Signelild, 
 under sae green an 6e.) 
 
 OLUF PANT. 
 
 Oluf Pant he sits in Korsoer-house, 
 
 A-drinking wi' his men ; 
 And merrily drink they and carouse, 
 Till themselves they downa tame. 
 (Oluf Pant the bonny, 
 Wi' a' his menyie, 
 They maun a' sae sorry and wae be !) 
 
 " My service now will ye forleet, 1 
 
 And lose baith meat and fee ; 
 
 Or follow me swyth to Gerlev, 
 
 For a lemman there to see ? " 
 
 (Oluf Pant the bonny, 
 
 Wi' a' his menyie, 
 
 They maun a' sae sorry and wae be !) 
 
 His service nane wad there forleet, 
 
 Amang his merry men a', 
 Nor langer while deval, 2 but till 
 
 They took their steeds frae the sta'. 
 
 He 's bidden them saddle the bonniest steed 
 
 They in the sta' can find : 
 " Mat Burmand 's be our host the night, 
 
 As he this while sail mind ! " 
 
 Sae on they 've ridden to Studeby, 
 Thro' wood and shaw in haste ; 
 
 Tyge Olesen stood i' the cauler air, 
 And bade them in to guest. 
 
 It was then rich Oluf Pant 
 
 Rade up till Gerlev yett; 
 His steed that day, the sooth to say, 
 
 Full proudly did curvett. 
 
 He rade intill Mat Burmand's yard, 
 Well wrapt in vair 3 sae gay ; 
 
 And out the husbande he could come, 
 All in his kirtle gray. 
 
 " Thou shalt lend us thy house the night, 
 
 And mak us bierdly 4 cheer ; 
 But and gie us thy huswife swyth, 
 
 Or I sail fell thee here." 
 
 " Gin I lend you my house the night, 
 
 And mak ye bierdly cheer ; 
 But and gie you my huswife swyth, 
 
 'T will gang my heart right near." 
 
 Their steeds he 's till the stable led ; 
 
 Gien them baith corn and hay ; 
 And merrily they to the chalrner gang, 
 
 To talk wi' huswife and may. 
 
 
 i Quit. 
 
 " Delay. 
 
 3 Fur. 
 
 4 Generous. 
 
 I 
 
BALLADS. 77 
 
 The husbande turn'd him snell 5 about, 
 
 ROSMER HAFMAND, 
 
 All in his kirtle gray, 
 
 OR THE MER-MAN ROSMER. 
 
 And he has sought the gainest 6 gate 
 
 
 
 To Andershaw that lay. 
 
 Bow-houghs and Elfin-stane, 
 
 
 And fiel ' mair I canna name, 
 
 Oluf Mortensen, that gude prior, 
 
 They loot them bigg sae stark a ship ; 
 
 Speer'd at the husbande right : 
 
 Till Island maun they stem. 
 
 " What has befa'n that thee has drawn 
 
 (I never will break my troth.) 
 
 Up here sae late the night ? " 
 
 
 
 They shot the ship out in the brim 2 
 
 " O, sad 's my teen and unforeseen ! 
 
 That bremm'd 3 like an angry bear: 
 
 Oluf Pant is in my hame ; 
 
 The White Goose 4 sank; the laidly elves 
 
 But him and his rout I may drive out, 
 
 Loot her rise up nae mair. 
 
 My wife is brought to shame." 
 
 (I never will break my troth.) 
 
 'T was then the gude prior Oluf Mortensen 
 
 'T was then the young Child Roland, 
 
 O'er a' the house can ca' : 
 
 He sought on the sea-ground, 
 
 " Up, up in haste, and swyth do on 
 
 And leading untill Eline's bower, 
 
 Your brynies, my merry men a' ! 
 
 A little green sty 6 he found. 
 
 " Swyth busk ye weel frae crown to heel 
 
 Roland gaed to the castell ; — 
 
 I' your gear, as best ye may ; 
 
 He saw the red fire flee : 
 
 Oluf Pant to cow will be nae mow ; 7 
 
 " Now come o' me whatso God will, 
 
 We '11 find nae bairns' play. 
 
 It 's here that I maun be." 
 
 " And hye, thou luckless husbande, hame, 
 
 And it was the Child Roland, 
 
 And lock thy dogs up weel ; 
 
 Intill the court rade he, 
 
 And keep a' quiet as ye may ; — 
 
 And there stood his sister, proud Eline, 
 
 We '11 tread close at your heel." 
 
 In menevair sae free. 
 
 Buskit and boun 8 the stout prior, 
 
 And Roland into the castell came : 
 
 Till Burmand's yard he rade : 
 
 His hands he downa steer : 
 
 Now God in heaven his help mat be ; — 
 
 " God rue on thee, poor luckless fode, 6 
 
 Oluf Pant he draws his blade ! 
 
 What hast thou to do here ? " 
 
 Oluf Mortensen at the door gaed in, 
 
 This Eline was to him unkent : 
 
 In a grim and angry mood ; 
 
 " What for soe'er thou came, 
 
 Oluf Pant lap lightly till his legs, 
 
 What so thy letter or errand be, 
 
 And up afore him stood. 
 
 Would thou had bidden at hame ! 
 
 " Wha bade thee here till Gerlev-town, 
 
 " And gae thou till that chalmer in, 
 
 Wi' my husbande leal to guest? 
 
 Sae frozen wat and haw ; 
 
 Up, up, to horse, and swyth be gone, 
 
 But come the Lang-shanks Ettin in, 
 
 Or thou 's find a bitter feast." 
 
 He '11 rive thee in dugits 7 sma'. 
 
 Oluf Pant wi' that gan smile aneath 
 
 "And sit thou down, thou luckless fode, 
 
 His cleading o' towsy 9 vair, 
 
 And warm thou thy shin-bane ; 
 
 And, " They are mine as well as thine," 
 
 But come the Lang-shanks Ettin in, 
 
 He saftly whisper'd there. 
 
 He '11 stick thee on this stane." 
 
 Swyth out the prior drew his swerd ; 
 
 Hame cam Rosmer Lang-shanks, 
 
 He scorn'd to flince or flee ; 
 
 And he was wroth and grim : 
 
 The light in the chandler Oluf Pant put out, 
 
 " Sae well I wiss there 's come in here 
 
 And wi' Helene fight maun he. 
 
 A Christian woman or man ! " 
 
 F the hen-bauks 10 up Oluf Pant he crap ; 
 
 Proud Eline lyle is gane to him, 
 
 There he was nagate fain : 
 
 To win him as she dow : 8 
 
 The prior took tent whareas he sat, 
 
 "There flew a craw out o'er the house, 
 
 And in blood-bath laid him then. 
 
 Wi' a man's bane in his mou'." 
 
 Sae they the rich Oluf Pant hae slain, 
 
 Rosmer screeched and sprang about : 
 
 And his men a', three times three, 
 
 " Here 's a Christian man I ken ; 
 
 A' but the silly little foot-page, 
 
 But and thou tell me truth, but lies, 
 
 And to him his life they gie. 
 
 I will thee stick and bren ! " 
 
 5 Quickly. T Game. 9 Shaggy. 
 
 i Many. 3 Growled. s Path. T Pieces 
 
 « Nearest. 8 Went. 10 Hen-roost. 
 
 2 Sea. 4 The name of the ship. 6 Man. 8 Can. 
 g2 
 
78 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 Eline lyle took o'er her her blue mantel, 
 
 And afore Rosmer can stand : 
 " Here is a child frae Island come, 
 
 O' my near kin and land." 
 
 " And is a child frae Island come, 
 
 Sae near a-kin to thee ? 
 His ward and warrant I swear to be ; 
 
 He 's never be drown'd by me." 
 
 Sae here in love and lyst fu' derne 9 
 Scarce twa years o'er them flew, 
 
 Whan the proud lady Eline's cheek 
 Grew a' sae wan o' hue. 
 
 About twa years he there had been ; 
 
 But there maun be nae mair ; 
 Proud Eline lyle's wi' bairn by him : 
 
 That wirks them mickle care. 
 
 Proud Eline lyle's now taen on her 
 
 Afore Rosmer to stand : 
 " Will ye gie till this fremmit 10 page 
 
 Forlof hame till his land ? " 
 
 " And will he gae hame till his land ? 
 
 And say'st thou that for true ? 
 Then o' the goud and white money 
 
 A kist I '11 gie him fu'." 
 
 Sae took he mickle red goud, 
 
 And laid it in a kist ; 
 And proud Eline lyle laid hersell wi' it ; — 
 
 That Rosmer little wist. 
 
 He took the man under his arm ; 
 
 The kist on his back took he ; 
 Sae he can under the saut sea gang, 
 
 Sae canny and sae free. 
 
 " Now I hae borne thee till the land ; 
 
 Thou seest baith sun and moon : 
 And I gie thee this kist o' goud, 
 
 That is nae churlis boon." 
 
 " I thank thee, Rosmer, thou gude fellow ; 
 
 Thou 'st landed me but harm ; 
 I tell thee now for tidings new, 
 
 Proud Eline lyle's wi' bairn." 
 
 Then ran the tears down Rosmer's cheeks, 
 As the burn u rins down the brae : 12 
 
 " But I hae sworn thee ward and warrant, 
 Here drowning thou should hae." 
 
 Hame to the knock 13 syne Rosmer ran, 
 
 As the hart rins to the hind ; 
 But whan to the knock that he cam hame, 
 
 Nae Eline lyle could he find. 
 
 But proud Eline and Child Roland, 
 
 Wi' gaming lyst and joy, 
 Gaed hand in hand, wi' kindly talk, 
 
 And mony an amorous toy. 
 
 9 Secretly. 
 10 Foreign. 
 
 u Brook. 
 12 Hillside. 
 
 13 Hillock. 
 
 Rosmer waxt sae wroth and grim, 
 Whan he nae Eline fand, 
 
 He turn'd intill a whinstane gray, 
 Siclike he there does stand. 
 
 WIT AT NEED. 
 
 The brither did at the sister speer, 
 
 (Oft and many times,) 
 " Will ye na tak a man to your fere ? " 
 
 (It 's a' for her dearie she sorrows sae.) 
 
 " O na, O na, dear brither ! " she said, 
 
 (Oft and many times,) 
 For I am o'er young yet to wed." 
 
 (It 's a' for her dearie she sorrows sae.) 
 
 " Gin they say true in this gate en', 
 
 Ye 've nae been aye sae fleyt * for men." 
 
 " They say was aye for a liar kent ; 
 O' they says nane but fools tak tent." 
 
 " But wha was that for a knight sae braw, 
 That rade frae your castle this morning awa' ?' 
 
 "A knight!" quo' she; "braw knights in- 
 deed ! — 
 'T was my little foot-page upon his steed ! " 
 
 " But what were they for twa pair o' sheen, 
 That lay afore your bed yestreen ? " 
 
 " Twa pair o' sheen ! " quo' she ; " o' sheen .' ' 
 'T is surely my slippers, Billy, you mean." 
 
 " And what wee lairnies, the tither day, 
 Was it i' the bed wi' you that lay ? " 
 
 " Wee bairnies .' — O, ay ! — the tither day, 
 Wi' my dowie, I mind now, I did play ! " 
 
 " But what for a hairnie was it that cried 
 Sae loud i' your bower this morrow tide ? " 
 
 " Could ever sic greeting a hairnie's be ? 
 'T was my lassie that grat, she had tint 2 her 
 key." 
 
 " And what bonny cradle was it sae braw, 
 That I i' the neuk sae cannily saw ? " 
 
 " Bonny cradle ! " quo' she ; " gude sain your 
 
 een ! 
 It 's my silk loom wi' the wab you 've seen. 
 
 " Now, brither, what mair hae ye to speer ? 
 I' ve answers aneuch, ye needna fear ! " 
 
 Whan women for answers are at a stand, 
 
 (Oft and manj' times,) 
 The North Sea bottom will be dry land. 
 
 (It 's a' for her dearie she sorrows sae.) 
 
 i Afraid. 
 
 2 Lost. 
 
BALLADS. 
 
 79 
 
 THE MER-MAN, AND MARSTIG'S 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Now rede * me, dear mither, a sonsy : 
 A sonsy rede swythe rede to me, 
 
 How Marstig's daughter I may fa', 
 My love and lemman gay to be." 
 
 rede; 
 
 She 's made him a steed o' the clear water ; 
 
 A saddle and bridle o' sand made she ; 
 She 's shap'd him into a knight sae fair, 
 
 Syne into Mary's kirk-yard rade he. 
 
 He 's tied his steed to the kirk-stile, 
 
 Syne wrang-gates 3 round the kirk gaed he; 
 
 When the Mer-man entered the kirk-door, 
 Awa the sma' images turned their ee'. 
 
 The priest afore the altar stood : 
 
 " O, what for a gude knight may this be ? " 
 The may leugh till hersell, and said, 
 
 " God gif that gude knight were for me ! " 
 
 The Mer-man he stept o'er ae deas, 
 
 And he has steppit over three : 
 " O maiden, pledge me faith and troth ! 
 
 O Marstig's daughter, gang wi' me ! " 
 
 And she raught out her lily hand, 
 
 And pledg'd it to the knight sae free : 
 
 " Hae ; there 's my faith and troth, Sir Knight, 
 And willingly I '11 gang wi' thee." 
 
 Out frae the kirk gaed the bridal train, 
 And on they dane'd wi' fearless glee ; 
 
 And down they dane'd unto the strand, 
 Till twasome now alane they be : 
 
 " O Marstig's daughter, haud my steed, 
 And the bonniest ship I '11 bigg 4 for thee !" 
 
 And whan they came to the white sand, 
 To shore the sma' boats turning came ; 
 
 And whan they came to the deep water, 
 The maiden sank in the saut sea faem. 
 
 The shriek she shriek'd amang the waves 
 Was heard far up upo' the land : 
 
 " I rede gude ladies, ane and a', 
 
 They dance wi' nae sic unco 5 man." 
 
 ELFER HILL. 
 
 I laid my haffet ' on Elfer Hill ; 
 
 Saft slooming 2 clos'd my ee' ; 
 And there twa selcouth 3 ladies came, 
 
 Sae fain to speak to me. 
 
 Ane clappit me then, wi' cheek sae white, 
 And rown'd 4 intill mine ear: 
 
 1 Counsel. 4 Build. 2 Slumber. 
 
 2 Good. 6 Unknown. 3 Strange. 
 
 3 Backwards. i Head. 4 Whispered. 
 
 " Rise up, fair youth, and join our dance ; 
 Rise up, but 5 doubt or fear ! 
 
 " Wake up, fair youth, and join the dance, 
 
 And we will tread the ring, 
 While mair nor eardly melody 
 
 My ladies for thee sing." 
 
 Syne ane, the fairest may on mold, 
 
 Sae sweet a sang began ; 
 The hurling stream was still'd therew 
 
 Sae fast afore that ran. 
 
 The striving stream was still'd therew 
 
 Sae fast that wont to rin ; 
 The sma' fish, in the flood that swam, 
 
 Amo' their faes now blin'. 
 
 The fishes a', in flood that were, 
 
 Lay still, baith fin and tail ; 
 The sma' fowls in the shaw began 
 
 To whitter 6 in the dale. 
 
 " O, hear, thou fair, thou young swain . 
 
 And thou wi' us will dwell, 
 Then will we teach thee book and rune 
 
 To read and write sae well. 
 
 " I '11 lear thee how the bear to bind, 
 
 And fasten to the aik tree ; 
 The dragon, that liggs on mickle goud, 
 
 Afore thee fast shall flee." 
 
 They danced out, and they danced in, 
 
 In the Elfer ring sae green ; 
 All silent sat the fair young swain, 
 
 And on his sword did lean. 
 
 " Now hear, thou fair, thou young swain 
 
 But and thou till us speak, 
 Then shall on sword and sharp knife 
 
 Thy dearest heart-blood reek." 
 
 Had God nae made my luck sae gude, 
 That the cock did wap 7 his wing, 
 
 I boot hae bidden on Elfer Hill, 
 In the Elf-ladies' ring. 
 
 I rede the Danish young swains, 
 
 That to the court will ride, 
 That they ne'er ride to Elfer Hill, 
 
 Nor sleep upon its side. 
 
 KING OLUF THE SAINT. 
 
 King Oluf and his brother bold 
 'Bout Norroway's rocks a parley hold. 
 
 " The one of the two who best can sail 
 Shall rule o'er Norroway's hill and dale. 
 
 " Who first of us reaches our native ground 
 O'er all the region shall king be crowned." 
 
 5 Without. 6 To warble in a low voice. t Flap. 
 
30 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 Then Harald Haardrode answer made : 
 " Ay, let it be done as thou hast said. 
 
 " But if I to-day must sail with thee, 
 
 Thou shalt. change thy vessel, I swear, with me. 
 
 "For thou hast got the Dragon of speed; 
 
 I shall make with the Ox a poor figure indeed. 
 
 " The Dragon is swift as the clouds in chase ; 
 The Ox, he moveth in lazy pace." 
 
 " Hear, Harald, what I have to say to thee, 
 What thou hast proposed well pleaseth me. 
 
 "If my ship in aught be better than thine, 
 I '11 readily, cheerfully, lend thee mine. 
 
 " Do thou the Dragon so sprightly take, 
 And I with the Ox will the journey make." 
 
 " But first to the church we '11 bend our way, 
 Ere our hand on sail or on oar we lay." 
 
 And into the church Saint Oluf trode, 
 
 His beautiful hair like the bright gold glowed. 
 
 But soon, out of breath, there came a man : 
 " Thy brother is sailing off fast as he can." 
 
 " Let them sail, my friend, who to sail may 
 
 choose ; 
 The word of our Lord we will not lose. 
 
 "The mass is the word of our blessed Lord. 
 Take water, ye swains, for our table board. 
 
 " We will sit at board, and the meat we will 
 
 taste, 
 Then unto the sea-shore quietly haste.' 
 
 Now down they all speed to the ocean-strand, 
 Where the Ox lay rocking before the land. 
 
 And speedily they to the ocean bore 
 The anchor, and cable, and sail, and oar. 
 
 Saint Oluf he stood on the prow when on board : 
 " Now forward, thou Ox, in the name of the 
 Lord ! " 
 
 He grappled the Ox by the horn so white : 
 " Hie now, as if thou went clover to bite ! " 
 
 Then forward the Ox began to hie, 
 
 In his wake stood the billows boisterously. 
 
 He hallooed to the lad on the yard so high : 
 ' Do we the Dragon of Harald draw nigh ? " 
 
 " No more of the pomps of the world I see 
 Than the uppermost top of the good oak-tree. — 
 
 " I see near the land of Norroway skim 
 Bright silken sails with a golden rim. — 
 
 " I see 'neath Norroway's mountains proud 
 The Dragon bearing of sail a cloud. — 
 
 " I see, I see, by Norroway's side, 
 The Dragon gallantly forward stride." 
 
 On the Ox's ribs a blow he gave : 
 
 " Now faster, now faster, over the wave ! " 
 
 He struck the Ox on the eye with force : 
 " To the haven much speedier thou must 
 course." 
 
 Then forward the Ox began to leap, 
 No sailor on deck his stand could keep. 
 
 Then cords he took, and his mariners fast 
 He tied to the vessel's rigging and mast. 
 
 'Twas then — 'twas then — the steersman cried 
 " But who shall now the vessel guide ? " 
 
 His little gloves off Saint Oluf throws, 
 And to stand himself by the rudder he goes. 
 
 " O, we will sail o'er cliff and height, 
 The nearest way, like a line of light ! " 
 
 So o'er the hills and dales they career, 
 To them they became like water clear. 
 
 So they sailed along o'er the mountains blue, 
 Then out came running the Elfin crew. 
 
 " Who sails o'er the gold in which we joy ? 
 Our ancient father ' who dares annoy ? " 
 
 " Elf, turn to stone, and a stone remain 
 Till I by this path return again! " 
 
 So they sailed o'er Skaaney's mountains tall, 
 And stones became the little Elves all. 
 
 Out came a Carline with spindle and.rok : 
 " Saint Oluf! why sailest thou us to mock? 
 
 " Saint Oluf, thou who the red beard hast ! 
 Through my chamber wall thy ship hath passed." 
 
 With a glance of scorn did Saint Oluf say : 
 " Stand there a flint-rock for ever and aye." 
 
 Unhindered, unhindered, they bravely sailed on, 
 Before them yielded both stock and stone. 
 
 Still onward they sailed in such gallant guise, 
 That no man upon them could fasten his eyes 
 
 Saint Oluf a bow before his knee bent, 
 Behind the sail dropped the shaft that he sent. 
 
 From the stern Saint Oluf a barb shot free, 
 Behind the Ox fell the shaft in the sea. 
 
 l Meaning, probably, the hill. 
 
BALLADS. 
 
 81 
 
 Saint Oluf he trusted in Christ alone, 
 
 And therefore first home by three days he won. 
 
 And that made Harald with fury storm, 
 Of a laidly dragon he took the form. 
 
 But the Saint was a man of devotion full, 
 And the Saint got Norroway's land to rule. 
 
 Into the church Saint Oluf trode, 
 
 He thanked the Saviour in fervent mood. 
 
 Saint Oluf walked the church about, 
 There shone a glory his ringlets out. 
 
 Whom God doth help makes bravely his way, 
 His enemies win both shame and dismay. 
 
 AAGER AND ELIZA. 
 
 'T was the valiant knight, Sir Aager, 
 
 He to the far island hied, 
 There he wedded sweet Eliza, 
 
 She of maidens was the pride. 
 
 There he married sweet Eliza, 
 With her lands and ruddy gold ; 
 
 Woe is me ! the Monday after, 
 Dead he lay beneath the mould. 
 
 In her bower sat sweet Eliza, 
 
 Screamed, and would not be consoled ; 
 And the good Sir Aager listened, 
 
 Underneath the dingy mould. 
 
 Up Sir Aager rose, his coffin 
 Bore he on his bended back : 
 
 Towards the bower of sweet Eliza 
 Was his sad and silent track. 
 
 He the door tapped with his coffin, 
 
 For his fingers had no skin : 
 " Rise, O, rise, my sweet Eliza ! 
 
 Rise, and let thy bridegroom in." 
 
 Straightway answered fair Eliza 
 
 " I will not undo my door, 
 'Till thou name the name of Jesus, 
 
 Even as thou could'st before." 
 
 " Rise, O, rise, mine own Eliza, 
 And undo thy chamber door ! 
 
 I can name the name of Jesus, 
 Even as I could of yore.'' 
 
 Up then rose the sweet Eliza, 
 
 Down her cheeks tears streaming ran ; 
 Unto her within the bower 
 
 She admits the spectre man. 
 
 She her golden comb has taken, 
 And has combed his yellow hair; 
 
 On each lock that she adjusted 
 
 Fell a hot and briny tear. 
 
 11 
 
 " Listen now, my good Sir Aager ! 
 
 Dearest bridegroom, all I crave 
 Is to know how it goes with thee 
 
 In that lonely place, the grave ? " 
 
 " Every time that thou rejoicest, 
 
 And art happy in thy mind, 
 Are my lonely grave's recesses 
 
 All with leaves of roses lined. 
 
 " Every time that, love, thou grievest, 
 And dost shed the briny flood, 
 
 Are my lonely grave's recesses 
 
 Filled with black and loathsome blood. 
 
 " Heard I not the red cock crowing ? 
 
 I, my dearest, must away ; 
 Down to earth the dead are going, 
 
 And behind I must not stay. 
 
 " Hear I not the black cock crowing ? 
 
 To the grave I down must go ; 
 Now the gates of heaven are opening, 
 
 Fare thee well for ever moe." 
 
 Up Sir Aager stood, the coffin 
 Takes he on his bended back ; 
 
 To the dark and distant church-yard 
 Is his melancholy track. 
 
 Up then rose the sweet Eliza, 
 Full courageous was her mood ; 
 
 And her bridegroom she attended 
 Through the dark and dreary wood. 
 
 When the forest they had traversed, 
 And within the church-yard were, 
 
 Faded then of good Sir Aager 
 Straight the lovely yellow hair. 
 
 When the church-yard they had traversed 
 And the church's threshold crossed, 
 
 Straight the cheek of good Sir Aager 
 All its rosy colors lost. 
 
 " Listen now, my sweet Eliza ! 
 
 If my peace be dear to thee, 
 Never thou, from this time forward, 
 
 Pine or shed a tear for me. 
 
 " Turn, I pray thee, up to heaven 
 
 To the little stars thy sight : 
 Then thou mayest know for certain 
 
 How it fareth with the knight." 
 
 Soon as e'er her eyes to heaven 
 To the little stars she reared, 
 
 Into earth the dead man glided, 
 And to her no more appeared. 
 
 Homeward went the sweet Eliza, 
 Grief of her had taken hold ; 
 
 Woe is me ! the Monday after, 
 Dead she lay beneath the mould. 
 
82 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 
 
 Sir Olttf he rideth over the plain, 
 
 Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide ; 
 But never, ah ! never, can meet with the man 
 
 A tilt with him dare ride. 
 
 He saw under the hill-side 
 
 A knight full well equipped ; 
 His steel was black, his helm was barred; 
 
 He was riding at full speed. 
 
 He wore upon his spurs 
 
 Twelve little golden birds ; 
 Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, 
 
 And there sat all the birds and sang. 
 
 He wore upon his mail 
 
 Twelve little golden wheels ; 
 Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, 
 
 And round and round the wheels they flew. 
 
 He wore before his breast 
 
 A lance that was poised in rest, 
 And it was sharper than diamond-stone ; 
 
 It made Sir Oluf 's heart to groan. 
 
 He wore upon his helm 
 A wreath of ruddy gold ; 
 
 And that gave him the Maidens Three, 
 The youngest was fair to behold. 
 
 Sir Oluf questioned the knight eftsoon 
 If he were come from heaven down ; 
 
 " Art thou Christ of Heaven ?" quoth he, 
 " So will I yield me unto thee." 
 
 " I am not Christ the Great, 
 Thou shalt not yield thee yet ; 
 
 I am an Unknown Knight, 
 
 Three modest Maidens have me bedight.' 
 
 " Art thou a knight elected ? 
 
 And have three maidens thee bedight ? 
 So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, 
 
 For all the maidens' honor ! " 
 
 The first tilt they together rode, 
 They put their steeds to the test ; 
 
 The second tilt they together rode, 
 They proved their manhood best. 
 
 The third tilt they together rode, 
 Neither of them would yield ; 
 
 The fourth tilt they together rode, 
 They both fell on the field. 
 
 Now lie the lords upon the plain, 
 And their blood runs unto death ; 
 
 Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, 
 The youngest sorrows till death. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THOMAS KINGO. 
 
 Thomas Kingo was born in Slangerup in 
 1634, and died, as bishop of Funen, in 1723. 
 He was the author of psalms and spiritual 
 Bongs, whose simplicity and quaintness remind 
 the English reader of Crashaw and Quarles. 
 He was highly esteemed by his contemporaries, 
 and his memory is still held in reverence in 
 his native country. He has been called the 
 Dr. Watts of Denmark. 
 
 MORNING SONG. 
 
 From eastern quarters now 
 
 The sun 's up-wandering, 
 His rays on the rock's brow 
 
 And hill's side squandering; 
 Be glad, my soul ! and sing amidst thy 
 pleasure, 
 
 Fly from the house of dust, 
 
 Up with thy thanks, and trust 
 To heaven's azure ! 
 
 O, countless as the grains 
 
 Of sand so tiny, 
 Measureless as the main's 
 
 Deep waters briny, 
 God's mercy is, which he upon me show- 
 ereth ! 
 
 Each morning, in my shell, 
 
 A grace immeasurable 
 To me down-poureth. 
 
 Thou best dost understand, 
 
 Lord God ! my needing, 
 And placed is in thy hand 
 
 My fortune's speeding, 
 And thou foreseest what is for me most 
 fitting ; 
 
 Be still, then, O my soul ! 
 
 To manage in the whole 
 Thy God permitting ! 
 
 May fruit the land array, 
 
 And corn for eating ! 
 May truth e'er make its way, 
 
 With justice meeting! 
 
TULLIN. — EVALD. 
 
 83 
 
 Give thou to me my share with every other, 
 
 Till down my staff I lay, 
 
 And from this world away 
 Wend to another ! 
 
 CHRISTIAN BRAUMAN TULLIN. 
 
 Tullin was born in Christiania, in 1728, 
 and received his education at the University 
 of Copenhagen, where, besides the usual acade- 
 mic course, he applied himself to music, draw- 
 ing, and the French and German languages. 
 On closing his college life, he returned to 
 Christiania, where he devoted himself to the 
 study of the law, and of English and Italian. 
 Among the English poets, Young and Pope 
 were his favorites, and had, doubtless, much 
 influence upon his taste. He afterwards became 
 director of a nail, starch, and powder manufac- 
 tory. He died, as collector of his native town, 
 at the early age of thirty-seven. 
 
 His poems were received with great enthusi- 
 asm by his countrymen. For a long time he was 
 considered the first of the Danish poets. He 
 seems, however, to have gained his fame very 
 easily; for, if judged by a high standard of poetic 
 merit, or by that which he himself established, 
 — " Thoughts are the soul of poetry ; the more 
 of these one finds in a poem, the better is the 
 poem," — he would not be ranked among the 
 first. The following extract is a paraphrase of 
 some of the concluding stanzas of " Maidagen," 
 Tullin's most celebrated piece. It is in a dif- 
 ferent measure from the original, and can hard- 
 y be considered as a fair specimen of the au- 
 thor's power. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM MAY-DAY. 
 
 Hail, uncreated Being, source of life, 
 Whose love is boundless, and whose mercy wise! 
 Whose power hath wrought, to spread thy glo- 
 ries wide, 
 For every sense a paradise of joy ! 
 Thyself art All, and in thy spirit pure 
 Live all created things : each form declares 
 Thy touch and pressure ; every meanest tribe 
 The sacred image of thy nature bears ! 
 Summer, and autumn's sun, and wintry blasts 
 Proclaim thy might and glory ; but the spring, 
 Wherefore and whence, O Lord, its genial 
 
 breath ? 
 'T is the loud voice that bids the faithless bow; 
 With thousand thousand tongues of joy and 
 
 praise, 
 With the full choir of new-created life, 
 Singing thy name ; proclaiming to the dull 
 Thy love, thy bounty, thine almighty hand ! 
 And thee it most resembles ; like thyself, 
 It moulds and fashions ; bids the spirit wake ; 
 Gives life and aliment, and clothes the form 
 
 With strength and vigor ! 'T is the holy type 
 Of thy creative breath ! — How mean of soul, 
 How lost are they to every finer bliss, 
 Who, prisoned 'mid the dusty smoke of towns 
 (When Nature calls aloud, and Life invites, 
 Arrayed in youth and freshest beauty), sit 
 Forlorn and darkling in the maze of thought ! 
 Life springs at thy command ; thou bidd'st 
 
 awake 
 New scenes to witness all thy majesty, 
 New shapes and creatures : none dost thou forbid 
 To view the wondrous produce of thy word ; 
 And shall that creature, whom thy bounty raised 
 By reason high above the grovelling race, 
 With coldness trace thy glory, taste thy gifts 
 Contemptuous and unmoved ? — I tremble, Lord, 
 I roam, as on a wide and fathomless sea, 
 Amid the wonders of thy growing year ! 
 I see, but know not : my full heart admires 
 The prospect of delight thou spread'st around; 
 And, as thy beck can from the withered plant 
 Call forth new verdure, bid fresh blossoms spring, 
 Methinks that power may in the mouldering 
 
 corse 
 Arouse warm life and vigor. I behold 
 Each living thing declare thy liberal hand, 
 Thy force, all-bountiful, almighty God ! 
 And shall not I, on whom thy judging will 
 Showers choicer bliss, some duteous tribute pay, 
 Some strain of rapture, to the King of Kings ? 
 My mind and heart and ravished sense admire 
 The might and gorgeous majesty of heaven, 
 The glory of thy works ; and deem the world 
 Created vainly for such torpid souls 
 As scorn its beauty and renounce its joys. 
 
 I 
 
 JOHANNES EVALD. 
 
 Contemporary with Tullin, and, if less known 
 during his lifetime, more honored after his 
 death, is Johannes Evald. He was born at 
 Copenhagen in 1743. At the age of sixteen, he 
 ran away from the University, and escaped to 
 Germany, where he entered the Prussian army, 
 and afterwards deserted to the Austrian, which 
 he joined as a drummer. After two years of 
 service, he returned to Copenhagen in 1760, 
 where he passed the remainder of his life in 
 literary pursuits. He died in 1781. 
 
 Evald is the author of several dramatic works, 
 the most important of which are the tragedies 
 of "Rolf Krage," and " Balder's Dod " (Bal- 
 der's Death), and the lyrical drama of " Fis- 
 kerne " (the Fishermen), in which he has in- 
 troduced the celebrated national song of " King 
 Christian." He also commenced another trage- 
 dy, entitled " Frode," and a new " Hamlet," in 
 iambics. It is, however, as a lyric, not as a 
 dramatic poet, that Evald is chiefly known and 
 valued. In this point of view he has no rival 
 among his countrymen. His songs are written 
 with remarkable vigor and beauty. In strength 
 and simplicity he resembles Campbell. 
 
S4 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 KING CHRISTIAN. 
 
 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 ! " 
 " 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 ! 
 
 THE WISHES. 
 
 All hail, thou new year, that, apparelled in 
 sweetness, 
 Now spring 'st like a youth from eternity's 
 breast ! 
 O, say, dost thou come from the bright throne of 
 greatness, 
 Our herald of mercy, of gladness, and rest? 
 Cheer the heart of our king with benignity's 
 token ; 
 Light his soul with the sunbeam that sets not 
 above ; 
 Be his sword unresisted, his sceptre unbroken ; 
 O, peace be to Christian, the monarch we 
 love ! 
 
 With an emerald zone bind the rocks of the 
 North ; 
 O'er Denmark's green vales spread a buckler 
 of gold ; 
 Pour the glories of harvest unsparingly forth, 
 And show that our wealth is our dear native 
 mould : 
 
 Smile on the conqueror of ocean, who urges, 
 Through darkness and tempests, his blue path 
 to fame ; 
 May the sea spare her hero, and waft on her 
 surges 
 Blessings and peace to the land whence he 
 came : 
 
 Round the forehead of art twine the wreath 
 that she loves, 
 And harden to labor the sinews of youth ; 
 With a hedge of stout hearts guard our Eden's 
 fair groves, 
 And temper their valor with mercy and truth : 
 Bless him, to whom heaven its bright flame 
 commendeth, 
 And shadow his couch with the folds of thy 
 love ; 
 Give light to our judges, — the heart that ne'er 
 bendeth, — 
 Inspirit our bards, and our teachers approve. 
 
 O, blest be the firm-hearted hero, who weaves 
 not 
 A thought or a wish but his spirit may own ! 
 O, shame on the cold son of interest, who 
 cleaves not 
 To the heart of his country, and loves her 
 alone ! 
 Be her welfare our glory, our joy, our devotion ; 
 Unchilled be her valor, her worth undecayed ; 
 May her friends on her fields gaze with rap- 
 ture's emotion ; 
 May she long love the stranger, but ask not 
 his aid ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 From high the seaman's wearied sight 
 Spies the green forests with delight, 
 
 Which seem to promise rest and joy ; 
 But woe is him, if hope deceives, 
 If his fond eye too late perceives 
 
 The breakers lurking to destroy. 
 
 O sweetest pledge of love and pleasure, 
 Enchanting smile ! thy depth I '11 measure, 
 
 Wary, as in the shallow tide ; 
 That, if beneath that garb of beauty 
 The mind has shoals to wreck my duty, 
 
 I straight may seek the waters wide. 
 
 EDWARD STORM. 
 
 Edward Storm was born in 1749, at Vaage, 
 in Guldbrandsdalen, Norway. He is the au- 
 thor of a comic heroic poem, in hexameters, en- 
 titled " Bra=ger," and a collection of "Fables 
 and Tales in the manner of Gellert." But in 
 the comic vein he is not considered equal to his 
 countryman Wessel, whose tragi-comedy of 
 " Kjerlighed uden Stromper " (Love with 
 
STORM. 
 
 86 
 
 out Stockings) is looked upon as one of the 
 most successful humorous productions of Den- 
 mark. He is known chiefly as a lyric poet. 
 In his ballads he has caught much of the spirit 
 of ancient song. Many of them are written in 
 his native Guldbrandsdalske dialect, and these 
 are the most esteemed among his countrymen. 
 He died in 1794. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF SINCLAIR. 
 
 Across the sea came the Sinclair brave, 
 And he steered for the Norway border ; 
 
 In Guldbrand valley he found his grave, 
 Where his merry men fell in disorder. 
 
 Across the sea came the Sinclair brave, 
 To fight for the gold of Gustavus ; 
 
 God help thee, chief! from the Norway glaive 
 No other defender can save us. 
 
 The moon rode high in the blue night-cloud, 
 And the waves round the bark rippled 
 smoothly ; 
 
 When the mermaid rose from her watery shroud, 
 And thus sang the prophetess soothly : 
 
 " Return, return, thou Scottish wight ! 
 
 Or thy light is extinguished in mourning; 
 If thou goest to Norway, I tell thee right, 
 
 No day shall behold thy returning." 
 
 " Now loud thou liest, thou sorceress old ! 
 
 Thy prophecies ever are sore ; 
 If once I catch thee within my hold, 
 
 Thou never shalt prophesy more." 
 
 He sailed three days, he sailed three nights, . 
 
 He and his merry men bold ; 
 The fourth he neared old Norway's heights; — 
 
 I tell you the tale as 't is told. 
 
 On Romsdale coast has he landed his host, 
 
 And lifted the flag of ruin ; 
 Full fourteen hundred, of mickle boast, 
 
 All eager for Norway's undoing. 
 
 They scathe, they ravage, where'er they light, 
 
 Justice or ruth unheeding ; 
 They spare not the old for his locks so white, 
 
 Nor the widow for her pleading. 
 
 They slew the babe on his mother's arm, 
 As he smiled so sweet on his foemen : 
 
 3ut the cry of woe was the war- alarm, 
 And the shriek was the warrior's omen. 
 
 The Baun 1 flamed high, and the message-wood 
 ran 
 
 Swiftly o'er field and o'er furrow ; 
 No hiding-place sought the Guldbranders then, 
 
 As the Sinclair shall find to his sorrow. 
 
 1 A heap of wood raised in the form of a cone on the 
 summits of the mountains, and set on fire to give notice of 
 invasion. 
 
 " Ye men of Norway, arise, arise ! 
 
 Fight for your king and your laws ; 
 And woe to the craven wretch that flies, 
 
 And grudges his blood in the cause ! " 
 
 And all of Lesso, and Vog, ana Lon, 
 With axes full sharp on their shoulders, 
 
 To Bredeboyd in a swarm are gone, 
 To talk with the Scottish soldiers. 
 
 Close under lid lies a pathway long, 
 The swift-flowing Laugen runs by it ; 
 
 We call it Kring in our Northern tongue ; 
 There wait we the foemen. in quiet. 
 
 No more on the wall hangs the rifle-gun, 
 
 For the gray marksman aims at the foemen ; 
 
 Old Nokken 2 mounts from the waters dun, 
 And waits for the prey that is coming. 
 
 The first shot hit the brave Sinclair right, 
 He fell with a groan full grievous ; 
 
 The Scots beheld the good colonel's plight, 
 Then said they, " Saint Andrew receive us ! " 
 
 " Ye Norway men, let your hearts be keen ! 
 
 No mercy to those who deny it! " 
 The Scots then wished themselves home, I ween, 
 
 They liked not this Norway diet. 
 
 We strewed with bodies the long pathway, 
 The ravens they feasted full deep ; 
 
 The youthful blood, that was spilt that day, 
 The maidens of Scotland may weep. 
 
 No Scottish flower was left on the stem, 
 
 No Scotsman returned to tell 
 How perilous 't is to visit them 
 
 Who in mountains of Norway dwell. 
 
 And still on the spot stands a statue high, 
 For the foemen of Norway's discerning; 
 
 And woe to him who that statue can spy, 
 And feels not his spirit burning ! 
 
 THORVALD. 
 
 Swayne Tveskieg did a man possess, 
 
 Sir Thorvald hight ; 
 Though fierce in war, kind acts in peace 
 
 Were his delight. 
 From port to port his vessels fast 
 
 Sailed wide around, 
 And made, where'er they anchor cast, 
 
 His name renowned. 
 But Thorvald has freed his king. 
 
 Prisoners he bought, — clothes, liberty, 
 
 On them bestowed, 
 And sent men home from slavery 
 
 To their abode. 
 
 2 The river-god. 
 H 
 
S6 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 And many an old man got his boy, 
 
 His age's stay ; 
 And many a maid her youth's sole joy, 
 
 Her lover gay. 
 But Thorvald has freed his king. 
 
 A brave fight Thorvald loved full dear, 
 
 For brave his mood ; 
 But never did he dip his spear 
 
 In feeble blood. 
 He followed Swayne to many a fray 
 
 With war-shield bright, 
 And his mere presence scared away 
 
 Foul deeds of might. 
 But Thorvald has freed his king. 
 
 They hoist sail on the lofty mast; 
 
 It was King Swayne ; 
 He o'er the bluey billows passed 
 
 With armed train. 
 His mind to harry Bretland : boiled ; 
 
 He leapt on shore : 
 And every, every thing recoiled 
 
 His might before. 
 But Thorvald has freed his king. 
 
 Yet slept not Bretland 's chieftain good ; 
 
 He speedily 
 Collects a host in the dark wood 
 
 Of cavalry. 
 And evil, through that subtle plan, 
 
 Befell the Dane ; 
 They were ta'en prisoners every man, 
 
 And last king Swayne. 
 But Thorvald has freed his king. 
 
 " Now hear, thou prison-foogd ! 2 and, pray, 
 
 My message heed : 
 Unto the castle take thy way, 
 
 Thence Thorvald lead ; 
 Prison and chains become him not, 
 
 Whose gallant hand 
 So many a handsome lad has brought 
 
 From slavery's band." 
 But Thorvald has freed his king. 
 
 The man brought this intelligence 
 
 To the bower's door; 
 But Thorvald, with loud vehemence, 
 
 "I '11 not go," swore. 
 " What ! go, and leave my sovereign here, 
 
 In durance sore ? 
 No ! Thorvald then ne'er worthy were 
 
 To lift shield more." 
 But Thorvald has freed his king. 
 
 What cannot noble souls effect? 
 
 Both freedom gain 
 Through Thorvald's prayer, and the respect 
 
 His deeds obtain. 
 And, from that hour unto his grave, 
 
 Swayne ever showed 
 Towards his youth's friend, so true and brave, 
 
 Fit gratitude. 
 But Thorvald has freed his king. 
 
 i Br w ,ain. 
 
 2 The governor of the prison. 
 
 Swayne Tveskieg sat with kings one tide, 
 
 O'er mead and beer ; 
 The cushion soft he stroked, and cried, 
 
 " Sit, Thorvald, here. 
 Thy father ne'er ruled land like me 
 
 And my compeers ; 
 But yarl and nobleman is he 
 
 Whose fame thine nears. 
 For Thorvald has freed the king." 
 
 THOMAS THAARUP. 
 
 Thomas Thaarup was born at Copenhagen 
 in 1749, and, after completing his studies at the 
 University, he became Professor of History, 
 Philosophy, and Belles Lettres in the Royal 
 Naval Academy, a post which he occupied 
 twenty years. In 1800 he retired to Smid- 
 strup, where he lived upon his pension until his 
 death in 1821, at the advanced age of seventy- 
 two. 
 
 His principal works are the three national 
 operas of " Hostgildet" (Harvest Home), "Pe- 
 ters Bryllup " (Peter's Marriage), and " Hiem- 
 komsten " (the Return Home). As a poet, he 
 is more remarkable for his common sense and 
 correct versification than for invention or pow- 
 er. He is more patriotic than poetical. 
 
 THE LOVE OF OUR COUNTRY. 
 
 Thou spot of earth, where from my bosom 
 
 The first weak tones of nature rose ; 
 Where first I cropped the stainless blossom 
 
 Of pleasure, yet unmixed with woes ; 
 Where, with my new-born powers delightei 
 
 I tripped beneath a mother's hand ; 
 In thee the quenchless flame was lighted, 
 
 That sparkles for my native land ! 
 
 And when in childhood's quiet morning 
 
 Sometimes to distant haunts we rove, 
 The heart, like bended bow returning, 
 
 Springs swifter to its home of love. 
 Each hill, each dale, that shared our pleasures, 
 
 Becomes a heaven in memory ; 
 And e'en the broken veteran measures 
 
 With sprightlier step his haunts in glee. 
 
 Through east, through west, where'er creation 
 
 Glows with the cheerful hum of men, 
 Clear, bright it burns, to earth's last nation, 
 
 The ardor of the citizen : 
 The son of Greenland's white expansion 
 
 Contemns green corn and laughing vine ; 
 The cot is his embattled mansion, 
 
 The rugged rock his Palestine. 
 
 Such was the beacon-light that guided 
 Our earliest chiefs through war and woe ; 
 
 E'en love itself in fame subsided, 
 
 Though love was all their good below : 
 
THAARUP. — RAHBEK. 
 
 87 
 
 Thus Toung Hialte rushed to glory, 
 And left his mourning maid behind ; 
 
 He fell, — and Honor round his story, 
 
 Dropping with tears, her wreath entwined. 
 
 Such flame, O Pastor-chief! impelled thee 
 
 To quit the crosier for the blade ; 
 Not e'en the Heaven-loved cloister held thee, 
 
 When Denmark called thee to her aid: 
 No storms could chill, no darkness blind thee, 
 
 Ankona saw her thousands bend, 
 Yet, when her suppliant arms entwined thee, 
 
 She found a man in Denmark's friend. 
 
 O'er Norway's crags, o'er Denmark's valleys, 
 
 Heroic tombs profusely rise, 
 Memorials of the love that rallies 
 
 Nations round kings, and knits their ties. 
 Sweet is the bond of filial duty, 
 
 Sweet is the grasp of friendly hand, 
 Sweet is the kiss of opening beauty, 
 
 But sweeter still our native land. 
 
 Thou monument of truth unfailing ! 
 
 Sublime, unshaken Frederickshall ! 
 In vain, with peal on peal assailing, 
 
 Charles thundered at thy fatal wall : 
 Beneath thy cliff", in flames ascending, 
 
 A sacrifice to virtue blazed, 
 When patriot bands, serene, unbending, 
 
 Consumed the domes their fathers raised. 
 
 O royal town ! in memory hallowed 
 
 To Denmark's last and darkest day ! 
 The prize that Sweden's hunter followed 
 
 Behind thy feeble ramparts lay : 
 But faith, the strength of towers supplying, 
 
 Bade Vasa tremble for his name ; 
 While, round the rescued Hafnia lying, 
 
 Expired stern Sweden's flower and fame. 
 
 Long, long shall Danish maidens sigh 
 
 For those who in their battle fell ; 
 And mothers long, with beaming eye, 
 
 Of Frederickshall and Hafnia tell ! 
 The child, that learns to lisp his mother, 
 
 Shall learn to lisp his countrv's name ; 
 Shall learn to call her son a brother, 
 
 And guard her rights with heart of flame. 
 
 Burn high, burn clear, thou spark unfading, 
 
 From Holstein's oaks, to Dofra's base ; 
 Till each, in war his country aiding, 
 
 Remain in peace her strength and grace ! 
 The sons of wisdom shall approve us, 
 
 The God of patriots smile from high, 
 While we, and all the hearts that love us, 
 
 Breathe but for Denmark's liberty. 
 
 TO SPRING. 
 
 Thy beams are sweet, beloved spring ! 
 
 The winter-shades before thee fly ; 
 The bough smiles green, the young birds sing, 
 
 The chainless current glistens by ; 
 
 Till countless flowers, like stars, illume 
 The deepening vale and forest-gloom. 
 
 O, welcome, gentle guest from high, 
 Sent to cheer our world below, 
 
 To lighten sorrow's faded eye, 
 To kindle nature's social glow ! 
 
 O, he is o'er his fellows blest, 
 
 Who feels thee in a guiltless breast 1 
 
 Peace to the generous heart, essaying 
 With deeds of love to win our praise ! 
 
 He smiles, the spring of life surveying, 
 Nor fears her cold and wintry days : 
 
 To his high goal, with triumph bright, 
 
 The calm years waft him in their flight. 
 
 Thou glorious goal, that shin'st afar, 
 And seem'st to smile us on our way ; 
 
 Bright is the hope that crowns our war, 
 The dawn-blush of eternal day ! 
 
 There shall we meet, this dark world o'er, 
 
 And mix in love for evermore. 
 
 KNUD LYNE RAHBEK 
 
 Rahbek was born at Copenhagen in 1760, 
 and died there in 1830. His long life was an 
 active and laborious one. He was a man of 
 many occupations, a traveller, a professor, an 
 editor, a critic, and a poet. He began his lite- 
 rary career by translations from Racine and 
 Diderot, and an original play called " Den Unge 
 Darbv " (The Young Darby). A few years after- 
 wards, in connexion with his friend Pram, 
 author of the epic poem of " Starkodder," he 
 established a monthly review under the title 
 of " Minerva." He was the author, also, of 
 another periodical, in imitation of Addison's 
 "Spectator," entitled "Den Danske Tilskuer ' 
 (The Danish Observer), which is considered 
 bv bis countrvmen as his monumentum are 
 perennius, and a mirror of the times. He him- 
 self has been called "the man of the eighteenth 
 century." The following ballad is a favorable 
 specimen of his poetic powers. 
 
 PETER COLBIORNSEN. 
 
 'Fore Fredereksteen King Carl he lay 
 
 With mightv host ; 
 But Frederekshal, from day to day, 
 
 Much trouble cost. 
 To seize the sword each citizen 
 
 His tools let fall, 
 And valiant Peter Colbiornsen 
 
 Was first of all. 
 Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 
 
 'Gainst Frederekshal so fierce and grim 
 
 Turned Carl his might, 
 The citizens encountered him 
 
 In numbers slight; 
 
 H 
 
88 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 But, ah ! they fought like Northern men 
 
 For much-loved land, 
 And it was Peter Colbiornsen 
 
 That led the band. 
 Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 
 
 Such heavy blows the Norsemen deal 
 
 Amid the foe, 
 Like ripe corn 'fore the reaper's steel 
 
 The Swedes sink low. 
 But sturdiest reaper weary will ; 
 
 So happ'd it here ; 
 Though many the Norwegians kill, 
 
 More, more appear. 
 Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 
 
 Before superior force they flew. 
 
 As Norsemen fly, 
 They but retired, the fight anew 
 
 Unawed to ply. 
 Now o'er the bodies of his slain 
 
 His way Carl makes ; 
 He thinks he has the city ta'en, 
 
 But he mistakes. 
 Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 
 
 A speedy death his soldiers found 
 
 Where'er they came ; 
 For Norse were posted all around, 
 
 And greeted them. 
 Then Carl he sent, but sorely vexed, 
 
 To Fredereksteen, 
 And begged that he might bury next 
 
 His slaughtered men. 
 Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 
 
 " No time, no time to squander e'er 
 
 Have Norsemen bold, 
 He came self-bidden 'mongst us here," 
 
 Thus Carl was told ; 
 " If we can drive him back again, 
 
 We now must try," 
 And it was Peter Colbiornsen 
 
 Made that reply. 
 Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 
 
 Lo ! from the town the flames outburst, 
 
 High-minded men ! 
 And he who fired his house the first 
 
 Was Colbiornsen. 
 Eager to. quench the fire, the foes 
 
 Make quick resort, 
 But bullets fell as fast as snows 
 
 Down from the fort. 
 Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 
 
 Now rose the flames toward the sky, 
 
 Red, terrible ; 
 His heroes' death the king thereby 
 
 Could see right well. 
 Sir Peter's word he then made good, 
 
 His host retires ; 
 But in his path the steen it stood, 
 
 And on him fires. 
 Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 
 
 Magnificent 'midst corse and blood 
 
 Glowed Frederekshal ; 
 Illumed its own men's courage proud, 
 
 And Swedesmen fall. 
 Whoe'er saw pile funereal flame 
 
 So bright as then ? 
 Sure never shall expire thy name, 
 
 O Colbiornsen ! 
 Thus for Norroway fight the Norsemen. 
 
 PETER ANDREAS HEIBERG. 
 
 Heiberg was born at Vordingborg in 1758. 
 Till 1800, he lived in Copenhagen, where he 
 devoted himself to writing for the stage. Next 
 to Holberg, he has produced the greatest num- 
 ber of original Danish comedies, most of which 
 are noted for acuteness, wit, and knowledge of 
 the world. In 1800, he was banished from his 
 native country on account of his political writ- 
 ings. Since that time, he has resided in Paris, 
 where, during the reign of Napoleon, he was 
 employed in the Bureau of Foreign Affairs. 
 His later writings consist chiefly of philosoph- 
 ical and literary essays in the French journals. 
 
 NORWEGIAN LOVE-SONG. 
 
 The bright red sun in ocean slept; 
 Beneath a pine-tree Gunild wept, 
 And eyed the hills with silver crowned, 
 And listened to each little sound 
 That stirred on high. 
 
 "Thou stream," she said, "from heights 
 
 above, 
 Flow softly to a woman's love ! 
 As on thy azure current steering, 
 Flow soft, and shut not from my hearing 
 The sounds I love. 
 
 " Ere chased the morn the night-cloud pale, 
 He sought the deer in distant dale : 
 'Farewell ! ' he said, 'when evening closes, 
 Expect me where the moon reposes 
 On yonder vale.' 
 
 " Return, return, my Harold dear ! 
 This wedded bosom pants with fear ; 
 By woodland foe I deem thee dying ; 
 O, come ! and hear the rocks replying 
 To Gunild's joy." 
 
 Then horns and hounds came pealing wide ; 
 " 'T is he ! 't is he ! " fair Gunild cried ; 
 " Ye winds, to Harold bear my cry ! " 
 And rocks and mountains answered high, 
 « 'T is he ! 't is he ! " 
 
 TYCHO BRAHE, OR THE RUINS OF URANIENBORG 
 
 Thou by the strand dost wander, — 
 Yet here, O stranger, stay ! 
 
 Turn towards the island yonder, 
 And listen to my lay : 
 
HE IB ERG. — BAGGESEN. 
 
 89 
 
 Thy every meditation 
 
 Bid thither, thither haste ; 
 
 A castle had its station 
 On yon banks ages past. 
 
 In long past days in glory 
 
 It stood, and grandeur sheen ; 
 Now — 't was so transitory — 
 
 Its ruins scarce are seen. 
 But it in ancient tide was 
 
 For height and size renowned, 
 It seen from every side was 
 
 Uprising from the ground. 
 
 For no sea-king intended, 
 
 I ween, was yonder hold ; 
 Urania ! it ascended 
 
 In praise of thee so bold. 
 Close by the ocean roaring, 
 
 Far, far from mortal jars, 
 It stood towards heaven soaring, 
 
 And towards the little stars. 
 
 A gate in the wall eastward 
 
 Showed like a mighty mouth ; 
 There was another westward, 
 
 And spires stood north and south. 
 The castle dome, high rearing 
 
 Itself, a spirelet bore, 
 Where stood, 'fore the wind veering, 
 
 A Pegasus, gilt o'er. 
 
 Towers, which the sight astounded, 
 
 In north and south were placed, 
 Upon strong pillars founded, 
 
 And both with galleries graced. 
 And there they caught attention 
 
 Of all, who thither strolled, 
 Quadrants of large dimension, 
 
 And spheres in flames that rolled. 
 
 One, from the castle staring, 
 
 Across the island spied 
 The woods, green foliage bearing, 
 
 And ocean's bluey tide. 
 The halls the sight enchanted, 
 
 With colors bright of blee ; 
 The gardens they were planted 
 
 With many a flower and tree. 
 
 When down came night careering, 
 
 And vanished was the sun, 
 The stars were seen appearing 
 
 All heaven's arch upon. 
 Far, far was heard the yelling 
 
 (When one thereto gave heed) 
 Of those who watched the dwelling, 
 
 Four hounds of mastiff breed. 
 
 The good knight ceased to walk on 
 
 The fields of war and gore ; 
 His helm and sword the balk on 
 
 He hung, to use no more. 
 From earth, its woe and riot, 
 
 His mind had taken flight, 
 When in his chamber quiet 
 
 He sat at depth of night. 
 
 Then he his eye erected 
 
 Into the night so far, 
 And keen the course inspected 
 
 Of every twinkling star : 
 The stars his fame transported 
 
 Wide over sea and land ; 
 And kings his friendship courted, 
 
 And sought his islet's strand. 
 
 But the stars pointed serious 
 
 To other countries' track ; 
 His fate called him imperious, 
 
 He went, and came not back. 
 The haughty walls, through sorrow, 
 
 Have long since sunken low ; 
 The heavy ploughshares furrow 
 
 Thy house, Urania ! now. 
 
 Each time the sun is sinking, 
 
 ^t friendly looks on Hveen ; 
 As rays there linger, thinking 
 
 On what that place has been. 
 The moon hastes, melancholy, 
 
 Past, past her coast so dear ; 
 And in love's pleasure holy 
 
 Shines Freya's starlet clear : 
 
 Then suddenly takes to heaving 
 
 Of that same ruin old 
 The basis deep, believing, 
 
 Some evening, — 't is oft told, — 
 For many moments, gladly, 
 
 'T would rise up from the mould ; - 
 It may not ; — so it sadly 
 
 Sinks in Death's slumber cold. 
 
 JENS BAGGESEN. 
 
 Jens Baggesen was born at Korsoer in 1764, 
 and died at Hamburg in 1826. A large por- 
 tion of his life was passed on the Continent. 
 He was for a time professor in the University 
 at Kiel ; but travelling, and a residence in for- 
 eign capitals, seem to have been more in accord- 
 ance with his restless spirit than a fixed abode 
 in his native land. 
 
 His principal writings are a collection of 
 comic stories, called " The Labyrinth," or Tales 
 of a Traveller in Germany, Switzerland, and 
 France ; the operas of " Holgerdanske " and 
 " Erik Eiegod " ; " Parthenais," an idyllic po- 
 em in the manner of Voss's " Luise," and Goe- 
 the's " Hermann und Dorothea"; a burlesque 
 epic, " Adam und Eva " ; and several volumes 
 of lyric and miscellaneous poems. Some of 
 these works were written originally in Ger- 
 man. 
 
 Baggesen was much engaged, also, in those 
 quarrels of authors which so often disgrace the 
 literary world and embitter the lives of schol- 
 ars. He was particularly hostile to Oehlen- 
 schlager, a poet who has attained a far greater 
 
90 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 and more widely extended fame than his antag- 
 onist. Baggesen's lyric poems are considered 
 his best productions. Many of them are written 
 with great tenderness of feeling and elegance 
 of style. 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 There was a time when I was very small, 
 When my whole frame was but an ell in 
 height ; 
 
 Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do fall, 
 And therefore I recall it with delight. 
 
 I sported in my tender mother's arms, 
 
 And rode a-horse-back on best father's knee ; 
 
 Alike were sorrows, passions, and alarms, 
 And gold, and Greek, and love, unknown to 
 me. 
 
 Then seemed to me this world far less in size, 
 Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far ; 
 
 Like points in heaven, I saw the stars arise, 
 And longed for wings that I might catch a 
 star. 
 
 I saw the moon behind the island fade, 
 
 And thought, " O, were I on that island 
 there, 
 I could find out of what the moon is made, 
 Find out how large it is, how round, how 
 fair ! " 
 
 Wondering, I saw God's sun, through western 
 skies, 
 Sink in the ocean's golden 'ip at night, 
 And yet upon the morruw early rise, 
 
 And paint the eastern heaven with crimson 
 light; 
 
 And thought of God, the gracious Heavenly 
 Father, 
 Who made me, and that lovely sun on high, 
 And all those pearls of heaven thick-strung 
 together, 
 Dropped, clustering, from his hand o'er all 
 the sky. 
 
 With childish reverence, my young lips did say 
 The prayer my pious mother taught to me : 
 
 " O gentle God ! O, let me strive alway 
 
 Still to be wise, and good, and follow thee ! " 
 
 So prayed I for my father and my mother, 
 And for my sister, and for all the town; 
 
 The king I knew not, and the beggar-brother, 
 Who, bent with age, went, sighing, up and 
 down. ' 
 
 They perished, the blithe days of boyhood per- 
 ished, 
 And all the gladness, all the peace I knew ! 
 Now have I but their memory, fondly cherish- 
 ed ; — 
 God ! may I never n«ve- lose tl">' too ! 
 
 TO MY NATIVE LAND. 
 
 Thou spot of earth, where from the breast of 
 
 woe 
 My eye first rose, and in the purple glow 
 Of morning, and the dewy smile of love, 
 Marked the first gleamings of the Power above ■■ 
 
 Where, wondering at its birth, my spirit rose, 
 Called forth from nothing by his word sublime, 
 
 To run its mighty race of joys and woes, 
 The proud coeval of immortal time : 
 
 Thou spot unequalled ! where the thousand lyres 
 Of spring first met me on her balmy gale, 
 
 And my rapt fancy heard celestial choirs 
 
 In the wild wood-notes and my mother's tale : 
 
 Where my first trembling accents were addressed 
 To lisp the dear, the unforgotten name, 
 
 And, clasped to mild affection's throbbing breast, 
 My spirit caught from her the kindling flame : 
 
 My country ! have I found a spot of joy, 
 
 Through the wide precincts of the chequered 
 earth, 
 So calm, so sweet, so guiltless of alloy, 
 As thou art to his soul, whose best employ 
 Is to recall the joys that blessed his birth ? 
 
 O, nowhere blooms so bright the summer rose, 
 As where youth cropt it from the valley's 
 breast ! 
 
 O, nowhere are the downs so soft as those 
 That pillowed infancy's unbroken rest ! 
 
 In vain the partial sun on other vales 
 
 Pours liberal down a more exhaustless ray, 
 
 And vermeil fruits, that blush along their dales, 
 Mock the pale products of our scanty day ; 
 
 In vain, far distant from the land we love, 
 The world's green breast soars higher to the 
 sky : 
 
 O, what were heaven itself, if lost above 
 Were the dear memory of departed joy ? 
 
 Range ocean, melt in amorous forests dim, 
 O'er icy peaks with sacred horror bend, 
 
 View life in thousand forms, and hear the hymn 
 Of love and joy from thousand hearts ascend, 
 
 And trace each blessing, where round freedom's 
 shrine 
 
 Pure faith and equal laws their shadows twine : 
 
 Yet, wheresoe'er thou roam'st, to lovelier things 
 v\ ,th mingled joy and grief thy spirit springs ; 
 And all bright Arno's pastoral lays of love 
 Yield to the sports, where through the tangling 
 
 grove 
 The mimic falcon chased the little dove. 
 
 O, what are Eloisa's bowers of cost, 
 
 Matched with the bush, where, hid in berries 
 white, 
 Mine arms around my infant love were crossed ' 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 9J 
 
 What Jura's peak, to that upon whose height 
 I strove to grasp the moon, and where the 
 flight 
 Of my first thought was in my Maker lost ? 
 
 No ! here, — but here, — in this lone paradise, 
 Which Frederic, like the peaceful angel, gilds, 
 
 Where my loved brethren mix in social ties, 
 From Norway's rocks to Holstein's golden 
 fields ; 
 
 Denmark ! in thy quiet lap reclined, 
 The dazzling joys of varied earth forgot, 
 
 1 find the peace I strove in vain to find, 
 
 The peace I never found where thou wert 
 not. 
 
 The countless wonders of my devious youth, 
 The forms of early love and early truth, 
 
 Rise on my view, in memory's colors dressed; 
 And each lost angel smiles more lovingly, 
 And every star that cheered my early sky 
 
 Shines fairer in this happy port of rest ! 
 
 ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 Adam Gottlob Oehlenschlager, the 
 greatest poet of Denmark, was born in a sub- 
 urb of Copenhagen in 1779. His boyhood was 
 passed at the castle of Frideriksborg, a royal 
 residence, of which his father was organist and 
 steward or governor. The castle was occupied 
 by the king and his court in the summer, but 
 during the winter the boy " was left to wander 
 at will through the lofty, magnificent, and soli- 
 tary apartments, to gaze on the portraits of 
 kings and princes ; and, surrounded by these 
 splendors not his own, to pore over romances 
 and fairy tales, obtained from some circulating 
 library in town, to which he made frequent 
 pilgrimages for this purpose through storm and 
 snow ; or to listen to his father, who, as the au- 
 tumnal evenings closed in, used to assemble his 
 family about him, and read aloud to them ac- 
 counts of voyages and travels."* 
 
 In this manner the poet lived the first twelve 
 years of his life. He was now transferred to 
 the city, and commenced his studies under Ed- 
 ward Storm, a Norwegian scholar and poet. 
 He showed but little fondness for scholastic 
 pursuits, but occupied himself chiefly with writ- 
 ing and acting plays and boxing, " walking 
 about," as he himself says, "for a long time, in 
 coats which had once figured on the backs of 
 crown princes, and stiff boots which had been 
 worn by kings, while my pantaloons were made 
 out of the cloth which had covered some old 
 billiard table, now out of commission," all 
 bought by his father on speculation from the 
 keeper of the king's wardrobe. In this irregular 
 manner he spent four years, gaining little Latin 
 
 * Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. VIII., p. 2. 
 
 and less Greek, but acquiring a moderate know- 
 ledge of geography and history, and studying 
 the Danish, German, and French languages. 
 His father intended to make him a merchant; 
 but the merchant, in whose counting-house he 
 desired to place him, not being able to receive 
 the young man, the plan was abandoned, and 
 the poet went back to his studies. He was 
 soon discouraged by finding that the defects of 
 his early training made it extremely difficult, if 
 not quite impossible, to achieve distinction in a 
 classical or theological career ; and, his former 
 schoolboy taste for theatrical representation re- 
 viving, he suddenly resolved to try his fortune 
 on the stage. His success as an actor was only 
 moderate ; but the experience he acquired in 
 theatrical affairs was of some advantage to him 
 in his subsequent career as a dramatic poet. 
 He formed an acquaintance at this time with a 
 young student, named Oersted, by whose argu- 
 ments he was persuaded to desert the stage and 
 apply himself to the profession of the law. 
 This shifting of the scene took place in 1800. 
 About the same period, occurred a love passage 
 between our law-student and Councillor Heger's 
 daughter Christiana, his future wife, the result of 
 which is thus related by the writer in the " For- 
 eign Quarterly Review." " All the poet's means 
 were merely, as the schoolmen would say, pos- 
 sible, but not very probable, entities ; he had not 
 yet distinguished himself in literature ; his law 
 he could not hope to render available for years ; 
 and therefore the prospects of the lovers were 
 any thing but flattering. It was naturally with 
 a beating heart, therefore, that Oehlenschlager 
 laid his proposals before the father, a musician, 
 optician, fire-work maker, and fifty other things 
 besides. He might have spared himself al! 
 anxiety on the subject ; for the old gentleman, 
 after listening to the young lawyer's maiden 
 speech on the question, coolly rang the bell 
 for his daughter, told her in a moment how the 
 matter stood, placed her hand in that of Oeh 
 lenschlager, and — changed the subject." 
 
 In 1801,OelilenschlHger's professional studies 
 were interrupted by the tumults of war, caused 
 by the expedition of the British fleet against 
 Copenhagen. The young lawyer became one 
 of a company of volunteers raised for the de- 
 fence of the country ; but the hardest services 
 they were called upon to perform were to march 
 and countermarch in stormy weather. This 
 military episode was of short duration. At the 
 return of peace, Oehlenschlager resumed his 
 studies, lightening his professional pursuits by 
 private theatricals, literary clubs, and the care- 
 ful study of the legendary lore of the North. 
 In 1803, he published a small collection of 
 poems, a dramatic lyrical sketch, and soon af- 
 ter a comic opera called " Freya's Altar," and 
 "Vaulundur's Saga," a modernized fable from 
 the Edda. 
 
 His first important work, however, was the 
 Oriental drama of "Aladdin." The success of 
 this attempt was such, that he renounced the 
 
92 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 study of the law, and resolved to devote him- 
 self wholly to poetry. Through the friendly 
 interposition of Count Schimmelmann, he ob- 
 tained a travelling pension from the Danish 
 government, by which he was enabled to visit 
 Germany, France, and Italy. In this tour he 
 became acquainted with the most eminent lite- 
 rary men of Halle, Berlin, and Dresden ; and 
 at Weimar he enjoyed for some time a confi- 
 dential intercourse with Wieland and Goethe. 
 He was in Weimar during its occupation by 
 the French after the battle of Jena ; but, as 
 soon as the disturbed state of the country permit- 
 ted, he hastened to Paris, where he completed 
 three tragedies on national subjects, " Hakon 
 Jarl," " Palnatoke," and "Axel and Walburg," 
 works which betray no marks of slavish imita- 
 tion of any school, but are full of originality 
 in thought, and are marked by great beauty of 
 execution. In these poems he reproduces the 
 bold and energetic spirit of the elder times of 
 the North, softening its harsher features occa- 
 sionally by the light of modern refinement. 
 The contrast between the cruel and bloody 
 rites of the Scandinavian paganism, and the 
 manners and precepts taught by the Christian 
 religion, is seized by him with striking skill ; 
 and his great familiarity with the times in 
 which his scenes are laid is manifested, says 
 the writer already quoted, " not in the accumu- 
 lation of minute particulars or antiquarian allu- 
 sions, but in a primeval simplicity and essential 
 truth pervading and informing the whole." 
 
 In Paris, Oehlenschlager made the acquaint- 
 ance of Madame de Stael and Benjamin Con- 
 stant, and of Baggesen, with whom he after- 
 wards waged a bitter literary warfare. He 
 visited Madame de Stael at Coppet, and there 
 met Augustus William Schlegel, with whom, 
 however, he had no very genial intercourse. 
 Schlegel read his poems, and advised him with 
 regard to his German style ; for, being skilled in 
 both languages, — doctus utriusque sermonis, — 
 Oehlenschlager wrote his principal works in 
 the German as well as in the Danish ; but the 
 great critic was cautious and reserved in ex- 
 pressing any opinion of their merits. 
 
 Leaving Madame de Stael 's residence, he 
 proceeded on his Italian tour, to which he had 
 long been looking forward. At Parma he vis- 
 ited the frescoes of Correggio in the churches 
 of St. Joseph and St. John. " The idea of 
 writing a play," says he, "on the subject of 
 his (Correggio's) life — an idea which I had 
 already entertained in Paris — again occurred 
 to my mind ; and in Modena, when I saw the 
 little fresco painting over the chimney-piece in 
 the ducal palace, which had been executed in 
 his seventeenth year, it was finally resolved 
 on." 
 
 In the execution of his plan, he adopted 
 Vasari's account of Correggio's death, as the 
 groundwork of the piece. The delineation 
 of the artist's character is singularly beautiful. 
 The gentle and sensitive painter is brought 
 
 into striking contrast with the daring and sub- 
 lime genius of Michael Angelo, as will be 
 seen in one of the following extracts.- The 
 picture of domestic life and love, graced by 
 congenial tastes for art and enthusiasm in its 
 pursuit, was never drawn with more simplicity, 
 truth, beauty, and felicity, than in this exquisite 
 drama. "His celebrated drama, 'Correggio,' " 
 says Wolfgang Menzel, in his " German Litera- 
 ture," "became the fruitful parent of the 'pain- 
 ter-dramas,' which appeared in great numbers, 
 in company with the 'painter-novels,' after 
 Heinse, in his ' Ardinghello,' and Tieck, in 
 ' Sternbald's Travels,' had made the romantic 
 life of the artist the subject of fiction." 
 
 Goethe's " Tasso " resembles " Correggio " in 
 design, except that he takes a poet, and not an 
 artist, for his hero ; other works, constructed 
 upon the same principle, are Schenck's "Albert 
 Durer," Deinhardstein's " Hans Sachs," Rau- 
 pach's " Tasso," Halm's " Camoens," Gutz- 
 kow's " Richard Savage " ; these all come un- 
 der the general denomination of the Kiinstlcr 
 drama, — the artist drama, — inasmuch as they 
 celebrate great artists or poets. 
 
 After an absence of five years from his coun- 
 try and the councillor's daughter, Oehlenschla- 
 ger began to feel an irresistible longing to re- 
 turn. 
 
 In his passage through Germany he visited 
 Goethe again ; and his account of the inter- 
 view — the last they ever had — presents, in 
 curiously contrasted lights, the simple, genuine, 
 affectionate, and honest character of the Dane, 
 and the cold, measured, diplomatic manner of 
 the poet-minister of Weimar. 
 
 " I had dedicated to him," he says, " my 
 'Aladdin,' had sent him a German copy of my 
 'Hakon Jarl' and 'Palnatoke,' with an affec- 
 tionate letter, and I now expected a paternal re- 
 ception, such as a scholar would anticipate from 
 a master. Goethe received me courteously, but 
 coldly, and almost like a stranger. Had subse- 
 quent events, then, extinguished in his mind the 
 recollection of happy hours spent together, which 
 in mine remained so dearly cherished, so incapa- 
 ble of being forgotten ? or were these recollec- 
 tions slumbering only, and peradventure might 
 be awakened? Was I too impatient, that the son 
 did not at once find the father he had expected ? 
 I know not. In truth, I could not suppress the 
 pain I felt, — but I thought that if I could be 
 allowed to read my ' Correggio ' to him, our old 
 communion and fellowship would revive. Mat- 
 ters, however, it seems, were otherwise arranged. 
 When I told him, through Riemer, that I had 
 written a new tragedy, which I wished to read 
 to him, he sent me word that I might send him 
 the manuscript, and he would read it himself. 
 I told him he could not read it, as I had only 
 a very ill written copy in my possession, full 
 of corrections and interlineations. Such as it 
 was, however, I gave it to Riemer. He brought 
 it back to me, and told me that Goethe in fact 
 found he could not read it ; but that when I 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 93 
 
 printed it, he would do so. This pained me, 
 but I endeavoured to preserve my firmness and 
 good humor. Goethe twice asked me politely 
 to dinner, and there I was bold and satirical, 
 because I found it impossible to be open-hearted 
 and simple. Among other things, I recited some 
 epigrams, which I had never printed, o'n some 
 celebrated writers. Goethe said to me good-hu- 
 moredly, ' This is not your field ; — he who can 
 make wine should not make vinegar.' ' And 
 have you, then,' I answered, ' made no vinegar 
 in your time ? ' ' The devil ! ' said Goethe, 
 'suppose I have, does that make it right to do 
 so ? ' ' No,' rejoined I, — ' but, wherever wine 
 is made, some grapes will fall off" which will 
 not do for wine, though they make excellent 
 vinegar, and vinegar is a good antidote against 
 corruption.' 
 
 " Could we have had time only to become 
 acquainted with each other again, all would 
 have gone well, and Goethe would have al- 
 lowed me to read my play to him. But, unfor- 
 tunately, my departure could not be put off, and 
 we took a cold farewell of each other. It 
 grieved me, however, to the soul ; for there was 
 not a being in the world that I loved and hon- 
 ored more than Goethe, and now we were 
 parting, perhaps never again to meet in life. 
 The horses had been ordered at five o'clock the 
 next morning. It was now half past eleven at 
 night ; I sat melancholy in my room, leaning 
 my head upon my hand, the tears standing in 
 my eye. All at once an irresistible longing 
 came over me to press my old friend once more 
 to my heart ; though the pride of mortified 
 feeling contended with it in my heart, and 
 pleaded that I ought not to present myself to 
 him in an attitude of humiliation. 
 
 " I ran to Goethe's house, in which there 
 was still light; went to Riemer in his room and 
 said, ' My dear friend, can I not speak to 
 Goethe for a moment ? I would willingly bid 
 him farewell once more.' Riemer was sur- 
 prised, but, seeing my agitation, and knowing 
 its source, he answered, ' I will tell him ; I will 
 see whether he is still up.' He returned and 
 told me to go in, while he himself took his 
 leave. There stood the creator of ' Gotz of 
 Berlichingen ' and ' Herman and Dorothea,' in 
 his night-gown, winding up his watch before 
 going to bed. When he saw me, he said to me 
 kindly, ' Ah ! friend, you come like Nicodemus.' 
 'Will the privy councillor,' said I, 'permit me 
 to bid a last farewell to the poet Goethe ? ' 
 ' Now, then,' replied he with affection, ' fare- 
 well, my child ! ' ' No more ! no more ! ' said I, 
 deeply moved, and hastily left the room. For 
 twenty years now I have not seen Goethe nor 
 written to him, but I have named my eldest 
 son after him ; I have repeatedly read through 
 and lectured upon his noble productions ; his 
 picture hangs in my room. I love him, and am 
 convinced that if fate should once more bring 
 me into his neighbourhood, I should still find 
 in him the old paternal friend. I know also 
 
 that he has always spoken with kindness of 
 me." 
 
 Oehlenschlager was married immediately af- 
 ter his return, and soon received the appoint- 
 ment of Professor Extraordinary in the Univer- 
 sity. His winters were employed in lecturing 
 on elegant literature in Copenhagen, and the 
 leisure of his summers was given assiduously 
 to composition. In 1815 he was made a Knight 
 of Dannebrog (Danish Flag), and in 1827 elect- 
 ed Ordinary Professor and Assessor in the Con- 
 sistory. 
 
 Other pieces of his are " Ludlam's Cave," 
 " Erich and Adel," " Hugo von Rheinberg," 
 " Stoerkodder," and "Charles the Great." "His 
 lyric poems, in general, are distinguished by 
 force and simplicity of expression, a simplicity, 
 in fact, which sometimes degenerates into com- 
 mon or prosaic lines ; and almost always by a 
 natural and unexaggerated vein of feeling."* 
 But both his lyrical poems and his novels are 
 inferior to his dramatic compositions. One of 
 his works of fiction, however, a reproduction 
 of the old German romance of the " Island 
 Felsenburg," is described by Menzel as " a 
 novel full of rich and warm life." 
 
 The admirable translations from Oehlenschla 
 ger's dramas, which we have taken from " Black- 
 wood's Magazine," are by Mr. Gillies. An an- 
 alysis of his "Axel and Valburg," and of the 
 " Vaerings in Miklagord," with extracts, may 
 be found in the " Foreign Review,' for Octo- 
 ber, 1828, and one of his comedy of" The Broth- 
 ers of Damascus," in Blackwood, No. 248, for 
 June, 1836. 
 
 Oehlenschlager died in 1850. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM ALADDIN, OR THE WONDERFUL 
 LAMP. 
 
 FROM THE DEDICATION. 
 
 Born in the distant North, 
 
 Soon to my youthful ear came tidings forth 
 
 From Fairy Land : 
 Where flowers eternal blow, 
 Where youth and beauty go 
 
 In magic band. 
 
 Even in my childish days 
 
 I pored enchanted on its ancient lays ; 
 
 Where the thick snowy fold 
 Lay deep on wall and hill, 
 I read, and felt the chill 
 
 Of wonder, not of cold. 
 
 :cy flail. 
 
 Methought the driving hail, 
 That on the windows beat with 
 
 Was Zephyr's wing : 
 I sat, and by the light 
 Of one dim lamp had sight 
 
 Of Southern spring. 
 
 * Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. VIII., p. 31. 
 
.94 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 NOUREDDIN AND ALADDIN. 
 
 [Two rocks, bending towards each other, form an arch ; 
 a small plain in front, clothed with grass and flowers, 
 partly overshaded by the trees upon the rocks. A spring 
 flows from the cleft of the rocks, and loses itself in the 
 distance.] 
 
 noureddin and aladdin (in conversation). 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 Well, uncle, you do tell the loveliest stories 
 
 That ever in my life I listened to, 
 
 And I could stand and hearken here for ever. 
 
 Methinks I feel myself a wiser man 
 
 Already, since we left the city gate, — 
 
 You 've led me such a round through every 
 
 quarter 
 Of the wide world. All that you say of trade 
 Doubtless is true ; but, I confess, your tales 
 Of Nature's magic and mysterious powers, 
 Of men who by mere luck and chance obtain, 
 Even in an instant, all that others toil for 
 Through a long, weary life, yet toil in vain, — 
 These themes were those I loved. 
 
 NOUREDDIN. 
 
 These themes indeed 
 
 The noblest are that can employ the soul. 
 
 aladdin (looking about, bewildered). 
 But where, in Heaven's name, are we ? Your 
 
 fine talk 
 So charmed me on, I quite forgot the way. 
 Far over stock and stone, through field and 
 
 thicket, 
 We've wandered on, — far from the gardens 
 
 now, — 
 Alone amidst the mountains. Ah ! we must 
 Have walked a fearful way. And, now I think 
 
 on 't, 
 I did at times feel, as it were, awearied, 
 Although I soon forgot it. Was it so, 
 Dear uncle, with thee too? 
 
 NOUREDDIN. 
 
 Not so, my son. 
 
 'T was purposely that by degrees I drew thee 
 From out the stir and tumult of the town 
 Here into Nature's still, majestic realm. 
 I saw thy young heart beat with frolic joy, 
 While through the gardens we together wan- 
 dered, 
 Which, like an isolated ring of flowers, 
 The rocky bases of the mountains girdled. 
 But though those blooming bowers and trick- 
 ling rills, 
 The tempting fruits with which they 're studded 
 
 over, 
 May claim a passing homage from the eye, 
 Yet such diminutive and puny Nature, 
 Hemmed in on every side by dreary want, 
 Chained in the galling fetters of possession, 
 Sinks into naught beside these glorious hills, 
 In this their royal, their gigantic greatness. 
 By chance apparently, dear youth, but yet 
 With foresight and deep purpose, have I led thee 
 
 Thus from the mean to the majestic on ; 
 And what I said, I said, to make thy spirit 
 Familiar with the wonderful, lest thou 
 (Even as a wild, unbroken courser does, — 
 Strong in his youthful speed, but wild of wit) 
 Shouldst swerve aside because the thunder bel 
 
 lowed. 
 This have I done to school thy mind, — and now 
 Methinks I may impart my purpose to thee. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 Speak on then, uncle, — I am not afraid. 
 
 NOUREDDIN. 
 
 Know, then, my child, for many a year I 've 
 pored 
 
 'er Nature's closely clasped mysterious volume 
 Till in its pages I detected secrets 
 
 That lie beyond the ken of common eyes. 
 So have I, among other things, discovered 
 That here — upon the spot whereon we stand — 
 A deep and vaulted cavern yawns beneath, 
 Where all that in the mountain's breast lies bu- 
 ried, 
 Far fairer, livelier, brighter, blooms and sparkles, 
 In the deep tints of an eternal spring, 
 Than the weak growths of this our surface earth 
 Where swift the flower decays as swift it grew 
 And leaves but withered, scentless leaves be- 
 hind. 
 Know, then, my son, if thou hast heart to ven- 
 ture 
 Into this wondrous cave ('t was for thy sake 
 
 1 brought thee hither, — I myself have seen 
 Its wonders often), I will straight proceed, 
 Soon as a fire of withered twigs is kindled, 
 By strength of deep, mysterious, charmed words, 
 To bare its entrance to thine eyes. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 What ! — uncle ! — 
 
 A cavern here beneath, — here, — where we 
 stand ? 
 
 NOUREDDIN. 
 
 Even so. The loveliest of earth's grottoes, — 
 
 nay, 
 The very magazine of boundless nature 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 And you can lay its entrance bare by burning 
 Dry twigs, and uttering some charmed words ? 
 
 NOUREDDIN. 
 
 Nephew, such power has Allah's grace be- 
 stowed. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 Well, never in my lifetime did I hear • — (pauses). 
 
 NOUREDDIN. 
 
 Already frightened ! 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 Frightened ? — not at all ; — 
 And yet it is too wonderful. 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 95 
 
 NOUREDDIN. 
 
 Look, then : 
 
 See where yon faded twigs their branches stoop, 
 
 All parched and withered on the sun-burnt 
 
 rocks, — 
 Go, get thee thither, — bring us wood to make 
 Our fire, — and haste, for it grows late and 
 
 gloomy. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 Uncle, I fly, — I long to be within 
 The charming cave, — I '11 fetch the wood di- 
 rectly. [Exit. 
 
 noureddin (alone). 
 
 So, then, the moment is approaching, that 
 
 Makes me the lord of earth and all its treasures. 
 
 This is the spot for which I longed through life, 
 
 For which so many a weary foot I 've travelled. 
 
 There comes mine instrument. See, where he 
 runs, 
 
 Thoughtless of ill, the wood upon his back ! 
 
 His eagerness impels him on too fast ; 
 
 He stumbles oft ; — soon will his fall be deeper ! 
 
 Poor simple fool ! Stand still and fix thine eye, 
 
 For the last time, on yonder flowery beds, — 
 
 Warm thy poor carcass in the genial sun ! 
 
 Soon wilt thou howl, far, far from sun or flow- 
 ers, 
 
 In darkness and in famine courting death. 
 
 Weakness would call my purpose cruelty. 
 
 'T is wisdom rather, where no passion mingles. 
 
 That which is fixed is fixed, and cannot but be. 
 
 Does he who searches Nature's secrets scruple 
 
 To stick his pin into an insect ? 
 
 aladdin (entering with a bundle of twigs on his back). 
 Uncle, 
 
 Here's wood enough to roast an elephant. 
 But while I broke the branches off and laid them 
 Upon my back, what thought occurred to me, 
 But the old tale of Abraham and Isaac, 
 How the poor boy upon his back was doomed 
 To bear the wood for his own sacrifice ? 
 
 [He turns round, then waves his hand triumphantly 
 above his head. 
 
 But Allah sent from heaven a guardian angel 
 
 To rescue him. O, Allah aids us all 
 
 Then when our need is greatest ! Is 't not so ? 
 
 noureddin (confused). 
 Unfathomable fate o'erruleth all. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 And yet, methinks, poor Isaac must have been 
 A little simple, that he did not see through 
 His father's cunning plan. Had I been he ! — 
 But this, too, is, perhaps, a mere invention. 
 
 NOUREDDIN. 
 
 Most probably. There, — laythe bundle down : 
 I will strike fire. But, first, a word with thee. 
 From the first hour I saw thee yester eve 
 Catch the three oranges within thy turban, 
 I set thee down a brave and active stripling, 
 A youth to court, not shrink from, an adventure. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 There, uncle, you have judged me right, I hope. 
 
 NOUREDDIN. 
 
 Prepare, then, for a spectacle of wonder. 
 When on this blazing wood is incense scattered, 
 When the charmed words are spoken, — earth 
 
 will shake, 
 And from its breast heave forth a stone of mar- 
 ble, 
 Four-cornered, — in the midst an iron ring : 
 This thou mayst raise with ease by merely ut- 
 tering 
 Softly thy father's and thy grandsire's names. 
 Beneath that stone thou wilt behold a stair ; 
 Descend the steps, fear not the darkness ; — soon 
 The cavern's fruits will light thee brighter far 
 Than this oppressive, sickly, sulphurous sun. 
 Three lofty grottoes first will meet thine eye, 
 Flashing with veins of gold and silver ore 
 Dug from the mountain's adamantine deeps. 
 Pass by them all, and touch them not. They 
 
 stand 
 Too firmly fixed ; thou wouldst but lose thy la- 
 bor. 
 These chambers passed, a garden opens on thee ; 
 Not Eden's self more fair; — perchance the same. 
 That since the Deluge in these rocky cliffs 
 Lies buried. Fruits the richest, the most radi- 
 ant, — 
 Fruits of all hues, — crimson, or blue, grass-green, 
 White, yellow, violet, crystal-clear as are 
 The diamonds in a sultaness' ear, 
 Enchant the eye. Gladly would I go with thee, 
 But in one day but one may enter in. 
 Now, for myself, I ask of thee but this : 
 Walk through the garden to the wall of rock 
 Beyond ; — there, in a smoky, dark recess, 
 Hangs an old lamp of copper; — bring me that. 
 I am a virtuoso in such matters, 
 A great collector of old odds and ends ; 
 And so the lamp, worthless enough to others, 
 Has an imaginary worth to me. 
 Returning, pluck what fruits thou wilt, and 
 
 bring them 
 Along with thee, but haste, — and bring the 
 lamp. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 Enough, dear uncle, I am ready now. 
 
 [Noureddin takes out a box of incense, and throws some 
 upon the fire. Distant thunder. A flash of lightning 
 falls and kindles the fire. The earth opens, and shows a 
 large square block of marble, with an iron ring in the 
 middle.] 
 
 NOUREDDIN. 
 
 Now quick, Aladdin, — grasp the ring, — pull 
 firmly. 
 
 aladdin (trembling). 
 Ah ! No, dear uncle ! — spare me, dearest uncle ! 
 I tremble so, I cannot, cannot, do it. 
 
 noureddin (fells him to the ground with a blow). 
 Coward and slave, wilt anger me ? — Are these 
 My thanks for all the labor I have taken, 
 
96 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 That thou shouldst, like a petted lapdog, look 
 Askance, and whine and tremble, when I stroke 
 
 thee ? 
 Lay hold upon the ring, — or, by the Prophet, 
 And by the mighty Solomon, I '11 chain thee 
 To that same stone, and travel hence without 
 
 thee, 
 And leave thy carcass for the eagles' prey. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 Dear uncle, pardon me, be not so angry, — 
 I will in all things do thy bidding now. 
 
 Well, be a man. 
 
 NOUREDDIN. 
 
 - and I will make thy fortune. 
 
 ALADDIN AT THE GATES OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 My head is swimming still. Heavens, what a 
 
 journey ! 
 He took me on his back ; I felt as if 
 Upon a bath of lukewarm water floated. 
 How high he flew in the clear moonshine ! how 
 The earth beneath us strangely dwarfed and 
 
 dwindled ! 
 The mighty Ispahan with all its lights, 
 That one by one grew dim and blent together, 
 Whirled like a half-burned paper firework, such 
 As giddy schoolboys flutter in their hands. 
 He swung me on in wide gigantic circles, 
 And showed me through the moonbeams' magic 
 
 glimmer 
 The mighty map of earth unroll beneath me. 
 I never shall forget how over Caucasus 
 He flew, and rested on its icy peak; 
 Then shot plumb down upon the land, as if 
 He meant to drown me in Euphrates' bosom. 
 A huge three-master on the stormy Euxine 
 Scudded before the blast ; he hovered over her, 
 Pressed with his toe the summit of the mast, 
 And, resting on its vane as on a pillar, 
 He stretched me in his hand high into heaven, 
 As firm as if he trode the floor of earth. 
 Then, when the moon, like a pale ghost, before 
 The warm and glowing morning sun retreated, 
 He changed himself into a purple cloud, 
 And dropped with me, soft as the dews of dawn, 
 Here by the city gate among the flowers. 
 Then, changed again by magic, like a lark 
 He soared and vanished twittering in the sky. 
 
 ALADDIN IN PRISON. 
 
 aladdin (fastened to a stone by a heavy iron chain. He re- 
 mains gazing fixedly in deep thought, then bursts out — ) 
 
 Almighty God ! is this a dream ? a dream ? 
 
 Yes, yes, it is a dream. I slumber still, 
 
 In the green grass, within the forest glooms. 
 
 deathwatoh (in the wall). 
 Pi, pi, pi, 
 No hope for thee. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 What sound was that ? Sure, 't was the death- 
 watch spoke. 
 
 DEATHWATOH. 
 
 Pi, pi, pi, 
 
 No hope for thee. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 Is this thine only chant, ill-boding hermit, 
 Croaking from rotten clefts and mouldering 
 
 walls, — 
 Thy burden still of death and of decay ? 
 
 DEATHWATOH. 
 
 Pi, pi, pi, 
 
 No hope for thee. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 I do begin to credit thee, — thou speakest 
 With such assurance that my heart believes thee 
 Prophet of ill ! Death's hour-glass ! who hath 
 
 sent thee 
 Hither, to shake me with thy note of death ? 
 
 DEATHWATOH. 
 
 Pi, pi, pi, 
 
 No hope for thee. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 It cannot change its ditty, if it would; 
 'T is but a sound, — a motion of the mouth ; — 
 Her song is but " Pi, pi," — the rest was fancy. 
 'T was I that heard it, — 't was not she that sung. 
 
 DEATHWATOH. 
 
 No hope for thee. 
 
 ALADDIN. 
 
 Ha ! insect ! — what is this ? — Think'st thou 
 
 to shake 
 My fixed philosophy with that croak of thine ? 
 
 DEATHWATOH. 
 
 Pi!- 
 
 Well, — be it as it may, — my hope is gone. 
 This brief, but oft repeated warning-note 
 Weighs down my bosom, fills my heart with 
 
 fear. 
 Yes, 't is too clear. It must be so. Th' En- 
 chanter 
 Is master of the lamp. The lamp alone 
 Could thus undo its work. O levity, — 
 Thou serpent, that from Paradise drove forth 
 Adam, — destroyer of all earthly bliss, — 
 Tempter, that in good hearts dost sow the seed 
 Of evil, bane of health, and wealth, and peace ! — 
 Through thee, and thee alone, I suffer here. 
 How dark these dungeon walls close over me ! 
 How hollow sounds the rushing of the wind, 
 Howling against the tower without ! 'T is mid- 
 night, — 
 Midnight ! and I must tremble for the dawn. 
 The lovely dawn, which opes the eyes of men, 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 9r 
 
 The leaves of flowers, to me alone is fearful ; 
 To them it brings new life, but death to me. 
 [The moon breaks through the clouds and shines into 
 the prison. 
 What gleam is that ? Is it the day that breaks ? 
 Is death so nigh ? Oh, no ; it was the moon. 
 What wouldst thou, treacherous, smiling appa- 
 rition ? 
 Com'st thou to tell me I am not the first 
 Upon whose ashy cheeks thy quiet light 
 Fell calmly, on his farewell night of life ? 
 To tell me that to-morrow night thy ray 
 Will greet my bleeding head upon the stake ? 
 Sad moon, accursed spectre of the night, 
 How often hast thou, like a favoring goddess, 
 Shone o'er me in my loved Gulnara's arms, 
 While nightingales from out the dusky bowers 
 Vented our mute felicity in song ! 
 I deemed thee then a kind and gentle being, 
 Nor deemed, as now, that in that lovely form 
 Could lurk such coldness or such cruelty. 
 Alike unruffled looks thy pallid face 
 On myrtle bowers, on wheel or gallows down. 
 The selfsame ray that shone above my joys, 
 And kissed the couch of innocence and love, 
 Shone on the murderer's dagger too, or glided 
 O'er mouldering gravestones, which above their 
 
 dead 
 Lie lighter than despair upon the hearts 
 Of those that still are living ! — Com'st thou 
 
 here 
 Thus to insult me in my hour of need, 
 Pale angel of destruction ? Hence ! disturb not 
 The peace of innocence i' th' hour of death. — 
 [The moon is obscured by clouds. 
 By Heaven, she flies ! — She sinks her pallid face 
 Behind her silver curtains mournfully, 
 Even as an innocent maiden, when she droops 
 Her head within her robe, to hide the tears 
 That flow for others' sorrows, not her own. 
 O, if my speech hath done thee wrong, fair moon, 
 Forgive me ! O, forgive me ! I am wretched. 
 I know not what I say. Guiltless am I, 
 Yet guiltless I must yet endure and die. — 
 But see ! what tiny ray comes trembling in, 
 Like an ethereal finger from the clouds, 
 And lights on yonder spider, that within 
 Its darksome nook, amidst its airy web, 
 So calm and heart-contented sits and spins ? 
 
 THE SPIDER. 
 
 Look upon my web so fine, 
 See how threads with threads entwine ; 
 If the evening wind alone 
 Breathe upon it^ all is gone. 
 Thus within the darkest place 
 Allah's wisdom thou mayst trace ; 
 Feeble though the insect be, 
 Allah speaks through that to thee ! 
 As within the moonbeam I, 
 God in glory sits on high, 
 Sits where countless planet3 roll, 
 And from thence controls the whole : 
 There with threads of thousand dies 
 Life's bewildered web he plies, 
 13 
 
 And the hand that holds them all 
 Lets not even the feeblest fall. 
 
 ALADDIN IN HIS MOTHER'S CHAMBER. 
 
 aladdix (alone). 
 [He stands and gazes upon all with his hands folded. 
 There stands her spindle as of yore, but now 
 No cheerful murmur from its corner comes; 
 We grow familiar with such ancient friends, 
 And miss their hum when they are hushed for 
 
 ever. 
 There is some wool upon the distaff still ; 
 I '11 sit me down where my poor mother sat, 
 And spin like her, and sing old strains the while. 
 
 [He sits down, sings, and bursts into tears. 
 It will not do, I cannot make it move 
 With its accustomed even touch : too wildly, 
 Too feverishly fast I turn the wheel. 
 O God ' — Look there ! These thin and fee- 
 ble threads 
 Her hands have spun, — and they stand fast and 
 
 firm ; 
 They hang unbroken and uninjured there ; — 
 But she that spun them — my poor mother — lies 
 With frozen fingers underneath the yew. 
 There hangs her old silk mantle on the wall, 
 With its warm woollen lining, — here her shoes; 
 Now thine old limbs are cold enough, my mother! 
 Thou wouldst not leave this dwelling, — wouldst 
 
 not quit 
 Thv life of old ; thy loving, still existence 
 My vanity and pride have undermined. 
 O ye that may this humble roof hereafter 
 Inhabit, if at dead of night ye hear 
 Strange sounds, as of a chamber goblin-haunted, 
 Be not alarmed. It is a good and gentle 
 House-spirit. Let it sit, and spin, and hum; — 
 It will not harm ye. Once it was a woman 
 That spun the very skin from off her fingers, 
 All for her son, — and in return he killed her. 
 This have I done. — This have I done. — O me ! 
 
 [Seats himself again and weeps. 
 There stands her little pitcher by the wall, — 
 There on the floor lies a half-withered leaf; — 
 And such am I, — that leaf was meant for me. 
 
 [He gazes long with wild glances on the spot where the 
 wonderful lamp used to hang, — then exclaims, with a 
 distracted look, 
 
 By Heaven, the lamp still hangs upon the nail ! 
 
 What ! think'st thou that I cannot clutch thee ? 
 There, — 
 [Takes a chair, mounts upon it, and lays hold of the naiL 
 
 Now, there, I have thee, — thou art mine again. 
 
 Now, then, Gulnara shall be mine again, — 
 
 The palace shall be mine, with all its treasures. 
 
 But soft ! I '11 visit first my mother's grave. 
 
 the landlord (enters). 
 Now, friend, hast looked thy fill ? The old lady 
 
 was 
 Perhaps a near relation ' 
 I 
 
98 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 Distant only. 
 
 Now I am ready. But will you permit me 
 To take this worn-out copper lamp with me ? 
 You see 't is scarcely worth an asper. 
 
 Friend, 
 
 I see no lamp. 
 
 landlord (staring). 
 
 See ! this in my right hand. 
 'T is, as I said, a trumpery piece of metal, 
 But I am fond of such old odds and ends ; 
 And thus the lamp, worthless enough for others, 
 Has an imaginary worth to me. 
 
 LANDLORD. 
 
 Good friend, thou hast nothing in thy hand, be- 
 lieve me. 
 
 Aladdin (aside). 
 So then the lamp hath gained this property, 
 That it becomes invisible to strangers. 
 Charming ! They cannot rob me of it now. 
 
 [Aloud, as he places the supposed lamp in his bosom. 
 Well, since you say so, friend, I must believe 
 The lamp was but a vision of the brain. 
 FareweU, good friend, and thanks. Stay, let 
 
 me lift 
 This withered leaf and place it in my turban, - 
 'T is all I ask of her inheritance. 
 Now fare thee well. 
 
 landlord. 
 Poor man ! his brain is turned. 
 Now take thy leaf, good friend, and get thee 
 gone. 
 
 ALADDIN AT HIS MOTHER'S GRAVE. 
 aladdin Oyi"g 01 his mother's grave. He sings). 
 Sleep within thy flowery bed, 
 
 Lulled by visions without number ; 
 Needs no pillow for thy head, 
 
 Needs no rocking for thy slumber. 
 
 Moaning wind and piteous storm, 
 Mother dear, thy dirge are knelling; 
 
 And the greedy gnawing worm 
 
 Vainly strives to pierce thy dwelling. 
 
 Thick in heaven the stars are set, — 
 Slumber soundly to my singing, — 
 
 Hark, from yon high minaret 
 
 Clear and sweet the death-note ringing . 
 
 Hush, the nightingale aloft 
 
 Pours her descant from the tree ! 
 
 Mother, thou hast rocked me oft, 
 Let me do the same for thee. 
 
 Is thy heart as loving now, 
 Listen to my wail and sorrow 
 
 From this hollow elder-bough 
 I for this a pipe will borrow. 
 
 But the feeble notes are lost, 
 
 Chilled by this cold wintry weather: 
 Ah ! the night-wind's piercing frost 
 
 Withers leaves and life together. 
 
 Here I can no longer lie, 
 
 All 's so cold beside thee, mother; 
 And no cheerful fire can I 
 
 Ask of father, friend, or brother. 
 
 Mother, sleep ! — though chill thy bed, 
 Lulled by visions without number, 
 
 Needs no pillow for thy head, 
 
 Needs no rocking for thy slumber. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 HAKON JARL. 
 
 This tragedy celebrates a subject of national 
 interest in the North. It involves the downfall 
 of the ancient Scandinavian paganism, and the 
 establishment of Christianity. Olaf Trygveson, 
 descendant of Harald the Fair-haired, has been 
 left in possession of his father's conquests in 
 Ireland, where he has been converted to Chris- 
 tianity. In the mean time Hakon Jarl has 
 usurped the power, and meditates the assump- 
 tion of the kingly crown. But his cruelty and 
 licentiousness have raised up a strong party 
 against him among the Bondas ; and his at- 
 tempt to seize Gudrun, the beautiful daughter 
 of Bergthor, the smith who had been ordered 
 to make a crown for the tyrant, inflames the 
 people to the highest pitch, and the Jarl's re- 
 tainers are driven off". The young prince Olaf, 
 in an expedition to Russia, lands on an island 
 near the coast of Norway ; he escapes the 
 snare laid for him by the crafty Jarl, and, find- 
 ing the people eager for his restoration, resolves, 
 contrary to his first intention, to strike for the 
 crown. The tyrant is overthrown, and with 
 him the religion of Odin. — The subject is man- 
 aged with great dramatic skill. The poem 
 contains many passages of rare beauty, and 
 some of terrible power ; the sacrifice of the 
 Jarl's son makes the reader thrill with horror. 
 
 HAKON AND THORER, IN THE SACRED GROVE. 
 
 hakon. 
 We are alone. Within this sacred wood 
 Dares no one come but Odin's priests and Ha- 
 kon. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 Such confidence, my lord, makes Thorer proud 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 So, Thorer, thou believ'st all that to-day 
 Was told of Olaf Trygveson at table, 
 Till that hour, was unknown to me ? 
 
 THORER. 
 
 To judge 
 
 By your surprise, my lord, and, if I dare 
 
 To say so, by your looks, such was the truth. 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 99 
 
 Trust not my looks ; — my features are mine own, 
 And must obey their owner. What I seem 
 Is only seeming. With the multitude 
 I must dissemble. — Now we are alone, 
 Hear me ! Whate'er of Olaf thou hast said, 
 I knew it long before. 
 
 His warlike fame 
 
 Had reached to Norway ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Ay. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 But thou art serious. — 
 
 What mean'st thou, noble Jarl ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Give me thine hand, 
 
 In pledge of thy firm loyalty ! 
 
 THORER. 
 
 Thereto 
 
 Thy kindness and my gratitude must bind me. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Thou art a man even after mine own heart ! 
 For such a friend oft had I longed. — With 
 
 prudence 
 Thou know'st to regulate thine own affairs ; 
 A . id, if obstructions unforeseen arise, 
 With boldness thou canst use thy battle-sword ; 
 And as thy wisdom is exerted, still 
 So must thy plans succeed. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 The gods endow us 
 
 With souls and bodies, — each must bear their 
 part. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Man soon discovers that to which by nature 
 He has been destined. His own impulses 
 Awake the slumbering energies of mind ; 
 Thence he attains what he feels power to reach ; 
 Nor for his actions other ground requires. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 It is most true. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 My passion evermore 
 
 Has been to rule, — to wear the crown of Nor- 
 
 way,— 
 This was the favorite vision of my soul. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 That vision is already realized. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Not quite, my friend ; — almost, but yet not 
 
 wholly. 
 Still am I styled but Hakon Jarl, — the name 
 Whereto I was begot and born. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 'T is true ; 
 
 B Jt when thou wilt, then art thou King. 
 
 My hopes 
 
 Have oft suggested that our Northern heroes 
 Will soon perceive it more befits their honor 
 A monarch to obey than a mere Jarl. 
 Therefore at the next congress I resolve 
 At once to explain my wishes and intent. 
 Bergthor, the smith, a brave old Drontheimer, 
 Labors already to prepare my crown. 
 When it is made I shall appoint the day. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 Whate'er may chance, thou art indeed a king. 
 
 Thou judgest like a trader, still of gain ; — 
 But yet, methinks, the mere external splendor 
 Is not to be despised. Even to the lover 
 A maiden's warm embrace is not so rapturous 
 As to a monarch's head the golden crown. — 
 My favorite goal is near. But now the day 
 Draws to a close ; the twilight dews descend ; 
 And, as the poet sings, my raven locks 
 Are mixed with frequent gray. Give me thine 
 
 hand : 
 Erewhile I could have grasped thee, till the 
 
 blood 
 Sprung from thy nails, like sap from a green 
 
 twig ; — 
 Say to me truly, hast thou felt it now ? 
 
 THORER. 
 
 The strongest pressure may not from a man 
 Extort complaint. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 But mine was no strong pressure. 
 
 Thou speak'st but to console me. Seest thou 
 
 here ? 
 My forehead is with wrinkles deeply ploughed. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 Such lineaments become a warlike hero. 
 
 Yet Norway's maidens love them not. In short, 
 My friend, I now grow old ; but therefore still 
 The twilight of mine evening would enjoy. — 
 Clearly my sun shall set. Woe to the cloud 
 That strives to darken its last purple radiance ! 
 
 THORER. 
 
 Where is that cloud ? 
 
 Even in the West. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 Thou mean'st 
 Olaf, in Dublin ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 He is sprung from Harald 
 
 Surnamed the Yellow-locked. — Know'st thou 
 
 the Norsemen ? 
 A powerful, strong, heroic race, yet full 
 Of superstition and of prejudice ; 
 
100 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 I know full well that in a moment's space 
 All Hakon's services they will forget, 
 And only think of Olaf 's birth, whene'er 
 They know that he survives. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 Can this be so ? 
 
 I know my people. — And shall this enthusiast, 
 This traitor to his country (who has served 
 With Otto against Norway, on pretence 
 Of Christian piety), ascend our throne, 
 And tear the crown from Hakon ? 
 
 Who dare think so ? 
 
 I think so, friend, and Olaf too. — Now mark 
 
 me : 
 He is the last descendant of King Harald ; 
 Yet Hakon's race yields not to his. Of old 
 The Jarls of Klade ever were the first 
 After the king ; and no one now remains 
 Of our old royal line, but this vain dreamer, 
 Who has forsworn the manners and the faith 
 Of his own native land, — a ransomed slave, 
 Born in a desert, of an exiled mother. 
 
 HAKON DISCLOSES HIS DESIGNS TO THORER. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Enough. I called you to this meeting here, 
 That I may speak in friendly confidence : 
 I know you love me, and deserve this trust. 
 Then listen, — for the times require decision. 
 My life has passed away in strife and storm : 
 Full many a rock, and many a thicket wild, 
 Have I by violence torn up and destroyed, 
 Ere in its lofty strength the tree at last 
 Could rise on high. Well ! that is now ful- 
 filled,— 
 My name has spread o'er Norway with re- 
 nown, — 
 Only mine enemies can my fame decry. 
 I have met bravery with bravery — 
 And artifice with art — and death with death ! 
 Weak Harald Schaafell and his brothers now 
 Injure the realm no more; for they are fallen ! 
 If I proved faithless to the gold-rich Harald, 
 Yet had his baseness well deserved his fate. 
 The youthful powers of Jomsburg now no more 
 May fill the seas with terror ; I have them 
 Extirpated. This kingdom every storm 
 Has honorably weathered, — and 't was I 
 That had the helm, — I only was the pilot; 
 I have alone directed — saved the vessel, — 
 And therefore would I still the steersman be, 
 Still hold my station. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 T is no more than justice. 
 
 Olaf alone is left of the old line ; 
 
 And think'st thou he is tranquil now in Ireland ? 
 
 What would'st thou say, wise Thorer, if I told 
 
 thee, 
 In one brief word, that he is here ? 
 
 THORER. 
 
 Here ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Ay. 
 
 CARLEHOVED. 
 
 What, here in Norway ? is it possible ? 
 
 hakon (to Thorer). 
 I could not choose but smile, when thou to-day 
 Long stories told us of thy pious friend 
 Olaf, in Dublin, — even as if mine eyes 
 Have not long since been watching him! — I 
 
 heard 
 Your words in silence then, — but now 't is time 
 Freely to speak. This morning news arrived, 
 That Olaf with a fleet had sailed from Dublin, 
 To visit Russia, but meanwhile has landed 
 Hard by us here at Moster, with intent, 
 As it is said, but to salute his country 
 After long absence. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 This indeed is strange. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 If, like a wild enthusiast, he in truth 
 
 Has lingered on his way but to refresh 
 
 His lungs with some pure draughts of mountain 
 
 air 
 I know not ; but this much must be deter- 
 mined, — 
 Whether beneath an innocent wish he bears not 
 Some deep concealed intention. Thou hast been 
 His guest at Dublin ; therefore, on the claim 
 Of old acquaintance, now canst visit him. 
 The wind is fair ; — early to-morrow morning 
 Thou couldst be there. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 And what is thy design ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 No more but to discover his designs ; 
 And, if he tarries longer on our ground, 
 At once to meet him on the battle-field. 
 Brave warriors love such meetings, and search 
 
 not 
 Too scrupulously for grounds of their contention. 
 He has a fleet like mine; — power against 
 
 power ; — 
 Such is our Northern courtesy. Few words, 
 Methinks, are needful. 
 
 JOSTEIN. 
 
 Surely not. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 But how 
 
 Shall I detain him ? 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 101 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Visit him ; and say, — 
 
 What doubtless he has wished to hear, — that 
 
 Hakon 
 Far through the land is hated ; that men wait 
 But for a warrior of the rightful line 
 To tear him from the throne. If this succeeds, 
 Then let him disembark. On the firm ground 
 Right gladly will I try the chance of war. 
 But if the bait allures not, — why, 't is well, 
 Then let him go. 
 
 THOREK. 
 
 Now, Sir, I understand, 
 And am obedient. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Thou shalt not in vain 
 Have served me, Thorer. 
 
 THOBEB. 
 
 That, indeed, I know. 
 
 Hakon's rewards are princely, - 
 
 them 
 I had been firm. 
 
 ■ yet without 
 
 hakon (shaking him by the hand). 
 Mine honest friend ! — (Turning to the others.) And 
 
 you, 
 As Olaf 's cousins, will you go with Thorer, 
 And second his attempts ? 
 
 JOSTEIN. 
 
 We are his cousins, — 
 But Hakon is our patron and commander ; 
 By joining in this plan we shall but prove 
 King Olaf 's innocence. 
 
 THORER. 
 
 'T is well. 
 
 HAKON AND MESSENGER. 
 HAKON. 
 
 Now — tell me all — where stands the insurgent 
 army ? 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 In Orkdale, Sire, by Orm of Lyrgia 
 Commanded, and by Ekialm and Alf 
 Of Rimol. They are there with hearts intent 
 Their sister to avenge. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 I do confide 
 
 In my tried bands of heroes, who will soon 
 
 This wild horde put to flight. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 Yet anger, Sire, 
 
 Has armed them powerfully. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 With sudden rage, — 
 A momentary fire, — that vanishes 
 Whene'er the sword of Hakon Jarl appears. 
 Has Olaf 's fleet approached near the land ? 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 He is in Drontheim's bay already harboured. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 How ? And my son has not there made him 
 
 captive ? 
 Not barred his entrance ? Ha ! What then has 
 
 happened ? 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 At early morning, Sire, King Olaf came, — 
 He had five ships, — thy son had three, — in size 
 Far less. A heavy fog reigned all around : 
 Lord Erland deemed that Olaf 's fleet was thine; 
 Then, on a nearer view, perceived too late 
 His error, and would have returned, but soon 
 Was overtaken by the enemy. 
 His ship was stranded. Then on deck he sprung, 
 With all his crew ; but on a sinking wreck 
 They could not fight ; but in the waves sought 
 
 refuge, — 
 Diving beneath the flood, they swam to land. 
 Yet Olaf never lost sight of thy son ; 
 From his bright armor and his burnished shield, 
 He deemed it was thyself, and called aloud, 
 " Hakon ! thou shalt not now escape from 
 
 death, — 
 When last we met, I swore our next encounter 
 Should be the unsparing strife of life and 
 
 death ! " 
 With these words, suddenly he seized a pole 
 That on the water floated. O, forgive me, 
 If I would spare myself the dread recital, 
 And thee the knowledge of the rest ! 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Not so : 
 
 I charge thee, tell the whole. He seized an oar, — 
 
 What then ? 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 He struck thy son upon the head, 
 
 So that his brains burst forth into the sea. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Hast thou no more to tell ? 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 It vexed King Olaf, 
 
 When 't was explained that he who had been 
 
 struck 
 Was not Jarl Hakon. — Many men were slain. 
 Yet some he spared, and learned from them the 
 
 news, 
 Where stood the insurgent army ; and how much 
 The people against thee had been incensed. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Hast thou yet more to tell ? 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 My liege, I have not. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Then go ! [The Messenger goes out. 
 
 " It vexed King Olaf, when 't was proved 
 i2 
 
102 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 That he who had been struck was not Jarl 
 
 Hakon ! " 
 Not so ! By Heaven, mine enemy could find 
 No other means to wound my heart so deeply ! 
 Erland thou hast not struck ; he feels it not ; 
 And the sea-goddesses have now received him, 
 Have pressed him lovingly to their white bosoms, 
 Rolled him in their blue mantles, and so borne 
 
 him 
 To Odin's realm ! But Hakon thou hast 
 
 wounded ; 
 Ay, struck him very deeply ! O dear Erland, 
 My son, my son ! He was to me most dear ; 
 The light and hope of my declining age ! 
 I saw, in him the heir of my renown, 
 And Norway's throne ! Has fortune, then, re- 
 solved 
 To cast me off at last ? And is Walhalla 
 Now veiled in clouds ? its glories all obscured ? 
 The gods themselves o'erpowered ? Burns 
 
 Odin's light 
 No longer ? Is thy strength exhausted too, 
 Great Thor ? The splendor of the immortal gods 
 Declining into twilight, and already 
 Their giant foes triumphant ? Rouse thee, 
 
 Hakon ! 
 Men call thee Northern Hero. Rouse thyself! 
 Forgive thy servant, O Almighty Powers, 
 If, worldly-minded, he forgot Walhalla ! 
 From this hour onwards all his life and deeds 
 To you are consecrated. The bright dream, 
 That in the sunset placed upon my head 
 The golden crown, is fled. The storm on high 
 Rages, — the dark clouds meet, and rain pours 
 
 down, — 
 The sun appears no more ; and when again 
 The azure skies are cleared, the stars in heaven 
 Will glimmer palely on the grave of Hakon ! 
 The sea now holds my son ! The little Erling, 
 'T is true, remains behind. How can I hope 
 That such a tender youngling can resist 
 The raging storm's assault ? So let me swear 
 By all the diamonds in the eternal throne, 
 Stars of the night, by you ; and by thy car, 
 All-powerful Thor, that turns the glittering pole 
 At midnight toward the south ; even from this 
 
 hour 
 I live no more, but only for Walhalla ! 
 My life is wholly to the gods devoted. 
 If worldly pride erewhile my heart deluded, 
 Yet may I be forgiven, thou noble Saga ! 
 It was thy sovereign charms that led me on. 
 And have my deeds, Almighty Father, drawn 
 Thy wrath upon my head ? Well, then ; desire 
 A sacrifice, whate'er thou wilt, it shall 
 Be thine ! 
 
 HAKON AND HIS SON ERLING IN THE SACRED 
 GROVE. 
 
 [Hakon enters, leading his son Erling by the hand.] 
 
 ERLING. 
 
 T is cold, my father ! 
 
 'T is yet early morning. 
 Art thou so very chill ? 
 
 Nay, — 't is no matter. 
 
 I shall behold the rising sun, — how grand ! 
 
 A sight that I have never known before. 
 
 Seest thou yon ruddy streaks along the east ? 
 
 What roses ! how they bloom and spread on 
 
 high! 
 Yet, father, tell me, whence come all these pearls, 
 Wherewith the valley here is richly strewn? 
 How brightly they reflect the rosy light ! 
 
 They are not pearls, — it is the morning dew ; 
 And that which thou deem'st roses is the sun. 
 Seest thou ? He rises now ! Look at him, boy ! 
 
 O, what a beauteous whirling globe he seems ! 
 How fiery red ! Dear father, can we never 
 Visit the sun in yonder distant land ? 
 
 My child, our whole life thitherward is tending , 
 That flaming ball of light is Odin's eye; 
 His other is the moon, of milder light, 
 That he just now has left in Mimer's well, 
 There by the charmful waves to be refreshed. 
 
 ERLING. 
 
 And where is Mimer's well ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 The sacred ocean, — 
 
 Down there, that, foaming, beats upon the 
 
 rocks, — 
 That is old Mimer's deep and potent well, 
 That strengthens Odin's eyes. From the cool 
 
 waves, 
 At morning, duly comes the sun refreshed, — 
 The moon again by night. 
 
 But now it hurts me, - 
 It mounts too high. 
 
 Upon his golden throne 
 
 The Almighty Father mounts, soon to survey 
 
 The whole wide earth. The central diamond 
 
 In his meridian crown our earthly sight 
 
 May not contemplate. — What man dares to 
 
 meet 
 The unveiled aspect of the king of day ? 
 
 erling (terrified). 
 Hu ! hu ! my father ! — In the forest yonder ' — 
 What are those bearded, frightful men ? 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 103 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Fear not, — 
 
 These are the statues of the gods, by men 
 
 Thus hewn in marble. They blind not with 
 
 sun-gleams ! 
 Before them we can pray with confidence, 
 And look upon them with untroubled firmness. 
 Come, child ! — let us go nearer ! 
 
 ERLINO. 
 
 No, my father ! 
 
 I am afraid ! — Seest thou that old man there ? 
 
 Him with a beard? I am afraid of him ! 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Child, it is Odin ! — Wouldst thou fly from 
 Odin ? 
 
 No, no; — I fear not the great king in heaven ; 
 He is so good and beautiful ; and calls 
 The flowers from the earth's bosom, and himself 
 Shines like a flower on high. — But that pale 
 
 sorcerer, 
 He grins like an assassin ! 
 
 Ha! 
 
 ERLINO. 
 
 Father, at least, 
 
 Let me first bring my crown of flowers ; I left it 
 
 There on the hedge, when first thou brought'st 
 
 me hither, 
 To see the sun rise. Then let us go home ; 
 Believe me, that old man means thee no good ! 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Go, bring thy wreath, and quickly come again. 
 
 [Exit Erling. 
 A lamb for sacrifice is ever crowned. 
 Immortal Powers, behold from heaven the faith 
 Of Hakon in this deed ! 
 
 ERLINO. 
 
 Here am I, father, 
 And here 's the crown. 
 
 Yet, ere thou goest, my child, 
 
 Kneel down before great Odin. Stretch thy 
 
 hands 
 Both up to heaven, and say, " Almighty Father, 
 Hear little Erling ! As thy child, receive him 
 To thy paternal bosom ! " 
 
 erling. (He kneels, stretching his arms out towards the 
 sun, and says, with childish innocence and tranquilli- 
 ty, -) 
 
 " O great Odin, 
 
 Hear little Erling! As thy child, receive him 
 
 To thy paternal bosom ! " 
 
 [Hakon, who stands behind, draws his dagger, and intends 
 to stab him, but it drops out of his hand. Erling turns 
 about quietly, takes it up, and says, as he rises, 
 
 Here it is, — 
 
 Your dagger, father ! 'T is so bright and sharp ! 
 
 When I grow taller, I will have one too, 
 Thee to defend against thine enemies ! 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Ha ! what enchanter with such words assists 
 
 thee 
 To move thy father's heart ? 
 
 ERLINO. 
 
 How 's this, my father ? 
 
 You are not angry, sure ? — What have I done ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Come, Erling, follow me behind that statue. 
 
 ERLINO. 
 
 Behind that frightful man ? O, no ' 
 
 hakon (resolutely). 
 Yet listen ! — 
 There are fine roses blooming there, — not 
 
 white, 
 But red and purple roses. 'T is a pleasure 
 To see them shooting forth. — Come, then, my 
 
 child ! 
 
 ERLING. 
 
 Dear father, stay : I am so much afraid — 
 I do not love red roses. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Come, I say ! 
 
 Hear'st thou not Heimdal's cock ? He crows 
 
 and crows. 
 Now it is time ! 
 
 [Exeunt behind the statues. 
 
 DEFEAT AND DEATH OF HAKON. 
 
 [Rimol. — Night. — Thora and Inger sitting at ■ table with 
 work. The lights are nearly burnt out.] 
 
 THORA. 
 
 Sleep, Inger, weighs upon thee heavily. 
 
 Midnight has passed long since. But listen, now, 
 They come. ' There is a knocking at the gate. 
 
 THORA. 
 
 No, — 't was the tempest. Through the livelong 
 
 night 
 It beats and howls, as if it would tear up 
 The house from its foundation. 
 
 INGER. 
 
 In such weather, 
 
 Your brothers, noble lady, will not come, 
 
 But wait till it is daylight. 
 
 THORA. 
 
 Well, then, child, 
 
 Go thou to bed. Sleep flies from me. This 
 
 morning 
 The battle must have been ; — and Ekialm 
 
104 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 And Alf have promised me to come with tidings. 
 Go thou to bed ; and I shall watch alone. 
 
 If you permit me. But again I hear 
 That sound. Methinks it cannot be the storm. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 THORA. 
 
 How sad am I ! How sorely is my heart 
 Oppressed ! — My brothers against Hakon Jarl ! — 
 Whoever wins, poor Thora must be lost ! — 
 [An archer comes. 
 
 EINAR. 
 
 God save thee, noble Thora ! and good morning ! 
 For, if I err not, it is morn already ; — 
 The cock crows loudly in the court without. 
 Tidings I bring for thee. My name is Einar, — 
 Einar the bowman. — Fear not, though I were 
 Erewhile the friend of Hakon ; — for, since he 
 Offered his own child for a sacrifice, 
 To gain the victory, I have been to him 
 A foe relentless. 
 
 THORA. 
 
 O immortal Powers ! — 
 
 Just cause, indeed, hast thou for thy dislike, 
 And he deserves abhorrence even from all, 
 But most from thee. But to the point. Forme, — 
 I am King Olaf 's liegeman. I have known 
 Thy brothers but for a short space ; yet soon 
 Firm friends had we become. Vicissitudes 
 Of war cement in one brief hour a bond 
 That years of peaceful life could not unite. 
 They fought like Normans; — well, so did we 
 
 all ; — 
 And Olaf conquered. Like the waste sea-foam, 
 The worn-out troops of Hakon were dispersed. — 
 Hotly the battle raged beneath the clash 
 Of blood-stained shields ; and every sword and 
 
 spear 
 With gore was reeking. The war-goddesses 
 Descended on the field. They would have 
 
 carnage, 
 And had their fill. — More freely pours not forth 
 Odin the foaming nectar in Walhalla ! — 
 Thousands were slain ; but Hakorl and his squire 
 Escaped our swords. We now pursue their 
 
 flight! — 
 
 thora (anxiously). 
 But my dear brothers, Einar, what of them ? — 
 Thou com'st a stranger — late at night — I trem- 
 ble— 
 My brothers — tell me ! — 
 
 EINAR. 
 
 They have sent me hither, — 
 
 They could not come themselves. But, noble 
 
 Thora, 
 Rejoice ; for Ekialm and Alf have now 
 Rode with the sunrise to Walhalla's towers. 
 With Odin there they sit amid the heroes, 
 And to their meeting drain the golden horn ! — 
 
 O Freya ! — 
 
 EINAR. 
 
 Noble lady, at their fate 
 
 Thou shouldst rejoice. To few, alas ! is given 
 
 A death so glorious. Ever in the van 
 
 They shone distinguished. There it was I found 
 
 them ! — 
 Jarl Hakon, like a wild bear of the forest, 
 Raged in the battle ; and the strife was hard. 
 Together whole battalions intermixed ; — 
 Half Norway fought for Hakon ; and the rest, 
 Against them, on the side of our King Olaf. 
 Thy brothers strove with vehemence thee to 
 
 avenge 
 By the life-blood of Hakon. Yet, behold ! 
 Both fell beneath his sword. — His arm, indeed, 
 Is powerful, when 't is energized by wrath. 
 What more ? They found a noble conqueror. 
 Whate'er men say, Jarl is a peerless hero ; 
 This on the field to-day was amply proved. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 my 
 
 THORA. 
 
 brothers ! — 
 
 EINAR. 
 
 Nay, I envy them ! 
 
 Of Odin's realm they are the denizens, 
 And wear their swords amid immortal heroes. 
 Ere morning will their monument be raised, 
 To brave the wreck of time. In gratitude, 
 There will King Olaf place the eternal wreath 
 Of massy stone. — " Salute our sister Thora ! " — 
 These were the last words on their lips. — I 
 
 promised ; 
 That promise I have thus fulfilled. — And now 
 I ride about with a strong band of horsemen 
 In search of Hakon. Olaf, too, is with us. 
 We meet again at Gaula ; for to-day 
 The Congress is, — but where it holds I know 
 
 not. 
 Soon, as we hope, our prey shall be secured, 
 And all thy wrongs be fearfully avenged. — 
 Now may the gods be with thee ; and farewell ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 THORA. 
 
 Ye sacred Powers ! how have I, then, deserved 
 A fate so cruel ? What have been my crimes, 
 That my poor heart should thus be rent asun- 
 der ? — [Enter a stranger, muffled in a cloak. 
 Whence comes this unknown guest ? — Stran- 
 ger ! who art thou ? 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Are we alone and in security ? 
 
 THORA. 
 
 How ! Speak'st thou of security, — even now, 
 When thou thyself my solitude hast broken, 
 And on my grief intruded ? — Say, what art thou ' 
 
 stranger (throwing off his disguise). 
 Know'st thou me now ? 
 
 O heavenly Powers ! — Jarl Hakon ! 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 105 
 
 ■ Thou shouldst not 
 
 Even he himself. 
 
 THOEA. 
 
 And hast thou fled to me ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 By all Walhalla's gods ! — 
 
 wonder ! — 
 Will not the noble game, that all day long 
 Has been pursued, at last for refuge fly 
 To haunts the most unmeet or unexpected ? 
 
 THORA. 
 
 Jarl, thou art pale, thy looks are desolate ! 
 
 Heaven knows, I have contended like a wolf 
 That would protect her young. With this good 
 
 sword 
 Souls have I sent enough this day to Lok 
 Or Odin. Now am I sore spent. My troops 
 Are broken. Fortune has proved treacherous, 
 And Olaf with his Christian charms has blunted 
 The swords of Northern heroes. Many fled; 
 Others more base endeavoured to betray me ; 
 No man is left in whom I may confide. 
 On my devoted head the hand of Rota, 
 Blood-loving goddess, icy-cold was laid, 
 And heavily. In silence with one slave 
 Have I rode through the night. By fiery thirst 
 Long have I been tormented. In that cup 
 Is there cold water ? 
 
 THORA. 
 
 Wait, and I will bring you 
 
 hakon (drinks). 
 
 No, stay ! How much indeed this draught re- 
 freshed me ! — 
 
 At Gaula fell my horse ; I killed him there ; 
 
 Threw off" my war-cloak, drenched it in his 
 blood, 
 
 And left it to deceive mine enemies. 
 
 THORA. 
 
 Hakon ! 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 As I passed thy dwelling by, 
 And stood before the dark and silent gate, 
 Whereon the storm was breaking, a deep thought 
 Awoke within me, that here yet one soul 
 Survived, of whom I was not quite an outcast, 
 And who the gate to me would open gladly. 
 
 1 called to mind how often thou hadst sworn 
 That I was dear to thee. — Yet well I knew 
 That love can turn to hatred. Be it so ' 
 Here am I, Thora ! Wilt thou now conceal me 
 From Olaf and his horsemen ? For thy love 
 Then am I grateful, — love that heretofore 
 
 I have not duly prized. If thou art doubtful, 
 I cannot supplicate. Then shall I go 
 Once more, amid the desolate night, and climb 
 The highest clifF; look, for the last time, round 
 Even on t) at realm that honored and obeyed 
 me ; 
 
 14 
 
 Then, with the tranquil heart of stern resolve, 
 Rush on this tried and faithful sword. The storm 
 Will on its wild wings quickly bear my soul 
 Unto the father of all victories ; 
 And when the sun reveals my lifeless frame, 
 It shall be said, " As he hath lived exalted, 
 So did he nobly die ! " 
 
 THORA. 
 
 No more of this ! 
 
 Hakon, speak not so ! My hatred now 
 Is past and gone. Gladly shall I afford 
 A refuge from thy numerous foes. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Know'st thou 
 
 That I with this hand sacrificed the boy, 
 
 The favorite little one, to thee so dear ? 
 
 THORA. 
 
 Thou to the gods hast offered him : I know it . 
 A deed that proves the miserable strife, 
 The oppression, of thy heart. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 But know'st thou too, 
 
 That I, with this hand which thou kindly 
 
 graspest, 
 And — no — I cannot say the rest ! 
 
 THORA. 
 
 1 know 
 
 That thou hast killed my brothers in the battle. 
 
 Indeed ? and still 
 
 THORA. 
 
 Thora is still the same. 
 
 O Hakon ! thou hast acted cruelly ; 
 
 With scorn repaid my love, and killed my 
 
 brothers ; 
 Yet in the battle it goes ever thus, 
 Life against life ; and they, as Einar said, 
 Are in Walhalla blest. — 
 Ah ! tell me, Hakon, 
 Is this no vision ? Art thou here indeed, 
 In Thora's humble cottage, far remote 
 From thy proud palace 'mid the forest wild, 
 Surrounded by the fearful gloom of night? 
 Say, is the pale and silent form that now 
 Leans on his sword, so worn and spiritless, 
 No longer with imperial robes adorned, 
 Thyself indeed ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 The shadow which thou seest 
 Was once indeed the monarch of all Norway, 
 And heroes did him homage and obeisance ; 
 He fell in one day's battle, — 't was at Klade 
 Ha ! that is long past now, — almost forgot. 
 His pallid spectre wanders up and down, 
 To scare beholders in the gloom of night. 
 His name was Hakon ! 
 
 I indeed am now 
 Revenged, and fearfully ! 
 
 Away with hatred, 
 
106 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 Henceforth, and enmity ! Come love again ! 
 I were indeed a she-wolf, and no woman, 
 If in my bosom hatred not expired 
 At sucli a look as thine is now ! — Come, then, 
 Lean on thy Thora; let me dry thy temples, 
 That fire again may light thy faded eyes. 
 
 hakon (wildly). 
 What is thy name, thou gentle maid of Norway ? 
 
 THORA. 
 
 The maidens here have called me Violet. 
 Methinks, indeed, I was a little flower, 
 Grown up within the shelter of thine oak, 
 And there alone was nourished, — therefore now 
 Must wither, since no longer 't is allowed, 
 As wont, within that honored shade to bloom. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Violet ! a pretty name. 
 
 THORA. 
 
 How 's this ? O Heaven ! 
 
 A fever shakes thee in mine arms. This mood 
 Is new, indeed, and frightful. When, till now, 
 Have I beheld tears on thy cheeks ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 How, Violet, 
 
 Thou pale blue floweret on the hero's grave, 
 And wonder'st thou if I shed tears? Ere now, 
 Hast thou not seen hard rocks appear to weep, 
 When suddenly from freezing cold to warmth 
 Transported ? It is but of death the token. 
 Then wonder not, pale, trembling flower ! 
 
 THORA. 
 
 O Jarl ! 
 
 My own ! my Hakon ! Help me, Heaven ! 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 The snow 
 
 Fades on the mountains ; now its reign is o'er; 
 The powerful winter melts away, and yields 
 Before the charmful breath of flowery spring. 
 Jarl Hakon is no more ; his ghost alone 
 Still wanders on the earth. Yet boldly go, 
 And through his body drive a wooden spear 
 Deep in the earth beneath. Then shall, at last, 
 His miserable spectre find repose. 
 
 My Hakon, be composed ; speak not so wildly. 
 The loftiest spirit, howsoe'er endowed, 
 Must yield at last to fortune. Thy proud heart 
 Has long with hate and enmity contended ; 
 Now let its o'erstretched chords relent, at last, 
 In tears upon the bosom of thy love. — 
 But follow me. Beneath this house a vault 
 Deep in the rock is broad and widely hewn, 
 That no one knows but I alone, and there 
 Will I conceal thee till the danger 's past. — 
 oon may a better fortune smile on us ! 
 
 Say to me truly, think'st thou that once more 
 Beyond that dusky vault the day will dawn ? 
 
 THORA. 
 
 My lord, I doubt it not. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 And to the vault, 
 
 Hollow, obscure, unknown, deep in the earth 
 (That barrier 'gainst all enemies and danger), 
 To that dark fortress, refuge most secure, 
 Wilt thou conduct me ? 
 
 Ay, my best beloved. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Come, then, 
 
 My bride in death, I '11 follow thee, my Hela! 
 
 Lead on, I tremble not. 
 
 THORA. 
 
 O heavenly Powers '. 
 
 Think'st thou thy looks can e'er appall my heart ? 
 True, thou art pale, thy lips are blue ; nay more, 
 Thou kill'st not quickly with the glittering spear, 
 Like thy wild sisters Hildur and Geirskogul, 
 But slowly smother'st first with ice-cold anguish 
 (Ere life departs) the heart's internal fire ; — 
 Yet 't is all one at last. Come, then ! In me, 
 Of valorous pride thou hast not yet o'ercome 
 The lingering flames. I follow thee, with steps 
 Firm and resolved, into the grave. 
 
 THORA. 
 
 Ye gods 
 
 Of mildness and of mercy, look upon him ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 [Woody country at Gaula. — Olaf, Carlshoved, Jostein, 
 Greif, Soldiers. 
 
 GREIF. 
 
 It dawns, my liege. Methinks the day will prove 
 Clear and rejoicing, as the night was gloomy. 
 Wilt thou not, till the horses are refreshed, 
 Repose beneath these trees ? 
 
 OLAF. 
 
 I cannot rest, 
 
 Till we have Hakon prisoner ; — his army 
 Is but dispersed, — not wholly overcome. 
 Young Einar deems that we already triumph ; 
 But he has less of wisdom than of valor. 
 If Hakon gains but time, he will be saved. 
 The streams will seek reunion with the sea. 
 I would not waste the land with ceaseless war, 
 But with the blessings of long peace enrich. 
 Hakon must fall ; for, while this heathen lives, 
 The rose of Christianity in Norway 
 Will never bloom. 
 
 [Einar, the bowman, enters with Hakon's war dress. 
 
 EINAR. 
 
 Olaf, thy toils are o'er ! 
 
 Beside a mountain-stream Jarl Hakon's steed 
 
 Lay bathed in gore, — and there I found his 
 
 mantle, 
 All bloody too. — Thy soldiers must have met 
 And killed him there. 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 107 
 
 OLAF. 
 
 Indeed ? Can this be so ? 
 
 Is this his dress ? Who recognizes it ? 
 
 GREIP. 
 
 The dress in truth is there, — but where 's the 
 
 Jarl ? 
 Lay he there too ? 
 
 EINAR. 
 
 His horse and cloak alone 
 Have I beheld. 
 
 GREIF. 
 
 Bring also the Jarl, and then 
 We may repose ; but not before. Methought 
 Thou knew'st him better. He, if I mistake not, 
 By this time has assumed another dress. — 
 Let not this trick mislead you, Sire. It suits 
 The crafty Jarl. He has contrived it all 
 But to deceive us. 
 
 OLAF. 
 
 Forward, then, my friends ! — 
 
 We are near Rimol. There is held the Congress, 
 
 And we may gain some tidings of the foe. 
 
 Ay, — there lives Thora, his devoted mistress. 
 
 EINAR. 
 
 Nay, that is past, — Jarl has deserted her, 
 And slain her brothers. 
 
 Well, but it is said 
 
 True love may never be outworn ; and we 
 
 Must try all chances. 
 
 OLAF. 
 
 Come, to horse ! The day 
 Is dawning brightly. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 [A rocky vault. — Hakon. Karker — The last carries a 
 burning lamp, and a plate with food, flakon has a spear 
 in his hand.] 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 In this cavern, then, 
 
 Are we to live ? Here is not much prepared 
 For life's convenience. Where shall I set down 
 Our lamp ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 There ; — hang it on that hook. 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 At last, 
 
 This much is gained. And here, too, there are 
 seats 
 
 Hewn in the rock, whereon one may repose. 
 
 My lord, will you not now take some refresh- 
 ment ? 
 
 This whole long day you have been without 
 food. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 I im not hungry, boy; — but thou mayst eat. 
 
 With your permission, then, I shall. 
 
 [He eats. Hakon walks up and down, taking long steps. 
 My lord, — Hu ! [Looking round. 
 
 'T is in sooth a frightful place ! 
 Saw'st thou that black and hideous coffin there, 
 Close to the door, as we stepped in ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Be silent, 
 
 And eat, I tell thee. — (Aside.) In this dark 
 
 abode 
 Has Thora spent full many a sleepless nigi t, 
 Lonely and weeping. Then, in her affliction, 
 That coffin she has secretly provided, 
 Even for herself; and here that fairest form 
 One day awaits corruption ! 
 
 [He looks at Karker. 
 Wherefore, boy, 
 
 Wilt thou not eat ? With eager haste, till now, 
 Didst thou devour thy food. What has thus 
 
 changed thee ? 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 My lord, I am not hungry, and methinks 
 This food tastes not invitingly. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 How so ? 
 
 Be of good courage. Trust in me, thy master. 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 Lord Jarl, thou art thyself oppressed and sad. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 " Oppressed and sad ! " How dar'st thou, slave, 
 
 presume ? 
 I say, be merry ! If thou canst not eat, 
 Then sing. I wish to hear a song. 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 Which, then, 
 Would you prefer ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Sing what thou wilt. However, 
 Let it be of a deep and hollow tone, 
 Even like the music of a wintry storm ' 
 A lullaby, my child, a lullaby ! 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 A lullaby ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Ay, that the grown-up child 
 May quietly by night repose. 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 My lord, 
 
 I know a famous war-song, — an old legend. 
 
 Has it a mournful ending ? Seems it first, 
 As if all things went prosperously on, 
 Then winds up suddenly with death and mur- 
 der? 
 
108 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 No, S re. The song is sad from the beginning. 
 
 Well ; that I most approve. For to commence 
 A song with calmness and serenity, 
 Only to end with more impressive horror, — 
 This is a trick that poets too much use ; — 
 Let clouds obscure the morning sky, — and then 
 We know the worst ! Begin the song. 
 
 " King Harald and Erling they sailed by night 
 (And blithe is the greenwood strain), 
 
 But when they came to Oglehof, 
 The doughty Jarl was slain ! " 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 How, slave ! 
 
 Hast lost thy reason ? Wilt thou sing to me 
 
 My father's death-song ? 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 How ! Was Sigurd Jarl 
 
 Your father, Sire ? In truth, I knew not this ; 
 
 His fate at last was mournful. 
 
 Silence ! 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 Here 
 
 One finds not even a little straw to rest on. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 If thou art weary, on the naked earth 
 Canst thou not rest, as I have often done ? 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 Since it must be so, I shall try. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Enough. 
 Sleep, — sleep ! 
 
 [Karker stretches himself on the ground and falls asleep; 
 Hakon looking at him. 
 Poor nature ! slumber'st thou already ? 
 The spark which restlessly betokened life 
 Already sunk in ashes! But 't is well, — 
 'T is well for thee. — Within this heart what 
 
 flames 
 Violently rage ! — Ha! stupid slave ! hast thou, 
 Commanded by the Normans, unto me 
 ty[y father's death-song as a warning sung ? 
 Shall Hakon's fate be like the fate of Sigurd ? 
 He was, as I have been, unto the gods 
 A priest of bloody sacrifice. But how ! 
 Can the wise God of Christians have o'ercome 
 Odin and all his powers ? And must he fall 
 Who has of Christians been the enemy ? 
 
 [He pauses. 
 'T is cold within this damp and dusky cave ; 
 My blood is freezing in my veins. 
 
 [He looks at Karker. 
 He dreams. 
 How hatefully his features are contorted .' 
 
 He grins like some fantastic nightly spectre ! 
 
 [Shaking him. 
 Ho ! Karker ! Slave, awake ! What mean those 
 feces ? 
 
 Ah ! 't was a dream. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 And what, then, hast thou dreamed ? 
 
 Methought I saw 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Be silent. Hear'st thou not ? 
 What is that noise above ? 
 
 Horsemen, my lord, — 
 
 A numerous troop. I hear their armor clashing. 
 They are, as I suspect, King Olaf 's people, 
 Who search for us. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 This cave is all unknown. 
 
 Its iron gates are strong. I have the key 
 
 Here are we safe. 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 But hear'st thou what the herald 
 Is now proclaiming ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 No. What were the words ? 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 King Olaf will with riches and with honor 
 Reward the man who brings to him the head 
 Of Hakon, Jarl of Klade. 
 
 hakon (looking at him scrutinizingly). 
 Feel'st thou not 
 Desire to win this wealth? — Why art thou 
 
 trembling ? 
 Why are thy lips turned pale ? 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 The vision scared me. — 
 
 Perchance, my lord, you could explain it for me. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 What hast thou dreamed ? 
 
 That we were both at sea, 
 
 In one small vessel, 'mid the stormy waves ; 
 
 I had the helm. 
 
 That must betoken, Karker, 
 That my life finally depends on thee. 
 Therefore be faithful. In the hour of need, 
 Stand by thy master firmly ; and one day, 
 He shall reward thee better than King Olaf 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 My lord, I dreamed yet more. 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 10'J 
 
 Boy, tell me all ! 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 There came a tall black man down to the shore, 
 Who from the rocks proclaimed, with fearful 
 
 voice, 
 That every harbour was barred up against us. 
 
 Karker, thou dream'st not well ; for this betokens 
 Short life even for us both. Be faithful still : 
 As thou thyself hast told me, we were born 
 On the same night ; and therefore in one day 
 We both shall die. 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 And then, methought, once more, 
 
 I was at Klade ; and King Olaf there 
 
 Fixed round my neck a ring of gold. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Ha! this 
 
 Betokens that King Olaf round thy neck 
 
 A halter will entwine, when treacherously 
 
 Thou hast betrayed thy master. — But no more. — 
 
 Place thyself in that corner. I will here 
 
 Recline, and so we both will go to sleep. 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 Even as thou wilt, my lord. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 What wouldst thou do ? 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 'T was but to trim the lamp. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Go, take thy place ; 
 
 And leave the lamp. Thou might'st extinguish 
 it; 
 
 Then should we sit in darkness. It is more 
 
 Than I can well explain, how every night 
 
 Those who retire to sleep put out the light ! 
 
 Of death it is, methinks, a fearful emblem, 
 
 More threatening far than slumber. What ap- 
 pears 
 
 In life so strong and vivid as the light ? 
 
 Where is the light when once it is extinguished ? 
 
 Let my lamp stand. It burns but feebly now ; — 
 
 Yet still it burns, — and where there 's life is 
 hope ! 
 
 Go, take thy place, and sleep. 
 
 [He walks unquielly up and down, and then asks — 
 
 Now, Karker, sleep'st thou ? 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 Ay, my good lord. 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 Ha ! stupid slave ! — (Rising up.) Jarl Hakon ! 
 Is this wretch, then, the last that now remains 
 Of all thy mighty force ? — I cannot trust him ; 
 For what can such a dull and clouded brain 
 Conceive of honor and fidelity? 
 Like a chained dog, fawning he will come 
 straight 
 
 To him who offers the most tempting morsels. 
 Karker, give me thy dagger. Slaves, thou 
 
 knowest, 
 Should wear no weapons. 
 
 From yourself, my lord, 
 
 It was a gift ; and here it is again. 
 
 'T is well. Now sleep. 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 Immediately. 
 
 hakon (aside). 
 A fever 
 
 Burns in my brain and blood. I am outworn, 
 Exhausted with the combat of the day, 
 With watching, and our long nocturnal flight. 
 Yet sleep I dare not, while that sordid slave - 
 
 [He pauses. 
 Well, I may rest awhile, yet carefully 
 Beware of sleep. 
 
 [He sits down, and is overpowered by slumber. 
 
 KARKER. 
 
 Ha! now — he sleeps ' — He trusts me not; 
 
 he fears 
 That I may now betray him to King Olaf. 
 Olaf gives wealth and honors for his life ; 
 What can I more expect from Hakon Jarl ? 
 He moves ! Protect me, Heaven ! He rises up, 
 And yet is not awake. 
 
 hakon (rising up in his sleep, and coming forward towards 
 Karker; as if he fled from some fearful apparition). 
 
 GoLD-HARALD ! ScHAAFELL ! 
 
 What wouldst thou with me ? Go ! leave me 
 in peace ! 
 
 Wherefore dost thou intrude thy death-pale 
 visage 
 
 Between those broken rocks ? Harald ! thou 
 liest ! 
 
 I was to thee no traitor. — How, now, children ! 
 
 What would you here ? Go home ! go home ! 
 for now 
 
 There is no time for dalliance. Then your 
 bridegroom ! — 
 
 And Odin's marble statue — it has fallen ! 
 
 And Freya stands with flowers upon her head ! 
 
 [Listening. 
 
 Who weeps there 'mid the grass ? 
 
 Ha ! that is worst. 
 
 Poor child ! poor little Erling ! dost thou bleed ? 
 
 And have I struck too deeply ? 'Mid the roses, 
 
 Till now snow-white, are purple drops descend- 
 ing ? [Calling aloud. 
 
 Ha! Karker! Karker! , 
 
 HARKER. 
 
 Still he dreams. My lord, 
 Here is your faithful slave. 
 
 Hold 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 take that spear, — 
 
110 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 Strike it at once into my heart. 'T is done ! 
 There ! strike ! 
 
 My lord, canst thou indeed desire 
 That I should such a deed fulfil ? 
 
 HAKON. 
 
 No more ! 
 
 [Threatening. 
 Thou wretch, strike instantly ! for one of us 
 Must fall, — we cannot both survive. 
 
 Nay, then, 
 Die thou ! 
 
 [He takes the spear and stabs Hakon. 
 
 hakon (falling). 
 Now in my heart the avenging spear 
 Of Heaven is deeply fixed. Thy threatening 
 
 words, 
 Olaf, are now confirmed. 
 
 KARXER. 
 
 Now it is past ; 
 
 And cannot be recalled. Therefore shall I 
 No time devote to lamentation here. 
 I could not weep him back to life again. 
 These iron doors now must I open wide, 
 And bring this dead Jarl to the king ; then claim 
 The wealth and honor that to me are promised. 
 'T is done ! but he himself desired his death ; 
 I blindly but performed what he commanded ! 
 [Exit, bearing out the body of Hakon Jarl. 
 
 SOLILOQUY OF THORA. 
 
 (The cavern. The lamp still burns. Servants bring in a 
 coffin, set it silently in the cave, and retire. Thora 
 comes slowly, with a drawn sword and a large pine-tree 
 garland in her hands. She remains long deeply medita- 
 tive, and contemplates the coffin.] 
 
 THORA. 
 
 Now art thou in thy coffin laid, Jarl Hakon ! 
 In Thora's coffin. Who could have foreseen 
 
 this ? 
 May thy bones rest in peace ! If thou hast erred, 
 By sufferings thou has amply made atonement; 
 And no one now to thee, laid in the grave, 
 One insolent word may speak of blame or scorn. 
 As in thy life, so even in death I love thee ! 
 For some brief years thy light o'er Norway 
 
 shone, 
 Even like the sun, new life through all diffusing. 
 Now have thy bands of warriors all forgot thee, 
 And sworn allegiance to a foreign power ! 
 One feeble woman only now is left 
 To mourn "and weep for thee ! So let her now 
 Those honors pay, that others have neglected. 
 From Thora's hand receive this coronet, 
 Of Northern pine-trees woven ; and let it twine 
 Around thy battle sword, and so betoken 
 That thou wert a brave champion of the North ; 
 A noble forest tree, though by the storm 
 Of winter wild o'erpowered at last. Old legends, 
 
 In distant ages, when the colors quite 
 Have from the picture faded, and no more 
 But the dark outline is beheld, will say, 
 " He was a wicked servant of the gods." 
 Thy name will be a terror to the people ; — 
 Not so it is to me ! for, O, I knew thee ! 
 In thee the noblest gifts and greatest heart 
 Were in the tumult of wild times perverted. 
 So then, farewell, great Hakon Jarl ! Thy soul 
 Is now rejoicing in the halls of Odin. 
 Now must I leave thee here in solitude ; 
 And when these gates are opened next, the 
 
 slaves 
 Of Thora shall her lifeless frame deposit 
 Beside the loved remains of her dear friend. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE TRAGEDY OF CORREGGIO. 
 
 ANTONIO DA CORREGGIO, AND MARIA HIS WIFE. 
 
 antonio (alone. He sets down the picture, and seems con- 
 founded). 
 Is this a dream ? Or has indeed the great 
 And gifted Buonarotti been with me ? 
 And such his words ! O, were it but delusion ! 
 [He sits down, holding his hand over his face ; then 
 rises up again. 
 My brain whirls round. — And yet I am awake ! 
 A frightful voice has broke my sleep. — "A 
 
 Bungler ! " 
 Such name, indeed, I never had believed 
 That I deserved, if the great Buonarotti 
 Had not himself announced it! 
 
 [He stands lost in thought. 
 On my sight 
 
 Rose variegated floating clouds. I deemed 
 That they were natural forms, and eager seized 
 The pencil to arrest their transient beauty ; — 
 But, lo ! whate'er I painted is no more 
 But clouds again, — a many-colored toy, 
 Wherein all nobler attributes of soul 
 Are sought in vain ; — even just proportion' 
 
 rules 
 Are wanting tool [Mournfully. 
 
 This I had not suspected ! 
 From deep internal impulse, with pure heart, 
 Have I my self-rewarding toil pursued. 
 When at the canvass placed, methought I 
 
 kneeled 
 Even at the everlasting shrine of Nature, 
 Who smiled on me, her favored votary, 
 And glorious mysteries revealed. But, O, 
 How have I been deceived ! — [A pause. 
 
 I well remember, 
 
 When but a boy, I with my father went 
 To Florence on the market-day, and ran 
 Alone into St. Lawrence church, and there 
 Stood at the graves of Giulio and Lorenzo ; 
 Contemplated the immortal imagery, — 
 The Night, the Day, the Twilight, and Aurora, 
 All in white marble cut by Buonarotti. 
 My stay was brief, but on my heart the impres- 
 sion 
 Was deep and lasting; — I had then beheld 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The high Unique ; the noblest works of art ! 
 All was so strange, — so beautiful and great, 
 And yet so dead and mournful, — I rejoiced 
 When I came forth and saw once more the fields 
 And the blue sky. But now again I stand 
 Beneath the cold sepulchral vault. The forms, 
 So fugitive, of light and cheerfulness, 
 Are vanished all away. Shuddering I stand 
 Before the Twilight and the Night, — de- 
 spised, — 
 Forsaken ! [Much moved. 
 
 Well ! henceforth I paint no more ! 
 Heaven knows 't was not from vanity I labored, 
 But rather as the bees erect their cells, 
 From natural impulse, — or the birds their nests. 
 If this is all a dream, then he shall once, 
 Yet once more, not in anger, but with calm 
 And tranquil dignity, such as his art 
 Has on Lorenzo's tomb portrayed, confirm 
 My sentence. Then farewell, ye cherished 
 
 hopes ! 
 Then I am still a poor and humble peasant ! 
 Ay, with a conscience pure and peaceful. Still, 
 I shall not mourn, nor sink into despair. 
 If I am not a painter, yet my lot 
 Is neither mean nor abject; — if this great 
 And far-famed Angelo should so denounce me, 
 Yet would an inward voice, by Heaven inspired, 
 The assurance give, " Thou art not base nor 
 guilty ! " 
 
 maria (enters). 
 How 's this, Antonio ? Thou art melancholy. 
 Thy picture 's thrown aside. — 'T is strange, in- 
 deed, 
 To find thee unemployed, when thus alone. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Maria, dearest wife, my painting now 
 Is at an end. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Hast thou, then, finished quite ? 
 
 antonio (painfully, and pressing her hand). 
 Ay, child, — quite finished ! 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 How is this ? O Heaven ! 
 Thou weep'st, Antonio ! 
 
 Nay, not so, Maria. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Dear husband, what has happened here ? O, 
 tell me ! 
 
 Be not afraid, Maria. I have thought 
 On many things relating to our life ; 
 And I have found, at last, that this pursuit, 
 By which we live, brings not prosperity ; 
 So have I, with myself, resolved at once 
 To change it quite. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 I understand thee not ! 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Seven years ago, when from thy father's hand 
 I, as my bride, received thee, canst thou still 
 Remember what the old man said ? " Antonio, 
 Leave off this painting. He who lives and 
 
 dreams 
 Still in the fairy world of art, in truth, 
 Is for this world unfit. Your painters all, 
 And poets, prove bad husbands ; for with them 
 The Muse usurps the wife's place ; and, intent 
 On their spiritual children, they will soon 
 Forget both sons and daughters." 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Nay, in truth, 
 
 He was an honest, faithful heart. Methinks, 
 Such to those useful plants may be compared 
 That grow beneath the earth, but never bloom 
 With ornamental flowers. No more of this ! 
 
 " Be," said he then, " a potter, like myself, — 
 Paint little figures on the clay, and sell them. 
 So, free from care, live with thy wife and chil- 
 dren, 
 And unto them thy time and life devote." 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 He saw not that which I then loved in thee, 
 Thy genius, and thy pure, aspiring soul ! 
 He knew not that thine art, which he despised, 
 Had shared my love, and was itself a blessing ! 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 My child, full many things have been believed 
 That were not true. Thy hopes have all been 
 blighted ! 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Antonio ! wilt thou force me to be sad ? 
 
 antonio (embraces her). 
 Thou art an angel ! — I have found thee still 
 In every state contented. But too well 
 I know thy hopes were blighted. Nor have 1 
 To thee given up the emotions of my heart, 
 But wasted them in visionary strife, 
 And fugitive creations. What I gained 
 Has partly on dear colors been expended ; 
 And for the rest I have not managed wisely. 
 At times we lived in superfluity, 
 But oftener scarce could meet the calls of 
 
 want ; — 
 So has thy tender heart enough been tried ; 
 It shall no more be thus ! We shall not strive 
 For that which is impossible, nor waste 
 This life in feverish dreams. I shall renounce 
 
 them, — 
 Step back into obscurity. Henceforth, 
 I may not be an artist, — but will learn 
 The duties of a husband and a father. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Thou canst not be an artist? — Then no more 
 Can Art survive upon this earth ! 
 
112 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 Dear wife, 
 Thou lov'st me ? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Ay, — because I know thee wholly. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Thou smil'st so sweet and innocently, — mark 
 
 you, 
 How that unmeaning imp is grinning there ? 
 [Pointing to the picture. 
 
 Antonio ! 
 
 maeia (perplexed). 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Now I see the faults. O, wherefore 
 
 Have I not- had ere now some faithful friend 
 
 Who might have shown them to me ? For I 
 
 feel 
 Within me the capacity to mend them ' 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 O Heaven ! what means all this ? 
 
 antonio (interested, and contemplating the picture). 
 It seems to me, 
 
 As if in that poor picture there were still 
 Something not wholly so contemptible; — 
 Not color only, — no, — nor finishing, — 
 Nor play of light and shade, — but something, 
 
 too, 
 Of solemn and sublime ! 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Nay, what has happened ? 
 Antonio, pray thee, tell me ! 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 He shall once — 
 
 Once more confirm his sentence. He has twice 
 Thundered it forth, but yet my condemnation 
 Must be a third time uttered ; — I shall then 
 Paint cups, and be a potter ' 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Who has been here ? 
 
 ' antonio (with dignity). 
 The great and far-famed Michael Angelo. 
 
 And- 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 • he — he said these things? 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Be quiet, child ; 
 
 We shall await the third time. From that world 
 Of cherished dreams and magic imagery 
 I may not willingly be torn away ! 
 Yet once more for my sentence ! Then, hence- 
 forth, 
 I shall renounce them all, and, for my share, 
 Strive but for art to blazon crockery-ware ! 
 
 ANTONIO AND GIULIO ROMANO. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Now there wants but the varnish ! Ha ! that veil 
 
 Will be far too transparent. From all eyes, 
 O, might it be withdrawn ! O, why was I 
 By want compelled to sell it ? Was it not 
 Deception, thus so large a sum to gain 
 By such a worthless labor ? Yet Octavian 
 Himself surveyed the picture ; and the price 
 On his own judgment offered. I then said 
 It was too much. 
 
 [Taking a pencil. 
 Yet here, amid the grass, 
 
 I shall paint one pale hyacinth. That flower, 
 When beauteous maidens die, adorns their tomb. 
 For me the lovely form of Hope has now 
 Declined in death ; and for her sake shall I, 
 For the last time, here plant one flower ! 
 But then, — 
 
 How shall I live, if I must paint no more ? 
 For Art hath like the breath of heaven become, 
 A requisite of life ! 
 
 [A pause. 
 Well, be it so ! 
 
 Let the long week in manual toil be spent, 
 For wife and child ! The Sunday morning still 
 Remains mine own. Then, once more on my 
 
 sight, 
 The smiling Iris with her sevenfold bow 
 Will rise in wonted beauty. I shall draw, 
 And groups compose again, and color them, — 
 All for mine own delight. To say the least, 
 'T is but a harmless luxury ; and my pictures 
 Will yet adorn our cottage walls, and please 
 Maria and my boy, who love them too ! 
 When I am gone, and travellers wander here, 
 They will not look on them unmoved ; for all 
 Are not like Michael Angelo. — Perchance 
 It may be said, this man at least aspired, 
 And had true love for Art. 
 
 Gir/Lio romano (enters). 
 Here now he sits, 
 
 The man by Heaven inspired, — painting again 
 Some picture that shall fill the world with won- 
 der. 
 O, how I long to speak with him ! Yet pa- 
 tience ! 
 I shall by gradual steps prolong my joy. — 
 Am I awake ? What have I seen ? How, Giulio ? 
 Must thou from Rome to this poor village come, 
 To find the second Rafaelle ? 'T is, indeed, 
 Wondrous and unexpected ! In the city, 
 Schools and academies we build, and princes 
 Aid all our efforts. Even from infancy 
 Our eyes are fixed on models, and our hands 
 Are exercised ; but when at length arrives 
 The brilliant opportunity to prove 
 The powers that we have gained, what are we 
 
 all 
 But scholars ? not, indeed, of praise unworthy, 
 Good, specious imitators ! If, once more, 
 True genius is to show itself on earth, 
 It blooms not in the hot-house. All such aid 
 That amaranthine flower disdains. In woods 
 And wilds, by the free breath of storms per- 
 vaded, 
 It flourishes, by chance implanted there, 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 113 
 
 And by supernal powers upheld. We gaze 
 With veneration on our ancient masters, 
 And deem that genius has its acme gained, 
 And died with them. But while, all unawares, 
 We mourn its loss, lo ! suddenly it springs, 
 Fresh, youthful, vigorous, into life again, 
 Demanding admiration ever new ! 
 How wondrous that those visitants divine, 
 That must illume our earth, so oft are born 
 Even in the humblest cells of poverty ! 
 
 antonio (still at the picture). 
 Stand there, thou little pale blue hyacinth, — 
 Thy hues betokening death ! 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 He looks, indeed, 
 
 Like the fair forms that he delights to paint, 
 
 Mild, amiable, and sensitive. But care 
 
 And sadness mark his features. The fine hues, 
 
 That to the cheeks of others he imparts, 
 
 Bloom not upon his own. 
 
 antonio (turning half round). 
 There comes again 
 A stranger visitant ! 
 
 [They mutually salute. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Forgive me, Signor, 
 
 If I disturb you ! But how could I leave 
 This place, till I that wondrous artist knew, 
 Whose works adorn it ? 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Then — you meet — ah, Heaven ! 
 But a poor, melancholy man ! 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 How 's this ? 
 
 Has the bright sun, that must the world illume, 
 
 Even for himself nor light nor warmth ? 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Thy looks 
 
 Are friendly, stranger ; and I do believe 
 Thou dost not mock me. Yet, unconsciously, 
 Thou wound'st me deeply. Sun indeed ! — If 
 
 thou 
 Knew'st but the darkness of the soul that dwells 
 
 here ! — 
 Not even one star gleams through my rayless 
 
 night ! — 
 
 Nay, from thy Night beams forth resistless 
 
 glory, — 
 That with the radiance of immortal fame 
 Will one day circle round thee. — Signor, I 
 
 pray, 
 Thy name ? 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Antonio Allegri. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 'T is well, — 
 
 Antonio Allegri da Correggio ! 
 15 
 
 How can this name sound strange unto mine 
 
 ears, 
 That shall ere long on all tongues be familiar? 
 I have indeed beheld thy Night, Antonio, 
 There, in the church. What thou wouldst rep- 
 resent, 
 Thou hast thyself performed, — a miracle ! 
 Through the deep gloom of earthly life shines 
 
 forth 
 Light to rejoice the shepherds; — and, like them, 
 I stand amazed before you, — powerless quite 
 To explain the wonders that I look upon, 
 Veiling my dazzled eyes, and half in doubt 
 If all that I behold is not delusion ! — 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Signor, 't is, indeed, delusion all ! — 
 Thou art a man of honor, — and thou lov'st 
 Our art, — but let me venture thus to say, — 
 
 1 know too well what Art should be ! 
 
 Thy words 
 Perplex me, Signor. 
 
 antonio. 
 I have been indeed, 
 Through many a year, a riddle to myself. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Thou art in all things inconceivable. 
 How has thy genius bloomed thus all unaid- 
 ed? 
 How has the world and thine own worth to thee 
 Remained unknown ? — 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 But, for example, now, 
 
 How deem'st thou of this picture 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 How shall words 
 
 Express my feelings ? — If I say 't is noble, 
 What have I said? — Till now, Rafaelle's Ma- 
 donna 
 Had all mine admiration ; in my heart, 
 She ruled alone. But now, once more, Maria, 
 Another and the same, smiles out upon me ; — 
 With more of woman's tenderness and love 
 Maternal, — less of queenly dignity. 
 Rafaelle, indeed, has earthly forms endowed 
 With grace divine, — but thou hast brought from 
 
 heaven 
 Ethereal spirits, here in mortal frames 
 Submissively to dwell ! 
 
 antonio (anxiously). 
 But then, indeed, 
 Are there no faults ? 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Where so much is achieved, 
 Faults have no room to exist. In the full bliss 
 Of superfluity, who would complain, 
 Because he has not all ? — 
 
 j2 
 
114 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 But what, — I pray you, — 
 What here is wanting ? 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 All that is required 
 
 To form a masterpiece is here. It lives, 
 
 And breathes instinct with life divine, — by 
 
 depth 
 Of meditative reason planned, — by all 
 The powers of genius, feeling, industry, 
 Brought to perfection. Who would ask for 
 
 more ? 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 So much for praise, — but tell me now the 
 faults. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Thy genius nowhere fails ; even where the 
 powers 
 
 Of Art are wanting, or where memory wan- 
 dered, 
 
 Thou hast, by some peculiar strength of soul, — 
 
 Some fine ideal energy, — bestowed 
 
 A charm even on the faults, — which, I might 
 say. 
 
 Is all thine own; — but here, too, thou resem- 
 blest 
 
 Rafaelle, — our great precursor. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Yet, once more, 
 
 I pray you point out all my faults ; you know 
 
 not 
 How gladly I from you would hear of them ! 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Well, then, — the mere anatomist might say 
 There are defects of drawing in this picture. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Now, — for example ? 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 The foreshortening here 
 
 Is not quite accurate. The child's limbs ap- 
 pear 
 Too round ; the contour is too full. But then 
 You love such blooming graces; and, for this, 
 Avoid the harshness of reality. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Once, once more, Signor, — then I breathe 
 
 again ; — 
 How deem'st thou of the smile upon these 
 
 lips, — 
 The Virgin's smile, and then the Child's ? 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 In them 
 
 I find no fault. Original, but lovely ! 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Not, then, " unmeaning," " imp-like," " honey- 
 sweet " ? 
 
 So have I to myself, in summer dreams, 
 Painted the smiles of angels. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Thus, O Heaven, 
 Have I, too, dreamed ! 
 
 And art thou mournful now, 
 
 Because thou hast so nobly triumphed here ? 
 
 Nay, I am sad, because I have so long 
 Myself deceived. 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Signor, thy words again 
 Become inexplicable. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Stranger, in truth, 
 
 Thou hast according to mine own heart spoken 
 And it consoles me that there are on earth 
 Yet men, and honorable, wise men, too, 
 That in the selfsame path have been deceived. 
 And yet I more admire the judgment true, 
 Which on my faults has been pronounced. And 
 
 there 
 Thou hast not erred ; but, like a genuine friend, 
 Hast, in considerate, gentle tones, reproved 
 
 me. — 
 Now, truly, such discourse, so full of knowl 
 
 edge, 
 Would inexpressibly rejoice my heart, 
 If I had not (ah ! had I known it sooner ! ) 
 Even this day learned too truly, that my labor 
 Is worthless all and vain ! 
 
 Who told you this ? 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Even the most gifted artist of our age, ■ 
 Great Michael Angelo. 
 
 I could have guessed it ; 
 
 This is but like him. Truly now I find 
 
 That broken wheel still whirls within his brain. 
 
 Nay, I had first by levity provoked him. — 
 A man who dwells here, — a strange humor- 
 ist, — 
 By whom too oft I am disturbed, had come 
 And told me that the traveller who sat 
 At table in his house was but a dauber, 
 A rude companion, who had injured him, 
 And spoke on all things without aught of know- 
 ledge. 
 Then I received him, not with that respect 
 That he so well deserved. He spoke to me 
 Dryly and in a grumbling tone ; to which 
 I made him jestingly a careless answer. 
 Then he was angry; — "Bungler!" "Mean 
 and base ! " — 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 115 
 
 Such were to me his epithets. Misled 
 By a vain love of splendid coloring, 
 He then declared that I would never gain 
 True greatness or true beauty in mine art. 
 
 giulio (vehemently). 
 Rightly he spoke! Thou wilt not; for thou 
 
 hast 
 Already, by the immortal works that fill 
 The high Sixtinian chapel, won the wreath 
 Of victory ! 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Ah ! dear Sir ! 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 Think'st thou 
 
 That like a blind man I have spoke of Art ? 
 
 There thou hast erred. 'T is true, I am, indeed, 
 
 No peerless master, — far less Angelo ; 
 
 But yet I am a man, — a Roman too; 
 
 No Caesar, — yet a Julius. I have learned, 
 
 As thou hast done, what Art should be ; the 
 
 great 
 And far-famed Rafaelle Sanctio was my master, 
 And still his deathless spirit hovers o'er me ! 
 /, too, may have a voice in such decision ! 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 O Heaven ! You are, then, Giulio Romano ? 
 
 I am. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Thou art Romano, the great master, 
 And Rafaelle's favorite ? 
 
 That I was. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 And thou 
 
 Say'st I am no pretender? 
 
 GIULIO. 
 
 I do say, 
 
 Since Rafaelle Sanctio's death, there has not 
 
 lived 
 A greater artist in our land than thou, 
 Antonio Allegri da Correggio! 
 
 MICHAEL ANGELO, MARIA, AND GIOVANNI. 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 There comes my mother. 
 
 [Maria enters. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 Ay, indeed ? How lovely ! 
 
 I trace at once the likeness to Maria. 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 Mother, here is a stranger gentleman, — 
 He gave me sugar plumbs. — Look here ! 
 
 Madonna, 
 
 May I, then, hope forgiveness ? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Noble Sir, 
 
 I thank you for your kindness. — (To Giovanni.; 
 
 Hast thou thanked 
 This gentleman ' 
 
 GIOVANNI. 
 
 I thank you. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Nay, what manners ! 
 
 Go, make your bow. Say, Noble Sir 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 I pray you, 
 
 Let him have his own way, nor by forced rules 
 
 Check the pure flow of Nature that directs him. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Then you love children, Sir ? 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 Not always. Yet 
 
 I love your son. — You live here? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Ay, Sir ; — there 
 
 You see our humble cot. 
 
 Antonio 
 
 The painter is your husband ? 
 
 Ay, dear Sir. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 Is he in real life so amiable, 
 
 As in his works he has appeared ? If so, 
 
 You are a happy wife. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Signor, his works 
 
 Show but the faint reflection of that sun 
 
 Of excellence that glows within his heart. 
 
 Indeed ? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Ay, truly. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 Still, you seem not glad, 
 
 Nor cheerful. Yet an honest, active husband, 
 A beauteous wife, and a fine child, — methinks, 
 Here is a paradise at once complete ! 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Yet something, 
 Alas ! is wanting. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 What ? 
 
 Prosperity 
 
 And worldly fortune. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 Are not beauty, then, 
 
 And genius, in themselves an ample fortune ? 
 
116 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 In many a flower is hid the gnawing worm 
 My husband has been ill, — is irritable, 
 And each impression moves him far too deeply. 
 Hence, even to-day, unlucky chance befell him. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 I know it, Buonarotti has been here, 
 And has offended him. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Nay, more than this, — 
 He has renewed his illness. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 Nay, perchance 
 
 He has but spoke the truth. For Angelo 
 
 Told him he was no painter. And who knows ? — 
 
 He is an artist of experience, 
 
 And may have said the truth. 
 
 MASIA. 
 
 And if from heaven 
 
 An angel had appeared to tell me this, 
 
 1 could not have believed him ' 
 
 Indeed ? 
 
 Are you so confident ? 
 
 \ 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Nay, Sir. In truth, 
 
 The sum of all my confidence is this, — 
 
 The knowledge, that with my whole heart I 
 
 love 
 Antonio. Therefore all that he has done 
 Is with that love inseparably joined, 
 And therefore, too, his works are dear to me. 
 
 Is this enough ? Tou love, yet know not how 
 To ground and to defend that preference ? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Let others look for learning to defend 
 Their arguments. Enough it is for us 
 On pure affection's impulse to rely. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 Bravo, Madonna ! You indeed rejoice me. 
 Forgive me, if I tried you thus awhile. 
 So should all women think. — But now, for this 
 Affair of Michael Angelo ; he bears 
 A character capricious, — variable : 
 This cannot be denied ; yet, trust me still, 
 Good in the main. Too oft, indeed, his words 
 Are like the roaring of the blinded Cyclops, 
 When the fire rages fiercely ; yet can he 
 Be tranquil too ; and even in one short hour, 
 Like the wise camel with her provender, 
 Think more than may well serve him for a year. 
 The fierce volcano oft is terrible, 
 Yet fruitful too ; when its worst rage is o'er, 
 The peasant cultivates the fields around, 
 Whose fruits are thereby nourished and im- 
 proved ; 
 The fearful gulf itself is decked with flowers 
 
 And wild-wood, and all breathes of life and 
 
 j°y- 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 I do believe you. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 Trifles oft give birth 
 
 Even to the most important deeds. 'T is true, 
 
 The mountain may have borne a mouse ; — in 
 
 turn, 
 The mouse brings forth a mountain. Even so 
 The clumsy trick of a malicious host 
 Set Angelo at variance with your husband. 
 One word begets another ; for not love 
 Alone, but anger, and rash violence too, 
 Make blind their victims. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Sir, you speak most wisely. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 Now listen. — Angelo commanded me 
 To visit you; I am his friend, — and such 
 Excuse as I have made, he would have offered. 
 His ring, too, for a proof of his respect, 
 He gives Antonio ; and entreats him still 
 To wear it as a pledge of his firm friendship. 
 They will yet meet again ; Antonio soon 
 Will better proof receive of Michael's kindness, 
 If he has influence to advance your fortune. 
 
 [Exit. 
 antonio (enters). 
 Maria, dearest wife, what has he said ? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 The stranger gentleman ? 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Ay, — Buonarotti. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 How ? Is it possible ? Was it himself? 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Ay, ay, — 't was he, — great Michael Angelo ; 
 O'er all the world there lives not such another ! 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 O happy day ! Now, then, rejoice, Antonio ! 
 He kissed our child, and kindly spoke to me. 
 This ring he left for thee ; he honors, loves thee, 
 And henceforth will promote our worldly for- 
 tune. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Can this be possible ? Romano, then, 
 Was in the right. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 He loves and honors thee. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 And this fine ring in proof! — Ha ! then, Maria, 
 He has but cast me down into the dust, 
 To be more proudly raised on high. O Heaven . 
 Dare I believe such wondrous fate ? — But come, 
 Let me yet seek this noble friend ; with tears 
 Of gratitude embrace him ; and declare 
 That we indeed are blest ! 
 
oehlenschlXger. 
 
 117 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 At last, I, too, 
 
 Can say that Buonarotti judges wisely, 
 
 And henceforth blooms for us a paradise ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 (As they retire, Baptista crosses the stage, and, over- 
 hearing the last words, says,) 
 
 Then be it mine to bring perfection due, 
 For Paradise requires a serpent too ! 
 
 ANTONIO IN THE GALLERY OF COUNT OCTAVIAN. 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 Here am I, then, arrived at last ! O Heaven ! 
 What weariness oppresses me ! the way 
 Has been so long, — the sun so hot and scorching. 
 Here all is fresh and airy. Thus the great 
 Enjoy all luxuries; in cool palaces, 
 As if in rocky caverns, they defy 
 The summer's heat. On high the vaulted roof 
 Ascends, and pillars cast their shade below ; 
 While in the vestibule clear fountains play 
 With cool, refreshing murmur. Happy they 
 Who thus can live ! Well, that ere long shall be 
 My portion too. How pleasantly one mounts 
 On the broad marble steps ! How reverently 
 These ancient statues greet our entrance here ! 
 
 [Looking into the hall and coming forward. 
 This hall indeed is noble ! — How is this ? 
 What do I see ? Ha ! paintings ! 'T is, indeed, 
 The picture gallery. H0I3- saints ! I stood 
 Unconsciouslv within the sacred temple ! 
 Here then, Italia's artists, hang on high 
 Tour wondrous works, like scutcheons on the 
 
 tombs 
 Of heroes, to commemorate their deeds ! — 
 What shall 'I first contemplate? Woodland 
 
 scenes, — 
 Wild beasts of prey, — stern warriors, — or Ma- 
 donnas ? 
 Mine eye here wanders round, even like a bee 
 Amid a thousand flowers ! I se°. too much ! 
 My senses all are overpowered ! I feel 
 The influence of imperial power around me, 
 And in the temple of mine ancestors 
 Could kneel and weep! — Ha! there is a fine 
 
 picture ! 
 
 [Going nearer. 
 Nay, I have been deceived ; for all, indeed, 
 Are not of equal worth. But what is there? 
 Ay, that, indeed, is pretty ! Till this hour, 
 I have not seen its equal. An old woman 
 Scouring a kettle ; in the corner there 
 A cat asleep ; with his tobacco-pipe, 
 The white-haired boy meanwhile is blowing 
 
 soap-bells. 
 I had not thought such things could e'er be 
 
 painted. 
 It is indeed a pleasure to behold 
 How bright and clean her kitchen looks ; and, lo ! 
 How nobly falls the sunlight through the leaves 
 On the clear copper kettle ! Is not here 
 The painter's name upon the frame ? (Reads.) 
 
 "Unknown, 
 
 But of the Flemish school." Flemish? Where 
 
 lies 
 That country ? 'T is unknown to me. — Ha ! 
 
 there 
 Are hung large pictures of still life, flowers, 
 
 fruit, 
 Glasses of wine, and game. Here, too, are dogs, 
 And many-colored birds. Ay, that indeed 
 Is rarely finished. But no more of them. — 
 Ha, ha ! There 's life again ! Three reverend 
 
 men, 
 With anxious looks, are counting gold. And 
 
 here, 
 If I mistake not, is our Saviour's birth ; 
 And painted by Mantegna ; — ay, 't is so. 
 How nobly winds that mountain-path along ! 
 And then how finely those three kings are 
 
 grouped 
 Before the Virgin and the Child ! Another, 
 As if to meet in contrast, here is placed; 
 Intended well, but yet how strange ! That ox 
 Is resting with his snout upon the Virgin ! 
 And the Moor grins so laughably, yet kindly ! 
 The Child, meanwhile, is stretching out bis arm 
 For toys drawn from that casket. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 'T is one of Albert Durer's, an old German ! 
 Thus, even beyond the mountains, there are men 
 Who are not ignorant of Art. Ah, Heaven ! 
 How beautiful that lady ! how divine ! 
 Young, blooming, sensitive ! How beams that 
 
 eye ! 
 How smile those ruby lips ! And how that cap 
 Of crimson velvet, and the sleeves, become her ! 
 (Reads.) " By Lionard da Vinci." Then, in truth, 
 It is no wonder. He could paint indeed ! — 
 
 How 's this ? 
 A king almost in the same style, — but yet 
 It must have been a work of early youth. 
 No, this (reading), we find, is " Holbein." Him 
 
 I know not ; 
 Yet to Leonardo he bears much resemblance, 
 But not so noble nor so masterly. — 
 Yonder I recognize you well, good friends, 
 Our earliest masters. Honest Perugino, 
 How far'st thou with thy sameness of green 
 
 tone, 
 Thy repetitions, and thy symmetry? 
 Thy St. Sebastian too ? Thou hast, indeed, 
 Thy share of greatness ; yet a little more 
 Of boldness and invention had been well. — 
 There throne the Powers ! There, large as life 
 
 appears 
 A reverend man, the holy Job ! Ha ! this 
 Has nobly been conceived, nobly fulfilled ! 
 'T is Rafaelle, surely. (Reads.) " Fra Barthole- 
 
 meo." 
 Ah ! the good monk ! Not every priest, in truth, 
 Will equal thee ! — But how shall I find time 
 To view them all ? Here, in the background, 
 
 hangs 
 A long green curtain. It perchance conceals 
 The choicest picture. This I must behold, 
 Ere Count Octavian comes. 
 
 [Withdraws the curtain from Rafaelle'3 picture of 
 St. Cecilia. 
 
118 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 What do I see ? 
 ' T is the divine Cecilia ! There she stands, 
 Her hand upon the organ. At her feet 
 Lie meaner instruments, confused and broken ; 
 But silently, even on the organ too, 
 Her fingers rest, as on her ear from heaven 
 The music of the angelic choir descends! 
 Her fervent looks are fixed on high ! Ha ! this 
 No more is painting, — this is poetry ! 
 Here is not only the great artist shown, 
 But the great high-souled man ! The sanctities 
 Of poetry by painting are expressed. 
 Such, too, were my designs ! In my best hours 
 For this I labored ! 
 
 [Octavian enters, and Correggio, without salutation 
 or ceremony, runs up to him, and says, — 
 Now, I pray you, tell me 
 This painter's name. [Pointing to the picture. 
 
 octavian (coldly). 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 'T is Rafaelle. 
 
 I AM, THEN, 
 
 A PAINTER, TOO ! 
 
 SOLILOQUY OF CORREGGIO. 
 
 antonio (having been crowned by Celestina, after he had 
 
 fallen asleep in the gallery). 
 Where am I now ? — Ha ! this dim hall, indeed, 
 Is not Elysium ! — All was but a dream ! 
 Nay, not a vision, surely, — but a bright 
 Anticipation of eternal life! 
 Methought I stood amid those happy fields, 
 More beauteous far than Dante has portrayed 
 
 them, — 
 Even in the Muses' consecrated grove, 
 Hard by their temple on tall columns reared, 
 Of alabaster white and adamant, 
 With proud colossal statues filled, and books, 
 And paintings. There around me I beheld 
 The illustrious of all times in every art. 
 The immortal Phidias with his chisel plied 
 On that gigantic form of Hercules, 
 The wonder of all ages. Like a fly, 
 He sat upon one shoulder ; yet preserved 
 Through the gigantic frame proportion just, 
 And harmony. Apelles, smiling, dipped 
 His pencil in the ruby tints of morn, 
 And painted wondrous groups on floating clouds, 
 That angels forthwith bore away to heaven. 
 Then Palestrina, at an organ placed, 
 Had the four winds to aid him, and thus woke 
 Music, that spread its tones o'er all the world ; 
 While by his side Cecilia sat and sung. 
 Homer I saw beside the sacred fount ; 
 He spoke, and all the poets crowded round him. 
 The gifted Rafaelle led me by the hand 
 Into that listening circle. Well I knew 
 His features, though his shoulders now were 
 
 decked 
 With silvery seraph wings. Then from the 
 
 circle 
 Stepped forth the inspiring Muse, — a matchless 
 
 form, — 
 
 Pure as the stainless morning dew, — and bright, 
 
 Blooming, and cheerful, as the dew-sprent rose. 
 
 O, never on remembrance will it fade, 
 
 How with her snow-white hand this lovely 
 form 
 
 A laurel wreath then placed upon my head ! — 
 
 " To immortality I thus devote thee ! " 
 
 Such were her words. Then suddenly I woke. 
 
 It seems almost as if I felt the crown 
 
 Still on my brows. 
 [Puts his hand to his forehead, and takes off the wreath. 
 
 O Heaven ! how can this be ? 
 
 Are there yet miracles on earth ? 
 
 [At this moment. Baptista enters with Nicolo ; the lat- 
 ter bearing a sack of copper coin. Antonio runs up 
 to them for explanation, and says, — 
 
 My friend 
 
 Baptista, who has been here ? 
 
 Lo ! here we bring the 
 
 Ask'st thou me ? 
 How should I know ? 
 
 price 
 
 Given for thy picture by our noble lord. 
 You must receive the sum in copper coin. 
 So 't is most fitting that a nobleman 
 Should to a peasant pay his debts. 
 
 THOR'S FISHING. 
 
 On the dark bottom of the great salt lake 
 Imprisoned lay the giant snake, 
 With naught his sullen sleep to break. 
 
 Huge whales disported amorous o'er his neck , 
 
 Little their sports the worm did reck, 
 
 Nor his dark, vengeful thoughts would cheek. 
 
 To move his iron fins he hath no power, 
 Nor yet to harm the trembling shore, 
 With scaly rings he 's covered o'er. 
 
 His head he seeks 'mid coral rocks to hide, 
 Nor e'er hath man his eye espied, 
 Nor could its deadly glare abide. 
 
 His eyelids half in drowsy stupor close, 
 But short and troubled his repose, 
 As his quick, heavy breathing shows. 
 
 Muscles and crabs, and all the shelly race, 
 In spacious banks still crowd for place, 
 A grisly beard, around his face. 
 
 When Midgard's worm his fetters strives to 
 
 break, 
 Riseth the sea, the mountains quake ; 
 The fiends in Nastrond ' merry make. 
 
 Rejoicing flames from Hecla's cauldron flash, 
 Huge molten stones with deafening crash 
 Fly out, — its scathed sides fire-streams wash. 
 
 1 The Scandinavian hell. 
 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 119 
 
 The affrighted sons of Askur feel the shock, 
 
 In the worm's front full two-score leagues it 
 
 As the worm doth lie and rock, 
 
 fell, 
 
 And sullen waiteth Ragnarok. 
 
 From Gimle to the realms of hell 
 
 
 Echoed Jormungandur's yell. 
 
 To his foul craving maw naught e'er came ill ; 
 
 
 It never he doth cease to fill, 
 
 The ocean yawned ; Thor's lightnings rent the 
 
 Nath' more his hungry pain can still. 
 
 sky ; 
 
 
 Through the storm, the great Sun's eye 
 
 Upwards by chance he turns his sleepy eye, 
 
 Looked out on the fight from high. 
 
 And, over him suspended nigh, 
 
 
 The gory head he doth espy. 
 
 Bifrost 2 i' th' east shone forth in brightest green ; 
 
 
 On its top, in snow-white sheen, 
 
 The serpent, taken with his own deceit, 
 
 Heimdal at his post was seen. 
 
 Suspecting naught the daring cheat, 
 
 
 Ravenous, gulps down the bait. 
 
 On the charmed belt the dagger hath no power; 
 
 
 The star of Jotunheim 'gan lour; 
 
 His leathern jaws the barbed steel compress, 
 
 But now, in Asgard's evil hour, 
 
 His ponderous head must leave the abyss ; 
 
 
 Dire was Jorrnungandurs hiss. 
 
 When all his efforts foiled tail Hymir saw, 
 
 
 Wading to the serpent's maw, 
 
 In giant coils he writhes his length about, 
 
 On the kedge he 'gan to saw. 
 
 Poisonous streams he speweth out, 
 
 
 But his struggles help him nought. 
 
 The Sun, dismayed, hastened in clouds to hide, 
 
 
 Heimdal turned his head aside ; 
 
 The mighty Thor knoweth no peer in fight; 
 
 Thor was humbled in his pride. 
 
 The loathsome worm, his strength despite, 
 
 
 Now o'ermatched must yield the fight. 
 
 The knife prevails, far down beneath the main 
 
 
 The serpent, spent with toil and pain, 
 
 His grisly head Thor heaveth o'er the tide, 
 
 To the bottom sank again. 
 
 No mortal eye the sight may bide, 
 
 
 The scared waves haste i' th' sands to hide. 
 
 The giant fled, his head 'mid rocks to save ; 
 
 
 Fearfully the god did rave, 
 
 As when accursed Nastiond yawns and burns, 
 
 With his lightnings tore the wave : 
 
 His impious throat 'gainst heaven he turns, 
 
 
 And with his tail the ocean spurns. 
 
 To madness stung, to think his conquest vain, 
 
 
 His ire no longer could contain, 
 
 The parched sky droops, darkness enwraps the 
 
 Dared the worm to rise again. 
 
 sun ■. 
 Now the matchless strength is shown 
 
 His radiant form to its full height he drew, 
 
 Of the god whom warriors own. 
 
 And Miolner through the billows blue 
 
 
 Swifter than the fire-bolt flew. 
 
 Around his loins he draws his girdle tight, 
 
 
 His eye with triumph flashes bright, 
 
 Hoped, yet, the worm had fallen beneath the 
 
 The frail boat splits aneath his weight : 
 
 stroke ; 
 
 
 But the wily child of Loke 
 
 The frail boat splits, — but on the ocean's 
 
 Waits her turn at Ragnarok. 
 
 ground 
 
 
 Thor again hath footing found ; 
 
 His hammer lost, back wends the giant-bane, 
 
 Within his arms the worm is bound. 
 
 Wasted his strength, his prowess vain ; 
 
 
 And Miolner must with Ran remain. 
 
 Hymir, who in the strife no part had took, 
 
 
 But like a trembling aspen shook, 
 
 
 Rouseth him to avert the stroke. 
 
 ~ -^- 
 
 " In the last night, the Vala hath decreed 
 
 THE DWARFS. 
 
 Thor, in Odin's utmost need, 
 
 
 To the worm shall bow the head." 
 
 Loke sat and thought, till his dark eyes gleam 
 
 
 With joy at the deed he 'd done; 
 
 Thus, in sunk voice, the craven giant spoke, 
 
 When Sif looked into the crystal stream, 
 
 Whilst from his belt a knife he took, 
 
 Her courage was well-nigh gone. 
 
 Forged by dwarfs aneath the rock. 
 
 
 
 For never again her soft amber hair 
 
 Upon the magic belt straight 'gan to file ; 
 
 Shall she braid with her hands of snow; 
 
 Thor in bitter scorn to smile ; 
 Miolner swang in air the while. 
 
 
 2 The rainbow. 
 
120 
 
 DANISH POETRY 
 
 From tlie hateful image she turned in despair, 
 And hoi tears began to flow. 
 
 In a cavern's mouth, like a crafty fox, 
 Loke sat, 'neath the tall pine's shade, 
 
 When sudden a thundering was heard in the 
 rocks, 
 And fearfully trembled the glade. 
 
 Then he knew that the noise good boded him 
 naught, 
 
 He knew that 't was Thor who was coming; 
 He changed himself straight to a salmon-trout, 
 
 And leaped in a fright in the Glommen. 
 
 But Thor changed, too, to a huge sea-gull, 
 And the salmon-trout seized in his beak : 
 
 He cried, " Thou traitor, I know thee well, 
 And dear shalt thou pay thy freak. 
 
 " Thy caitiff's bones to a meal I '11 pound, 
 As a mill-stone crusheth the grain." 
 
 When Loke that naught booted his magic found, 
 He took straight his own form again. 
 
 "And what if thou scatter'st my limbs in air? " 
 He spake : " Will it mend thy case ? 
 
 Will it gain back for Sif a single hair? 
 Thou 'It still a bald spouse embrace. 
 
 "But if now thou 'It pardon my heedless joke, — 
 For malice, sure, meant I none, — 
 
 I swear to thee here, by root, billow, and rock, 
 By the moss on the Bauta-stone, l 
 
 " By Mimer's well, and by Odin's eye, 
 
 And by Miolner, greatest of all ; 
 That straight to the secret caves I '11 hie, 
 
 To the dwarfs, my kinsmen small : 
 
 " And thence for Sif new tresses I '11 bring 
 
 Of gold, ere the daylight's gone, 
 So that she shall liken a field in spring, 
 
 With its yellow-flowered garment on." 
 
 Him answered Thor : " Why, thou brazen 
 knave, 
 To my face to mock me dost dare ? 
 Thou know'st well that Miolner is now 'neath 
 the wave 
 With Ran, and wilt still by it swear ? " 
 
 " O, a better hammer for thee I 'II obtain," 
 
 And he shook like an aspen-tree, 
 " 'Fere whose stroke, shield, buckler, and 
 greave shall be vain, 
 
 And the giants with terror shall flee ! " 
 
 " Not so," cried Thor, and his eyes flashed 
 fire ; 
 " Thy base treason calls loud for blood , 
 And hither I 'm come, with my sworn brother, 
 Freyr, 
 To make thee of ravens the food. 
 
 1 Stones placed over the tombs of distinguished warriors. 
 
 " I '11 take hold of thine arms and thy coal-black 
 hair, 
 
 And Freyr of thy heels behind, 
 And thy lustful body to atoms we '11 tear, 
 
 And scatter thy limbs to the wind." 
 
 " O, spare me, Freyr, thou great-souled king ! " 
 And, weeping, he kissed his feet ; 
 
 " O, mercy ! and thee I '11 a courser bring, 
 No match in the wide world shall meet. 
 
 " Without whip or spur round the earth you 
 shall ride ; 
 
 He '11 ne'er weary by day nor by night ; 
 He shall carry you safe o'er the raging tide, 
 
 And his golden hair furnish you light." 
 
 Loke promised so well with his glozing tongue, 
 That the Aser at length let him go, 
 
 And he sank in the earth, the dark rocks among, 
 Near the cold-fountain, 2 far below. 
 
 He crept on his belly, as supple as eel, 
 The cracks in the hard granite through, 
 
 Till he came where the dwarfs stood hammer- 
 ing steel, 
 By the light of a furnace blue. 
 
 I trow 'twas a goodly sight to see 
 The dwarfs, with their aprons on, 
 
 A-hammering and smelting so busily 
 Pure gold from the rough brown stone. 
 
 Rock crystals from sand and hard flint they made, 
 Which, tinged with the rosebud's dye, 
 
 They cast into rubies and carbuncles red, 
 And hid them in cracks hard by. 
 
 They took them fresh violets all dripping with 
 dew, — 
 Dwarf women had plucked them, the morn, — 
 And stained with their juice the clear sapphires 
 blue, 
 King Dan in his crown since hath worn. 
 
 Then, for emeralds, they searched out the bright- 
 est green 
 
 Which the young spring meadow wears, 
 And dropped round pearls, without flaw or stain, 
 
 From widows' and maidens' tears. 
 
 And all round the cavern might plainly be shown 
 Where giants had once been at play ; 
 
 For the ground was with heaps of huge muscle- 
 shells strewn, 
 And strange fish were marked in the clay. 
 
 Here an icthyosaurus stood out from the wall, 
 There monsters ne'er told of in story, 
 
 Whilst hard by the Nix in the waterfall 
 Sang wildly the days of their glory. 
 
 Here bones of the mammoth and mastodon, 
 And serpents with wings and with claws ; 
 
 2 Hvergemler. 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 
 
 121 
 
 The elephant's tusks from the burning zone 
 Are small to the teeth in their jaws. 
 
 When Loke to the dwarfs had his errand made 
 known, 
 In a trice for the work they were ready ; 
 Quoth Dvalin : " O Loptur, it now shall be 
 shown 
 That dwarfs in their friendship are steady. 
 
 " We both trace our line from the selfsame 
 stock ; 
 What you ask shall be furnished with speed, 
 For it ne'er shall be said that the sons of the 
 rock 
 Turned their backs on a kinsman in need." 
 
 Then they took them the skin of a large wild- 
 boar, 
 The largest that they could find, 
 And the bellows they blew till the furnace 'gan 
 roar, 
 And the fire flamed on high for the wind. 
 
 And they struck with their sledge-hammers 
 stroke on stroke, 
 
 That the sparks from the skin flew on high ; 
 But never a word good or bad spake Loke, 
 
 Though foul malice lurked in his eye. 
 
 The Thunderer far distant, with sorrow he 
 thought 
 On all he 'd engaged to obtain, 
 And, as summer-breeze fickle, now anxiously 
 sought 
 To render the dwarfs' labor vain. 
 
 Whilst the bellows plied Brokur, and Sindrig 
 the hammer, 
 And Tliror, that the sparks flew on high, 
 And the sides of the vaulted cave rang with the 
 clamor, 
 Loke changed to a huge forest-fly. 
 
 And he sat him, all swelling with venom and 
 spite, 
 On Brokur, the wrist just below ; 
 But the dwarf's skin was thick, and he recked 
 not the bite, 
 Nor once ceased the bellows to blow. 
 
 And now, strange to tell, from the roaring fire 
 Came the golden-haired Gullinbtirst, 
 
 To serve as a charger the sun-god Freyr, 
 Sure, of all wild-boars this the first. 
 
 They took them pure gold from their secret store, 
 The piece 't was but small in size, 
 
 But ere 't had been long in the furnace roar, 
 'T was a jewel beyond all prize. 
 
 A broad red ring all of wroughten gold; 
 
 As a snake with its tail in its head ; 
 And a garland of gems did the rim enfold, 
 
 Together with rare art laid. 
 16 
 
 'T was solid and heavy, and wrought with care, 
 Thrice it passed through the white flames' 
 glow ; 
 
 A ring to produce, fit for Odin to wear, 
 No labor they 'spared, I trow. 
 
 They worked it and turned it with wondrous 
 skill, 
 
 Till they gave it the virtue rare, 
 That each thrice third night from its rim there 
 fell 
 Eight rings, as their parent fair. 
 
 'T was the same with which Odin sanctified 
 
 God Balder's and Nanna's faith ; 
 On his gentle bosom was Draupner 3 laid, 
 
 When their eyes were closed in death. 
 
 Next they laid on the anvil a steel-bar cold, 
 
 They needed nor fire nor file ; 
 But their sledge-hammers, following, like thun- 
 der rolled, 
 
 And Sindrig sang runes the while. 
 
 When Loke now marked how the steel gat 
 power, 
 
 And how warily out 't was beat 
 ('T was to make a new hammer for Auka-Thor), 
 
 He 'd recourse once again to deceit. 
 
 In a trice, of a hornet the semblance he took, 
 Whilst in cadence fell blow on blow, 
 
 In the leading dwarf's forehead his barbed sting 
 he stuck, 
 That the blood in a stream down did flow. 
 
 Then the dwarf raised his hand to his brow, 
 for the smart, 
 Ere the iron well out was beat, 
 And they found that the haft by an inch was 
 too short, 
 But to alter it then 't was too late. 
 
 Now a small elf came running with gold on his 
 head, 
 Which he gave a dwarf-woman to spin, 
 Who the metal like flax on her spinning-wheel 
 laid, 
 Nor tarried her task to begin. 
 
 So she span and span, and the gold thread ran 
 Into hair, though Loke thought it a pity ; 
 
 She span, and sang to the sledge-hammer's clang 
 This strange, wild spinning-wheel ditty : 
 
 " Henceforward her hair shall the tall Sif wear, 
 Hanging loose down her white neck behind; 
 
 By no envious braid shall it captive be made, 
 But in native grace float in the wind. 
 
 " No swain shall it view hi the clear heaven's 
 blue, 
 But his heart in its toils shall be lost; 
 
 3 The name of Od'tn'3 famous rine. 
 K 
 
122 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 No goddess, not e'en beauty's faultless queen, 4 
 Such long glossy ringlets shall boast. 
 
 " Though they now seem dead, let them touch 
 but her head, 
 
 Each hair shall the life-moisture fill ; 
 Nor shall malice nor spell henceforward prevail 
 
 Sif 's tresses to work aught of ill." 
 
 His object attained, Loke no longer remained 
 'Neath the earth, but straight hied him to 
 Thor ; 
 Who owned than the hair ne'er, sure, aught 
 more fair 
 His eyes had e'er looked on before. 
 
 The boar Freyr bestrode, and away proudly 
 rode, 
 
 And Thor took the ringlets and hammer ; 
 To Valhalla they hied, where the Aser reside, 
 
 'Mid of tilting and wassail the clamor. 
 
 At a full, solemn ting, 5 Thor gave Odin the 
 «ng, 
 And Loke his foul treachery pardoned ; 
 But the pardon was vain, for his crimes soon 
 again 
 Must do penance the arch-sinner hardened. 
 
 THE BARD 
 
 O, great was Denmark's land in time of old ! 
 
 Wide to the South her branch of glory spread ; 
 Fierce to the battle rushed her heroes bold, 
 
 Eager to join the revels of the dead : 
 While the fond maiden flew with smiles to fold 
 
 Round her returning warrior's vesture red 
 Her arm of snow, with nobler passion fired, 
 When to the breast of love, exhausted, he re- 
 tired. 
 
 Nor bore they only to the field of death 
 The bossy buckler and the spear of fire ; 
 
 The bard was there, with spirit-stirring breath, 
 His bold heart quivering as he swept the wire, 
 
 And poured his notes, amidst the ensanguined 
 heath, 
 While panting thousands kindled at his lyre: 
 
 Then shone the eye with greater fury fired, 
 
 Then clashed the glittering mail, and the proud 
 foe retired. 
 
 And when the memorable day was past, 
 
 And Thor triumphant on his people smiled, 
 
 The actions died not with the day they graced ; 
 The bard embalmed them in his descant wild, 
 
 And their hymned names, through ages unef- 
 faced , 
 The weary hours of future Danes beguiled: 
 
 When even their snowy bones had mouldered 
 long, 
 
 On the high column lived the imperishable song. 
 
 4 Freya. 
 
 * Public meeting 
 
 And the impetuous harp resounded high 
 With feats of hardiment done far and wide, 
 
 While the bard soothed with festive minstrelsy 
 The chiefs, reposing after battle-tide : 
 
 Nor would stern themes alone his hand employ ; 
 He sang the virgin's sweetly tempered pride, 
 
 And hoary eld, and woman's gentle cheer, 
 
 And Denmark's manly hearts, to love and 
 friendship dear. 
 
 LINES ON LEAVING ITALY. 
 
 Once more among the old gigantic hills 
 
 With vapors clouded o'er ; 
 The vales of Lombardy grow dim behind, 
 
 The rocks ascend before. 
 
 They beckon me, the giants, from afar, 
 
 They wing my footsteps on ; 
 Their helms of ice, their plumage of the pine, 
 
 Their cuirasses of stone. 
 
 My heart beats high, my breath comes freer 
 forth, — 
 
 Why should my heart be sore ? 
 I hear the eagle and the vulture's cry, 
 
 The nightingale's no more. 
 
 Where is the laurel, where the myrtle's blos- 
 som ? 
 Bleak is the path around : 
 Where from the thicket comes the ringdove's 
 cooing ? 
 Hoarse is the torrent's sound. 
 
 Yet should I grieve, when from my loaded 
 bosom 
 
 A weight appears to flow ? 
 Methinks the Muses come to call me home 
 
 From yonder rocks of snow. 
 
 I know not how, — but in yon land of roses 
 
 My heart was heavy still, 
 I startled at the warbling nightingale, 
 
 The zephyr on the hill. 
 
 They said, the stars shone with a softer gleam, - 
 
 It seemed not so to me ; 
 In vain a scene of beauty beamed around, 
 
 My thoughts were o'er the sea. 
 
 THE MORNING WALK. 
 
 To the beech-grove with so sweet an an 
 
 It beckoned me. 
 O earth ! that never the cruel ploughshare 
 
 Had furrowed thee ! 
 In their dark shelter the flowerets grew, 
 
 Bright to the eye, 
 And smiled by my foot on the cloudlets blue 
 
 Which decked the sky. 
 
INGEMANN. 
 
 123 
 
 O lovely field, and forest fair, 
 
 And meads grass-clad ! 
 Her bride-bed Freya everywhere 
 
 Enamelled had. 
 The corn-flowers rose in azure band 
 
 From earthy cell ; 
 Naught else could I do, but stop and stand, 
 
 And greet them well. 
 
 " Welcome on earth's green breast again, 
 
 Ye flowerets dear ! 
 In spring how charming 'mid the grain 
 
 Your heads ye rear ! 
 Like stars 'midst lightning's yellow ray 
 
 Ye shine, red, blue : 
 O, how your summer aspect gay 
 
 Delights my view ' " 
 
 " O poet ! poet ! silence keep, — 
 
 God help thy case ! 
 Our owner holds us sadly cheap, 
 
 And scorns our race. 
 Each time he sees, he calls us scum, 
 
 Or worthless tares, 
 Hell-weeds, that but to vex him come 
 
 'Midst his corn-ears." 
 
 " O wretched mortals ! — O wretched man ! — 
 
 O wretched crowd ! — 
 No pleasures ye pluck, no pleasures ye plan, 
 
 In life's lone road, — 
 Whose eyes are blind to the glories great 
 
 Of the works of God, 
 And dream that the mouth is the nearest gate 
 
 To joy's abode. 
 
 " Come, flowers ! for we to each other belong ; 
 
 Come, graceful elf! 
 And around my lute in sympathy strong 
 
 Now wind thyself; 
 And quake as if moved by Zephyr's wing, 
 
 'Neath the clang of the chord, 
 And a morning song with glee we Ml sing 
 
 To our Maker and Lord." 
 
 BERNHARD SEVERIN INGEMANN. 
 
 Bernhard Severin Ingemann was born in 
 1789, in the island of Falster. He has written 
 patriotic songs, an epic poem called " The Black 
 Knights," an allegoric poem in nine cantos, 
 and several tragedies, the best known of which 
 are " Masaniello " and "Blanca." He is also 
 a voluminous prose-writer, having published a 
 series of historical romances, in the manner 
 of Walter Scott, illustrating the mediaeval his- 
 tory of Denmark. One of his best novels, 
 " Waldemar," was skilfully and elegantly trans- 
 lated into English, by Miss J. F. Chapman, and 
 published in London in 1841. Since then, 
 another, " King Eric and the Outlaws," has ap- 
 peared from the same able pen. His preface 
 to " Prince Otto of Denmark," which accom- 
 
 panies the translation of " Waldemar," is an 
 interesting exposition of the principles accord- 
 ing to which his works are composed. His 
 poem of "Waldemar the Great and his Men " 
 goes back for its subject to the middle of the 
 twelfth century. The two kings, Swend of 
 Zealand, and Knud Magnusson of Jutland, be- 
 tween whom Denmark was divided, " were at 
 war with each other, and at the same time con- 
 stantly engaged, Swend particularly, in defend- 
 ing the coasts against the piratical hostilities of 
 the heathen Vends. Prince Magnus, the father 
 of King Knud, had murdered Duke Knud La- 
 vard of the Skioldung race, from whence the 
 kings of Denmark were usually, not to say he- 
 reditarily, elected ; and the young Duke Walde- 
 mar, posthumous son of the murdered Knud, 
 ranked with all his personal friends and adhe- 
 rents amongst the supporters of King Swend, 
 although the sovereign of Zealand was in every 
 respect the worse of the rivals. The poem 
 opens with the arrival in Denmark of Walde- 
 mar's friend Axel Hwide, recalled from his 
 studies in more civilized lands by the tidings of 
 domestic and foreign war." * 
 
 PROGRESS OF AXEL HWIDE. 
 
 'T is Epiphany night, and echoes a sound 
 In Haraldsted wood from the hard frozen ground 
 Loud snort three steeds in the wintry blast, 
 While under their hoof-dint the snow crackles 
 
 fast. 
 On his neighing charger, with shield and sword, 
 Is mounted a valiant and lofty lord ; 
 A clerk and a squire his steps attend, 
 And their course towards Roskild the travellers 
 
 bend : 
 
 But distant is Denmark's morning ! 
 
 Silent the leader of the band 
 
 Rides, sorrowing, through his native land. 
 
 Skjalm Hvvide's grandson, bold and true, 
 
 No more his studies shall pursue 
 
 In foreign university ; 
 
 Of wit and lore the guerdon high 
 
 No longer can he proudly gain ; 
 
 Needs must be home the loyal Dane : 
 
 For distant is Denmark's morning ! 
 
 A learned man Sir Axel was thought ; 
 
 But he dropped his book, and his sword he 
 
 caught, 
 When tidings arrived from Denmark's strand 
 That the wolves of discord devoured the land. 
 Two monarchs are battling there for the realm, 
 And Danish victories Danes o'erwhelm. 
 On Slangerup lea, and on Thorstrup hill, 
 Two summers, the ravens have eaten their fill; 
 And on Viborg plain, over belt, over bay, 
 Loud screaming, on Danish dead they prey : 
 
 East Zealand is but a robber's den, 
 
 * Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. XXI., p. 133. 
 
124 
 
 DANISH POETRY. 
 
 Vends are lurking in forest and glen ; 
 Women and men are the Vikings' prey, 
 Dragged thence to slavery far away. 
 
 King Knud to his aid summons Saxon men; — 
 
 In Roskild King Swend is arming again ; 
 
 And proudly, amidst his Zealand hosts, 
 
 Of Asbiorn Snare l and Duke Waldemar boasts. 
 
 Thither his banner bears Axel Hwide, 
 
 His two-handed sword belted fast at his side ; 
 
 On his breast the cuirass of steel shines bright, 
 
 And his gray Danish steed bears him glad for 
 
 the fight. 
 His ermined cloak falls wide and low, 
 His battle-axe hangs at his saddle-bow, 
 The golden spurs on his buff boots ring, 
 On his shield the golden hart seems to spring. 
 As king he shows, and all who meet 
 Sir Axel reverently greet. 
 But they who beneath the helm of gold 
 Might in his eyes his soul behold, 
 The tranquil inward energy 
 Holding with Heaven communion high, 
 Had deemed in princely warrior's pride 
 They saw the church's champion ride, 
 Seeking, amidst the wars of kings, 
 But the pure peace religion brings. 
 
 By Axel's side in thoughtful guise, 
 
 Bent o'er the saddle-bow, 
 Mute rides his penman, o'er his eyes 
 
 His clerkly hood drawn low. 
 That penman's sunk and sallow cheek, 
 
 Seen in the pale moonlight, 
 The scholar's lamp-lit toil may speak 
 
 Through many a winter's night. 
 Well versed was he in lettered lore, 
 
 Far less in chivalry ; 
 His horse's side, like mounted boor, 
 
 With heel belabors he. 
 
 Stranger shows the henchman good, 
 On his head a seal-skin hood ; 
 Old Arnold, to his lord endeared, 
 With bear-skin cloak and shaggy beard, 
 With club, with dagger on his thigh, 
 And flag on lance-point waving high, 
 Muscular and short and stark, 
 Follows knight and lettered clerk. 
 Legends he of former days 
 Knows, and loves to chant the lays 
 
 Sung by Skalds long dead. 
 Learning he but ill abides, 
 Dust of cloistered lore derides, 
 
 Shakes at schools his head. 
 But the seer's sad gift has he : 
 Deep as the mysterious sea 
 
 Oft the old man's spirit swells: 
 Then upon his vision ioom 
 Dark the sinner's threatening doom, 
 
 Woe that in the future dwells. 
 Warnings dread his accents tell, 
 As torrent roars from Northland-fell. 
 
 i The twin brother of Axel Hwide. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM MASANIELLO. 
 
 MASANIELLO, MAD, IN THE CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 [The church-yard of St. Maria del Carinino. — An open 
 
 grave, and a skeleton on the side of it. — Moonlight.] 
 
 masaniello (alone). 
 
 Darker it grows at every step I take ; 
 
 Soon, then, must it be wholly night. — So long 
 
 The deepening clouds have hung around my 
 
 brow, 
 Scarce can I recollect how looked of yore 
 The smiling face of day ! Yet unto light 
 Through darkness must we pass, — 't is but 
 
 transition ! — 
 
 Perhaps, perhaps But dreadful is that hour ! 
 
 Would it were past ! — (Looking back.) I am not 
 
 here alone 1 
 Still follow me, tried countrymen and friends ! 
 Our march is through a darksome country here, — 
 But light ere long will dawn. — Ha! now look 
 
 there ! [With gladness, on perceiving the grave. 
 Look, and rejoice ! We had gone far astray : 
 But here, at last, a friendly port awaits us, — 
 An inn of rest. I was already tired, 
 And sought for shelter ; — now I find this hut. 
 Truly, 't is somewhat dusky, low, and narrow 
 No matter ! l T is enough, — we want no more 
 
 [Observes the skeleton. 
 Ha, ha ! here lies the owner of the cottage, 
 And soundly sleeps. — Holla! wake up, my 
 
 friend ! — 
 How worn he looks ! How hollow are his 
 
 cheeks ! 
 Hu ! and how pale, when moonlight gleams 
 
 upon him ! 
 He has upon our freedom thought so deeply, 
 And on the blood which it would cost, that he 
 Is turned himself to naked joints and bones.. 
 [Shakes the skeleton. 
 Friend ! may I go into thy hut awhile, 
 And rest me there ? Thou seest that I am 
 
 weary, — 
 Yet choose not like thyself to lay me down, 
 And bask here in the moonshine. — He is silent. — 
 Yet hark! — There was a sound, — a strange 
 
 vibration, 
 That touched me like a spirit's cooling wing ! 
 Who whispered thus ? — Haply it was the wind ; 
 Or was it he who spoke so ? He, perchance, 
 Has lost his voice too, by long inward strife, 
 And whispers thus, even like the night-wind's 
 
 rustling. [Looks round, surprised. 
 
 Ha, ha ! Masaniello, thou 'rt deceived ! 
 This is a grave ; this man is dead ; and here 
 Around thee are the realms of death. How 
 
 strangely 
 One's senses are beguiled ! — Hush, hush ! 
 
 [Music of the choir from the church. 
 Who sings 
 
 In tones so deep and hollow, 'mid the graves ? 
 It seems as if night-wandering spirits woke 
 A death-song. — Ha! there 's light, too, in the 
 
 church ; 
 I shall go there and pray. Long time has past, 
 And I have wandered fearfully ; my heart 
 Is now so heavy, I must pray ! 
 
 lExit into the church. 
 
INGEMANN. 
 
 12J 
 
 THE ASPEN. 
 
 What whispers so strange, at the hour of mid- 
 night, 
 From the aspen's leaves trembling so wildly ? 
 Why in the lone wood sings it sad, when the 
 bright 
 Full-moon beams upon it so mildly ? 
 
 It soundeth as 'mid the harp-strings the wind- 
 gust. 
 Or like sighs of ghosts wandering in sorrow ; 
 In the meadow the small flowers hear it, and 
 must 
 With tears close themselves till the morrow. 
 
 " O, tell me, poor wretch, why thou shiverest 
 so, — 
 
 Why the moans of distraction thou pourest ; 
 Say, can thy heart harbour repentance and woe ? 
 
 Can sin reach the child of the forest? "' 
 
 "Yes," sighed forth the tremulous voice, — 
 " for thy race 
 Has not alone fallen from its station ; 
 Not alone art thou seeking for comfort and 
 grace, 
 Nor alone art thou called to salvation. 
 
 " I 've heard, too, the voice, which, with heaven 
 reconciled, 
 The earth to destruction devoted ; 
 But the storm from my happiness hurried me 
 wild, 
 Though round me joy's melodies floated. 
 
 " By Kedron I stood, and the bright beaming 
 eye 
 I viewed of the pitying Power ; 
 Each tree bowed its head, as the Saviour passed 
 
 by,. 
 
 But I deigned not my proud head to lower. 
 
 " I towered to the cloud, whilst the lilies sang 
 sweet, 
 And the rose bent its stem in devotion ; 
 1 **-»>wed not my leaves 'fore the Holy One's 
 feet, 
 Nor bough nor twig set I in motion. 
 
 " Then sounded a sigh from the Saviour's breast ; 
 And I quaked, for that sigh through me dart- 
 ed ; 
 ' Quake so till I come ! ' said the voice of the 
 Blest ; 
 My repose then for ever departed. 
 
 " And now must I tremble by night and by day, 
 For me there no moment of ease is; 
 
 I must sigh with regret in such dolorous way, 
 Whilst each floweret can smile when it pleases. 
 
 " And tremble shall I till the Last Day arrive, 
 And I view the Redeemer returning ; 
 
 My sorrow and punishment long will survive, 
 Till the world shall in blazes be burning." 
 
 So whispers the doomed one at midnight ; its 
 tone 
 
 Is that of ghosts wandering in sorrow; 
 The small flowers hear it within the wood lone 
 
 And with tears close themselves till the mor 
 
 DAME MARTHA'S FOUNTAIN. 
 
 Dame Martha dwelt at Karisegaard, 
 So many kind deeds she wrought : 
 
 If the winter were sharp, and the rich man hard, 
 Her gate the indigent sought. 
 
 With her hand the hungry she loved to feed, 
 
 To the sick she lent her aid, 
 The prisoner oft from his chains she freed, 
 
 And for souls of sinners she prayed. 
 
 But Denmark's land was in peril dire : 
 The Swede around burnt and slew, 
 
 The castle of Martha they wrapped in fire; 
 To the church the good lady flew. 
 
 She dwelt in the tower both night and day, 
 
 There unto her none repaired ; 
 'Neath the church-roof sat the dull owl gray, 
 
 And upon the good lady glared. 
 
 And in the Lord's house she dwelt safe and 
 content, 
 
 Till the foes their departure had ta'en ; 
 Then back to her castle in ruins she went, 
 
 And bade it be builded again. 
 
 There found the houseless a cover once more 
 And the mouths of the hungry bread; 
 
 But all in Karise by ' wept sore, 
 
 As soon as Dame Martha was dead. 
 
 Aiid when the Dame lay in her coffin and smiled 
 
 So calm with her pallid face, 
 O, there was never so little a child 
 
 But was brought on her to gaze ! 
 
 The bell on the day of the burial tolled, 
 And youth and age shed the tear; 
 
 And there was no man so weak and old 
 But helped to lift the bier. 
 
 And when they the bier set down for a space, 
 And rested upon the church road, 
 
 A fountain sprang forth in that very same place, 
 And there to this hour has it flowed. 
 
 God bless for ever the pious soul ! 
 
 Her blessings no lips can tell : 
 Oft straight have the sick become sound and 
 whole, 
 
 Who 've drank at Dame Martha's well. 
 
 The tower yet stands with the gloomy nook, 
 
 Where Dame Martha sat of old ; 
 Oft comes a stranger thereon to look, 
 
 And with joy hears the story told. 
 
 i Village. 
 k2 
 
SWEDISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 The Swedish language, like the Danish, is 
 a daughter of the Old Norse, or Icelandic, and 
 began to assume a separate character at the 
 same period. Petersen * divides its history into 
 four periods, corresponding very nearly with 
 those in the history of the Danish language : 
 1. Oldest Swedish, from 1100 till 1250; 2. 
 Older Swedish, from 1250 till 1400; 3. Old 
 Swedish, from 1400 till 1527; 4. Modern Swe- 
 dish, from 1527 till 1700. 
 
 The Swedish is the most musical of the Scan- 
 dinavian languages, its pronunciation being re- 
 markably soft and agreeable. In single words 
 and phrases it bears much resemblance to the 
 English as, for instance, in the old song, 
 
 " Adam och Eva 
 
 Eaka stora lefya ; 
 
 N'ar Adam var dod 
 
 Baka Eva mindre brb'd " : t 
 
 which is, in English, 
 
 " Adam and Eve 
 Baked great loaves ; 
 When Adam was dead 
 Baked Eve less bread." 
 
 It is said, also, that a Dalekarlian boy, who 
 visited England in the suite of a Swedish am- 
 bassador, was able to converse with English 
 peasants from the northern parts of the coun- 
 try, t 
 
 The principal dialects of the Swedish are : 
 1. The Ostrogothic ; 2. The Vestrogothic ; 3. 
 The Smaland; 4. The Scanian ; 5. The Up- 
 land ; 6. The Norland ; 7. The Dalekarlian. § 
 The Dalekarlian is subdivided into the three 
 dialects of Elfdal, Mora, and Orsa. The Dal- 
 karls are the Swedish Highlanders. Inhabiting 
 that secluded region which stretches westward 
 from the Silian Lake to the Alps of Norway, 
 they have preserved comparatively unchanged 
 the manners, customs, and language of their 
 Gothic forefathers. "Here," says Serenius, || 
 " are the only remains in Sweden of the ancient 
 Gothic stock, whereof the aspiration of the let- 
 ters I and w bears witness upon their tongues, 
 an infallible characteristic of the Mceso-Gothic, 
 
 * Det Danske, Norske, og Svenske Sprogs Historie, af 
 H. M. Petersen. 2 vols. Copenhagen : 1S29. 12mo. 
 
 t Sven Uixgrund. Dissertatio Philologica de Dialectis 
 Ling. Sviogoth. Upsalise : 1756. Pars Tenia, p. S. 
 
 : Nasman. Historiola Lingua? Dalekarlicse. Upsalias : 
 1733. p. 17. 
 
 § Sven Hop. Dialectus Vestrogothica. Stockholm : 1772. 
 p. 15. 
 
 || J Serenids's English and Swedish Dictionary, 4to. 
 Nykb'ping : 1757. Pref. p. iii. 
 
 Anglo-Saxon, and Icelandic." In another place, 
 speaking of the guttural or aspirated Z, he says 
 " Germans and Danes cannot pronounce it, no 
 more than the aspirated w ; for which reason 
 this was a fatal letter three hundred years ago 
 in these nations, when Engelbrect, a born Dal- 
 karl, set it up for a shibboleth, and whoever 
 could not say ' Hwid hest i korngulff' was tak- 
 en for a foreigner, because he could not aspi- 
 rate the w, nor utter the guttural I." * It is 
 even asserted, that, with their ancient customs 
 and language, the Dalkarls long preserved the 
 use of the old Runic alphabet; although, from 
 feelings of religious superstition, it was prohib- 
 ited by Olaf Shatkonung at the beginning of the 
 eleventh century, and discontinued in all other 
 parts of Sweden. This is mentioned on the au- 
 thority of Nasman, who wrote in the first half 
 of the last century, t 
 
 Hammarskold, in his " History of Swedish 
 Literature, "+ divides the subject into six epochs: 
 1. The Ancient Catholic period, from the earli- 
 est times to the Reformation ; 2. The Lutheran 
 period, from 1520 to 1640; 3. The Stjern- 
 hjelmian period, from 1640 to 1730 ; 4. The 
 Dalinian period, from 1730 to 1778; 5. The 
 Kellgrenian period, from 1778 to 1795 ; 6. 
 The Leopoldian period, from 1795 to 1810. 
 These titles, it will be perceived, are taken 
 chiefly from distinguished writers who gave a 
 character to the literati:. e of their times. In 
 the following sketch of Swedish poetry the 
 same divisions will be preserved. 
 
 I. The Ancient Catholic period. To this 
 period belong the translations of some of the 
 old romances of King Arthur and Charle- 
 magne, known under the title of"Drottning 
 Euphemias Visor " (Songs of the Queen Eu 
 phemia), the translations having been made by 
 her direction. Here, too, we find that character- 
 istic specimen of monkish lore, " The Soul's 
 Complaint of the Body," translated from the 
 Latin. § More important documents of these 
 
 * Ibid. p. ii. 
 
 t Nasman. Historiola Lingua? Dalekarlicse. 4to. Up- 
 salite : 1733. p. 30. 
 
 For a further account of the Swedish, Danish, and Ice- 
 landic, see Bosworth's Dictionary of the Anglo-Saxon 
 Language : London, 133S : Preface ; — and Meidinger's 
 Dictionnairedes Langues Teutogothiques : Frankfort, 1S33: 
 Introduction. 
 
 I Svenska Vitterheten, Historiskt-Kritiska Antecknin- 
 gar, af L. Hammarsk5ld. Andra Upplagen. b'fversedd och 
 utgifven af P. A. Sonden. Stockholm : 1S33. 
 
 § The original of this poem, which is found in some form 
 or other in nearly all the languages of Western Europe, and 
 which seems to have been so popular during the Middle 
 
SWEDISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 127 
 
 olden times are the two rhymed chronicles, the 
 " Stora Rim-Chronikan " (Chronicon Rythmi- 
 cum Majus), and the " Gamla och Minsta Rim- 
 Chronikan," which have lately been republish- 
 ed by Fant.* But the most valuable remains 
 of these early ages are their popular ballads, 
 two collections of which have been given to 
 the public in our own day. The first, by Gei- 
 jer and Afzelius, contains one hundred ballads; 
 and the second, by Arwidsson, a still greater 
 number, t 
 
 These ballads bear a strong resemblance to 
 the Danish, and many of them are but different 
 versions of the same. "The king is sitting by 
 his broad board," says Geijer, in his Preface, 
 " and is served by knights and swains, who 
 bear round wine and mead. Instead of chairs, 
 we find benches covered with cushions, or, as 
 they are called in the ballads, mattresses (bol- 
 strar, bolsters, long pillows) ; whence comes 
 the expression, l sitta pa bolstrarna bla ' (on the 
 blue cushions seated). Princesses and noble 
 virgins bear crowns of gold and silver ; gold 
 rings, precious belts, and gold or silver-clasped 
 shoes, are also named as their ornaments. They 
 dwell in the highest rooms, separate from the 
 men, and their maidens share their chambers 
 and their bed. From the high bower-stair see 
 they the coming of the stranger-knight, and how 
 he in the castle-yard taketh upon him his fine 
 cloak, — may be of precious skins, — or discover 
 out at sea the approaching vessel, and recognize 
 by the flags, which their own hands have broid- 
 ered, that a lover draweth nigh. The dress of 
 the higher class is adorned with furs of the 
 sable and the martin, and they are distinguished 
 by wearing scarlet, a general name for any finer 
 or more precious cloth (for the ballads call it 
 sometimes red and sometimes green or blue), 
 as opposed to vadmal (serge, coarse woollens), 
 the clothing of the poorer sort. Both men and 
 women play upon the harp, and affect dice and 
 tables ; song and adventure are a pastime loved 
 by all in common; and occasionally the men 
 amuse themselves at their leisure with knightly 
 exercise in the castle-yard. Betrothals are first 
 decided between the families, if every thing 
 follows its usual course ; but love often destroys 
 this order, and the knight takes his beloved 
 upon his saddle-bow, and gallops off with her 
 to his bridal home. Cars are spoken of as the 
 vehicle of ladies ; and from an old Danish bal- 
 lad, in which a Danish princess who has ar- 
 
 Ages, is, by some writers, attributed to Saint Bernard, and 
 by others to the hermit Philibert. It was translated into 
 English by William Crashaw, father of the distinguished 
 poet, and published (London, 1616) under the title of "The 
 Complaint, or Dialogue betwixt the Soul and the Bodie of a 
 Damned Man." A few stanzas of it may be found in Hone's 
 "Ancient Mysteries," p. 191. 
 
 * Scriptores Rerum Svecicarum Medii JEvi. Edidit 
 E. M. Fant. TJpsalia: : 1818. folio. Vol. I. 
 
 t Svenska Folk-Visor fran Forntiden. samlade och ut- 
 gifne af E. G. Geijer och A. A. Afzelius. 3 vols. Stock- 
 holm : 1,814-16. Svenska Fornsanger, utgifne af A. J. 
 Arwidsson. 8vo. Stockholm : 1834. 2 vols. 
 
 rived in Sweden laments that she must pursue 
 her journey on horseback, we see that their use 
 did not reach Sweden so early. Violent court- 
 ships, club law, and the revenge of blood, <fcc, 
 which, however, could often be atoned by fines 
 to the avenger, are common. . . . We cannot 
 help remarking, also, that the popular ballads 
 almost constantly relate to high and noble per- 
 sons. If kings and knights are not always 
 mentioned, still we perpetually hear of sirs, 
 ladies, and fair damsels, — titles, which, accord- 
 ing to old usage, could only be properly em- 
 ployed of the gentry. We will not, it is true, 
 assert that the old songs have preserved any 
 distinction of rank; but in the mean time this 
 will prove that their subjects are taken from 
 the higher and more illustrious classes. Their 
 manners are those chiefly represented, and the 
 liveliness of the coloring necessarily excites the 
 supposition that they spring from thence. On 
 the other side, again, they have been and re- 
 main as native among the common people as 
 if they had been born among them. All this 
 leads us back to times when as yet the classes 
 of society had not assumed any mutually inimi- 
 cal contrast to each other, when nobility was 
 as yet the living lustre from bright deeds rather 
 than from remote ancestry, and when, there- 
 fore, it as yet belonged to the people, and was 
 regarded as the national flower and glory. 
 Such a time we have had ; and he only cannot 
 discover it who begins by transplanting into 
 history all the aristocratical and democratical 
 party-ideas of a later time. . . . Further, we 
 find in the old ballads that there is not only no 
 hate of class, but also no national hate, among 
 the Northern peoples. This explains how it is 
 that they are so much in common to the whole 
 North, and this community of sentiment extends 
 itself even to the ancient historical songs."* 
 
 II. The Lutheran Period, from 1520 to 1640. 
 The Reformation gave the minds of the North 
 a new impulse and a new direction. The 
 poets drew their inspiration, such as it was, 
 from religious themes. The whole century re- 
 sounds with psalms. t From "A Little Song- 
 Book to be used in Churches " (Ecn liten Song- 
 Book til at bruha i Kyrkionne), down to Gyl- 
 lenhjelm's "Psalter in Rhyme," and the hymns 
 of Gustavus Adolphus, there is an unbroken 
 strain of sacred music. Secular matters, how- 
 ever, were not wholly neglected ; for the period 
 produced its due proportion of rhymed chron 
 icles, and ends with a translation of the wel. 
 known German poem of " Reynard the Fox" 
 (Reynclte Foss). 
 
 To this period belongs also the origin of the 
 Swedish drama. The earliest specimen is the 
 
 * Geijer's Swedish Ballads, Vol. I. pp. 39, 41, 42. See 
 Foreign Quarterly Review for April, 1840. 
 
 t "To count them all," says Bogmark in his Psalmo- 
 pseographi, " would be as impossible as to count the stars 
 in heaven or measure the sands on the sea-shore." See 
 Sveriges Skb'na Litteratur, af P. Wieselgren. Lund : 1S33. 
 Vol. I. p. 143. 
 
" Tobie Comedia " of Olaus Petri, published 
 in the year 1550. In his Preface, the author 
 says, " Now they that have a desire unto rhyme 
 and such like song, they may read this comedy ; 
 but they who have more desire for simple dis- 
 course, they may read the same Tobias-book in 
 the Bible." The following extract may not be 
 unacceptable to the lovers of the drama. 
 
 young tobias (to the angel). 
 Azariah, dear brother, wilt thou here stay ? 
 In the water I will wash my feet straightway. 
 
 young toeias (to the angel). 
 Help ! help ! Azariah, that pray I thee, 
 For this great fish will eat up me. 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 Into his gills thou thrust thy hand, 
 
 And drag him with might upon the land ; 
 
 Hew him asunder, and do not quake : 
 
 His gall and liver shalt thou take ; 
 
 They are a great medicine, for thy behoof, 
 
 As the time Cometh well, when thou shalt have proof. 
 
 TOBIAS. 
 
 Azariah, my brother, now tell unto me, 
 What sickness can be healed by this remedie 1 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 The smoke of the heart can spirits put to flight, 
 The gall take away ewry film from the sight. 
 
 TOBIAS. 
 
 Azariah, where shall our lodging be made ? 
 For the light of the day beginneth to fade. 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 Here have we many a trusty friend, 
 Under whose roof the night we may spend. 
 Here dwelleth a good man, he hight Raguel, 
 He shall receive us and treat us well. 
 He hath a daughter, and Sarah hight she, 
 She shall be given thee, thy housewife to be ; 
 An only child is this daughter here, 
 A dutiful damsel, he holdeth dear. 
 
 TOBIAS. 
 
 Azariah, my brother, I have heard people say 
 This maiden hath lived in a very strange way. 
 Seven men as husbands to her have been given; 
 They are all of them dead, — they fared ill. — the 
 
 whole seven. 
 And now full widely the tidings do run 
 That an evil spirit hath them foredone. 
 And if I, too, should fall in such a bad way, 
 In our house there would be the devil to pay.* 
 
 Besides this prodigious drama, more than 
 twenty others of the same period have been 
 preserved, the titles of some of which will 
 suffice : " Judas Redivivus, a Christian Tragi- 
 comedy,' by Jakob Rondelitius ; " A little 
 Spiritual Tragedy about the Three Wise Men," 
 by Hans Olsson ; " A Merry Comedy of King 
 Gustavus," by Andreas Prytz ; " The Prodigal 
 Son," and " The Acts and Martyrdoms of the 
 Apostles," by Samuel Brask ; " Bele Snack, or 
 a New Comedy containing various Merry Dis- 
 courses and Judgments concerning Marriage 
 and Courtship," by Jakob Chronander ; and the 
 four comedies and two "Merry Tragedies " of 
 Johannes Messenius, whose plan was to turn 
 all Swedish history into fifty dramas, as Mas- 
 
 * Tobie Comedia. Stockholm : 1550. 
 
 carille proposed to put all Roman history into 
 madrigals. Into each of his plays he has intro- 
 duced the lustig person, the merryman or clown 
 of the English comedy, and the gracioso of 
 the Spanish. Messenius died in Finland in 
 1637, and his tombstone records his fame in the 
 following epitaph : 
 
 "Doctor Johannes Messenius lies here; 
 His soul is with God, and his name everywhere."* 
 
 III. The Stjernhjelmian period, from 1640 to 
 1730. Georg Stjernhjelm, from whom this 
 period takes its name, and in a great measure 
 its form and character, was born in 1598. He 
 was the son of a Dalekarlian miner ; but, in- 
 stead of following his father's occupation, he 
 devoted himself to books, and became a learned 
 and distinguished man. In 1631, he received 
 from the Crown titles of nobility, and estates in 
 Livonia, and afterwards held various important 
 offices till his death in 1672. He seems to have 
 been a jolly as well as a learned man. When the 
 High Chancellor Oxenstjerna asked him what 
 wine he preferred, he answered, " Vinum alie- 
 num " (other people's wine), a jest which the 
 Chancellor rewarded with a pipe of Rhenish 
 Shortly before his death he requested that his 
 epitaph might be : "Vizit, dum vixit, lotus " (he 
 lived merrily, whilst he lived). His principal 
 poem is an epic in hexameters, entitled " Hercu- 
 les," "in which," says one of his critics, "en- 
 dowed with the pure antique spirit and Hesiod's 
 art, he gives to his ethical opinions of God and 
 the world, life and death, joy and sorrow, clear, 
 plastic precision, artistic form, and poetic life." 
 The poem was so celebrated in its day, that 
 Charles the Tenth of Sweden carried it always 
 with him, even in his wars. He wrote also sev- 
 eral small comic operas, under the title of "Bal- 
 letter," and was the first to introduce the sonnet 
 into Swedish literature. His influence contin- 
 ued long after his death, and his services to the 
 language and literature of his native land are 
 still held in honorable remembrance. Of his 
 immediate followers and imitators nothing need 
 be said, save that one of them wrote a collec- 
 tion of songs under the title of " The Guide- 
 board to Virtue," and another, a poem entitled 
 " The Thundering and Warning Moses," and 
 that to most of them may be applied the distich 
 which Count Lindskold applied to himself: 
 "My poetry is poor, 
 And is not worth the name." 
 Some eighty names, mostly unknown to 
 fame, complete the catalogue of this long pe- 
 riod. I shall mention only Gustaf Rosenhane, 
 author of " Wenerid," a series of a hundred 
 sonnets to a lady, whom he designates by that 
 name; — Haquin Spegel, author of "God's 
 Work and Rest," a translation or paraphrase of 
 Arrebo's . " Hexaemeron " (which itself is but 
 a Danish version of Du Bartas's Sancte Sep- 
 maine) ; — Peter Lagerlof, author of a quaint 
 
 * Notice sur la Literature et les Beaux Arts en Suede, 
 par Marianne d'Ehrenstrom. Stockholm: 1326. 8vo 
 
SWEDISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 129 
 
 old love-song,* which was very popular and 
 often imitated, and which, had it been written 
 in English, would have held a conspicuous place 
 in the " Paradise of Daintie Devices " ; — and 
 Gunno Dahlstjerna, who translated Guarini's 
 " Pastor Fido," and was the first to introduce 
 the ottava rima into Swedish poetry. In fine, 
 this was not a poetic age. "People in general," 
 says Hammarsk6ld,t " looked upon poetry as 
 little more than a juggler's tricks, which it was 
 well enough to have on holyday occasions, by 
 way of show ; and upon the poet himself as a 
 merry-andrew, who should always hold him- 
 self ready to amuse the respected public. Spe- 
 gel, and some others, by treating of spiritual 
 themes, raised themselves above this pickle- 
 herring circle ; their poems were esteemed for 
 the sake of the subject only, and were hardly 
 looked upon as poetry, under which name peo- 
 ple generally understood occasional verses. 
 The so-called poets, likewise, labored zealously 
 to support this opinion, and to justify that view 
 of Art which considers it as a servant for the 
 menial offices of every-day life. If a maiden 
 were to be won, she was wooed in limping 
 verses (Ktlpp-och-Krycke-vers, cane and crutch 
 verses), and when the wedding came, the Epi- 
 tha'amium could not be omitted. And so they 
 rhymed at baptisms and burials, on birth-days 
 and saints-days, at promotions and inheritan- 
 ces ; nay, one could not even eat a fish's liver, 
 without celebrating it with a song. To be rea- 
 dy with wares for all these oft recurring de- 
 mands, the rhymester was forced to make his 
 labor as light as possible, to choose the easiest 
 form of versification, and to avail himself of all 
 kinds of shifts and short cuts, which the muti- 
 lation of words, provincialisms, and far-fetched 
 metaphors could offer him. The rhyme, though 
 it were none of the best, the rhyme was his 
 highest end and aim." 
 
 IV. The Dalinian period, from 1730 to 1778. 
 Olof von Dalin, who gives his name to this 
 period in the literary history of his country, 
 was born in 1708, and died in 1763. He oc- 
 cupied several important stations at court, and, 
 among others, those of Chancellor and Royal 
 Historiographer. He was first known to the 
 literary world by the publication of a weekly 
 journal, after the manner of Addison's " Spec- 
 tator," entitled "Den Svenska Argus" (The 
 Swedish Argus). It commenced its career in 
 1732, when Dalin was but twenty-four years 
 of age, and soon awakened general attention 
 by the beauty of its criticisms, tales, and essays, 
 and the lively colors in which it painted the 
 changing features of the times. Among his 
 principal writings are to be numbered a heroic 
 poem in four cantos, entitled " Svenska Frihe- 
 ten " (The Freedom of Sweden), the tragedy 
 of " Brynilda," one or two comedies, and nu- 
 merous fables, songs, and miscellaneous poems. 
 
 * Hammakskold, p. 126. 
 t Ibid. p. 190. 
 
 His writings are of a more elevated tone and 
 character than most of those which preceded 
 them, and to him belongs the merit of having 
 raised Swedish poetry from the low state of 
 degradation into which it had fallen. 
 
 This period, though less than half a century 
 in duration, added more than a hundred names 
 to the literary history of Sweden. Of these 
 the most distinguished are Olof Celsius, author 
 of " Gustaf Wasa," a heroic poem in seven 
 cantos; — Erik Skjoldebrand, author of "The 
 Gustaviade," a heroic poem in twelve cantos, 
 and of several tragedies; — Jakob Wallenberg, 
 author of a comic book of travels, entitled 
 "Min Son pa Galejan " (My Son in the Gal- 
 ley), — a title taken from Moliere's " Que (liable 
 all'ait-il faire dans cette gatere ! " — and "Su- 
 sanna," a drama in five acts; — Count Gustaf 
 Philip Crentz, author of " Atis and Camilla," 
 a pastoral epic in five cantos ; — Count Gustaf 
 Fredrik Gyllenborg, an intimate friend of 
 Creutz, and author of " Taget ofver Bait " (The 
 Passage of the Belt), a heroic poem in twelve 
 cantos ; — Olof Rudbeck, author of two comic 
 epics entitled " Borasiade " and "Neri"; — 
 and Hedvig Charlotta Nordenflycht, a poetess 
 whose singular character and peculiar influence 
 upon the literature of the time deserve a more 
 extended notice. She was born in Stockholm 
 in 1718, and was remarkable in her childhood 
 for her love of reading and her lively fancy in 
 the invention of stories. At the age of sixteen, 
 yielding to her father's dying request, she was 
 betrothed, against her own inclination, to a 
 mechanician of the name of Tideman, whose 
 deformed person seems to have inspired her 
 with disgust, and whose death, three years after- 
 wards, left her at liberty to choose a bridegroom 
 more to the taste of a young and romantic 
 woman. She soon afterwards availed herself 
 of this liberty, and fell in love with a young 
 clergyman named Jacob Fabricius ; though va- 
 rious untoward circumstances postponed their 
 marriage for four long years. After marriage 
 they removed to Carlskrona, where, at the end 
 of seven months, her husband died. Over- 
 whelmed with sorrow, she retired to a cottage 
 in Sodermanland, hung her chamber in black, 
 and adorned it with gloomy pictures, and, re- 
 signing herself to solitude and affliction, poured 
 forth her feelings to her harp in lamentations 
 and elegies, which she afterwards published 
 under the title of " The Sorrowing Turtle- 
 dove " (Den Sdrjande Turturdufaan). This 
 drew upon her the eyes of all Sweden. This 
 notoriety, together with frequent attacks of ill- 
 ness, induced her to leave her solitude and take 
 up her residence in Stockholm, where her fame 
 was increased by an essay on the " Defence of 
 Poetry," a poem in five cantos entitled " Swe- 
 den Delivered," and a kind of poetic diary 
 which she called " Gentle Reveries of a 
 Shepherdess in the North." Her talents and 
 attractions soon drew around her a circle of 
 friends, such as the Counts of Creutz and Gyl- 
 
130 
 
 SWEDISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 lenborg, and others of like distinction, in con- 
 unction with . whom she established a literary 
 society, known by the name of Utile Dulci. For 
 ten years she continued to be the central point 
 of this society, whose literary annals were en- 
 riched by the productions of her pen ; but, un- 
 fortunately for her peace, among the members 
 of the Utile Dulci was a young man by the 
 name of Fischerstrom, for whom she conceiv- 
 ed a violent and romantic passion, which does 
 not seem to have been returned with equal ar- 
 dor. The faithless young lover deserted her, 
 and, although she had now reached the ma- 
 ture age of forty-five, urged to despair by love, 
 jealousy, and wounded pride, like another Sap- 
 pho she threw herself into the sea. She was 
 taken from the water before life was extinct, 
 but died three days afterwards, the martyr of 
 an ill regulated mind. She was at once the 
 founder, and the victim, of the sentimental 
 school in Sweden. Fischerstrom made all the 
 atonement in his power, by composing an elegy 
 upon her death, and publishing a selection from 
 her writings. 
 
 It may be added, in conclusion, that this 
 period is remarkable for the establishment of 
 the Swedish Academy of Belles-lettres, under 
 Queen Louisa Ulrika, and of several literary 
 societies in imitation of Fru Nordenflycht's 
 Utile Dulci ; for a new impulse given to the 
 drama ; and for the appearance of numerous 
 literary periodicals, of which more than twenty 
 were published between the years 1734 and 
 1774. 
 
 V. The Kellgrenian period, from 1778 to 
 1795. Johan Henrik Kellgren, who gives his 
 name to this period, holds a distinguished place 
 in the literary annals of his native land ; a 
 place he well deserves for a life devoted to the 
 cause of letters. After completing his studies 
 at the University of Abo, he became editor of 
 a literary journal in Stockholm ; and, by his 
 writings, soon attracted the attention of King 
 Gustavus the Third, who gave him a secretari- 
 ship and a pension, and made him member of 
 the Swedish Academy, which had now been 
 reestablished on a more permanent foundation. 
 He died at the age of forty-five. His principal 
 works are his lyrical dramas. The most cele- 
 brated of these is " Gustavus Vasa," the plan of 
 which was suggested to him by the king. He 
 also left behind him many odes, satires, and 
 songs. Of his own powers he seems to have 
 entertained a very modest opinion, and claims 
 distinction only for his love of letters. Writing 
 to one of his friends a short time before his 
 death, he says of himself, as if anticipating the 
 judgment of posterity : "There was in our lit- 
 erary world an obscure individual, whose tal- 
 ents were but small, who had not even what 
 is called esprit, and the greater part of whose 
 writings were without merit, and of no consid- 
 eration ; but this man possessed one quality in 
 a higher degree, perhaps, than any of his con- 
 temporaries ; he felt for the honor and progress 
 
 of literature in Sweden a devotion and an 
 enthusiasm which attended him constantly in 
 his painful career, and were his ruling passion 
 at the moment when he traced these lines." 
 
 But the most famous poet of this period is 
 Carl Michael Bellman, the Anacreon of Swe- 
 den, as Gustavus the Third called him. He is 
 the most popular song-writer of the country, 
 the bard of the populace. His genius runs riot 
 in scenes of low life, — in taverns and ale- 
 houses, and the society of his beloved Ulla Win- 
 blad, and of such vagabonds and boon compan- 
 ions as Christian Wingmark, Mollberg, and Mo- 
 ritz, true and life-like sketches of the Swedish 
 swash-bucklers of the times of Gustavus the 
 Third. Bellman died in 1795, and in 1829 a 
 colossal bust in bronze, by Bystrom, was raised 
 to his memory in the park of Stockholm, — 
 the poet's favorite resort during his life-time, 
 where, stretched on the grass beneath the trees, 
 he played with the children, or composed his 
 songs. The artist has been but too faithful 
 in the delineation of the poet ; for the huge 
 bust literally leers from its pedestal, with bloat- 
 ed cheeks and sleepy eyes. In midsummer it 
 is crowned with flowers, and a convivial society 
 assembles on the little hillock where it stands, 
 and sings some of Bellman's favorite songs. 
 His principal works are " The Temple of Bac- 
 chus," "Fredman's Epistles," and "Fredman's 
 Songs." He also wrote some sacred songs, as 
 if, like a new Belshazzar, he would grace his 
 revels with the holy vessels of the temple. 
 
 Of the eighty remaining poets of this period 
 I shall name but few ; for to most of them may 
 be applied the words which Leopold used 
 frequently to repeat to Gustaf von Paykull : 
 "Thou art one of the best of the middling poets 
 of Sweden." The most worthy of mention are 
 Johan Gabriel Oxenstjerna, author of " The 
 Harvests," and " The Hours of the Day," and 
 translator of Milton's " Paradise Lost "; — Gud- 
 mund Goran Adlerbeth, author of several trag- 
 edies, and translator of Ovid, Virgil, and Hor- 
 ace ; — Bengt Linders, author of "The Last. 
 Judgment," "The Messiah in Gethsemane," 
 and " The Destruction of Jerusalem "; — Thom- 
 as Thorild, author of " The Passions," a poem 
 of six cantos in hexameters; — and Anna Maria 
 Lenngren, who threw somewhat into the shade 
 the fame of Fru Nordenflycht, and acquired con- 
 siderable reputation by her satirical and humor- 
 ous poems, among which may be mentioned 
 "My Late Husband," and "A Few Words to 
 my Daughter, supposing I had one." 
 
 The reign of Gustavus the Third was a kind 
 of Sidcle de Louis XIV. in Sweden. " Both 
 Kings," says a writer in the Foreign Review, 
 " stamped their personal character on that of 
 the times in which they lived ; — both were 
 alike vain, ambitious, haughty, and luxurious ; 
 prompted to great exertions by national feeling 
 and love of glory, both were generous, but un- 
 principled ; amiable, but of fatal influence on 
 the morals of their country ; and, finally, both 
 
SWEDISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 131 
 
 were equally zealous patrons and promoters of 
 the arts and sciences, thus contributing to a new 
 era in the literary history of the people whom 
 they governed. In this last respect, however, 
 Gustavus had the advantage, he himself being 
 a productive laborer in the field of literature ; 
 and, though with smaller means than those pos- 
 sessed by the rich and powerful King of France, 
 he effected a comparatively greater revolution 
 in the taste and culture of his time. Gustavus 
 could not only reward literary merit, but he 
 could appreciate it rightly ; and, whatever faults 
 the historian may have cause to find with the 
 general character of this monarch, it would be 
 an injustice to deny, that, more than any prince 
 mentioned in history, he sought and cultivated 
 the acquaintance of enlightened men, and, from 
 the recesses of obscurity, led genius forth into 
 the light, even within the encircling splendor 
 of the throne. He made it his pride to nurture 
 the germs of talent, which must, probably, have 
 been stifled, but for such fostering and paternal 
 care. Amongst those whom he favored with 
 his personal esteem and friendship, we may 
 particularly mention Bellman, — a poetical gen- 
 ius of so extraordinary a kind, that we know of 
 none in the history of anv nation to whom he 
 can be compared, — and Kellgren, whose works 
 form the subject of our present consideration. 
 Even the adherents of the Romantic school 
 in Sweden, which has waged unceasing war 
 against the French school patronized by Gusta- 
 vus, admit the claims of Kellgren as an origin- 
 al and talented writer ; and we think, that, with- 
 out overrating his merits, he may be pronounced 
 a distinguished ornament of the classical litera- 
 ture of his country." 
 
 VI. The Leopoldian period, from 1795 to 
 1810. The poet who gives his name to this 
 period is Carl Gustaf af Leopold, who, from a 
 literary journalist, rose to the dignity of Com- 
 mander of the Order of the Polar Star and 
 Secretary of State. He has been called the 
 Voltaire of Sweden, and presents the singular 
 phenomenon of an author who is more praised 
 than read, and more read by his enemies than 
 by his friends. One of his most ardent admir- 
 ers exclaims : " His genius soars into the ce- 
 lestial regions, as the lordly eagle darts upwards 
 towards the sun. Nothing is so beautiful as the 
 talent of Leopold; it is the ideal of perfection. 
 One should have heard him, entirely deprived 
 of sight, repeat his poem upon the statue of 
 Charles the Thirteenth, in orde<- to conceive 
 all the fire of his imagination, and all his resem- 
 blance to Homer, Milton, and Delille."* On 
 the other hand, one of his severest critics says : 
 " Leopold has written a poem on Empty Noth- 
 ing, and he was right in doing so, for that is all 
 which we find in the greater part of his rhymed 
 and unrhymed productions. The fate which 
 
 * Ehrenstr'-'m. Notices, p. 74. 
 
 awaits him hereafter as an author it is not diffi 
 cult to foresee, indeed, it has already begun to 
 declare itself; in truth, he is — it can no longer 
 be denied — already for the most part forgot- 
 ten." * 
 
 Leopold's most celebrated works are his two 
 tragedies, " Virginia," and " Odin, or the Emi- 
 gration of the Gods." At the first representa- 
 tion of Odin in 1790, the King, Gustavus the 
 Third, wrote Leopold the following note : " The 
 author of ' Siri Brahe ' begs of the author of 
 'Odin' a pit ticket; it is the only place he 
 dares to ask." His majestv sent him, at the same 
 time, a laurel branch which he had brought from 
 the tomb of Virgil, fastened with a large dia- 
 mond. He is the author, also, of sundry odes, 
 satires, and tales. 
 
 But the most distinguished poets of this peri- 
 od are Franzen, Wallin, and Tegner, all of 
 them bishops. Frans Michsel Franzen was 
 born in Finland in 1772. His best known po- 
 etic labors are the fragments of an epic enti- 
 tled " Gustavus Adolphus in Germany," three 
 cantos of a poem, to be completed in twenty, on 
 " The Meeting at Alvastra " (the meeting of 
 Gustavus Wasa with his bride Margaret of Ley- 
 onhuvud), and his lyric poems, which are mark- 
 ed with great beauty and a kind of apostolic ten- 
 derness. Tegner, in his poem of "Axel," com- 
 pares the song of the nightingale to one of his 
 songs : 
 
 "From the oak-trees sang the nightingale; 
 
 The song resounded through the vale, 
 
 As tender and as pure a strain, 
 
 As some sweet poem of Franzen." 
 
 Johan Olof Wallin was born in Dalekarlia in 
 1779. As a pulpit orator, his fame is great. As 
 a poet, he is known chiefly by the beauty of his 
 psalms, and through them has won the name of 
 the David of the North. In "The Children of 
 the Lord's Supper," Tesmer takes occasion to 
 laud his psalms : — 
 
 " Anthem immortal 
 Of the sublime Wallin, of David's harp in the North-land, 
 Tuned to the choral of Luther ; the song on its powerfu 
 
 pinions 
 Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven." 
 
 Of Tegner and a few others I shall speak 
 more at length hereafter; and for the continua- 
 tion of this sketch of Swedish Poetry the read- 
 er is referred to the " Bibliographisk Ofversigt 
 ofver Svenska Vitterheten," 1810-1832 ; afP. 
 A. Sonden. This is the sequel to Hammar- 
 skold's work, and is published in the same vol- 
 ume. In conclusion, I have only to regret that 
 the extracts which follow are so few, and from 
 so few authors ; and in particular that I have 
 been able to find no English translations from 
 Nicander, one of the most distinguished of the 
 younger Swedish poets ; nor from Ling, one ol 
 the most voluminous. 
 
 * Hammarskoij), p. 467. 
 
BALLADS. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-TAKEN MAID. 
 
 \nd now to early matin-song the maiden would 
 away ; 
 (The hour goes heavy by ; ) 
 So took she that dark path where the lofty 
 mountain lay. 
 (Ah ! well sorrow's burden know I ! ) 
 
 On the mountain-door she gently tapped, and 
 small her fingers are : 
 (The hour goes heavy by : ) 
 " Rise up, thou King of the Mountain, and 
 lock and bolt unbar ! " 
 (Ah ! well sorrow's burden know I ! ) 
 
 The mountain-king rose up, and quick drew 
 
 back both bolt and bar ; 
 To his silk bed blue then bore he the bride that 
 
 came so far. 
 
 And thus, for eight long years, I ween, she lived 
 
 i' th' mountain there; 
 And sons full seven she bore him, and eke a 
 
 daughter fair. 
 
 The maiden 'fore the mountain-king now stands 
 
 with looks of woe : — 
 " Would God, that straight I home to mother 
 
 dear could go ! " 
 
 " And home to thy mother dear thou well 
 
 enough canst go ; 
 But, mind ! I warn thee name not the seven 
 
 young bairns we owe ! " 
 
 Now when at last she cometh to where her 
 home-halls be, 
 ■utside to meet her standing her tender mother 
 see ! 
 
 " And where so long, so long a time, dear 
 daughter, hast thou been ? 
 
 Thou 'st dwelled, I fear me, yonder, in the rose- 
 decked hill so green." 
 
 " No ! never was my dwelling in the rose- 
 decked hill so green ; 
 
 This long, long time I yonder with the moun- 
 tain-king have been ! 
 
 " And thus, for eight long years, I ween, I 've 
 
 lived i' th' mountain there ; 
 And sons full seven I 've borne him, and eke a 
 
 daughter fair." 
 
 With hasty steps the mountain-king now treads 
 
 within the door : — 
 " Why stand'st thou here, about me such evil 
 
 speaking o'er ? " 
 
 " Nay, surely naught of evil I lay now at thy 
 
 door ; 
 But all the good thou 'st shown me I now am 
 
 speaking o'er." 
 
 Her lily cheek then struck he, her cheek so 
 
 pale and wan, 
 So that o'er her slim-laced kirtle the gushing 
 
 blood it ran. 
 
 " A-packing, mistress, get thee ; and that, I pray, 
 
 right fast ! 
 This view of thy mother's gate here, I swear 
 
 it is thy last ! " 
 
 "Farewell, dear father ! and farewell, my tender 
 
 mother too ! 
 Farewell, my sister dear ! and dear brother, 
 
 farewell to you ! 
 
 " Farewell, thou lofty heaven ! and the fresh 
 green earth, farewell ! 
 
 Now wend I to the mountain, where the moun- 
 tain-king doth dwell." 
 
 So forth they rode, right through the wood, all 
 black, and long, and wild ; 
 
 Right bitter were her tears, — but the mountain- 
 king he smiled. 
 
 And now they six times journey the gloomy 
 
 mountain round ; 
 Then flew the door wide open, and in they 
 
 quickly bound. 
 
 A chair her little daughter reached, with gold 
 it redly shone : — 
 
 " O, rest thee, my poor mother, so sad and woe- 
 begone ! " 
 
 " Come haste thee with the mead-glasses ; hith- 
 er, quick, I say ! 
 
 Thereout now will I drink my too weary life 
 away ! " 
 
 And scarce from out tne mead-glass bright her 
 first draught doth she take ; 
 (The hour goes heavy by ;) 
 Her eyes were sudden closed, and her weary 
 heart it brake ! 
 (Ah ! well sorrow's burden know I ! ) 
 
BALLADS. 
 
 133 
 
 HILLEBRAND. 
 
 Hillebrand served in the king's halls so gay : 
 
 (In the grove there :) 
 For fifteen round years, I wis, he 'd serve there 
 night and day. 
 (For her that in his youth he had betrothed 
 there.) 
 
 Not so much served he for silver and goud ; 
 
 (In the grove there;) 
 T was the fair Ladie Gulleborg so dearly he 
 loved. 
 (For her that in his youth he had betrothed 
 there.) 
 
 Not so much served he for pay or for place ; 
 'T was that fair Ladie Gulleborg she smiled 
 with such sweet grace. 
 
 " And hear, Ladie Gulleborg, listen to my love ! 
 Hence to lands far off, dear, say, wilt thou with 
 me rove ? " 
 
 "Ah ! willing with thee would I haste far away, 
 Were 't not, love, for so many who watch me 
 night and day. 
 
 "For me watches father, and mother also ; 
 For me watches sister, and brother, too, I know. 
 
 " For me watch my friends, and me closely 
 
 watch my kin ; 
 But most that young knight watcheth me to 
 
 whom I pledged have bin." 
 
 " A dress of fine scarlet I '11 cut for thee, my 
 
 dear ! 
 He then can never know thee by thy rosy 
 
 cheeks clear. 
 
 " And rings will I change on thy fingers so 
 
 small ; 
 Then never thereby can he know thee at all." 
 
 Hillebrand his palfrey gray saddled right soon, 
 And lightly Ladie Gulleborg he lifted there 
 aboon. 
 
 A ■ ay so they rode o'er thirty miles' long wood ; 
 When, see ! to meet them cometh a knight so 
 stout and good. 
 
 "And whence, friend, hast thou taken that fair 
 
 young page with thee? 
 Full badly in his saddle he sits, as 't seems to 
 
 me." 
 
 " But yestern I took him from 's mother so 
 
 kind ; 
 Thereat how many tears, alas ! adown her 
 
 cheeks fast wind ! " 
 
 "Methinks that once more I that rose-cheek 
 
 should ken ; 
 But his cloak of such fine scarlet I cannot tell 
 
 again. 
 
 " Farewell, now, farewell ! and a thousand times 
 
 good night ! 
 Salute the Ladie Gulleborg with a thousand 
 
 times good night ! " 
 
 But when they had ridden so little a while, 
 The maiden it listeth to rest her awhile. 
 
 "And Hillebrand, Hillebrand, not now slum- 
 ber here ; 
 
 My father's seven trumpets I hear loud-pealing 
 clear. 
 
 " My father's gray palfrey again now I know , 
 'T is fifteen long years since through the wood 
 land it did go." 
 
 " And when 'mid the battle I ride against the 
 
 foe, 
 Then, dearest Ladie Gulleborg, name not my 
 
 name to woe. 
 
 " And when 'raid the battle, as hottest it be, 
 Ah ! dearest Ladie Gulleborg, my horse thou 'It 
 hold for me ! " 
 
 "My mother she taught me to broider silk and 
 
 gold, 
 But never yet I 've learned me in battle horse 
 
 to hold." 
 
 The first charge he rode, when together they 
 
 flew, 
 So slew he her brother and many a man thereto. 
 
 The next charge he rode, when together they 
 
 flew, 
 So slew he her father and many a knight thereto 
 
 " And Hillebrand, Hillebrand, still now thy 
 
 fierce brand ; 
 That death, ah ! my good father deserved not 
 * at thy hand." 
 
 Scarce had fair Gulleborg these words uttered 
 
 o'er, 
 When seven bloody wounds had Sir Hillebrand 
 
 gashed sore. 
 
 " And wilt thou, now, follow to thy tender 
 
 mother's home, 
 Or with thy death-sick childe still onward wilt 
 
 thou roam ? " 
 
 " And indeed I will not follow to my tender 
 
 mother's home, 
 But sure with my death-sick childe still onward 
 
 will I roam." 
 
 Through dark woods thus rode they, for many 
 
 a weary mile ; 
 And not one single word spoke Hillebrand the 
 
 while. 
 
 " Is Hillebrand awear'd, or sits care on his brow ? 
 For not one single word he speaketh to me 
 now ! " 
 
 L 
 
134 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 " Nor wearied I am, nor sits care on my brow ; 
 But fast down from my heart my blood it drip- 
 peth now ! " 
 
 And onward rode Hillebrand to his dearest 
 
 father's lands ; 
 An " there by the hall to meet him his tender 
 
 mother stands. 
 
 "And hear now, how is 't with thee, Hillebrand, 
 
 sweet knight mine? 
 1 or fast the red blood drippeth from off thy 
 
 mantle fine." 
 
 " My palfrey he stumbled, and quickly from 
 
 my seat 
 I fell, and right hardly an apple-bough did greet. 
 
 " My horse lead, dear brother, to the meadow 
 
 close by ; 
 And a bed, my dearest mother, make up where 
 
 I may lie. 
 
 "And curl now so gayly my hair-locks, sister 
 
 dear ! 
 And haste thee, father dearest, to get my burial 
 
 bier ! " 
 
 " Ah ! Hillebrand, Hillebrand, speak my love 
 
 not so ! 
 On Thursday right merrily to the wedding we 
 
 will go ! " 
 
 " Down in the grave's house of darkness shall 
 
 we wed ; 
 Thy Hillebrand lives no longer, when night's 
 
 last star is sped." 
 
 And when as night was sped, and the dawn 
 
 beamed out to day, 
 So bare they three corpses from Hillebrand's 
 
 horhe away ; 
 
 » 
 
 The one it was Sir Hillebrand, the other his 
 maid, death's bride, 
 (In the grove there,) 
 The third it was his mother, of a broken heart 
 she died ! 
 (For her that in his youth he had betrothed 
 there !) 
 
 THE DANCE IN THE GROVE OF 
 ROSES. 
 
 'Twas all upon an evening, when the rime it 
 
 falleth slow, 
 That a swain, on good gray palfrey, across the 
 
 meads would go. — 
 
 Ye '11 bide me true ' 
 
 His saddle it was of silver, his bridle it was of 
 
 gold ; 
 Himself rides there, so full of grace and virtues 
 
 all untold. — 
 
 Ye '11 bide me true ! 
 
 So straight to the Grove of Roses the knight 
 
 he speeds along, 
 Where a merrie dance he findeth, fair dames 
 
 and maids among. — 
 
 Ye '11 bide me true ! 
 
 His horse right soon he bindeth where the lily 
 
 blooms so fair, 
 And much his heart rejoiceth that he now was 
 
 coinen there. — 
 
 Ye '11 bide me true ! 
 
 "Again we'll meet, again we'll greet, when 
 
 middest summer 's here, 
 When the laughing days draw out so long, and 
 
 the nights are mild and clear. — 
 Ye '11 bide me true '. 
 
 " Again we 'II meet, again we '11 greet, on mid- 
 dest summer's day, 
 
 When the lark it carols lightly, and the cuckoo 
 cooes away. — 
 
 Ye '11 bide me true ! 
 
 " Again we '11 meet, again we '11 greet, on the 
 
 freshly- flowering lea, 
 Where the rose so bright, and the lily white, 
 
 our sweet, soft couch shall be. — 
 Ye '11 bide me true ! " 
 
 THE MAIDEN THAT WAS SOLD. 
 
 " My father and my mother they need have 
 
 suffered sore ; — 
 And then, for a little bit of bread, they sold 
 
 me from their door, 
 Away into the heathen land so dreadful ! " 
 
 And the war-man each oar grasps tight, and 
 
 quickly will depart, 
 While her hands the pretty virgin wrings til' 
 the blood thereout doth start : — 
 " God help that may who afar shall stray to 
 the heathen land so dreadful ! " 
 
 " Ah ! war-man dear, ye Ml bide now here, 
 
 one moment more ye '11 stay ! 
 For I see my father coming from yon grove 
 that blooms so gay : 
 
 I know he loves me so, — 
 With his oxen he will ransom me and will 
 not let me go : 
 So scape I then to wander far to the heathen 
 land so dreadful ! " 
 
 " My oxen, — indeed, now, I have but only 
 
 twain ; 
 The one I straight shall use, the other may 
 remain : 
 Thou scapest not to wander far to the heathen 
 land so dreadful ! " 
 
BALLADS 
 
 135 
 
 And the war-man each oar grasps tight, and 
 
 quickly will depart, 
 While her hands the pretty virgin wrings till 
 the blood thereout doth start : — 
 " God help that may who afar shall stray to the 
 heathen land so dreadful ! " 
 
 " Ah ! wai man dear, ye '11 bide now here, 
 
 one moment more ye '11 stay ! 
 For I see my mother coming from yon grove 
 that blooms so gay : 
 
 I know she loves me so, — 
 With her gold chests she will ransom me, 
 and will not let me go ! 
 So scape I then to wander far to the heathen 
 land so dreadful ! " 
 
 "My gold chests, — indeed, now, I have but 
 
 only twain ; 
 The one I straight shall use, and the other 
 may remain : 
 Thou canst not scape to wander far to the hea- 
 then land so dreadful ! " 
 
 And the war-man each oar grasps tight, and 
 
 quickly will depart, 
 While her hands the pretty virgin wrings till 
 the blood thereout doth start : — 
 " God help that may who afar shall stray to 
 the heathen land so dreadful ! " 
 
 " Ah ! war-man dear, ye '11 bide now here, 
 
 one moment more ye '11 stay ! 
 For I see my sister coming from yon grove 
 that blossoms so gay : 
 
 I know she loves me so, — 
 With her gold crowns she will ransom me, 
 and will not let me go ! 
 So scape I then to wander far to the heathen 
 land so dreadful ! " 
 
 " My gold crowns, — indeed, now, I have but 
 
 only twain ; 
 The one I straight shall use, and the other 
 may remain : 
 Thou scapest not to wander far to the heathen 
 land so dreadful ! " 
 
 And the war-man each oar grasps tight, and 
 
 quickly will depart, 
 While her hands the pretty virgin wrings till 
 the blood thereout doth start : — 
 " God help that may who afar shall stray to 
 the heathen land so dreadful ! " 
 
 " Ah ! war-man dear, ye '11 bide now here, 
 
 one moment more ye 'II stay ! 
 For I see my brother coming from yon grove 
 
 that blooms so gay : 
 With his foal-steeds he will ransom me, and 
 will not let me go ! 
 So scape I then to wander far to the heathen 
 land so dreadful ! " 
 
 "My foal-steeds, — indeed, now, I have but 
 only twain ; 
 
 The one I straight shall use, and the other 
 may remain : 
 Thou scapest not to wander far to the heathen 
 land so dreadful ! " 
 
 And the war-man his oar grasps tight, and 
 
 quickly will depart, 
 While her hands the pretty virgin wrings till 
 the blood thereout doth start : — 
 " Ah ! woe 's that may who afar must stray to 
 the heathen land so dreadful ! " 
 
 " Ah ! war-man dear, ye '11 bide now here, 
 
 one moment more ye '11 stay ! 
 For I see my sweetheart coming from yon 
 
 grove that blooms so gay : 
 With his gold rings he will ransom me and 
 will not let me go ! 
 So scape I then to wander far to the heathen 
 land so dreadful ! " 
 
 " My gold rings, — indeed, now, I have but 
 
 ten and twain ; 
 With six I straight will ransom thee, thyself 
 the rest shall gain : 
 So scapest thou to wander far to the heathen 
 land so dreadful ! " 
 
 THE LITTLE SEAMAN. 
 
 In her lofty bower a virgin sat 
 On skins, embroidering gold, 
 
 When there came a little seaman by, 
 And would the maid behold. — 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 away ! 
 
 "And hear now, little seaman, 
 Hear what I say to thee : 
 * An' hast thou any mind this hour 
 To play gold dice with me ? " — 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 away ! 
 
 " But how and can I play now 
 
 The golden dice with thee ? 
 For no red shining gold I have 
 
 That I can stake 'gainst thee." — 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 away ! 
 
 " And surely thou canst stake thy jacket, 
 Canst stake thy jacket gray ; 
 
 While there against myself will stake 
 My own fair gold rings twa." — 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 away ! 
 
 So then the first gold die, I wot, 
 
 On table-board did run ; 
 And the little seaman lost his stake, 
 
 And the pretty maiden won. — 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 away ! 
 
136 SWEDISH 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 " And hear now, little seaman, 
 
 But that young virgin have I will, 
 
 Hear what I say to thee : 
 
 Whom with gold dice I won." — 
 
 An' hast thou any mind this hour 
 
 But with golden dice they played,. they played 
 
 To play gold dice with me ? " — 
 
 away ! 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 
 away ! 
 
 " Come, hear now, little seaman ! 
 
 
 Haste far away from me ; 
 
 " But how and can I play now 
 
 And a shirt so fine, with seams of silk, 
 
 The golden dice with thee? 
 
 I that will give to thee." — 
 
 For no red shining gold I have 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 That I can stake 'gainst thee." — 
 
 away ! 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 
 away ! 
 
 "A shirt so fane, with seams of silk, 
 
 
 I '11 get, if 't can be done ; 
 
 " Thou surely this old hat canst stake, 
 
 But that young virgin have I will, 
 
 Canst stake thy hat so gray ; 
 
 Whom with gold dice I won." — 
 
 And I will stake my bright gold crown, — 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 Come, take it, if ye may." — 
 
 away ! 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 
 away ! 
 
 " Nay, hear now, little seaman ! 
 
 
 Haste far away from me ; 
 
 And so the second die of gold 
 
 And the half of this my kingdom 
 
 On table-board did run ; 
 
 I that will give to thee." — 
 
 And the little seaman lost his stake, 
 
 But, with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 While the pretty maiden won. — 
 
 away ! 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 
 away ! 
 
 " The half of this thy kingdom 
 
 
 I '11 get, if 't can be done ; 
 
 "And hear now, little seaman, 
 
 But that young virgin have I will, 
 
 Hear what I say to thee : 
 
 Whom with gold dice I won." — 
 
 An' hast thou any mind this hour 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 To play gold dice with me ? " — 
 
 away ! 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 
 away ! 
 
 And the virgin in her chamber goes, 
 
 
 And parts her flowing hair : 
 
 " But how and can I play now 
 
 " Ah, me ! poor maid, I soon, alas ! 
 
 The golden dice with thee ? 
 
 The marriage-crown must bear." — 
 
 For no red shining gold I have 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 That I can stake 'gainst thee." — 
 
 away ! 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 
 away ! 
 
 The seaman treads the floor along, 
 
 
 And with his sword he played, — 
 
 " Then stake each of thy stockings, 
 
 " As good a match as e'er thou 'rt worth 
 
 And each silver-buckled shoe; 
 
 Thou gettest, little maid ! — 
 
 And I will stake mine honor, 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 And eke my troth thereto." — 
 
 away ! 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 
 away ! 
 
 " For I, God wot, no seaman am, 
 
 
 Although ye thinken so : 
 
 And so the third gold die, I wot, 
 
 The best king's son I am, instead, 
 
 On table-board did run ; 
 
 That in Engelande can go." — 
 
 And the pretty maiden lost her stake, 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 While the little seaman won. — 
 
 away ! 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 
 away ! 
 " Come, hear now, little seaman ! 
 
 
 SIR CARL, 
 
 Haste far away from me ; 
 
 
 And a ship that stems the briny flood 
 
 OR THE CLOISTER ROBBED. 
 
 I that will give to thee." — 
 
 
 
 But with golden dice they played, they played 
 
 Sir Carl he in to his foster-mother went, 
 
 away ! 
 
 And much her rede he prayed : — 
 
 
 " Say how from that cloister I may win 
 
 " A ship that stems the briny flood 
 
 My own, my dearest maid." — 
 
 I '11 get, if 't can be done ; 
 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
BALLADS. 
 
 137 
 
 " Lay thee down as sick, lay thee down as 
 dead, 
 On thy bier all straight be laid; 
 So then thou canst from that cloister win 
 Thy own, thy dearest maid ! " — 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
 And in the little pages came, 
 
 And clad in garments blue : 
 "An' please ye, fair virgin, i' th' chapel to go, 
 Sir Carl on 's bier to view ? " — 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
 And in the little pages came, 
 
 All clad in garments red : 
 "An' please ye, fair virgin, i' th' chapel to 
 wend, 
 And see how Sir Carl lies dead? " — 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
 And in the little pages came, 
 All clad in garments white : 
 "An' please ye, fair virgin, i' th' chapel to 
 tread, 
 Where Sir Carl lies in state so bright? " — 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
 And the may she in to her foster-mother went, 
 
 And much 'gan her rede to speer: 
 "Ah ! may I but into the chapel go, 
 Sir Carl there to see on his bier? " — 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
 " Nay, sure I '11 give thee now no rede, 
 
 Nor yet deny I thee : 
 But if to the chapel to-night thou goest, 
 
 Sir Carl deceiveth thee ! " — 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
 And the virgin trod within the door, 
 
 Sun-like she shone so mild ; 
 But Sir Carl's false heart within his breast 
 It lay on the bier and smiled ! — 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
 And the virgin up to his head she stepped, 
 But his fair locks she ne'er sees move : 
 
 " Ah, me ! while here on earth thou liv'dst, 
 Thou dearly didst me love! " — 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
 And the virgin down to his feet she went, 
 
 And lifts the linen white : 
 " Ah, me ! while here on earth thou liv'dst, 
 
 Thou wert my heart's delight ! " — 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
 And the virgin then to the door she went, 
 
 And good night bade her sisters last; 
 But Sir Carl, who upon his bier was laid, 
 He sprang up and held her fast ! — 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
 " Now cany out my bier again, 
 Come pour the mead and wine ; 
 
 18 
 
 For to-morrow shall my wedding stand 
 With this sweetheart dear of mine ! "- 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
 And the cloister-nuns, the cloister-nuns, 
 They read within their book : 
 
 " Some angel, sure, it was from heaven, 
 Who hence our sister took ! " — 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
 And the cloister-nuns, the cloister-nuns, 
 They sung each separatelie : 
 
 " O Christ ! that such an angel came, 
 And took both me and thee ! " — 
 But Sir Carl alone he sleepeth. 
 
 ROSEGROVE-SIDE. 
 
 I was a fair young swain one day, 
 And had to the court to ride ; 
 
 I set me out at the evening hour, 
 
 And listed to sleep on the Rosegrove-side. 
 Since I had seen them first! 
 
 I laid me under a linden green, 
 
 My eyes they sunk to sleep ; 
 There came two maidens tripping along, 
 
 Thev fain with me would speak. — 
 Since I had seen them first ! 
 
 The one she patted me on my cheek, 
 The other she whispered in my ear: 
 
 "Rise up, rise up, thou fair young swain, 
 If of love thou list to hear ! " — 
 Since I had seen them first ! 
 
 And forth they led a maiden fair, 
 
 And hair like gold had she : 
 " Rise up, rise up, thou fair young swain, 
 
 If thou lovest joy and glee ! " — 
 Since I had seen them first ! 
 
 The third began a song to sing, 
 With right good will she begun ; 
 
 The striving stream stood still thereby, 
 
 That before was wont to run. — 
 
 Since I had seen them first ! 
 
 The striving stream stood still thereby, 
 That before was wont to run ; 
 
 And all the hinds with hair so brown 
 Forgot which way to turn. — 
 Since I had seen them first ! 
 
 I got me up from off" the ground, 
 
 And on my sword did lean ; 
 The maiden elves danced out and in, 
 
 All elvish in look, in mien. — 
 Since I had seen them first ! 
 
 Had it not then my good luck been, 
 
 That the cock had clapped his wing, 
 I should have slept in the hill that night, 
 With the elves in their dwelling. — 
 Since I had seen them first ! 
 l2 
 
138 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 SIR OLOF'S BRIDAL. 
 
 Sir Olof rode out at the break of day; 
 There he came to an elf-dance gay. 
 
 The dance it goes well, 
 
 So-well in the grove ! 
 
 The elf-father his white hand outstretched he : 
 " Come, come, Sir Olof, and dance with me ! " 
 
 The dance it goes well, 
 
 So well in the grove ! 
 
 " Naught can I dance, and naught I may ; 
 To-morrow is my bridal day." 
 
 The dance it goes well, 
 
 So well in the grove ! 
 
 The elf-mother her white hand outstretched 
 
 she : 
 " Come, come, Sir Olof, and dance with me ' " 
 
 The dance it goes well, 
 
 So well in the grove ! 
 
 " Naught can I dance, and naught I may ; 
 To-morrow is my bridal day." 
 
 The dance it goes well, 
 
 So well in the grove ! 
 
 The elf-sister her white hand outstretched she : 
 " Come, come, Sir Olof, and dance with me '." 
 
 The dance it goes well, 
 
 So well in the grove ! 
 
 " Naught can I dance, and naught I may ; 
 To-morrow is my bridal day." 
 
 The dance it goes well, 
 
 So well in the grove ! 
 
 And the bride she spoke to her bridemaids so : 
 " What may it mean that the bells do go ? " 
 
 The dance it goes well, 
 
 So well in the grove ! 
 
 " It is the custom on this our isle, 
 
 Each young swain ringeth home his bride. — 
 
 The dance it goes well, 
 
 So well in the grove ! 
 
 " And the truth from thee we no longer conceal ; 
 Sir Olof is dead and lies on his bier." 
 
 The dance it goes well, 
 
 So well in the grove ! 
 
 ISext morning, when uprose the day, 
 In Sir Olof 's house three corpses lay. 
 
 The dance it goes well, 
 
 So well in the grove ! 
 
 They were Sir Olof and his bride, 
 And his mother who of sorrow died ! 
 
 The dance it goes well, 
 
 So well in the grove ! 
 
 DUKE MAGNUS. 
 
 Duke Magnus looked out from his castle-win- 
 dow, 
 How the stream so rapidly ran ; 
 There he saw how there sat on the foaming 
 stream 
 A fair and lovely woman : 
 
 " Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betrotU 
 
 thee to me, 
 I pray thee now so freely ; 
 O, say me not nay, but yes, say yes ! 
 
 "And I will give thee a travelling ship, 
 
 The best that knight e'er did guide, 
 That sails on the water, and sails on the land, 
 And through the fields so wide. 
 
 Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betroth thee 
 
 to me, 
 I pray thee now so freely ; 
 O, say me not nay, but yes, say yes ! " 
 
 " I have not yet come to quiet and rest; 
 
 How should I betroth me to thee ? 
 I serve my king and my country, 
 
 But to woman I 've not yet matched me." 
 " Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betroth 
 
 thee to me, 
 I pray thee now so freely ; 
 O, say me not nay, but yes, say yes ! 
 
 " And I will give thee a steed so gray, 
 
 The best that knight e'er did ride, 
 That goes on the water, and goes on the land, 
 And through the woods so wide. 
 
 Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betroth thee 
 
 to me, 
 I pray thee now so freely ; 
 O, say me not nay, but yes, say yes !" 
 
 " I am a king's son so good, 
 
 How can I let thee win me ? 
 Thou dwell'st not on land, but on the flood, 
 Which would never with me agree." 
 
 "Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, tetroth 
 
 thee to me, 
 I pray thee now so freely ; 
 O, say me not nay, but yes, say yes ! 
 
 " And I will give thee so much gold, 
 
 As much as can ever be found ; 
 And stones and pearls by the handful, 
 And all from the sea's deep ground. 
 
 Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betrcth thee 
 
 to me, 
 I pray thee now so freely, 
 O, say me not nay, but yes, say yes ! " 
 
 " O, fain 1 would betroth me to thee, 
 
 Wert thou of Christian kind ; 
 But thou art only a vile sea-sprite ; 
 My love thou never canst win." 
 
 " Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betroth 
 
 thee to me, 
 I pray thee now so freely ; 
 O, say me not nay, but yes, say yes ! 
 
BALLADS. 
 
 139 
 
 "Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, bethink thee 
 well, 
 Speak not to me so scornfully ! 
 For, if thou wilt not betroth thee to me, 
 Then crazed shalt thou for ever be ! 
 
 Duke Magnus, Duke Magnus, betroth thee 
 
 to me, 
 I pray thee now so freely ; 
 O, say me not na\, out yes, say yes ! " 
 
 THE POWER OF THE HARP. 
 
 Little Christin she weeps in her bower ail 
 
 day; 
 Sir Peter he sports in the yard at play. 
 
 " My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 " Is it saddle or steed that grieveth thee ? 
 Or ffrieveth that thou 'rt betrothed to me ? 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? " 
 
 " Not saddle nor steed is t that grieveth me ; 
 Nor grieveth that I 'm betrothed to thee. — 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 " Far more I grieve for my fair yellow hair, 
 That the deep blue waves shall dye it to-day. — 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 " Far more I grieve for Ringfalla's waves, 
 Where both my sisters have found their 
 graves ! — 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 " When a child, it was foretold to me, 
 My bridal dav should prove heary to me." 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 " I will bid thy horse to have round shoes, 
 He shall not stumble on four gold shoes. — 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 " Twelve of my courtiers before thee shall ride, 
 And twelve of my courtiers on either side." 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou giieve ? 
 
 But when they Ringfalla forest came near, 
 There sported with gilded horns a deer. 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 And the courtiers to hunt the deer are gone ; 
 Little Christin she must go onward alone. 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 And when over Ringfalla bridge she goes, 
 There stumbled her steed on his four gold shoes ■ 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 On four gold shoes and gold nails all : 
 The maid in the rushing stream did fall. 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 Sir Peter he spoke to his footpage so : 
 " Now swiftly for my golden harp go ! " 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 The first stroke on the gold harp he gave, 
 The foul ugly sprite sat and laughed on the wave. 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 Once more the gold harp gave a sound ; 
 
 The foul ugly sprite sat and wept on the ground. 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve .' 
 
 The third stroke on the gold harp rang ; 
 Little Christin reached out her snow-white arm. 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 He plaved the bark from off the high trees, 
 He plaved little Christin upon his knees. 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, why dost thou grieve ? 
 
 And the sprite himself came out of the flood, 
 On each of his arms a maiden proud. 
 
 My heart's own dear ! 
 
 Tell me, whv dost thou grieve ? 
 
 LITTLE KARIN'S DEATH. 
 
 The little Karin served 
 
 Within the voung king's hall ; 
 She glistened like a star, 
 
 Among the maidens all. 
 
 She glistened like a star, 
 Of all the fairest maid ; 
 
 And to the little Karin, 
 
 One day, the young king said : 
 
 "And heai thou, little Karir», 
 O, sav, wilt thou be mine? 
 
 Gray steed and golden saddle 
 Shall, if thou wilt, be thine " 
 
 " Gray steed and golden saddle 
 Would not with me agree ; 
 
 Give them to thy young queen, 
 And leave my honor to me ' " 
 
 " And hear thou, little Karin, 
 O, say, wilt thou be mine ? 
 
 My brightest golden crown 
 Shall, if thou wilt, be thine." 
 
140 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 " Thy brightest golden crown 
 Would not with me agree ; 
 
 Give it to thy young queen, 
 And leave my honor to me ! " 
 
 " If a cask with spikes all studded 
 Shall then my dwelling be, 
 
 God's holy angels know full well 
 That without guilt I be ! " 
 
 " And hear thou, little Karin, 
 O, say, wilt thou be mine ? 
 
 One half of all my kingdom 
 Shall, if thou wilt, be thine." 
 
 They put the little Karin 
 In the spiked tun within ; 
 
 And then the king's young servants 
 They rolled her in a ring. 
 
 " One half of all thy kingdom 
 Would not with me agree; 
 
 Give it to thy young queen, 
 And leave my honor to me ! " 
 
 And from the high mgh heaven 
 
 Two snow-white doves there came ; 
 
 They took the little Karin, 
 And, lo ! they three became. 
 
 " And hear thou, little Karin, 
 Wilt thou not yield to me ? 
 
 A cask with spikes all studded 
 Shall then thy dwelling be." 
 
 And from the deep deep hell 
 Two coal-black ravens came ; 
 
 They took the wicked king, 
 And, lo ! they three became. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 JOHAN HENRIK KELLGREN. 
 
 This distinguished poet was born in the 
 parish of Floby, West Gothland, in 1751. In 
 1772 he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts at 
 the University of Abo, and in 1774 became a 
 Magister Docens. Three years afterwards he 
 removed to Stockholm as private tutor in a 
 nobleman's family, and in 1778, in connexion 
 with his friend Carl Lenngren, established there 
 a weekly literary journal, under the title of 
 " Stockholms Posten," which exercised consid- 
 erable influence on Swedish literature. Kell- 
 gren soon became a courtier and a favorite with 
 the king, who suggested to him the plan of his 
 three principal dramatic pieces, " Gustaf Wasa," 
 " Christine," " Gustaf Adolf und Ebba Brahe." 
 His reputation rests chiefly upon his satires 
 and upon his lyrical poems. He died in 1795, 
 and his friends showed the esteem in which 
 they held his memory by a medal, on one side 
 of which was the poet's head, and on the re- 
 verse the inscription : " Poetce, Philosopho, Civi, 
 Jlmico, Lugentes Amid." For a further notice 
 of Keligren and his times see p. 130. 
 
 THE NEW CREATION. 
 
 Thou who didst heavenly forms portray 
 Of bliss and beauty's charm to me, 
 
 I saw thee once, — and from that day 
 Thee only in the world I see ! 
 
 Dead to my view did Nature lie, 
 And to my feelings deeply dead ; 
 
 Then came a breathing from on high, 
 And light and life around were spread. 
 
 And the light came and kindled life, 
 
 A soul pervaded every part; 
 With feeling's features all was rife, 
 
 And voices sounding to my heart. 
 
 Through space new spheres celestial broke, 
 And earth fresh robes of verdure found ; 
 
 Genius and Cultivation woke, 
 
 And Beauty rose and smiled around. 
 
 Then felt my soul her heavenly birth, 
 Her godly offspring from on high ; 
 
 And saw those wonders of the earth, 
 Yet unrevealed to Wisdom's eye. 
 
 Not only splendor, motion, space, 
 And glorious majesty and might; 
 
 Not only depth in vales to trace, 
 
 And in the rocks their towering height : 
 
 But more my ravished senses found : — 
 The lofty spheres' sweet harmony ; 
 
 Heard angel-harps from hills resound, 
 From darksome gulfs, the demons' cry. 
 
 On fields the smile of Peace was bright, 
 Fear skulked along the shadowy vale ; 
 
 The groves were whispering of Delight, 
 The forests breathing sighs of Wai 1 . 
 
 And Wrath was in the billowy sea, 
 And Tenderness in cooling streams; 
 
 And in the sunlight, Majesty, 
 
 And Bashfulness in Dian's beams. 
 
 To point the lightning Hatred sped, 
 
 And Courage quelled the raging storm ; 
 
 The cedar reared its lofty head, 
 
 The flower unclosed its beauteous form 
 
KELLGREN. 
 
 141 
 
 living sense of all things dear ! 
 
 Genius, Feeling's mystery ! 
 Who comprehends thee, Beauty, here ? 
 
 He who can love, and only he. 
 
 When painting Nature to my gaze 
 In heavens of bliss that brightly roll, 
 
 For me what art thou ? Broken rays 
 Of Hilma's image in my soul. 
 
 'T is she, within my soul, who, fair, 
 Stamps bliss on all the things that be, 
 
 And earth is one wide temple, where 
 She is the adored divinity. 
 
 Thou, who didst heavenly forms portray 
 Of bliss and beauty's charm to me, 
 
 1 saw thee once, — and from that day 
 
 Thee only in the world I see ! 
 
 All things thy borrowed features bear, 
 O, still the same, yet ever new ! 
 
 Thy waist, the lily's waist so fair, 
 And thine her fresh and lovely hue ! 
 
 Thy glance is mixed with day-beams bright, 
 Thy voice with Philomel's sweet song, 
 
 Thy breath with roses' balm, and light, 
 Like thee, the zephyr glides along. 
 
 Nay, more, — thou lend'st a charm to gloom, 
 Filling the deep abyss with rays, 
 
 And clothing wastes in flowery bloom, 
 And gladdening dust of former days. 
 
 And if perchance the enraptured mind 
 With eager, anxious search should stray 
 
 Through earth and heaven, that it may find 
 The Author of this blissful clay ; 
 
 Demanding in some form to view 
 Him, the All-bounteous and Divine, 
 
 To whom our loftiest praise is due, — 
 His form reveals itself in thine ! 
 
 In cities, courts, and kingly halls, 
 
 'Mong thousands, I behold but thee ; 
 When entering humbler cottage walls, 
 
 1 find thee there awaiting me. 
 
 To Wisdom's depths I turned in vain, 
 Borne onward by thy thought divine ; 
 
 I strove to wake the Heroic strain, — 
 
 My harp would breathe no name but thine ! 
 
 To Fame's proud summit I would soar, 
 But wandered in thy footsteps' trace ; 
 
 I wished for Fortune's worshipped store, 
 And found it all in thy embrace ! 
 
 Thou, who didst heavenly forms portray 
 Of bliss and beauty's charm to me, 
 
 I saw thee once, — and from that day 
 Thee only in the world I see ! 
 
 What though, from thee now torn away, 
 Thy thought alone remains to me ? 
 
 Still in thy track must memory stray, — 
 Thee only in the world I see ! 
 
 THE FOES OF LIGHT. 
 
 One eve last winter, — let me see, 
 It was, if rightly I remember, 
 About the 20th of December ; 
 
 Yes, Reader, — yes, it so must be, 
 For winter's solstice had set in, 
 
 And Phoebus — he, the ruler bright, 
 Who governs poets and the light 
 (This latter shines, the former rhyme, 
 More dimly in the Northern clime) — 
 At three o'clock would seek the deep 
 For nineteen hours' unbroken sleep, — 
 Lucidor on such eve went forth 
 To join the club upon the North. 
 A club ? — political ? — Herein 
 
 No trace the manuscript doth no , 
 
 And nothing boots it now to know. 
 
 Enough, — he went, — the club he found, — 
 
 Entered, sat down, and looked around ; 
 
 But very little met his sight, 
 
 For yet they had not ordered light; 
 
 And heaven's all-glorious President 
 
 To rest had long since stole away, 
 While dim his pale Vice-regent went 
 
 Declining on her cloudy way. 
 Though thus in darkness, soon he knew 
 
 The senseless crowd, who kept a pother 
 With wondrous heat (as still they do 
 
 Whene'er they can't conceive each other) 
 About the form the chamber bore, — 
 The color of the chairs, — and more. 
 
 At length they one and all bethought 
 
 Themselves how dull, how worse than naught, 
 
 It was to prate of form and hue, 
 
 While blindness bandaged thus their view 
 
 (For to be blind, and not to see, 
 
 The selfsame thing appeared to be) ; 
 
 So various voices mingling cry, 
 
 "Light ! light! " 
 
 Light came, — and then the eye 
 Was glad ; for who doth not delight 
 To see distinctly black from white ? 
 Yet here and there a friend of gloom 
 Gave light and lamps — you know to whom 
 And now of these there 's more to come. 
 
 A blear-eyed man was first to bawl 
 Against the light ; yet this must call, 
 
 Not wonder, pity from each heart: 
 For how should he enjoy the ray, 
 When even the smallest gleam of day 
 
 Falls on his view with deadly smart ? 
 
 Like him, in evil plight much pained, 
 An old and nervous man complained : — 
 
142 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 "By Heaven ! " he cried, "this cruel glare 
 Of light is more than I can bear." 
 Nor should his murmur much amaze : 
 The poor old man had all his days 
 Groped out his path through darksome ways ; 
 But to learn to walk and see 
 Are both of like necessity, 
 And custom gives us faculty. 
 
 A drowsy man, with startled stare, 
 Amazed, leaped high from off his chair ; 
 His name was Dulness. — Ever deep 
 Both soul and body he would steep, 
 By day and night, in ceaseless sleep. 
 One well may fancy what a doom 
 For him to be deprived of gloom. 
 Now all behold his laziness, 
 The senseless swine can do no less 
 Than blush to be discovered, making 
 The only drone amongst the waking. 
 
 The Enthusiast cries : " Most sweet to me 
 The hour when twilight's veil is drawn; 
 
 blissful twilight ! Rapture's dawn ! 
 O darkness mild and soft to see ! 
 
 While thou dost all in charms array, 
 What is 't to me, if thou betray ? 
 In thee may Fancy, fearless, stray, 
 Released from Reason's rigid thrall, 
 In joyful chaos mingling all ! 
 Through thee, the shadow substance shows, 
 Through thee, the earth empeopled grows, 
 Gods, giants, wizards, sprites appear ! 
 Just now I caught a shadow here 
 From Swedenborg's enchanted sphere. 
 But light — a cursed trick ! — now beams, 
 Consuming all my blissful dreams. 
 
 " A cursed trick ! " — This cry, too, rose 
 Loud from behind the corner screen, 
 From one whose thriving trade had been 
 
 In legerdemain and raree-shows: — 
 " The Swedish public soon will see 
 My art's long hidden mystery ; 
 In twilight all went on divinely, 
 
 1 tricked their eyes and purses finely ; 
 
 But now they 've brought this devilish light, 
 Farewell to witchcraft every way ; 
 
 Farewell to magic, — black and white ! " 
 So said my lord, and sneaked away. 
 
 Soon as this last lament was o'er, 
 
 The selfsame exit — through the door — 
 
 Was taken by a worthy spark, 
 
 Who — honest else, we may remark — 
 
 Had lately, wandering in the dark, 
 
 Mistook — by accident alone — 
 
 His neighbour's pock<= t for his own. 
 
 A member of the king's police, 
 Who loved his knowledge to increase 
 (In vulgar parlance called a spy), 
 Now sought the chimney skulkingly. 
 'T is hard to listen in the light : 
 Pirtly for its still flickering glare, 
 
 And partly, that, when forced to beat 
 A swift and unforeseen retreat, 
 'T will sometimes with the listener fare 
 That he must be content to spare 
 An arm or leg, and leave it there. 
 
 With hump before and hump behind, 
 A cripple had for hours depicted 
 
 How dear he was to womankind 
 
 (In darkness none could contradict it), 
 
 And countless blisses called to mind ; 
 
 But light appeared, and who looked down, 
 
 If not this miserable clown ? 
 
 For not a more revolting creature 
 
 Ever yet was seen in nature. 
 
 A speaker rose, and said : " 'T were vain. 
 
 Now that the thing has gone so far, 
 To strive light's progress to restrain ; 
 Then leave all matters as they are, 
 So that we can but keep the rays 
 From spreading to the public gaze. 
 And to avert this awful scourge 
 From our dear country, let me urge 
 'T were best to leave the light to me 
 An undisturbed monopoly." 
 
 " Well said ! " another answered straight, 
 
 "Farewell to ministerial state, 
 
 To court, to customs, honor, birth, 
 
 And all we value most on earth, 
 
 If we allow the light to fall 
 
 In common for the eyes of all ! 
 
 But, now, as Government alone 
 
 Has power to say how every one 
 
 May innocently hear and see, 
 
 And eat and drink, it seems to me, 
 
 For my part, — and by this is meant 
 
 My portion of the public rent, — 
 
 That we had better fix the light 
 
 The Crown's hereditary right." 
 
 Of those assembled in the room, 
 Whom shame constrained, in hate's despite. 
 To hide the rage they felt at light, 
 
 Mine host and each assistant groom 
 Were found : for guests could now behold 
 What drugs were given for their gold. 
 The miracle, admired of yore, 
 
 Of turning water into wine, 
 Is now a trick, and nothing more, 
 
 Which, as all may well divine, 
 Will hardly cheat the taste and sight 
 Of sober folks, except at night. 
 
 " O sin and shame," the Parson cries, 
 " To jest with Heaven's providing care ! 
 Think that a child of dust should dare 
 At eve, when darkness veils the skies, 
 To strike a light and use his eyes ' 
 Then vainly God prescribes the sun 
 His rising and his going down, 
 In order that the humankind 
 May needful warmth and radiance find. 
 
KELLGREN. 
 
 143 
 
 Now man creates a warmth by fires, 
 
 And with his tallow-light aspires 
 To ape the blessed beams of day ! 
 
 Soon Nature will not have a nook, 
 
 No soundless depths, nor darksome caves, 
 
 Impervious to his searching look ; 
 
 His skill can curb the winds and waves, 
 Nay, — more tremendous still to say, — 
 
 He dares, when clouds are torn asunder, 
 
 To save his body from the thunder ! " 
 
 The assembly here in laughter burst 
 
 The priest, preparing to depart, 
 His brethren most devoutly cursed 
 
 To pest and death with all his heart ; 
 When suddenly was heard a sound 
 Of trumpets, drums, and bells around, 
 And soon a cry in every mouth 
 Of " Fire is raging in the South ! " 
 The part, the street, the house are named, 
 And Light, the cause of all, is blamed : 
 " O Lucifer's and Genius' sons, 
 
 (From Lux comes Lucifer) see here," 
 The parson cries, — "ye faithless ones, 
 
 What direful fruits from light appear ! 
 Upon the Southern side bursts forth 
 The fire, and doubt not but the North 
 Like end will find to crown such crime . 
 Then let us all resolve in time, 
 With strictest care, to quench outright 
 Whatever can conduce to light." 
 
 Already have the friends of light 
 
 (Such is fanaticism's might), 
 
 Now here, now there, by looks expressed 
 
 A secret fear that rules the breast. 
 
 At length arises one whose voice 
 
 Is destined to decide their choice. 
 
 A1J hushed, Lucidor has the word : — 
 
 " My friends and brothers !" thus he 's heard,— 
 
 " A law there is, prescribed by Heaven, 
 
 For every good to mortals given ; 
 
 And this the precept all-sublime : 
 
 That, 'wanting wisdom's due control, 
 Even virtue's self becomes a crime, — 
 
 The cup of bliss, a poisoned bowl.' 
 All useful things may noxious be : 
 Sleep strengthens, — sleep brings lethargy; 
 
 Meat feeds, — meat brings obstruction after, 
 Ale warms, — ale causes strangury; 
 
 Smiles cheer, — convulsions come from 
 laughter: 
 Nay, more, — the mother virtue, whence 
 
 Arises earth's and heavenly bliss, 
 
 The fear of God itself, has this 
 (When overstretched) sad consequence, 
 Of voiding certain heads of sense. 
 And yet, should any man from hence 
 Induce a Christian soul to think 
 'T were wrong to sleep, eat, laugh, or drink; 
 He is, by giving such a rule, 
 A self-convicted knave — or fool 
 As to what concerns the right 
 Administration of the light, 
 Wise ruiers have two means of might • 
 
 Lashes, by which the over-bold 
 And negligent may be controlled; 
 And engines, to allay the ire 
 Of the most infuriate fire." 
 
 He ceased ; — a general bravo cry, — 
 
 A loud and general applause, 
 Save from the priest and company, 
 Who took their party prudently, 
 
 And mumbled curses 'twixt their jaws. 
 
 What happened on the Southern side, — 
 How quenched they there the flame so feared, 
 Or what new palace there was reared 
 
 Above the former's fallen pride, — 
 Of this we '11 sing in future lays, 
 Should Heaven vouchsafe us length of days. 
 
 FOLLY IS NO PROOF OF GENIUS. 
 
 I grant 't is oft of greatest men the lot 
 
 To stumble now and then, or darkling grope ; 
 
 Extremes for ever border on a blot, 
 
 And loftiest mountains' sides abruptest slope. 
 
 Mortals, observe what ills on genius wait ! 
 
 Now god, now worm ! — Why fallen? — A 
 dizzy head ! — 
 The energy that lifts thee to heaven's gate, 
 
 What is it but a hair, a distaff's thread ? 
 
 He, who o'er twenty centuries, twenty climes, 
 Has reigned, whom all will first of poets vote, 
 
 E'en our good father Homer, nods at times; 
 So Horace says, — your pardon, I but quote. 
 
 Thou, Eden's bard, next him claim'st genius' 
 throne ; — 
 But is the tale of Satan, Death, and Sin, 
 Of Heaven's artillery, the poet's tone ? 
 
 More like street-drunkard's prate inspired by 
 gin. 
 
 Is madness only amongst poets found ? 
 
 Grows folly but on literature's tree ? 
 No ! wisdom's self is to fixed limits bound, 
 
 And, passing those, resembles idiocy. 
 
 He, who the planetary laws could scan, 
 Dissected light, and numbers' mystic force 
 
 Explored, to Bedlam once that wondrous man 
 Rode on the Apocalypse' mouse-colored horse. 
 
 Thou, whose stern precept, against sophists 
 
 hurled, 
 
 Taught that to truth doubt only leads the 
 
 mind, 
 
 Thy law forgott'st, — and, in a vortex whirled, 
 
 Thou wander'st, as a Mesmer, mad and blind. 
 
 But though some spots bedim the star of day, 
 The moon, despite her spots, remains the 
 moon ; 
 
 And though great Newton once delirious lay, 
 Swedenborg 's nothing but a crazy loon. 
 
144 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 Fond dunces '. ye who claim to be inspired, 
 In letters and philosophy unversed, 
 
 Who deem the poet's fame may be acquired 
 By faults with which great poets have been 
 cursed ! 
 
 fe Swedenborgian, Rosicrucian schools, 
 Ye number-prickers, ye physiognomists, 
 
 Ye dream-expounding, treasure-seeking fools, 
 Alchymists, magnetizers, cabalists ! 
 
 Ye 're wrong : — though error to the wisest clings, 
 And judgments, perfect here, may there be 
 shaken, 
 
 That genius therefore out of madness springs 
 When ye assert, ye 're deucedly mistaken. 
 
 Vain reasoning! — all would easily succeed, 
 Was Pope deformed, were Milton, Homer 
 blind ? 
 
 To be their very likeness, what should need 
 But just to crook the back, the eyes to bind ? 
 
 But leave we jest ; — weak weapon jest, in sooth, 
 When justice and religion bleeding lie, 
 
 Society disordered, and 'gainst truth 
 
 Error dares strike, upheld by treachery. 
 
 Arouse thee, Muse ! snatch from the murderer 
 His dagger, plunging it in his vile breast ! 
 
 By nature thou reason's interpreter 
 
 Wast meant ; obey — and nobly — her behest ! 
 
 Manhem ! J so named from olden Manhood's 
 sense 
 And olden Manhood's force ; from error's 
 wave 
 What haven shelters thee ? Some few years 
 hence 
 One spacious bedlam shall the Baltic lave. 
 
 Virtue from light, and vice from folly springs ; 
 
 To sin 'gainst wisdom's precept is high trea- 
 son 
 Against the majesty of man, and kings ! 
 
 Fanaticism leads on rebellion's season. 
 
 Pardon, my liege, the virtuous honesty 
 
 That swells the poet's breast and utterance 
 craves ! 
 
 The enthusiast for thy fame must blush to see 
 Thy sceptre raised to favor fools or slaves. 
 
 But you who to his eyes obscure the light, 
 What is 't you seek ? what recompense high 
 prized ? 
 
 I see 't ! — O fame ! all, all confess thy might ; 
 And even fools would be immortalized. 
 
 Ye shall be so ! your brows and mind await 
 A thistle and a laurel crown. To thee, 
 
 Posterity, their names I dedicate, 
 Thy laughing-stock to all eternity ! 
 
 ' The abode of men ; an ancient poetical name of Swe- 
 den. 
 
 ANNA MARIA LENNGREN. 
 
 This lady, whose maiden name was Malm- 
 stedt, was born at Upsala, in 1754. She was 
 known as a poetess as early as the age of eigh- 
 teen, by a piece called "The Council of the 
 Tea-table " ; and not long after produced vari- 
 ous translations for the stage. Her best poems 
 are her humorous sketches of characters and 
 scenes in common life, wherein she exhibits 
 her lively fancy to great advantage. She died 
 at Stockholm in 1817. 
 
 FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 Upon an old estate, her father's heritage, 
 A shrivelled countess dowager 
 Had vegetated half an age ; 
 
 She drank her tea mingled with elder- 
 flowers, 
 By aching bones foretold the weather, 
 Scolded at times, but not for long together, 
 And mostly yawned away her hours. 
 One day, (God knows how such things should 
 occur !) 
 Sitting beside her chambermaid 
 In her saloon, whose walls displayed 
 Gilt leather hangings, and the pictured face 
 Of many a member of her noble race, 
 She pondered thus: "I almost doubt 
 Whether, if I could condescend 
 Some talk on this dull wench to spend, 
 It might not call my thoughts off from my 
 gout ; 
 And, though the malkin cannot compre- 
 hend 
 The charms of polished conversation, 
 
 'T will give my lungs some exercise ; 
 And then the goosecap's admiration 
 
 Of my descent to ecstasy must rise." — 
 " Susan," she said, " you sweep this drawing- 
 room, 
 And sweep it almost every day ; 
 You see these pictures, yet your looks betray 
 You 're absolutely ignorant whom 
 You clear from cobwebs with your broom. 
 Now, mind ! That 's my great grandsire to the 
 right, 
 The learned and travelled president, 
 
 Who knew the Greek and Latin t.ames of 
 flies, 
 And to the Academy, in form polite, 
 Was pleased an earthworm to present 
 That he from India brought ; a prize 
 Well worth its weight in gold. — 
 That next him, in the corner hung by chance, 
 The ensign is, my dear, lost, only son, 
 A pattern in the graces of the dance, 
 
 My pride and hope, and all the family's. 
 Seven sorts of riding-whips did he invent ; 
 But sitting by the window caught a cold, 
 And so his honorable race was run. 
 
 He soon shall have a marble monument. — 
 Now, my good girl, observe that other, 
 The countess grandam of my lady mother, 
 
LENNGREN. — LEOPOLD. 
 
 1±5 
 
 A beauty in her time famed far and near ; 
 On Queen Christina's coronation-day, 
 She helped her majesty, they say, — 
 And truly, no false tale you hear, — 
 To tie her under-petticoat. — 
 The lady whose manteau you note 
 Was my great aunt. Beside her see 
 That ancient noble in the long simar ; 
 
 An uncle of the family, 
 Who once played chess with Russia's mighty 
 czar. — 
 That portrait further to the left 
 Is the late colonel, my dear wedded lord ; 
 His equal shall the earth, of him bereft, 
 In partridge-shooting never more afford ! — 
 But now observe the lovely dame 
 In yonder splendid oval frame, 
 
 Whose swelling bosom bears a rose ; — 
 Not that one, ninny ; — look this way ; — 
 What haughtiness those eyes display ! 
 How nobly aquiline that nose ! 
 King Frederick once was by her beauty caught ; 
 But she was virtue's self, fired as she ought, 
 And scolded, reverentty, the royal youth, 
 Till, utterly confused, he cried, ' My charmer, 
 Your virtue 's positively cased in armor ! ' 
 
 Many can yet attest this story's truth. 
 Well, Susan, do you know the lady now ? 
 What ! do n't you recognize my lofty brow? " 
 But, " Lord have mercy on me ! " Susan cries, 
 And scissors, needle, thread, lets slip ; 
 " Could that be ever like your ladyship ? " — 
 " What '. what ! " the countess screams, with 
 flashing eyes ; 
 " Could that be like me ? Idiot ! Nincompoop ! 
 Out of my doors, with all thy trumpery ! 
 Intolerable ! But so must it be, 
 If with such creatures to converse we stoop." 
 A gouty twinge then seized the countess' toe, 
 And of her history that 's all I know. 
 
 CARL GUSTAF AF LEOPOLD. 
 
 This distinguished champion of the French 
 school in Swedish poetry was born in Stock- 
 holm in 1756. He was educated at Upsala ; 
 became private tutor in the family of Count 
 Douglas ; afterwards, private secretary of King 
 Gustavus the Third ; and finally, Secretary of 
 State. He died in 1829. For an account of 
 bis literary character and influence, see, ante, 
 p. 131. 
 
 ODE ON THE DESIRE OF DEATHLESS FAME. 
 
 Vainly, amidst the headlong course 
 Of centuries, centuries on that urge, 
 
 Earth's salf, despite her weight and force, 
 Becomes the prey of Time's wild surge; 
 
 Vainly Oblivion's depths profound 
 
 Bury of former names the sound, 
 19 
 
 With manners, arts, and deeds gone by • 
 Born amidst ruins, wc survey 
 Sixty long centuries' decay, 
 
 And dare Time's sovereignty defy. 
 Even when by Fame's impetuous car 
 
 Our glory round the world is spread, 
 A breath from Eastern caves afar 
 
 Comes poison-fraught, — the hero 's dead ! — 
 A worm, condemned in dust to crawl, 
 Concealed in grass from thy foot-fall, 
 
 Thy soaring flight for ever stays ; — 
 A splinter starts ; thy race is run ; — 
 Shines on thy pride the rising sun, 
 
 Thine ashes meet his. setting rays. 
 
 And thou, the insect of an hour, 
 
 O'er Time to triumph wouldst pretend; 
 With nerves of grass wouldst brave the power 
 
 Beneath which pyramids must bend ' 
 A slave, by every thing controlled, 
 Thou canst not for an instant mould 
 
 Thine actions' course, thy destiny ; 
 In want of all, of all the sport, 
 Thou, against all who need'st support, 
 
 Boastest o'er Death the mastery ! 
 Recall'st, as they would prove thy right 
 
 To honors but to few assigned, 
 Our Wasa sovereign's annals bright, 
 
 The triumphs of a Newton's mind. 
 Whilst round the globe th}' glances rove 
 On works and deeds that amply prove 
 
 Man's strength of intellect, they fall: 
 Their mysteries Time and Space unfold, 
 New worlds are added" to the old, 
 
 Beauty and light adorning all. 
 
 Strange creature ! go, fulfil thy fate, 
 
 Govern the earth, subdue the waves, 
 Measure the stars' paths, regulate 
 
 Time's clock, seek gold in Chile's graves, 
 Raise towns that lava-buried sleep, 
 Harvest the rocks, build on the deep, 
 
 Force Nature, journey in the sky, 
 Surpass in height each monument, 
 On mountains mountains pile, — content, 
 
 Beneath their mass then putrefy ! 
 
 Yes, fruits there are that we enjoy, 
 
 Produce of by-gone centuries' toil; 
 The gifts remain, though Time destroy 
 
 The givers, long ago Death's spoil : 
 And whilst deluded crowds believe 
 Their guerdon they shall straight receive 
 
 In Admiration's empty cries, 
 Their whitening and forgotten bones 
 Repose, unconscious as the stones 
 
 Where burns the atoning sacrifice. 
 
 The poet's, hero's golden dream, 
 Olympus' heaven, Memory's days, 
 
 Valor enthroned in Earth's esteem, 
 And Genius' never-fading bays ! 
 
 Proud names, the solace of our woes, 
 
 That often Vanity bestows 
 M 
 
~t 
 
 146 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 Of empty shadows, nothing worth ; — 
 O, ha re ye given in Memory's shrine 
 To Virtue honors more divine 
 
 Than Vice and Folly gain on earth ? 
 
 But grant we that for victory's prize 
 
 The hero brave fierce war's alarms ; 
 His deeds are noble, if unwise, 
 
 His valor overawes and charms ; 
 And pardon him, created strong 
 For energy in right or wrong ; — 
 
 Who darkling with the crowd remains, 
 A son of Ruin's night is he, 
 Immersed in dreams of memory, 
 
 That sound philosophy disdains. 
 
 Go, shake the Neva's banks with dread , 
 
 With liberal arts our Northland grace ; 
 With Genius' torch, or War's, blood-red, 
 
 Enlighten or destroy thy race ; 
 A deathless name by arms be won 
 For Ingo or for Marathon ; 
 
 Establish thrones, or overturn ; 
 Our Europe's tottering liberty 
 Down trample, or exalt on high ; — 
 
 Then crown thyself, and danger spurn. 
 
 But when a soul of vulgarer mood, 
 
 For shadows, fancies, such as these, 
 Abandons life's substantial good, 
 
 Life's humbler duties that displease ; 
 But when, seduced by dreams of praise 
 From unborn worlds, idiots would raise 
 
 A monument of baseless fame, 
 Who, with false arrogance elate, 
 May guilty prove, but never great, — 
 
 I blush in human nature's name. 
 
 Still may this thirst for men's esteem 
 
 Spur Merit forward on his course ! 
 Deprive not Earth of that fair dream, 
 
 Her culture's and her honor's source. 
 Woe worth the day, when Reason's hand, 
 Unloosing Prejudice's last band, 
 
 From the world's eye the veil shall tear, 
 Shall with her blazing torch reveal 
 The nothing that rewards our zeal, 
 
 The errors that our steps ensnare ! 
 
 ¥oung son of Art, thy bosom's flame 
 
 With hopes of centuries' wonder cheer! 
 Shrink, Monarch, from the voice of blame, 
 
 Whose sound shall never reach thine ear ! 
 And Virtue, thou, in life betrayed, 
 Forgotten, proudly through death's shade 
 
 Thy memory see with honors graced ! 
 A god, befriending our weak kind, 
 Illusion, as our balm assigned, 
 
 By the entrance to life's desert placed. 
 
 To Genius, in his kindling mood, 
 Statues are promised by her breath ; 
 
 «4he purchases the warrior's blood 
 
 With garlands in the hand of Death ; 
 
 She animates the poet's song 
 With all the raptures that belong 
 
 To immortality divine ; 
 The student, o'er his night-lamp bent, 
 Sees through her glass, though poor, content, 
 
 His light o'er distant ages shine. 
 
 Break but her witchery's golden wand ; — 
 
 No longer Genius flashes bright ; 
 Rome shrinks from the Barbarian's brand; 
 
 Athens and Science fade from sight ; 
 Europe's old dread, our Northern ground, 
 No more with heroes shall abound, 
 
 When threaten danger, blood, and broil; 
 And, paid by thanklessness, no more 
 Shall birth-crowned monarchs, as of yore, 
 
 Exchange their joys for duty's toil. 
 
 ESAIAS TEGNER. 
 
 Esaias Tegner, Bishop of Wexio, and Knight 
 of the Order of the North Star, was born in the 
 parish of By in Warmland, in the year 1782. 
 In 1799, he entered the University of Lund, as a 
 student ; and in 1812, was appointed Professor oi 
 Greek in that institution. In 1824, he became 
 Bishop of Wexio, and died in 1846. Teg 
 ne'r stands foremost among the poets of Swe- 
 den ; a man of a grand and gorgeous imagina- 
 tion, and poetic genius of a high order. His 
 countrymen are proud of him, and rejoice in 
 his fame. If you speak of their literature, Teg- 
 ner will be the first name upon their lips. They 
 will speak to you with enthusiasm of " Frith- 
 iofs Saga"; and of "Axel," and " Svea," 
 and " Nattvardsbarnen " (The Children of the 
 Lord's Supper). The modern Skald has writ- 
 ten his name in immortal runes ; not on the 
 bark of trees alone, in the " unspeakable rural 
 solitudes " of pastoral song, but on the moun- 
 tains of his native land, and the cliffs that over- 
 hang the sea, and on the tombs of ancient he- 
 roes, whose histories are epic poems. Indeed, 
 the "Legend of Frithiof" is one of the most 
 remarkable productions of the age. It is an 
 epic poem, composed of a series of ballads, each 
 describing some event in the hero's life, and each 
 written in a different measure, according with 
 the action described in the ballad. This is a 
 novel idea ; and perhaps thereby the poem loses 
 something in sober, epic dignity. But the loss 
 is more than made up by the greater spirit of 
 the narrative ; and it seems to us a very lauda- 
 ble innovation, thus to describe various scenes 
 in various metre, and not employ the same for 
 a game of chess and a storm at sea. 
 
 The first ballad describes the childhood and 
 youth of Frithiof and Ingeborg the fair, as they 
 grew up together under the humble roof of 
 Hilding, their foster-father. They are two 
 plants in the old man's garden ; — a young oak, 
 whose stem is like a lance, and whose leafy top 
 is rounded like a helm ; and a rose, in whose 
 
TEGNER. 
 
 147 
 
 folded buds Spring still sleeps and dreams. 
 But the storm comes, and the young oak must 
 wrestle with it; the sun of Spring shines warm 
 in heaven, and the red lips of the rose open. 
 The sports of their childhood are described. 
 They sail together on the deep blue sea; and 
 when he shifts the sail, she claps her small 
 white hands in glee. For her he plunders the 
 highest birds'-nests, and the eagle's eyry ; and 
 Dears her through the rushing mountain-brook, 
 — it is so sweet when the torrent roars, to be 
 pressed by small, white arms. 
 
 But childhood and the sports thereof soon 
 pass away, and Frithiof becomes a mighty hunt- 
 er. He fights the grisly bear without spear or 
 sword, and lays the conquered monarch of the 
 forest at the feet of Ingeborg.* And when, by 
 the light of the winter evening hearth, he 
 reads the glorious songs of Valhalla, no goddess 
 whose beauty is there celebrated can compare 
 with Ingeborg. Freya's golden hair may wave 
 like a wheat-field in the wind, but Ingeborg's 
 is a net of gold around roses and lilies. Iduna's 
 bosom throbs full and lair beneath her silken 
 vest, but beneath the silken vest of Ingeborg 
 two Elves of Light leap up with rose-buds in 
 their hands. t And she embroiders in gold and 
 silver the wondrous deeds of heroes ; and the 
 face of every champion, that looks up at her 
 from the woof she is weaving, is the face of 
 Frithiof; and she blushes and is glad ; — that 
 is to say, they love each other a little. Ancient 
 Hilding does not favor their passion, but tells 
 his foster-son that the maiden is the daughter 
 of King Bel£, and he but the son of Thorsten 
 Vikingsson, a thane ; he should not aspire to 
 the love of one who has descended in a long 
 line of ancestors from the star-clear hall of Odin 
 himself. Frithiof smiles in scorn, and replies, 
 that he has slain the shaggy king of the forest, 
 and inherits his ancestors with his hide ; and 
 moreover, that he will possess his bride, his 
 "white lily," in spite of the very god of thun- 
 der ; for a puissant wooer is the sword. 
 
 Thus closes the first fit. In the second, old 
 King Bele stands leaning on his sword in his 
 hall, and with him is his faithful brother-in-arms, 
 Thorsten Vikingsson, the father of Frithiof, 
 silver-haired, and scarred like a runic stone. 
 The king complains that the evening of his 
 days is drawing near, that the mead is no long- 
 er pleasant to his taste, and that his helmet 
 weighs heavily upon his brow. He feels the 
 approach of death. Therefore he summons to his 
 presence his two sons, Helge and Halfdan, and 
 with them Frithiof, that he may give a warning 
 to the young eagles, before the words slumber 
 
 * A lithographic sketch represents Frithiof bringing in a 
 bear by the ears, and presenting it to Ingeborg; a delicate 
 little attention on the part of the Scandinavian lover. 
 
 t In the Northern mythology two kinds of elves are 
 mentioned ; the Ljus Alfer, or Elves of Light, who were 
 whiter than the sun, and dwelt in Alfheim ; and the Svart 
 Alfer, or Elves of Darkness, who were blacker than pitch, 
 and had their dwelling under the earth. 
 
 on the dead man's tongue. Foremost advances 
 Helgd, a grim and gloomy figure, who loves to 
 dwell among the priests and before the altars, 
 and now comes, with blood upon his hands, 
 from the groves of sacrifice. And next to him 
 approaches Halfdan, a boy with locks of light, 
 and so gentle in his mien and bearing, that he 
 seems a maiden in disguise. And after these, 
 wrapped in his mantle blue, and a head taller 
 than either, comes Frithiof, and stands between 
 the brothers, like mid-day between the rosy 
 morning and the shadowy night. Then speaks 
 the king, and tells the young eaglets that his 
 sun is going down, and that they must rule his 
 realm after him in harmony and brotherly love ; 
 that the sword was given for defence, and not 
 for offence ; that the shield was forged as a pad- 
 lock for the peasant's barn ; and that they 
 should not glory in their fathers' honors, as each 
 could bear his own only. "If we cannot bend 
 the bow," says he, "it is not ours. What havp 
 we to do with worth that is buried ? The 
 mighty stream goes into the sea with its own 
 waves." These, and many other wise saws 
 fall from the old man's dying lips ; and then 
 Thorsten Vikingsson, who means to die with 
 his king, as he has lived with him, arises and 
 addresses his son Frithiof. He tells him that 
 old age has whispered many warnings in his 
 ear, which he will repeat to him ; for as the 
 birds of Odin descend upon the sepulchres of 
 the North, so words of manifold wisdom de- 
 scend upon the lips of the old. Then follows 
 much sage advice; — that he should serve his 
 king, for one alone shall reign ; the dark Night 
 has many eyes, but the Day has only one ; that 
 he should not praise the day, until the sun had 
 set, nor his beer until he had drunk it; that he 
 should not trust to ice but one night old, nor 
 snow in spring, nor a sleeping snake, nor the 
 words of a maiden on his knee. Then the old 
 men speak together of their long tried friend- 
 ship ; and the king praises the valor and heroic 
 strength of Frithiof, and Thorsten has much to 
 say of the glory which crowns the kings of the 
 Northland, the sons of the gods^ Then the 
 king speaks to his sons again, and bids them 
 greet his daughter, the rose-bud. " In retire- 
 ment," says he, " as it behoved her, has she 
 grown up ; protect her ; let not the storm come, 
 and fix upon his helmet my delicate flower." 
 And he bids them bury him and his ancient 
 friend by the sea-side; — " by the billow blue, 
 for its song is pleasant to the spirit evermore, 
 and like a funeral dirge ring its blows against 
 the strand." 
 
 And now King Bele" and Thorsten Vikingsson 
 are gathered to their fathers, Helge and Half 
 dan share the throne between them, and Frithiol 
 retires to his ancestral estate at Framnas; of 
 which a description is given in the third ballad, 
 conceived and executed in a truly Homeric spirit. 
 
 Among the treasures of Frithiof 's house are 
 three of transcendent worth. The first of these 
 is the sword Angurvadel, brother of the light- 
 
148 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 ning, handed down from generation to genera- 
 tion, since the days of Bjorn Blutand, the Blue- 
 toothed Bear. The hilt thereof was of beaten 
 gold, and on the blade were wondrous runes, 
 known only at the gates of the sun. In peace 
 these runes were dull, but in time of war they 
 burned red as the comb of a cock when he 
 fights ; and lost was he who in the night of 
 slaughter met the sword of the flaming runes. 
 
 The second in price is an arm-ring of pure 
 gold, made by Vaulund, the limping Vulcan of 
 the North ; and containing upon its border the 
 signs of the zodiac, — the Houses of the Twelve 
 Immortals. This ring had been handed down 
 in the family of Frithiof from the days when 
 it came from the hands of Vaulund, the founder 
 of the race. It was once stolen and carried to 
 England by Viking Sot6, who there buried 
 himself alive in a vast tomb, and with him his 
 pirate-ship and all his treasures. King Bele and 
 Thorsten pursue him, and through a crevice of 
 the door look into the tomb, where they behold 
 the ship, with anchor, and masts, and spars ; 
 and on the deck, a fearful figure, clad in a man- 
 tle of flame, sits gloomily scouring a blood- 
 stained sword ; though the stains cannot be 
 scoured off. The ring is upon his arm. Thors- 
 ten bursts the doors of the great tomb asunder 
 with his lance, and, entering, does battle with 
 the grim spirit, and bears home the ring as a 
 trophy of his victory.* 
 
 The third great treasure of the house of Frith- 
 iof is the dragon-ship Ellida. It was given to 
 one of Frithiof 's ancestors by a sea-god, whom 
 this ancestor saved from drowning, somewhat 
 as Saint Christopher did the angel. The an- 
 cient mariner was homeward bound, when, at 
 a distance, on the wreck of a ship, he espied an 
 old man, with sea-green locks, a beard white as 
 the foam of waves, and a face which smiled like 
 the sea when it plays in the sunshine. The Vi- 
 king takes this old man of the sea home with him, 
 and entertains him in hospitable guise ; but at 
 bed-time the green-haired guest, instead of going 
 quietly to his rest, like a Christian man, sets sail 
 again on his wreck, like a hobgoblin, having, 
 as he says, a hundred miles to go that night, at 
 the same time telling the Viking to look the 
 next morning on the sea-shore for a gift of 
 thanks. And the next morning, behold ! the 
 dragon-ship Ellida comes sailing up the har- 
 bour, like a phantom ship, with all her sails 
 set, and not a man on board. Her prow is a 
 dragon's head, with jaws of gold; her stern, a 
 dragon's tail, twisted and scaly with silver ; 
 her wings black, tipped with red ; and when 
 she spreads them all, she flies a race with the 
 sousing storm, and the eagle is left behind. 
 
 These were Frithiof's treasures, renowned 
 in the North; and thus in his hall, with Bjorn his 
 bosom friend, he sat, surrounded by his cham- 
 
 * Not unlike the old tradition of the Brazen Ring of 
 Gyges; which was found on a dead man's finger in the 
 flank of a brazen horse, deep buried in achasm of the earth. 
 — Plato. Rep. II. § 3. 
 
 pions twelve, with breasts of steel and furrowed 
 brows, the comrades of his father, and all the 
 guests that had gathered together to pay the 
 funeral rites to Thorsten Vikingsson. And 
 Frithiof, with eyes full of tears, drank to his 
 father's memory, and heard the song of the 
 Skalds, a dirge of thunder. 
 
 "Frithiof's Courtship" is the title of the 
 fourth canto. 
 
 " High sounded the song in Frithiof's hall, 
 And the Skalds they praised his fathers all ; 
 But the song rejoices 
 Not Frithiof, he hears not the Skalds' loud voices. 
 
 "And the earth has clad itself green again, 
 And the dragons swim once more on the main ; 
 But the hero's son 
 He wanders in woods, and looks at the moon." 
 
 He had lately made a banquet for Helg£ and 
 Halfdan, and sat beside Ingeborg the fair, and 
 spoke with her of those early days when the 
 dew of morning still lay upon life ; of the 
 reminiscences of childhood ; their names carved 
 in the birch-tree's bark ; the well known vale 
 and woodland ; and the hill where the great 
 oaks grew from the dust of heroes. And now 
 the banquet closes, and Frithiof remains at his 
 homestead to pass his days in idleness and 
 dreams. But this strange mood pleases not his 
 friend, the Bear. 
 
 "It pleased not Bjorn these things to see; 
 'What ails the young eagle now/ said he, 
 'So still, so oppressed? 
 
 Have they plucked his wings? — have they pierced his 
 breast ? 
 
 " ' What wilt thou ? Have we not more than we need 
 Of the yellow lard and the nut-brown mead ? 
 And of Skalds a throng? 
 There 's never an end to their ballads long. 
 
 " ' True enough, that the coursers stamp in their stall, 
 For prey, for prey, scream the falcons all ; 
 But Frithiof only 
 Hunts in the clouds, and weeps so lonely.' 
 
 "Then Frithiof set the dragon free, 
 And the sails* swelled full, and snorted the sea ; 
 Right over the bay 
 To the sons of the king he steered his way." 
 
 He finds them at the grave of their father, 
 King Bele, giving audience to the people, and 
 promulgating laws, and he boldly asks the hand 
 of their sister Ingeborg; this alliance being in 
 accordance with the wishes of King Bele. To 
 this proposition Helge answers, in scorn, that 
 his sister's hand is not for the son of a tnane ; 
 that he needs not the sword of Frithiof to pro- 
 tect his throne; but, if he will be his serf, there 
 is a place vacant among the house-folk, which 
 he can fill. Indignant at this reply, Frithiof 
 draws his sword of the flaming runes, and at 
 one blow cleaves in twain the golden shield of 
 Helge, as it hangs on a tree ; and, turning away, 
 in disdain, departs over the blue sea home- 
 ward. 
 
TEGNER. 
 
 149 
 
 In the next canto the scene changes. Old 
 King Ring pushes back his golden chair from 
 the table, and arises to speak to his heroes and 
 Skalds, — old King Ring, a monarch renowned 
 in the North, beloved by all, as a father to the 
 land he governs, and whose name each night 
 goes up to Odin with the prayers of his people. 
 He announces to them his intention of taking 
 to himself a new queen, as a mother to his 
 infant son, and tells them he has fixed his 
 choice upon Ingeborg, " the lily small, with the 
 blush of morn on her cheeks." Messengers 
 are forthwith sent to Helge and Halfdan, bear- 
 ing golden gifts, and attended by a long train 
 of Skalds, who sing heroic ballads to the sound 
 of their harps. Three days and three nights 
 they revel at the court ; and on the fourth 
 morning receive from Helge a solemn refusal, 
 and from Halfdan a taunt, that King Graybeard 
 should ride forth in person to seek his bride. 
 Old King Ring is wroth at the reply, and 
 straightway prepares to avenge his wounded 
 pride with his sword. He smites his shield as 
 it hangs on the bough of the high linden-tree, 
 and the dragons swim forth on the waves, with 
 blood-red combs, and the helms nod in the 
 wind. The sound of the approaching war 
 reaches the ears of the royal brothers, and they 
 place their sister for protection in the temple of 
 Balder.* 
 
 In the next canto, which is the sixth, Frithiof 
 and Bjorn are playing chess together, when old 
 Hilding comes in, bringing the prayer of Helge 
 and Halfdan, that Frithiof would aid them in 
 the war against King Ring. Frithiof, instead 
 of answering the old man, continues his game, 
 making allusions, as it goes on, to the king's 
 being saved by a peasant or pawn, and the 
 necessity of rescuing the queen at all hazards. 
 Finally, he bids the ancient Hilding return to 
 Bele's sons, and tell them, that they have 
 wounded his honor, that no ties unite them 
 together, and that he will never be their bonds- 
 man. So closes this short and very spirited 
 ballad. 
 
 The seventh canto describes the meeting of 
 Frithiof and Ingeborg in Balder's temple, when 
 silently the high stars stole forth, like a lover 
 to his maid on tip-toe. Here all passionate 
 vows are retold ; he swears to protect her with 
 his sword, while here on earth, and to sit by her 
 side hereafter in Valhalla, when the champions 
 ride forth to battle from the silver gates, and 
 maidens bear round the mead-born, mantled 
 with golden foam. The parting of the lovers 
 at day-break resembles the parting of Romeo 
 and Juliet in Shakspeare. "Hark! 't is the 
 lark," says Ingeborg : 
 
 " Hark ! 't is the lark ! O, no, a dove 
 Murmured his true-love in the grove." 
 And again, farther on : 
 
 " See. the day dawns ! No, 't is the flame 
 Of some bright watch-fire in the east." 
 
 * Balder, the son of Odin; — the Apollo of the Northern 
 mythology. 
 
 The eighth canto commences in this wise. 
 Ingeborg sits in Balder's temple, and waits the 
 coming of Frithiof, till the stars fade away in 
 the morning sky. At length he arrives, wild 
 and haggard. He comes from the Ting, or 
 council, where he has offered his hand in re- 
 conciliation to King Helge, and again asked of 
 him his sister in marriage, before the assembly 
 of the warriors. A thousand swords hammered 
 applause upon a thousand shields ; and the an- 
 cient Hilding with his silver beard stepped 
 forth and " held a talk " (hall el tal), full of 
 wisdom, in short, pithy language, that sounded 
 like the blows of a sword. But all in vain. 
 King Helge says him nay, and brings against 
 him an accusation of having profaned the tem- 
 ple of Balder, by daring to visit Ingeborg there 
 Death or banishment is the penalty of the law; 
 but, instead of being sentenced to the usual pun- 
 ishment, Frithiof is ordered to sail to the Ork- 
 ney Islands, in order to force from Jarl Angantyr 
 the payment of an annual tribute, which since 
 Bele's death he had neglected to pay. All this 
 does Frithiof relate to Ingeborg, and urges her 
 to escape with him to the lands of the South, 
 where the sky is clearer, and the mild stars 
 shall look down with friendly glance upon 
 them, through the warm summer nights. By 
 the light of the winter evening's fire, old Thors- 
 ten Vikingsson had told them tales of the Isles 
 of Greece, with their green groves and shining 
 billows; — where, amid the ruins of marble 
 temples, flowers grow from the runes, that utter 
 forth the wisdom of the past, and golden apples 
 glow amid the leaves, and red grapes hang from 
 every twig. All is prepared for their flight ; 
 already Ellida spreads her shadowy eagle- 
 wings ; but Ingeborg refuses to escape. King 
 Bele's daughter will not deign to steal her hap- 
 piness. In a most beautiful and passionate 
 appeal, she soothes her lover's wounded pride, 
 and at length he resolves to undertake the ex- 
 pedition to Jarl Angantyr. He gives her the 
 golden arm-ring of Vaulund, and they part, 
 she with mournful forebodings, and he with 
 ardent hope of ultimate success. This canto 
 of the poem is a dramatic sketch, in blank 
 verse. It is highly wrought up, and full of 
 poetic beauties. 
 
 " Ingeborg's Lament " is the subject of the 
 ninth ballad. She sits by the sea-side, and 
 watches the westward-moving sail, and speaks 
 to the billows blue, and the stars, and to Fri- 
 thiof 's falcon, that sits upon her shoulder, — 
 the gallant bird whose image she has worked 
 into her embroidery, with wings of silver and 
 golden claws. She tells him to greet again 
 and again her Frithiof, when he returns and 
 weeps by her grave. The whole ballad is full 
 of grace and beauty. 
 
 And now follows the ballad of " Frithiof at 
 Sea " ; one of the most spirited and character- 
 istic cantos of the poem. The versification, 
 likewise, is managed with great skill ; each 
 strophe consisting of three several parts, and 
 m2 • 
 
150 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 each in its respective metre. King Helge stands 
 by the sea-shore, and prays to the fiends for a 
 tempest ; and soon Frithiof hears the wings of 
 the storm, flapping in the distance, and, as 
 wind-cold Ham and snowy Heid beat against 
 the flanks of his ship, he sings : 
 
 "Fairer was the journey, 
 In the moonbeams' shimmer, 
 O'er the mirrored waters, 
 Unto Balder's grove. 
 Warmer than it here is, 
 Close by Ingeborg's bosom ; — 
 Whiter than the sea-foam, 
 Swelled the maiden's breast." 
 
 But the tempest waxes sore : — it screams in 
 the shrouds, and cracks in the keel, and the 
 dragon-ship leaps from wave to wave like a 
 goat from cliff to cliff. Frithiof fears that 
 witchcraft is at work ; and calling Bjorn, he 
 bids him gripe the tiller with his bear-paw, 
 while he climbs the mast to look out upon the 
 sea. From aloft, he sees the two fiends, riding 
 on a whale ; Heid with snowy skin, and in 
 shape like a white bear, — Ham with outspread, 
 sounding wings, like the eagle of the storm. 
 A battle with these sea-monsters ensues. Ellida 
 heard the hero's voice, and with her copper 
 keel smote the whale, so that he died ; and the 
 whale-riders learned how bitter it was to bite 
 blue steel, being transfixed with Northern 
 spears, hurled from a hero's hand. And thus 
 the storm was stilled, and Frithiof reached, at 
 length, the shores of Angantyr. 
 
 In the eleventh canto, Jarl Angantyr sits in 
 his ancestral hall, carousing with his friends. 
 In merry mood, he looks forth upon the sea, 
 where the sun is sinking into the waves like a 
 golden swan. At the window the ancient 
 Halvar stands sentinel, watchful alike of things 
 within doors and without ; for ever and anon 
 he drains the mead-horn to the bottom, and, 
 uttering never a word, thrusts the empty horn 
 in at the window, to be filled up anew. At 
 length he announces the arrival of a tempest- 
 tost ship ; and Jarl Angantyr looks forth, and 
 recognizes the dragon-ship Ellida, and Frithiof, 
 the son of his friend. No sooner had he made 
 this known to his followers, than the Viking 
 Atle springs up from his seat and screams 
 aloud : " Now will I test the truth of the tale, 
 that Frithiof can blunt the edge of hostile 
 sword, and never begs for quarter." Accord- 
 ingly he and twelve other champions seize 
 their arms, and rush down to the sea-shore to 
 welcome the stranger with warlike sword-play. 
 A single combat ensues between Frithiof and 
 Atle. Both shields are cleft in twain at once ; 
 Angurvadel bites full sharp, and Atle's sword 
 is broken. Frithiof, disdaining an unequal con- 
 test, throws his own away, and the combatants 
 wrestle together unarmed. Atle falls ; and Fri- 
 thiof, as he plants his knee upon his breast, 
 tells him, that, if he had his sword, he should 
 feel its sharp edge and die. The haughty Atle 
 bids him go and recover his sword, promising 
 
 to lie still and await his death, which promise 
 he fulfils. Frithiof seizes Angurvadel, and 
 when he returns to smite the prostrate Viking, 
 he is so moved by his courage and magnanim- 
 ity, that he stays the blow, seizes the hand of 
 the fallen, and they return together as friends 
 to the banquet-hall of Angantyr. This hall is 
 adorned with more than wonted splendor. Its 
 walls are not wainscoted with rough-hewn 
 planks, but covered with gold-leather, stamped 
 with flowers and fruits. No hearth glows in the 
 centre of the floor, but a marble fireplace leans 
 against the wall. There is glass in the win- 
 dows, there are locks on the doors ; and instead 
 of torches, silver chandeliers stretch forth their 
 arms with lights over the banquet-table, where- 
 on is a hart roasted whole, with larded haunch- 
 es, and gilded hoofs lifted as if to leap, and 
 green leaves on its branching antlers. Behind 
 each warrior's seat stands a maiden, like a star 
 behind a stormy cloud. And high on his royal 
 chair of silver, with helmet shining like the 
 sun, and breastplate inwrought with gold, and 
 mantle star-spangled, and trimmed with purple 
 and ermine, sits the Viking Angantyr, Jarl of 
 the Orkney Isles. With friendly salutations 
 he welcomes the son of Thorsten, and in a 
 goblet of Sicilian wine, foaming like the sea, 
 drinks to the memory of the departed; while 
 Skalds, from the hills of Morven, sing heroic 
 songs. Frithiof relates to him his adventures 
 at sea, and makes known the object of his mis- 
 sion ; whereupon Angantyr declares that he was 
 never tributary to King Bele ; that, although 
 he pledged him in the wine-cup, he was not 
 subject to his laws; that his sons he knew not; 
 but that if they wished to levy tribute, they 
 must do it with the sword, like men. And 
 then he bids his daughter bring from her cham- 
 ber a richly embroidered purse, which he fills 
 with golden coins, of foreign mint, and gives it 
 to Frithiof, as a pledge of welcome and hos- 
 pitality. And Frithiof remains his guest till 
 spring. 
 
 In the twelfth canto we have a description 
 of Frithiof's return to his native land. He 
 finds his homestead at Framnas laid waste by 
 fire ; house, fields, and ancestral forests are all 
 burnt over. As he stands amid the ruins, his 
 falcon perches on his shoulder, his dog leaps to 
 welcome him, and his snow-white steed comes, 
 with limbs like a hind, and neck like a swan ; 
 he will have bread from his master's hands. 
 At length old Hilding appears from among the 
 ruins, and tells a mournful tale ; how a bloody 
 battle had been fought between King Ring and 
 Helge ; how Helge and his host had been 
 routed, and in their flight through Framnas, from 
 sheer malice, had laid waste the lands of Fri- 
 thiof; and finally, how, to save their crown and 
 kingdom, the brothers had given Ingeborg to be 
 the bride of King Ring. He describes the bridal, 
 as the train went up to the temple, with virgins 
 in white, and men with swords, and Skalds, and 
 the pale bride seated on a black steel, like a 
 
TEGNER. 
 
 151 
 
 spirit on a cloud. At the altar the fierce Helge 
 had torn the bracelet, the gift of Frithiof, from 
 Ingeborg's arm, and adorned with it the image 
 of Balder. And Frithiof remembers that it is 
 now mid-summer, and festival time in Balder's 
 temple. Thither he directs his steps. 
 
 Canto thirteenth. The sun stands, at mid- 
 night, blood-red on the mountains of the North. 
 It is not day, it is not night, but something 
 between the two. The fire blazes on the altar 
 in the temple of Balder. Priests with silver 
 beards, and with knives of flint in their hands, 
 stand there, and King Helge with his crown. A 
 sound of arms is heard in the sacred grove 
 without, and a voice commanding Bjorn to 
 guard the door. Then Frithiof rushes in, like 
 a storm in autumn. " Here is your tribute from 
 the western seas," he cries ; " take it ; and then 
 be there a battle for life and death between us 
 twain, here by the light of Balder's altar ; 
 shields behind us, and bosoms bare; — and the 
 first blow be thine, as king ; but forget not that 
 mine is the second. Look not thus toward the 
 door ; I have caught the fox in his den. Think of 
 Framnas ; think of thy sister with golden locks ! " 
 With these words he draws from his girdle the 
 purse of Angantyr, and throws it into the face 
 of the king with such force, that the blood gush- 
 es from his mouth, and he falls senseless at the 
 foot of the altar. Frithiof then seizes the brace- 
 let on Balder's arm, and, in trying to draw it 
 off", he pulls the wooden statue from its base, 
 and it falls into the flames of the altar. In a 
 moment the whole temple is in a blaze. All 
 attempts to extinguish the conflagration are 
 vain. The fire is victorious. Like a red bird 
 the flame sits upon the roof, and flaps its loos- 
 ened wings. Mighty was the funeral pyre of 
 Balder. 
 
 The fourteenth canto is entitled "Frithiof in 
 Exile." Frithiof sits at night on the deck of 
 his ship, and chants a song of welcome to the 
 sea, which, as a Viking, he vows to make his 
 home in life and his grave in death. "Thou 
 knowest naught," he sings, " thou Ocean free, of 
 a king who oppresses thee at his own wild will." 
 He turns his prow from shore, and is putting 
 to sea, when King Helgd, with ten ships, comes 
 sailing out to attack him. But anon the ships 
 sink down into the sea, as if drawn downward 
 by invisible hands, and Helge saves himself by 
 swimming ashore. Then Bjorn laughed aloud, 
 and told how, the night before, he had bored 
 holes in the bottom of each of Helge's ships. 
 But the king now stood on a cliff, and bent his 
 mighty bow of steel against the rock with such 
 force that it snapped in twain. And Frithiof, 
 jeering, cried, that it was rust that had broken 
 the bow, not Helge's strength ; and to show 
 what nerve there was in a hero's arm, he seized 
 two pines, large enough for the masts of ships, 
 but shaped into oars, and rowed with such mar- 
 vellous strength, that the two pines snapped in 
 his hands like reeds. And now uprose the sun, 
 and the land-breeze blew off shore, and, bidding 
 
 his native land farewell, Frithiof the Viking 
 sailed forth to scour the seas. 
 
 The fifteenth canto contains the Viking s 
 Code, the laws of the pirate-ship. " No tent 
 upon deck, no slumber in house; but the shield 
 must be the Viking's couch, and his tent the 
 blue sky overhead. The hammer of victorious 
 Thor is short, and the sword of Frey but an ell 
 in length ; and the warrior's steel is never too 
 short, if he goes near enough to the foe. Hoist 
 high the sail, when the wild storm blows; 'tis 
 merry in stormy seas ; onward and ever on- 
 ward. He is a coward who strikes ; rather sink 
 tban strike. There shall be neither maiden 
 nor drunken revelry on board. The freighted 
 merchantman shall be protected, but must not 
 refuse his tribute to the Viking; for the Viking 
 is king of the waves, and the merchant a slave 
 to gain, and the steel of the brave is as good as 
 the gold of the rich. The plunder shall be di- 
 vided on deck, by lot and the throwing of dice ; 
 but in this the sea-king takes no share ; glory 
 is his prize ; he wants none other. They shall 
 be valiant in fight, and merciful to the conquer- 
 ed ; for he who begs for quarter has no longer 
 a sword, is no man's foe ; and Prayer is a child 
 of Valhalla, — they must listen to the voice of 
 tbe pale one." — With such laws, sailed the 
 Viking over the foaming sea, for three weary 
 years, and came at length to the Isles of Greece, 
 which in days of yore his father had so oft de- 
 scribed to him, and whither he had wished to 
 flee with Ingeborg. And thus the forms of the 
 absent and the dead rose up before him, and 
 seemed to beckon him to his home in the North. 
 He is weary of sea-fights, and of hewing men 
 in twain, and of the glory of battle. The flag 
 at the mast-head pointed northward ; there lay 
 the beloved land ; he resolved to follow the 
 course of the winds of heaven, and steer back 
 again to the North. 
 
 Canto sixteenth is a dialogue between Frith- 
 iof and his friend Bjorn, in which the latter 
 gentleman exhibits some of the rude and unciv- 
 ilized tastes of his namesake, Bruin the Bear. 
 They have again reached the shores of their 
 fatherland. Winter is approaching. The sea 
 begins to freeze around their keel. Frithiof is 
 weary of a Viking's life. He wishes to pass 
 the Jule-tide on land, and to visit King Ring, 
 and his bride of the golden locks, his beloved 
 Ingeborg. Bjorn, dreaming all the while of 
 bloody exploits, offers himself as a companion, 
 and talks of firing the king's palace at night, 
 and bearing off the queen by force. Or if his 
 friend deems the old king worthy of a lwlmgang* 
 or of a battle on the ice, he is r'eady for either. 
 But Frithiof tells him that only gentle thoughts 
 now fill his bosom. He wishes only to take a 
 
 * A duel between the Vikings of the North was called a 
 holm°ang, because the two combatants met on an island tc 
 decide their quarrel. Fierce battles were likewise fough 1 
 by armies on the ice; the frozen bays and lakes of a monn 
 tainous country being oftentimes the only plains larg< 
 enough for battle-fields. 
 
152 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 last farewell of Ingeborg. These delicate feel- 
 ings cannot penetrate the hirsute breast of Bruin. 
 He knows not what this love maybe, — this 
 sighing and sorrow for a maiden's sake. The 
 world, he says, is full of maidens; and he offers 
 to bring Frithiof a whole ship-load from the 
 glowing South, all red as roses and gentle as 
 lambs. But Frithiof will not stay. He resolves 
 to go to King Ring ; but not alone, for his sword 
 goes with him. 
 
 The seventeenth canto relates, how King 
 Ring sat in his banquet-hall at Jule-tide, and 
 drank mead. At his side sat Ingeborg his queen, 
 like spring by the side of autumn. And an old 
 man, and unknown, all wrapped in skins, en- 
 tered the hall, and humbly took his seat near 
 the door. And the courtiers looked at each 
 other with scornful smiles, and pointed with 
 the finger at the hoary bear-skin man. At this, 
 the stranger waxed angry, and, seizing with one 
 hand a young coxcomb, he "twirled him up 
 and down." The rest grew silent; he would 
 have done the same with them. " Who breaks 
 the peace?" quoth the king. "Tell us who 
 thou art, and whence, old man." And the old 
 man answered, — 
 
 " In Anguish was I nurtured, Want is my homestead hight, 
 Now come I from the Wolf's den, I slept with him last 
 night." 
 
 " Once on a dragon's back I rode ; strong wings 
 had he, and flew with might. But now he lies 
 wrecked and frozen on the strand, and I am 
 grown old and burn salt by the sea-shore." But 
 King Ring is not so easily duped, and bids the 
 stranger lay aside his disguise. And straight 
 the shaggy bear-skin fell from the head of the 
 unknown guest, and down from his lofty fore- 
 heud, over his shoulders broad and full, floated 
 his shining ringlets, like a wave of gold. Frith- 
 iof stood before them, in a rich mantle of blue 
 velvet, with a hand-broad silver belt around his 
 waist ; and the color came and went in the 
 cheek of the queen, like the northern light on 
 fields of snow; 
 
 "And as two water-lilies, beneath the tempest's might, 
 Lie heaving on the billow, so heaved her bosom white." 
 
 And now a horn blew in the hall, and kneeling 
 on a silver dish, with haunch and shoulder hung 
 " with garlands gay and rosemary," and hold- 
 ing an apple in his mouth, the wild boar was 
 brought in.* And King Ring rose up in his hoary 
 locks, and, laying his hand upon the boar's head, 
 swore an oath that he would conquer Frithiof, 
 the great champion, so help him Frey and Odin 
 and the mighty Thor. With a disdainful smile, 
 Frithiof threw his sword upon the table, so that 
 
 * The old English custom of the boar's head at Christ- 
 mas dates from a far antiquity. It was in use at the festi- 
 vals of Jule-tide among the pagan Northmen. The words 
 of Chaucer in the Franklein's Tale will apply to the old 
 bero of the North : 
 
 " And he drinketh of his bugle-horn the wine, 
 Before him standeth the brawne of the tusked swine." 
 
 the hall echoed to the clang, and every warrior 
 sprang up from his seat, and turning to the king 
 he said : " Young Frithiof is my friend ; I know 
 him well ; and I swear to protect him, were 
 it against the world; so help me Destiny and 
 my good sword." The king was pleased at 
 this great freedom of speech, and invited the 
 stranger to remain their guest till spring; bid- 
 ding Ingeborg fill a goblet with the choicest 
 wine for him. With downcast eyes and trem- 
 bling hand, she presented Frithiof a goblet, 
 which two men, as men are now, could not 
 have drained ; but he, in honor of his lady-love, 
 quaffed it at a single draught. And then the 
 Skald took his harp, and sang the song of Hag- 
 bart and fair Signe, the Romeo and Juliet of 
 the North. And thus the Jule-carouse (Julerus) 
 was prolonged far into the night, and the old 
 fellows drank deep, till, at length, 
 
 " They all to sleep departed, withouten pain or care." 
 
 The next canto describes an excursion on the 
 ice. It has a cold breath about it. The short, 
 sharp stanzas are like the angry gusts of a 
 northwester. 
 
 " King Ring, with his queen, to the banquet did fare, 
 On the lake stood the ice so mirror-clear. 
 
 " 'Fare not o'er the ice,' the stranger cries ; 
 ' It will burst, and full deep the cold bath lies.' 
 
 " ' The king drowns not easily,' Ring out-spake ; 
 ' He who 's afraid may go round the lake.' 
 
 " Threatening and dark looked the stranger round, 
 His steel-shoes with haste on his feet he bound. 
 
 " The sledge-horse starts forth strong and free; 
 He snorteth flames, so glad is he. 
 
 " 'Strike out,' screamed the king, ' my trotter good, 
 Let us see if thou art of Sleipner's* blood.' 
 
 " They go as a storm goes over the lake ; 
 No heed to his queen doth the old man take. 
 
 " But the steel-shod champion stands not still, 
 He passes by them as swift as he will. 
 
 " He carves many runes in the frozen tide, 
 Fair Ingeborg o'er her own name doth glide." 
 
 Thus they speed away over the ice, but be- 
 neath them the treacherous Ran t lies in am- 
 bush. She breaks a hole in her silver roof, the 
 sledge is sinking, and fair Ingeborg is pale with 
 fear, when the stranger on his skates comes 
 sweeping by like a whirlwind. He seizes the 
 steed by his mane, and, at a single pull, places 
 the sledge upon firm ice again. They return 
 together to the king's palace, where the stran- 
 ger, who is none else than Frithiof, remains a 
 guest till spring. 
 
 The nineteenth canto is entitled " Frithiof 's 
 Temptation." The spring comes, and King 
 Ring and his court go forth to hunt; but the old 
 king cannot keep pace with the chase. Frithi- 
 of rides beside him, silent and sad. Gloomy mu- 
 
 * The steed of Odin. 
 
 t A giantess, holding dominion over the waters. 
 
TEGNER. 
 
 153 
 
 sings rise within him, and he hears continually 
 the mournful voices of his own dark thoughts. 
 Why had he left the ocean, where all care is 
 blown away by the winds of heaven ? Here 
 he wanders amid dreams and secret longings. 
 He cannot forget Balder's grove. But the grim 
 gods are no longer friendly. They have taken 
 his rose-bud, and placed it on the breast of 
 winter, whose chill breath covers bud and leaf 
 and stalk with ice. — And thus they come to a 
 lonely valley shut in by mountains, and over- 
 shadowed by beeches and alders. Here they 
 alight ; the quiet of the place invites to slum- 
 ber. Frithiof throws down his mantle, and the 
 king, stretching himself upon it, pretends to 
 sleep. Frithiof is tempted to murder him, but 
 resists the temptation, and the king, starting up, 
 declares that he has not been asleep, but has 
 feigned sleep, merely to put Frithiof — for he 
 has long recognized the hero in his guest — ■ to 
 the trial. He then upbraids him for having 
 come to his palace in disguise, to steal away his 
 queen ; he had expected the coming of a war- 
 rior with an army ; he beheld only a beggar in 
 tatters. But now he has proved him, and for- 
 given ; has pitied, and forgotten. He is soon to 
 be gathered to his fathers. Frithiof shall take 
 his queen and kingdom after him. Till then he 
 shall remain his guest, and thus their feud shall 
 have an end. But Frithiof answers, that he 
 came not as a thief to steal away the queen, but 
 only to gaze upon her face once more. He will 
 remain no longer. The vengeance of the of- 
 fended gods hangs over him. He is an outlaw. 
 On the green earth he seeks no more for peace; 
 for the earth burns beneath his feet, and the 
 trees lend him no shadow. " Therefore," he 
 cries, " away to sea again ! Away, my dragon 
 brave, to bathe again thy pitch-black breast in 
 the briny wave ! Flap thy white wings in the 
 clouds, and cut the billow with a whistling 
 sound ; fly, fly, as far as the bright stars guide 
 thee, and the subject billows bear. Let me 
 hear the lightning's voice again ; and on the 
 open sea, in battle, amid clang of shields and 
 arrowy rain, let me die, and go up to the dwell- 
 ing of the gods." 
 
 In the twentieth canto the death of King 
 Ring is described. The sunshine of a pleasant 
 spring morning plays in the palace hall, when 
 Frithiof enters to bid his royal friends a last 
 farewell. With them he bids his native land 
 good night. 
 
 " No more shall I see 
 
 In its upward motion 
 The smoke of the Northland. Man is a slave ; 
 The Fates decree. 
 
 On the waste of the ocean, 
 There is my fatherland, there is my grave. 
 
 " Go not to the strand, 
 Ring, with thy bride, 
 After the stars spread their light through the sky. 
 Perhaps in the sand, 
 Washed up by the tide, 
 The hones of the outlawed Viking may lie. 
 20 
 
 " Then quoth the king, 
 ' 'T is mournful to hear 
 A man like a whimpering maiden cry, 
 The death-song they sing 
 Even now in mine ear. 
 What avails it? He who is born must die.' " 
 
 He then says that he himself is about to de- 
 part for Valhalla ; that a death on the straw 
 (strudod) becomes not a king of the Northmen. 
 He would fain die the death of a hero : and he 
 cuts on his arms and breast the runes of death, 
 — runes to Odin. And while the blood drops 
 from among the silvery hairs of his naked bos- 
 om, he calls for a flowing goblet, and drinks a 
 health to the glorious North ; and in spirit hears 
 the Gjallar Horn* and goes to Valhalla, where 
 glory, like a golden helmet, crowns the coming 
 guest. 
 
 The next canto is the " Dirge of King Ring " ; 
 in the unrhymed, alliterative stanzas of the old 
 Icelandic and Anglo-Saxon poetry. The Skald 
 sings how the high-descended monarch sits in 
 his tomb, with his shield on his arm and his 
 battle-sword by his side. His gallant steed, 
 too, neighs in the tomb, and paws the ground 
 with his golden hoofs. 1 But the spirit of the 
 departed rides over the rainbow, which bends 
 beneath its burden, up to the open gates of Val- 
 halla. Here the gods receive him, and garlands 
 are woven for him, of golden grain with blue 
 flowers intermingled, and Brage sings a song of 
 praise and welcome to the wise old Ring. 
 
 The twenty-second canto describes, in a very 
 spirited and beautiful style, the election of a 
 new king. The yeoman takes his sword from 
 the wall, and, with clang of shields and sound 
 of arms, the people gather together in a public 
 assembly, a Ting, whose roof is the sky of hea- 
 ven. Here Frithiof harangues them, bearing 
 aloft on his shield the little son of Ring, who 
 sits there like a king on his throne, or a young 
 eagle on the cliff, gazing upward at the sun. 
 Frithiof hails him as King of the Northmen, 
 and swears to protect his kingdom ; and when 
 the little boy, tired of sitting on the shield, leaps 
 fearlessly to the ground, the people raise a 
 shout, and acknowledge him for their monarch, 
 and Jarl Frithiof as regent, till the boy grows 
 older. But Frithiof has other thoughts than 
 these. He must away to meet the Fates at 
 Balder's ruined temple, and make atonement to 
 the offended god. And thus he departs. 
 
 Canto twenty-third is entitled " Frithiof at 
 his Father's Grave." The sun is sinking like a 
 golden shield in the ocean, and the hills and 
 vales around him, and the fragrant flowers, and 
 song of birds, and sound of the sea, and shadow 
 
 * The Gjallar Horn was blown by Heimdal, the watch- 
 man of the gods. He was the son of nine virgins, and was 
 called "the God with the Golden Teeth." His watch-tower 
 was upon the rainbow, and he blew his horn whenever a 
 fallen hero rode over the Bridge of Heaven to Valhalla. 
 
 t It was a Scandinavian as well as a Scythian custom, to 
 bury the favorite steed of a warrior in the same tomb wila 
 him. 
 
154 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 of trees awaken in his softened heart the mem- 
 ory of other days. And he calls aloud to the 
 gods for pardon of his crime, and to the spirit of 
 his father, that he should come from his grave 
 and bring him peace and forgiveness from the 
 city of the gods. And, lo ! amid the evening 
 shadows, from the western wave uprising, land- 
 ward floats the Fata Morgana, and, sinking down 
 upon the spot where Balder's temple once 
 stood, assumes itself the form of a temple, with 
 columns of dark blue steel, and an altar of pre- 
 cious stone. At the door, leaning upon their 
 shields, stand the Destinies. And the Destiny 
 of the Past points to the solitude around, and 
 the Destiny of the Future to a beautiful temple 
 newly risen from the sea. While Frithiof gazes 
 in wonder at the sight, all vanishes away, like 
 a vision of the night. But the vision is inter- 
 preted by the hero, without the aid of prophet 
 or of soothsayer. 
 
 Canto twenty-fourth; "The Atonement." 
 The temple of Balder had been rebuilt, and 
 with such magnificence, that the North beheld 
 in it an image of Valhalla. And two by two, 
 in solemn procession, walked therein the twelve 
 virgins, clad in garments of silver tissue, with 
 roses upon their cheeks, and roses in their in- 
 nocent hearts. They sang a solemn song of 
 Balder, how much beloved he was by all that 
 lived, and how he fell, by Hoder's arrow slain, 
 and earth and sea and heaven wept. And the 
 sound of the song was not like the sound of 
 buman voice, but like the tones which come 
 from the halls of the gods, like the thoughts of 
 a maiden dreaming of her lover, when the night- 
 ingale is singing in the midnight stillness, and 
 the moon shines over the beech-trees of the 
 North. Frithiof listened to the song ; and as 
 he listened, all thoughts of vengeance and of 
 human hate melted within him, as the icy 
 breastplate melts from the bosom of the fields, 
 when the sun shines in spring. At this mo- 
 ment the high-priest of Balder entered, venera- 
 ble with his long silver beard ; and welcoming 
 the Viking to the temple he had built, he de- 
 livered for his special edification a long homily 
 on things human and divine, with a short cate- 
 chism of Northern mythology. He told him, 
 likewise, very truly, that more acceptable to 
 the gods than the smoke of burnt-offerings was 
 the sacrifice of one's own vindictive spirit, the 
 hate of a human 'soul. He then spake of his 
 hatred to Bele's sons ; and informed him that 
 Helge was dead, and that Halfdan sat alone on 
 Belt's throne, urging him, at the same lime, to 
 sacrifice to the gods his desire of vengeance, 
 and proffer the hand of friendship to the young 
 king. This was done straightway, Halfdan 
 having opportunely come in at that moment; 
 and the priest removed forthwith the ban from 
 the Varg-i-Veum, the sacrilegious and outlawed 
 man. And then Ingeborg entered the vaulted 
 temple, followed by maidens, as the moon is 
 followed by stars in the vaulted sky ; and 
 from the hand of her brother Frithiof receives 
 
 the bride of his youth, and they are married in 
 Balder's temple. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM FRITHIOFS SAGA. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 FRITHIOF AND INGEBORG. 
 
 Two plants, for fostering nurture placed, 
 The rural Hilding's hamlet graced ; 
 And, peerless since the birth of time, 
 Exulted in North's vigorous clime. 
 
 One rose to seek the bright expanse, 
 An Oak, its stem a warrior's lance; 
 Its wreath, which every gale unbound, 
 A warrior's helmet, vaulted round. 
 
 The other reared its blushing head, 
 A Rose, when wintry storms are fled ; 
 Yet spring, which stores its richer dyes, 
 Still in the rose-bud dreaming lies. 
 
 When earth's bright face rude blasts deform, 
 That Oak shall wrestle with the storm; 
 When May's sun tints the heaven with gold, 
 That Rose its ruddy lips unfold. 
 
 Jocund they grew, in guileless glee ; 
 Young Frithiof was the sapling tree , 
 In budding beauty by bis side, 
 Sweet Ingeborg, the garden's pride. 
 
 The noontide beam which gilt their sport, 
 
 arArl it Tint M\rt± "EV^iro'g COUTt T 
 
 i ne uooiuiue ueam which gut iiieir spon, 
 Say, showed it not like Freya's court ; 
 Where bride-guests flit in spriteful rings, 
 With glistening locks and roseate wings ? 
 
 Whilst, 'neath the moon-lit silver spray, 
 They wheeled in evening roundelay, 
 Say, showed it not a fairy scene, 
 Where elf-king danced with elfin-queen ? 
 
 Her pilot soon he joyed to glide, 
 In Viking-guise, o'er stream and tide : 
 Sure, hands so gentle, heart so gay, 
 Ne'er 'plauded rover's young essay ! 
 
 No beetling lair, no pine-rocked nest, 
 Might 'scape the love-urged spoiler's ques 
 Oft, ere an eaglet-wing had soared, 
 The eyry mourned its parted hoard. 
 
 He sought each brook of rudest force, 
 To bear his Ing'borg o'er its source : 
 So thrilling, 'midst the wild alarm, 
 The tendril-twining of her arm. 
 
 The earliest flower, spring's infant birth. 
 The earliest fruit that gemmed the earth, 
 The ear that earliest graced the plain, 
 Oft told his love, nor told in vain. 
 
 But years of childhood smiling fled, 
 Youth came with light advancing tread ; 
 New hopes the stripling's glance betrayed. 
 Maturing charms adorned the maid. 
 
TEGNER. 155 
 
 A hunter grown, through den and dale, 
 Such chase might see the stoutest quail : 
 For, waging desperate stake of life, 
 The spearless met in equal strife. 
 
 His steel imprints with runic mark 
 The living rolls of birchen bark ; 
 Where blent initials frequent show 
 The hearts that thus together grow. 
 
 Breast closed to breast, they struggling stood : 
 Those savage teeth are wet with blood ! 
 Yet laden home the victor hies, 
 And could the nymph his boon despise ? 
 
 When Day's bright train invests the air, 
 King of the world with splendent hair, 
 And men in noiseful courses move, 
 Their only thoughts are thoughts of love. 
 
 Since dear to beauty valorous deed, 
 The fair one e'er the hero's meed : 
 Assorted for the mutual vow, 
 As martial helm to softer brow. 
 
 When Night's dark train invests the air, 
 Queen of the world with raven hair, 
 And stars in silent courses move, 
 Their only dreams are dreams of love. 
 
 When clustering near the social blaze, 
 A tale beguiled the icy days, 
 Of mystic names, supernal all, 
 Rife in Valhalla's beaming hall ; 
 
 " Thou earth, which, bathed in April showers, 
 Weav'st thy green locks with wreathy flowers ! 
 Culled from the fairest of the spring, 
 A garland for my Frithiof bring." 
 
 He mused : " Though Freya's braid is bright 
 As corn-land waving amber light, 
 My Ing'borg's meshy tresses throw 
 O'er rose and lily rival glow. 
 
 " Thou sea, which, in thy caves below, 
 Strew'st lucid pearls in countless row ! 
 Here bear the treasures of the main, 
 That love may thread a silken chain." 
 
 " Iduna ! mortal vision fails, 
 Dazed by the orbs thy mantle veils ; 
 And, ah ! what venturous look may dare, 
 Where light-elves move, a bud-crowned pair ? 
 
 " Brilliant on Odin's seat of state, 
 Heaven's eye, whose glance no years abate ! 
 If thou wert mine, thy orb should yield 
 My Frithiof a golden shield." 
 
 " O ! blue and clear is Frigga's eye, 
 Dazzling as heaven's unclouded sky : 
 But hers the eye whose sparkling ray 
 Eclipses e'en spring's sapphire day. 
 
 " All-father's lamp, whose evening beam 
 Illumes his dome with softened gleam !• 
 If thou wert mine, my maid should bow 
 Thy silver crescent o'er her brow." 
 
 " What, Gerda, though thy cheeks may glow 
 Like Northern-light on drifted snow? 
 The cheeks I see, whene'er they dawn, 
 Blush forth at once a twofold morn. 
 
 But Hilding's sager counsel came, 
 To damp the youth's presumptuous flame : 
 " Fan not," he warned, " forbidden fire ; 
 The virgin boasts a royal sire. 
 
 " I know a heart whose truth might claim 
 A portion, Nanna, in thy fame ! 
 Well, Balder, may each poet's song 
 The gratulating strain prolong ! 
 
 "To Odin, throned in starry space, 
 Ascends the lineage of her race : 
 Let Thorsten's son the prize resign, 
 Best thrive whom equal lots combine." 
 
 " Ah ! by one Nanna might my bier 
 Be watered with as true a tear, 
 The proofs of tenderness she gave 
 Would bid me hail an early grave." 
 
 " My race," young Frithiof gay ly said, 
 " Descends to regions of the dead : 
 My sway the forest-king confessed, 
 His lineage mine, and bristling vest. 
 
 The feats of many a storied king 
 
 The royal maid would sit and sing ; 
 
 And, broidering, paint the blood-stained scene 
 
 'Midst wave of blue and grove of green. 
 
 " The world his realm, what daunts the free : 
 He heeds not partial fate's decree : 
 Smiles may dispel stern fortune's frown, 
 'T is hope's to wear and point a crown. 
 
 In snow-white wool is seen to spread 
 The ample shield of gilded thread; 
 Red lances pierce the mascled side, 
 In burnished mail the champions ride. 
 
 " In pedigree all might excels, 
 Its parent, Thor, in Thrudvang dwells . 
 Valor by him, not birth, is weighed, 
 A potent wooer is the blade. 
 
 Yet, though she proves her various skill, 
 Each face bears Frithiof 's semblance still : 
 And forth the tissue as they gaze, 
 She blushes, but with pleased amaze. 
 
 " In combat for my youthful bride 
 Were thunder's-god himself defied : 
 Grow blithe, my flower, in sure defence, 
 Woe to the hand would pluck thee hence ! ' 
 
156 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 canto iii. 
 frithiof's homestead. 
 
 Three miles extended around the fields of the 
 
 homestead ; on three sides 
 Valleys and mountains and hills, but on the 
 
 fourth side was the ocean. 
 Birch- woods crowned the summits, but over 
 
 the down-sloping hill-sides 
 Flourished the golden corn, and man-high was 
 
 waving the rye-field. 
 Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held 
 
 up for the mountains, 
 Held for the forests up, in whose depths the 
 
 high-antlered reindeers 
 Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred 
 
 brooklets. 
 But in the valleys, full widely around, there fed 
 
 on the green-sward 
 Herds with sleek, shining sides, and udders 
 
 that longed for the milk-pail. 
 'Mid these were scattered, now here and now 
 
 there, a vast, countless number 
 Of white-woolled sheep, as thou seest the white- 
 looking stray clouds, 
 Flock-wise, spread o'er the heavenly vault, 
 
 when it bloweth in spring-time. 
 Twice twelve swift-footed coursers, mettlesome, 
 
 fast-fettered storm-winds, 
 Stamping stood in the line of stalls, all champ- 
 ing their fodder, 
 Knotted' with red their manes, and their hoofs 
 
 all whitened with steel shoes. 
 The banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timber- 
 ed of hard fir. 
 Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the 
 
 hundred) 1 
 Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for 
 
 drinking at Yule-tide. 
 Thorough the hall, as long as it was, went a 
 
 table of holm-oak, 
 Polished and white, as of steel ; the columns 
 
 Iwain of the high-seat 
 Stood at the end thereof, two gods carved out 
 
 of an elm-tree ; 
 Odin 2 with lordly look, and Frey 3 with the 
 
 sun on his frontlet. 
 Lately between the two, on a bear-skin (the 
 
 skin, it was coal-black, 
 Scarlet-red was the throat, but the paws were 
 
 shodden with silver), 
 Thorsten sat with his friends, Hospitality sit- 
 ting with Gladness. 
 Oft, when the moon among the night clouds 
 
 flew, related the old man 
 Wonders from far distant lands he had seen, 
 
 and cruises of Vikings 4 
 
 i An old fashion of reckoning in the North. 
 
 2 Odin, the All-father; the Jupiter of Scandinavian my- 
 thology. 
 
 3 Frey, the god of Liberty ; the Bacchus of the North. 
 He represents the sun at the winter solstice. 
 
 ■* The old pirates of the North were called Vikingar, 
 Ki'igsof the Gulf. 
 
 Far on the Baltic and Sea of the West, and the 
 
 North Sea. 
 Hushed sat the listening bench, and their glances 
 
 hung on the graybeard's 
 Lips, as a bee on the rose ; but the Skald was 
 
 thinking of Brage, 5 
 Where, with silver beard, and runes on his 
 
 tongue, he is seated 
 Under the leafy beach, and tells a tradition by 
 
 Mimer's 6 
 Ever murmuring wave, himself a living tradi- 
 tion. 
 Mid-way the floor (with thatch was it strewn), 
 
 burned forever the fire-flame 
 Glad on its stone-built hearth ; and through the 
 
 wide-mouthed smoke-flue 
 Looked the stars, those heavenly friends, down 
 
 into the great hall. 
 But round the walls, upon nails of steel, were 
 
 hanging in order 
 Breastplate and helm with each other, and here 
 
 and there in among them 
 Downward lightened a sword, as in winter 
 
 evening a star shoots. 
 More than helmets and swords, the shields in 
 
 the banquet-hall glistened, 
 White as the orb of the sun, or white as the 
 
 moon's disk of silver. 
 Ever and anon went a maid round the board 
 
 and filled up the drink-horns ; 
 Ever she cast down her eyes and blushed ; in 
 
 the shield her reflection 
 Blushed too, even as she; — this gladdened the 
 
 hard-drinking champions. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 frithiof's SUIT. 
 
 The songs are loud-pealing in Frithiof's hall, 
 And the praise of his sires is the burden of all . 
 But the Skald's art is vain, 
 He heeds not the music, and hears not the strain. 
 
 Now a vest of bright green mantles vale, hill, 
 
 and tree, 
 And dragons are swimming the dark blue sea: 
 But the son of the brave, 
 The moon is his pole-star, the wood-flower his 
 
 wave. 
 
 O, the hours had been joyous, how rapid their 
 
 speed, 
 Whilst merry King Halfdan late quaffed of his 
 
 mead ! 
 For, though Helge dark-frowned, 
 The smile of fair Ing'borg spread sunshine 
 
 around. 
 
 He sat by her side, and he pressed her soft hand, 
 And he felt a fond pressure responsive and bland : 
 
 * Brage, the god of Song; the Scandinavian Apollo. 
 6 Mimer, the god of Eloquence. He sat by the wave of 
 Urda, the Destiny of the Past. 
 
TEGNER. 
 
 157 
 
 Whilst his love-beaming gaze 
 Was returned as the sun's in the moon's placid 
 rays. 
 
 They spoke of days by-gone, so gladsome and 
 
 gay, 
 
 When the dew was yet fresh on life's new-trod- 
 den way : 
 For on memory's page 
 Youth traces its roses, its briers old age. 
 
 She brought him a greeting from dale and from 
 
 wood, 
 From the bark-graven runes and the brook's 
 
 silver flood ; 
 From the dome-crowned cave, 
 Where oaks bravely stream o'er a warrior's 
 
 grave. 
 
 "From the pomp of the palace 'twere sweet to 
 return, 
 
 For Halfdan was puerile, Helge was stern : 
 
 And the two royal heirs 
 
 Savored only the incense of praises and pray- 
 ers. 
 
 "There was no one," she said, as she blushed 
 
 like a rose, 
 "To whom her sad heart could unDosom its 
 
 woes : 
 From a king's halls, in truth, 
 Freedom fled to respire in the scenes of her 
 
 youth. 
 
 " Of the doves he had given, purloined from the 
 
 nest, 
 Which had fed from her hand and reposed on 
 
 her breast, 
 Lo ! " she lisped, " a last pair : 
 These brave the near falcon ; let one be thy care. 
 
 " For homeward the swift-pinioned turtle will 
 
 wend, 
 Like another it yearns to rejoin a lost friend : 
 Let its faith-guided wing 
 A kind token concealed to the desolate bring." 
 
 Such whispers Day heard, as he rode his gay 
 
 round, 
 And the ear of the Evening still caught the soft 
 
 sound, — 
 f o the leaves of the grove 
 Thus the zephyrs of Spring whisper accents of 
 
 love. 
 
 But now she has left him, and with her are 
 
 flown 
 Joy and Peace its sweet sister, he wanders 
 
 alone, 
 And with Astrild's warm dyes 
 Young blood stains his cheek, as he burns and 
 
 he sighs. 
 
 His sorrow, his plaint, to the dove he consigned, 
 And love's messenger joyous outstrips the fleet 
 wind : 
 
 Ah ! how envied her fate ! 
 Could he ask her return ? She had found Lei 
 lost mate. 
 
 This unmartial demeanour Bjorn's anger in 
 
 flamed : 
 " What means our plumed eagle ? " displeased 
 
 he exclaimed ; 
 " Why so mute, so reserved? 
 Has his breast been pierced through, or his 
 
 wing been unnerved ? 
 
 " Say, groans not thy board, — canst thou covet 
 
 aught more, 
 With the foaming brown mead and fat chine of 
 
 the boar ? 
 And of Skalds what a throng ! 
 They could weary thy walls with the echo of 
 
 song. 
 
 " The stalled coursers, indeed, they paw restless 
 
 and neigh, 
 And the falcon shrieks wildly, ' To prey ! to 
 
 prey ! ' 
 But their lord's dreamy chase 
 Is pursued in the clouds, and he faints with the 
 
 race. 
 
 " Ellida, 't is true, on the wave has no rest, 
 She tugs at the anchor and rears her high crest : 
 Cease thy hiss, dragon, cease ! 
 For Frithiof wars not, his watchword is Peace. 
 
 " There 's a death on the straw, and a death by 
 
 the spear, 
 I can carve me, like Odin, for blood on the 
 
 bier : 
 Not a fear we should fail, 
 Seeking shadowy welcome withHela the pale." 
 
 Then he loosed his sea-dragon and donned his 
 
 bright mail ; 
 There was snorting of billow and swelling of 
 
 sail, 
 And light furrowed the bay, 
 As straight to the inonarchs he steered his bold 
 
 way. 
 
 On the cairn of King Bele they were seated in 
 
 state, 
 With the balance and ensign of awful debate. 
 Soon the echoes awoke, 
 And far caverns repeated the voice, as he spoke. 
 
 " To the hand of fair Ing'borg, ye kings, I as- 
 pire, 
 
 Be the nuptial torch lit with a spark of love's 
 fire : 
 
 'T was a parent's behest ; 
 
 Bind his flower, as he bade, to this helm-mount 
 ed crest. 
 
 " He had left us to grow, to sage Hilding as- 
 signed, 
 
 Like saplings who e branches are closely en- 
 twined ; 
 
 N 
 
15S 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 And bright Freya above 
 
 Had linked the young tops with the gold knot 
 of love. 
 
 " Grant my sire was no monarch, nor high- 
 titled thane, 
 
 But he lives in the song, and is hymned with 
 the slain ; 
 
 My ancestors' fame 
 
 Their high-vaulted Bauta-stones proudly pro- 
 claim. 
 
 " It were easy to win me a sceptre and land, 
 But the home of my choice is my own native 
 
 strand : 
 There the cot and the court 
 My shield shall o'erscreen, and my spear shall 
 
 support. 
 
 ' 'T is the death-mound of Bele, of the honored, 
 
 we tread, 
 Now hearkening he raises his time-silvered 
 
 head : 
 E'en the dead intercedes, 
 And bethink ye for whom? 'tis for Frithiof he 
 
 pleads." 
 
 Then spake Helge, uprising, with scorn-breath- 
 ing ire, 
 
 " To a sister of kings shall the serf-born as- 
 pire ? 
 
 Can the pine and crab blend ? 
 
 Let monarchs for Valhall's fair scion contend ! 
 
 " For the first in the North dost thou burn to he 
 
 sung ? 
 Win men with thy sword-arm, and maids with 
 
 thy tongue. 
 But Odin's blood-tide 
 Shall disdain to be poured in the veins of thy 
 
 pride. 
 
 " My realm I defend ; vain intruder, forbear, 
 It can yield stalworth yeomen enough and to 
 
 spare ; 
 Yet a place in my train 
 Thy humble entreaty might haply obtain." 
 
 " A retainer " " he thundered, and grasped his 
 
 dread brand : 
 "Thorsten's son, like his sire, knows alone to 
 
 command : 
 From thy sheath's silver stay 
 Fly forth, Angurvadel ! it brooks not delay." 
 
 In the sunshine the blue steel then brilliantly 
 beamed, 
 
 And redly the flaming rune-characters gleamed : 
 
 "Thou," he cried, "my good blade, 
 
 Thou, at least, art in birth's ancient honors ar- 
 rayed ! 
 
 " But I bow to the peace of this grave-hallowed 
 
 mound, 
 On the spot it should hew thee, swarth chief, to 
 
 the ground; 
 
 Yet learn, from this hour, 
 
 That my sword has some edge, and my arm has 
 some power." 
 
 He said ; and, lo ! cloven in twain at a stroke, 
 Fell King Helge's gold shield from its pillar of 
 
 oak : 
 At the clang of the blow, 
 The live started above, the dead started below. 
 
 " Well rived, Angurvadel ! thy runic fires hide, 
 And, of higher feats dreaming, repose by my 
 
 side : 
 Thou shalt wake thee again. 
 Now home be our course o'er the purple-clad 
 
 main." 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 FRITHIOF AT CHESS. 
 
 Beside a chess-board's chequered frame 
 Frithiof and Bjorn pursued their game: 
 Silver was each alternate plane, 
 And each alternate plane of gold. 
 
 Aged Hilding came: to throne of beech 
 The chieftain led with courteous speech : 
 " Sire, when the mead's bright horn shall wane, 
 Our field be won, thy tale unfold." 
 
 The sage began : " From Bele's high heirs 
 I come with courteous words and prayers: 
 Disastrous tidings rouse the brave, 
 On thee a nation's hope relies." 
 
 "Check to thy king! " then Frithiof cried, 
 "Prompt means of rescue, Bjorn, provide; 
 His crown a yeoman's life may save, 
 And who would heed the sacrifice ?" 
 
 " Naught 'gainst a king, my son, presume ; 
 Strong the young eagle's beak and plume : 
 Measured with Ring's, the weaker power 
 Were adamant, opposed to thine." 
 
 " My castle, Bjorn, thou threat'st in vain, 
 My yeomen rout thy royal train : 
 'T will cost thee much to win its tower, 
 Shielded secure in bastion-line." 
 
 " In Balder's fane, grief's loveliest prey, 
 Sweet Ing'borg weeps the live-long day: 
 Say, can her tears unheeded fall, 
 Nor call her champion to her side ? " 
 
 " Thy fruitless quest, good Bjorn, forbear ! 
 From earliest youth I held her dear; 
 The noblest piece, the queen of all, 
 She must be saved, whate'er betide." 
 
 " Is brief rejoinder yet deferred ? , 
 And must thy foster-sire, unheard, 
 Or quit this hall, or menial wait 
 Thy sport's procrastinated close ? " 
 
TEGNER. 
 
 159 
 
 Then Frithiof, moved, approached his guest, 
 
 But, secure in sea-tight keel, 
 
 The old man's hand he kindly pressed : 
 
 Desperate Viking scorns the port ; 
 
 ' I have replied," he said elate, 
 
 Grasps the helm with hand of steel, 
 
 "My soui's resolve my father knows. 
 
 Joying in the whirlwind's sport. 
 
 
 More he girds the groaning mast, 
 
 " Haste ! tell the sons of royal Bele 
 
 Cleaves the surge with keener force, 
 
 I wear not a retainer's steel : 
 
 Vantaging by wave and blast, 
 
 For wounded honor bids divide 
 
 West, due west, pursues his course. 
 
 The sacred bond it once revered." 
 
 " Lists me with the tempest 
 
 
 Yet an hour of combat ; 
 
 " Well, tread thy path," the answer came, 
 
 Here the storm and Northman 
 
 " Thy wrath 't were chance unmeet to blame. 
 
 Cope with like advantage. 
 
 May Odin all in mercy guide ! " 
 
 What were Ing'borg's blushes, 
 
 Thus Hilding spake, and disappeared. 
 
 Should her proud sea-eagle, 
 
 
 By a gust disheartened, 
 
 
 Drooping seek the land! " 
 
 CANTO X. 
 
 
 
 Deeper and more oft 
 Yawn the gulfs of death : 
 
 FRITHIOF AT SEA. 
 
 Helgk on the strand 
 
 There is whistling aloft, 
 
 Chants his wizard-spell, 
 
 There is cracking beneath. 
 
 Potent to command 
 
 Yet, amidst the war of waves, 
 
 Fiends of earth or hell. 
 
 Now pursuing, now opposed, 
 
 Gathering darkness shrouds the sky ; 
 
 Shock and blast Ellida braves, 
 
 Hark, *he thunder's distant roll ! 
 
 Gods her seamless fabric closed : 
 
 Lurid lightnings, as they fly, 
 
 As a meteor's scudding light, 
 
 Streak witli blood the sable pole. 
 
 Shoots athwart the flashing deep ; 
 
 Ocean, boiling to its base, 
 
 As a chamois launched in flight, 
 
 Scatters wide its wave of foam ; 
 
 Bounds o'er cataract and steep. 
 
 Screaming, as in fleetest chase, 
 
 " Better 't were to gather, 
 
 Sea-birds seek their island-home. 
 
 For the spray's salt kisses, 
 
 " Hard 's the weather, brother ! 
 
 Sweets in Balder's temple, 
 
 List the storm's wild pinions 
 
 From thy lips distilling : 
 
 Flapping in the distance ; 
 
 Better 't were, than grappling 
 
 Yet we tremble not. 
 
 Thus the impatient rudder, 
 
 Tranquil in the high-grove, 
 
 Hold in fond embraces 
 
 Sighing, think of Frithiof, 
 
 Thee, my royal bride ! " 
 
 In thy tears most beauteous, 
 
 
 Lovely Ingeborg ! " 
 
 Snow-flakes ride the gale ; 
 
 
 Nature seems congealed ; 
 
 Two foul imps of air 
 
 Fast the pattering hail 
 
 Toward Ellida glide : 
 
 Beats on deck and shield. 
 
 Frosty Ham is there ; 
 
 Full between the rampant beaks 
 
 There is snowy Heyd. 
 
 Night her canopy hath spread ; 
 
 Now, the hoarse-winged storr.:, set free, 
 
 Not a darker dawning breaks 
 
 Delves in depths their coral uad; 
 
 O'er the chambers of the dead. 
 
 Now, aloft on mountain-sea, 
 
 As with demon-wrath endued, 
 
 Whirls them to the gods' abode. 
 
 Fiercely roars each spell-bound wave ; 
 
 Courage, proved in many a fight, 
 
 As with heroes' ashes strewed, 
 
 Shudders at emprise like this, 
 
 Soundless gapes each foamy grave. 
 
 Scaling the ethereal height, 
 
 " Rana in sea-caverns 
 
 From the bottomless abyss. 
 
 Streeks our beds of azure ; 
 
 " Fairer was the passage 
 O'er the watery mirror, 
 Silvered by the moon-beam, 
 Bound to Balder's grove : 
 Warmer than this region, 
 Near my Ing'borg's bosom ; 
 Whiter than the sea-foam 
 Heaved her swelling breast.' 
 
 " See, Solundar Isle 
 Peers amid the spray ; 
 Try its calm awhile, 
 Run to make the bay." 
 
 But the couch of Ing'borg 
 Waits her weary wanderer. 
 Mariners undaunted 
 Man the oared Ellida ; 
 Sea-gods framed her timbers : 
 Still an hour she bides." 
 
 Now a torrent stream, 
 Threatening instant wreck, 
 Swift as lightning gleam, 
 Swept the laden deck. 
 Frithiof from his arm released, 
 Three marks' weight, a solid ring. 
 
160 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 Brilliant as the glowing East, 
 Relic of the honored king. 
 Portioning, he hewed the gold, 
 Wrought by dwarfs with artful care ; 
 Crew and fragments nicely told, 
 No one lacked his equal share. 
 
 " Love's persuasive herald, 
 
 Gold, befits the suitor ; 
 
 Hands devoid of tribute 
 
 Press not sea-green Rana. 
 
 Cold she shuns fond ardor, 
 
 Fleeting flies caresses, 
 
 Yet the burnished metal 
 
 Sea-bride shall enchain." 
 
 As mad with defeat, 
 It blows more and more hard ; 
 There is bursting of sheet, 
 There is splintering of yard. 
 O'er and o'er the half-gulfed side, 
 Flood succeeding flood is poured ; 
 Fast as they expel the tide, 
 Faster still it rolls aboard. 
 Now e'en Frithiof 's dauntless mind 
 Owned the triumph of his foe ; 
 Louder yet than wave and wind, 
 Thus his thundering accents flow : 
 
 " Haste and grasp the tiller, 
 
 Bjorn, with might of bear-paw ! 
 
 Tempest so infuriate 
 
 Comes not from Valhalla. 
 
 Witchcraft is a-going ; 
 
 Sure, the coward Helge 
 
 Spells the raging billows ! 
 
 Mine the charge to explore." 
 
 Light as marten-tread 
 Up the pine he sprung ; 
 From its dizzy head 
 Eagle-glances flung. 
 Floating as an isle loose-torn, 
 Lo ! a whale's terrific form ; 
 On whose scaly ridge upborne, 
 Two fell demons rule the storm. 
 Like a shaggy mammoth, Heyd 
 Shook his mane of drifting snow : 
 Ham, with ospray wings spread wide, 
 Taught the tempest where to blow. 
 " Iron-braced sea-dragon, 
 Boots one gallant onset, 
 Prove that heart of prowess 
 Tenants breast of oak. 
 Hear my voice accordant : 
 Boast'st thou birth celestial, 
 Up ! with ore-edged bosom 
 Gore the charmed whale ! " 
 
 Chafing, as he spake, 
 With expanded crest, 
 Flew the hissing drake, 
 Cleft the monster's breast. 
 Burst a blood-spout from the wound, 
 Mingling with the reeking clouds, 
 Ere the beast in mire profound, 
 Bellowing, its death-strife shrouds. 
 
 Fate-winged lances, two allied, 
 Hurtling from their nervous rest, 
 Pierced the Mammoth's shaggy hide, 
 Pierced the Ospray's plumed vest. 
 
 "Bravely struck, Ellida ! 
 
 Not, I ween, so quickly 
 
 Helge's sloop emerges 
 
 From the bloody slime. 
 
 Ham and Heyd, its pilots, 
 
 Keep the brine no longer ; 
 
 Bitter is the morsel, 
 
 Biting cold blue steel " 
 
 Straight the sky was cleared ; 
 Calmed the angry flood, 
 Save a swell that steered 
 Where an island stood. 
 Suddenly the orb of day, 
 Leading on its pageant train, 
 Gladdened with reviving ray 
 Vale and mountain, ship and plain. 
 Snow-capped cliff and wood-veiled slope 
 Shone, with parting radiance crowned : 
 Instinct all with kindling hope, 
 Hailed the strands of Efje-sound. 
 
 " Ing'borg's prayers have risen, 
 
 Maiden pale, to Valhall, 
 
 At the golden altar 
 
 Her fair knees have bowed. 
 
 Tears in eyes of crystal, 
 
 Sighs in swandown-bosom, 
 
 Touched the obdurate Asar; 
 
 Theirs be all the praise ' " 
 
 Yet Ellida's prow 
 Rued the fierce affray ; 
 Wearily and low, 
 Ploughed its watery way. 
 Still more weary of the main, 
 Scarce the stoutest of the band 
 Now their toilworn limbs sustain, 
 Aided by the trusty brand. 
 Of the frozen seamen, four 
 Bjorn's gigantic shoulders raise; 
 Frithiof 's, eight; and, borne to shore. 
 Seat them round the cheering blaze. 
 
 " Nay, blush not, ye pale ones ! 
 
 Viking, brave the billow ! 
 
 Desperate is the conflict, 
 
 Waged with ocean-maids. 
 
 See, on hastening gold-foot 
 
 Moves the sparkling mead-horn, 
 
 Warmth and strength diffusing : 
 
 Health to Ingeborg ! " 
 
 CANTO XI. 
 
 FRITHIOF AT THE COURT OF ANGANTYR. 
 
 'T is time to tell how Angantyr, 
 
 The earl, was seated then 
 High in his hall of stately fir, 
 
 Carousing with his men. 
 
TEGNER. 
 
 161 
 
 Thence he surveyed, in merry mood, 
 
 The day-car as it rolled; 
 Now cleaving through the purple flood, 
 
 All like a swan of gold. 
 
 The window near, a trusty swain, 
 
 Old Halvar, kept good heed ; 
 One eye upon the foamy main, 
 
 One on the frothy mead. 
 Oft as the veteran's dole came round, 
 
 He quaffed till all was drawn ; 
 Then straight, with gravity profound, 
 
 Replaced the exhausted horn. 
 
 Now hurled, it hounded on the floor, 
 
 Whilst loud the warder cried, 
 " The billows, laboring toward the shore, 
 
 I see a vessel ride. 
 Wrestling with death, pale rowers strain, 
 
 And now they touch the land ; 
 And ghastly forms, by giants twain, 
 
 Are strewed along the strand." 
 
 The chieftain o'er the glassy vale 
 
 Looked from his hall on high : 
 "Yon pennon is Ellida's sail; 
 
 Frithiof, I ween, is nigh. 
 That noble port, that lofty brow, 
 
 Old Thorsten's son declares ; 
 Such cognizance, brave youth, as thou, 
 
 No gallant Northman bears." 
 
 Swift from the bench, with maddening air, 
 
 The Berserk Atle flew ; 
 O'er whose gaunt visage, gore-stained hair 
 
 A sable horror threw. 
 " I haste," he roared, " intent to brave 
 
 This sword-subduer's spell, 
 Who peace or truce ne'er deigned to crave, 
 
 As vaunting rumors tell." 
 
 Then twice six followers from the board 
 
 Rushed forth with fierce delight ; 
 They whirled the club, they waved the sword, 
 
 Impatient for the fight. 
 Thus storming, to the beach they hied, 
 
 Where Frithiof on the sand 
 Seated, by spent Ellida's side, 
 
 Cheered his disheartened band. 
 
 " Conquest," he 'gan, with thundering voice, 
 
 " Were feat of light emprise, 
 Yet generous Atle grants a choice, 
 
 Ere luckless Frithiof dies. 
 For proffered peace deign once to sue, 
 
 Else all unwont to plead, 
 Thy steps, myself, as comrade true, 
 
 To yonder keep will lead." 
 
 " Though worn with conflict fell and long," 
 
 In ire, the Bold replied, 
 " Ere Frithiof wear a suppliant tongue, 
 
 Be the fresh battle tried." 
 Then from each sun-burnt warrior's steel 
 
 The lightning flashes came, 
 
 And Angurvadel's runes reveal 
 
 Dark fate, in signs of flame. 
 B 21 
 
 Now on their bucklers, showered like hail, 
 
 The clattering death-strokes beat ; 
 Till, cleft at once, each shield's bossed mail 
 
 Falls clanging at their feet. 
 Yet, proof alike 'gainst fear and ruth, 
 
 They played the desperate stake ; 
 But keen was Angurvadel's tooth, 
 
 And Atle's falchion brake. 
 
 Said Frithiof, " Swordless foeman's life 
 
 Ne'er dyed this gallant blade : 
 So, list thee to prolong the strife, 
 
 Be equal war essaye-d." 
 Like billows driven by autumn's blast, 
 
 The champions met and closed; 
 In mutual clutch locked firm and fast, 
 
 Their steel-clad breasts opposed 
 
 They hugged like bears, that, wandering free, 
 
 Meet on their cliff" of snow; 
 Grappled like eagles o'er the sea, 
 
 That frets its waves below. 
 Such force had well-nigh torn the rock, 
 
 Deep-rooted, from its bed ; 
 And, shaken less, the iron oak 
 
 Had bowed its leafy head. 
 
 Big from their brows the heal drops roll, 
 
 Cold heaves each laboring chest, 
 Touched by their tread, stone, 1 ush, and knoll 
 
 Start from their ancient rest. 
 Trembling, their sturdy followers wait 
 
 The issue of the fray ; 
 And oft shall Northern lips relate 
 
 The wrestling of that day. 
 
 'T is o'er ; for Frithiof 's matchless strength 
 
 Has felled his ponderous size ; 
 And 'neath that knee, a giant length, 
 
 Supine the Viking lies. 
 " But fails my sword, thou Berserk swart ! " 
 
 The voice rang far and wide, 
 "Its point should pierce thy inmost heart, 
 
 Its hilt should drink the tide." 
 
 "Be free to lift the weaponed hand," 
 
 Undaunted Atle spoke, 
 " Hence, fearless quest thy distant brand ! 
 
 Thus I abide the stroke : 
 To track Valhalla's path of light, 
 
 In arms immortal shine, — 
 My destiny, perchance, this night, 
 
 To-morrow may be thine ! " 
 
 Nor Frithiof long delayed ; intent 
 
 To close the dread debate, 
 His blade redeemed 'gainst Atle bent, 
 
 And aimed the expected fate. 
 But reckless courage holds a charm 
 
 Can kindred wrath surcease ; 
 This quelled his ire, this checked his arm, 
 
 Outstretched the hand of peace. 
 
 The warder growled, and eyed the cheer, 
 
 Waving his staff" of white : 
 
 " But little boots our banquet here, 
 
 That Hildur's cates invite ; 
 n2 
 
16. 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 For you must stand the savory meat 
 
 Untouched in reeking row, 
 For you these lips be parched with heat, 
 
 Halvar his horn forego." 
 
 Now, brothers sworn, the former foes 
 
 Have passed the spacious gate, 
 Whose valves to Frithiof 's view disclose 
 
 Wonders of wealth and state. ' 
 For planks, his walls' rude vest, scant aid 
 
 To exclude the piercing cold, 
 Rich skins with glittering flowers o'erlaid, 
 
 Berries of pendent gold. 
 
 No central balefire in the hall 
 
 With stifling splendor shone ; 
 But glowed within the caverned wall 
 
 A hearth of polished stone. 
 No sooty clouds the roof defaced, 
 
 The polished plank distained ; 
 Glass neatly squared the windows graced ; 
 
 The door a lock restrained. 
 
 For torch of pine, whose crackling blaze 
 
 Diffused a flickering gleam, 
 From branching silver shed, bright rays 
 
 Rivalled the solar beam. 
 He saw the table's ample sweep 
 
 A larded hart adorn, 
 With gold-hoof raised for menaced leap, 
 
 And leaf in grove of horn. 
 
 Behind the seated chief, serene, 
 
 Appeared a virgin-form ; 
 So looks the star of beauty's queen, 
 
 Soft, o'er a sky of storm. 
 There nut-brown ringlets circling flowed ; 
 
 There sparkled eyes of blue ; 
 And, as a flower 'midst runes, there glowed 
 
 Small lips of roseate hue. 
 
 High on a throne of ore-clad elm 
 
 Sat Angantyr sedate ; 
 Bright as the sun his burnished helm, 
 
 As bright his gilded plate. 
 His mantle, rich with many a gem, 
 
 Strewed the bespangled ground ; 
 Along whose border's purple hem 
 
 The spotless ermine wound. 
 
 He strode three paces from the dais, 
 
 His gallant guest to greet, 
 And led, with many a gracious phrase, 
 
 To honor's nearest seat. 
 " What place a comrade's cherished name 
 
 Might ask for Thorsten's son 
 Is thine, brave youth ; the due of fame, 
 
 By peerless valor won." 
 
 Now flagons from Sicilia's store 
 
 Their treasured nectar gave ; 
 Not Etna's fire could sparkle more, 
 
 More froth Charybdis' wave. 
 " Come, pledge the memory of my friend, 
 
 Be welcome pledged," he said, 
 * And let the brimming goblet blend 
 
 The living and the dead." 
 
 A chief of Morven's bards of old 
 
 Then 'gan his harp essay ; 
 In Gaelic numbers darkly trolled 
 
 The wild heroic lay. 
 He ceased. When straight the chords along 
 
 A Norrhaene finger flies, 
 Thorsten's exploits its customed song 
 
 And this obtained the prize. 
 
 Now much the curious earl would learn 
 
 Of friends and scenes of youth, 
 And well might listening ear discern 
 
 The answering voice of truth. 
 To partial doom in vain esteem 
 
 Or honest hate excites ; 
 So calm, by Time's absorbing stream, 
 
 Saga her tale indites. 
 
 When Frithiof spake of hair-breadth 'scape, 
 
 Proved on the watery plain ; 
 Of Helge's imps and monster shape, 
 
 Which ne'er shall float again : 
 Then laughed the champions' festive ring, 
 
 Great Angantyr then smiled, 
 Whilst back the echoing rafters fling 
 
 Plaudits more rude and wild. 
 
 But when he told how dearly loved 
 
 The sister of his chief, 
 What tears her fond affection proved, 
 
 How noble in her grief; 
 Then deep sighed many a maiden-breast, 
 
 Love tinted many a cheek, 
 And many a palm had fain expressed 
 
 What maiden may not speak. 
 
 At length the youth his embassade 
 
 Announced in firmer tone ; 
 Each champion frowned, trembled each maid, 
 
 Calm spake the earl alone: — 
 " No feudatory sceptre mine, 
 
 Free men the free obey ; 
 Oft have we pledged Bele's royal line, 
 
 But never owned its sway. 
 
 " To those unknown, degenerate heirs, 
 
 That tribute-craving king, 
 Bear back : ' The vassal count prepares 
 
 What offering warriors bring. 
 Behoves that power should wait on pride : — 
 
 Yet was thy father dear.' " 
 He paused. His beck, her instant guide, 
 
 An elf-like form drew near. 
 
 The sandal 'neath her foot was mute ; 
 
 Her frame the elastic sprig ; 
 Her bosom was the rounded fruit; 
 
 Her waist its slender twig. 
 Close-nestled in her dimpled chin, 
 
 Arch knave, young Astrild lay , 
 So lurks the honey-fly within 
 
 The flower-cup borne by May. 
 
 She, flitting through a deep alcove, 
 
 From its recesses drew 
 A purse, by maiden fingers wove, 
 
 With scenes of various view. 
 
TEGNER. 
 
 163 
 
 There deer enjoyed the verdant shade ; 
 
 Sails thronged the liquid lea ; 
 Soft sheaves of gold its pendants made ; 
 
 Rubies supplied a key. 
 
 With filial air, this web of price 
 
 To Angantyr conveyed, 
 He heaped with coin, whose strange device 
 
 A Southern mint betraved. 
 "This guest-gift take," he said benign, 
 
 " To render or retain ; 
 But here, till winter rules the sign, 
 
 Must Thorsten's son remain. 
 
 " Though desperate valor oft avails, 
 
 'T is winter's stormy tide ; 
 It bears, believe me, on its gales, 
 
 Another Ham and Heyd. 
 Ellida with so nice assault 
 
 May threat her foe in vain ; 
 And ocean in its soundless vault 
 
 Has v/hales in plenteous train." 
 
 Whilst jest and social joys engage, 
 
 Swift the night-watches fled ; 
 Freighted with mirth, not fraught with rage, 
 
 The golden goblet sped ; 
 A health to Angantyr they shout, 
 
 At the close of each regale : 
 And Frithiof wears the winter out, 
 
 Ere swells Ellida's sail. 
 
 CANTO XIX. 
 
 frithiof's temptation. 
 
 Spring is coming, birds are twittering, forests 
 leaf, and smiles the sun, 
 
 And the loosened torrents downward singing to 
 the oceau run ; 
 
 Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeping rose- 
 buds 'gin to ope, 
 
 And in human hearts awaken love of life, and 
 joy, and hope. 
 
 Now will hunt the ancient monarch, and the 
 
 queen shall join the sport; 
 Swarming in its gorgeous splendor is assembled 
 
 all the court ; 
 Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions 
 
 paw the ground alway, 
 And, with hoods upon their eyelids, falcons 
 
 scream aloud for prey. 
 
 See, the queen of the chase advances ! Fri- 
 thiof, gaze not on the sight ! 
 
 Like a star upon a spring-cloud sits she on her 
 palfrey white, 
 
 Half of Freva, 1 half of Rota, 2 yet more beau- 
 teous than these two, 
 
 And from her light hat of purple wave aloft 
 the feathers blue. 
 
 i The goddess of Love and Beauty. 
 ■* One of the Valkyries. 
 
 Now the huntsman's band is ready. Hurrah ! 
 
 over hill and dale ! 
 Horns ring, and the hawks right upward (» the 
 
 hall of Odin sail. 
 All the dwellers in the forest seek in fear their 
 
 cavern homes, 
 But, with spear outstretched before her, after 
 
 them Valkyria 3 comes. 
 
 Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and 
 upon the greensward spread, 
 
 And the ancient king so trustful laid on Fri- 
 thiof's knee his head ; 
 
 Slept, as calmly as the hero sleepeth after war's 
 alarms 
 
 On his shield, calm as an infant sleepeth in its 
 mother's arms. 
 
 As he slumbers, hark ! there sings a coal-black 
 
 bird upon a bough : 
 " Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, close your 
 
 quarrel at a blow ; 
 Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the 
 
 bridal kiss she gave; 
 Now no human eye beholds thee; deep and 
 
 silent is the grave." 
 
 Frithiof listens ; hark ! there sings a snow- 
 white bird upon the bough : 
 
 " Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin's 
 eye beholds thee now. 
 
 Coward, wilt thou murder slumber? a defence- 
 less old man slay ? 
 
 Whatsoe'er thou winn'st, thou canst not win a 
 hero's fame this way." 
 
 Thus the two wood-birds did warble ; Frithiof 
 
 took his war-sword good, 
 With a shudder hurled it from him, far into 
 
 the gloomy wood. 
 Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand ; 4 but on 
 
 light unfolded wings, 
 Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding 
 
 towards the sun upsprings. 
 
 Straight the ancient king awakens. " Sweet 
 has been my sleep," he said ; 
 
 " Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded 
 by a brave man's blade. 
 
 But where is thv sword, O stranger ? Light- 
 ning's brother, where is he ? 
 
 Who thus parts you, who should never from 
 each other parted be ? " 
 
 " It avails not," Frithiof answered ; " in the 
 
 North are other swords ; 
 Sharp, O monarch, is the sword's tongue, and 
 
 it speaks not peaceful words, 
 Murky spirits dwell in steel-blades, spirits from 
 
 the NifFelhem, 
 Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks 
 
 but anger them." 
 
 3 The Valkyries are celestial virgins, who bear off the 
 souls of the slain in battle. 
 
 4 The Strand of Corpses ; a region in the NifFelhem. or 
 Scandinavian Hell. 
 
164 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 
 
 Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The 
 
 church of the village 
 Stood gleaming white in the morning's sheen. 
 
 On the spire, of the belfry, 
 Decked with a brazen cock,, the friendly flames 
 
 of the spring-sun 
 Glanced like the tongues of fire beheld by 
 
 Apostles aforetime. 
 Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with 
 
 her cap crowned with roses, 
 Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the 
 
 wind and the brooklet 
 Murmured gladness and peace, God's-peace ! 
 
 With lips rosy-tinted 
 Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry 
 
 on balancing branches 
 Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn 
 
 to the Highest. 
 Swept and clean was the church-yard. Adorned 
 
 like a leaf-woven arbor 
 Stood its old-fashioned gate ; and within upon 
 
 each cross of iron 
 Hung was a sweet-scented garland, new-twined 
 
 by the hands of affection. 
 Even the dial, that stood on a mound among 
 
 the departed 
 (There full a hundred years had it stood), was 
 
 embellished with blossoms. 
 Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith 
 
 and the hamlet, 
 Who on his birth-day is crowned by children 
 
 and children's children, 
 So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with 
 
 his pencil of iron 
 Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured 
 
 the swift-changing moment, 
 While all around, at his feet, an eternity slum- 
 bered in quiet. 
 Also the church within was adorned, for this* 
 
 was the season 
 In which the young, their parents' hope, and 
 
 the loved-ones of Heaven, 
 Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows 
 
 of their baptism. 
 Therefore each nook and corner were swept 
 
 and cleaned, and the dust was 
 Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the 
 
 oil-painted benches. 
 There stood the church like a garden ; the 
 
 Feast of the Leafy Pavilions l 
 Saw we in living presentment. From noble 
 
 arms on the church wall 
 Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preach- 
 er's pulpit of oak-wood 
 Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod 
 
 before Aaron. 
 Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, 
 
 and the dove, washed with silver, 
 Under its canopy fastened, a necklace had on 
 
 of wind-flowers. 
 
 i The Feast rf *he Tabernacles ; in Swedish, Lofhyddo- 
 kegtiden, the Leaf-huts'-high-tide. 
 
 But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece 
 
 painted by Horberg, 2 
 Crept a garland gigantic ; and bright-cur!in« 
 
 tresses of angels 
 Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, out of tiie 
 
 shadowy leaf-work. 
 Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polisher!, 
 
 blinked from the ceiling, 
 And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set 
 
 in the sockets. 
 
 Loud rang the bells already ; the thronging 
 
 crowd was assembled 
 Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy 
 
 preaching. 
 Hark ! then roll forth at once the mighty tones 
 
 from the organ, 
 Hover like voices from God, aloft, like invisible 
 
 spirits. 
 Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast off" from 
 
 him his mantle, 
 Even so cast off the soul its garments of earth ; 
 
 and with one voice 
 Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem 
 
 immortal 
 Of the sublime Wallin, of David's harp in the 
 
 North-land, 
 Tuned to the choral of Luther ; the song on its 
 
 powerful pinions 
 Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to 
 
 heaven, 
 And every face did shine like the Holy One's 
 
 face upon Tabor. 
 Lo ! there entered then into the church the 
 
 reverend teacher. 
 Father he hight, and he was, in the parish ; 3 
 
 Christianly plainness 
 Clothed from his head to his feet the old man 
 
 of seventy winters. 
 Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the 
 
 heralding angel 
 Walked he among the crowds ; but still a con- 
 templative grandeur 
 Lay on his forehead, as clear as on moss-covered 
 
 gravestone a sunbeam. 
 As, in his inspiration (an evening twilight that 
 
 faintly 
 Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the 
 
 day of creation), 
 The Artist, the friend of Heaven, imagines Saint 
 
 John when in Patmos, 
 Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so 
 
 seemed then the old man ; 
 Such was the glance of his eye, and such were 
 
 his tresses of silver. 
 All the congregation arose in the pews that 
 
 were numbered ; 
 But with a cordial look, to the right and the 
 
 left hand, the old man, 
 Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the 
 
 innermost chancel. 
 
 2 The peasant-painter of Sweden. He is known chiefly 
 by his altar-pieces in the village churches. 
 
TEGNER. 
 
 165 
 
 Simply and solemnly now proceeded the 
 Christian service, 
 Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent dis- 
 course from the old man. 
 Many a moving word and warning, that out of 
 
 the heart came, 
 Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna 
 
 on those in the desert. 
 Afterwards, when all was finished, the teacher 
 
 reentered the chancel, 
 Followed therein by the young. On the right 
 
 hand the boys had their places, 
 Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and 
 
 cheeks rosy-blooming; 
 But on the left hand of these, there stood the 
 
 tremulous lilies, 
 Tinged with the blushing light of the morning, 
 
 the diffident maidens, — 
 Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes 
 
 cast down on the pavement. 
 Now came, with question and answer, the cate- 
 chism. In the beginning 
 Answered the children with troubled and fal- 
 tering voice, but the old man's 
 Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, 
 
 and the doctrines eternal 
 Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear 
 
 from lips unpolluted. 
 Whene'er the answer was closed, and as oft as 
 
 they named the Redeemer, 
 Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens 
 
 all courtesied. 
 Friendly the teacher stood, like an angel of 
 
 light there among them, 
 And to the children explained he the holy, the 
 
 highest, in few words, 
 Thorough, yet simple and clear; for sublimity 
 
 always is simple, 
 Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on 
 
 its meaning. 
 Even as the green-growing bud is unfolded 
 
 when spring-tide approaches, 
 Leaf by leaf is developed, and, warmed by the 
 
 radiant sunshine, 
 Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the 
 
 perfected blossom 
 Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its 
 
 crown in the breezes, — 
 So was unfolded here the Christian lore of sal- 
 vation, 
 Line by line, from the soul of childhood. The 
 
 fathers and mothers 
 Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at 
 
 each well worded answer. 
 
 Now went, the old man up to the altar ; — 
 and straightway transfigured 
 
 (So did it seem unto me) was then the affec- 
 tionate teacher. 
 
 L'.ke the Lord's prophet sublime, and awful as 
 Death and as Judgment, 
 
 Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul- 
 searcher, earthward descending. 
 
 Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts, that to 
 him were transparent, 
 
 Shot he ; his voice was deep, was low like the 
 
 thunder afar off". 
 So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he 
 
 spake and he questioned. 
 
 " This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith 
 the Apostles delivered; 
 This is, moreover, the faith whereunto I baptized 
 
 you, while still ye 
 Lay on your mothers' breasts, and nearer the 
 
 portals of heaven. 
 Slumbering received you then the Holy Church 
 
 in its bosom ; 
 Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light 
 
 in its radiant splendor 
 Rains from the heaven downward; — to-day 
 
 on the threshold of childhood 
 Kindly she frees you again, to examine and 
 
 make your election, 
 For she knows naught of compulsion, only 
 
 conviction desireth. 
 This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point 
 
 of existence, 
 Seed for the coming days ; without revocation 
 
 departeth 
 Now from your lips the confession ; bethink 
 
 ye before ye make answer ! 
 Think not, O, think not with guile to deceive 
 
 the questioning teacher ! 
 Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests 
 
 upon falsehood. 
 Enter not with a lie on life's journey ; the 
 
 multitude hears you, 
 Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear 
 
 upon earth is and holy 
 Standeth before your sight as a witness ; the 
 
 Judge Everlasting 
 Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels 
 
 in waiting beside him 
 Grave your confession, in letters of fire, upon 
 
 tablets eternal. 
 Thus, then, — believe ye in God, in the Father 
 
 who this world created ? 
 Him who redeemed it, the Son ? and the Spirit 
 
 where both are united ? 
 Will ye promise me here (a holy promise ! ) to 
 
 cherish 
 God more than all things earthly, and every 
 
 man as a brother ? 
 Will ye promise me here to confirm your faith 
 
 by your living, — 
 The heavenly faith of affection? — to hope, to 
 
 forgive, and to suffer, 
 Be what it may your condition, and walk before 
 
 God in uprightness ? 
 Will ye promise me this before God and man ? " 
 
 — With a clear voice 
 Answered the young men, Yes ! and Yes ! with 
 
 lips softly-breathing 
 Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved 
 
 from the brow of the teacher 
 Clouds with the thunders iherein, and he spake 
 
 on in accents more gentle, 
 Soft as the evening's breath, as harps by Baby 
 
 Ion's rivers. 
 
166 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 "Hail, then, hail to you all ! To the heir- 
 dom of heaven be ye welcome ! 
 Children no more from this day, but by cove- 
 nant brothers and sisters ! 
 Yet, — for what reason not children? Of such 
 
 is the kingdom of heaven. 
 Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in 
 
 heaven one Father, 
 Ruling them as his own household, — forgiving 
 
 in turn and chastising: 
 That is of human life a picture, as Scripture 
 
 has taught us. 
 Blessed are the pure before God ! Upon purity 
 
 and upon virtue 
 Resteth the Christian Faith ; she herself from 
 
 on high is descended. 
 Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum 
 
 of the doctrine 
 Which the Godlike delivered, and on the cross 
 
 suffered and died for. 
 O, as ye wander this day from childhood's 
 
 sacred asylum 
 Downward and ever downward, and deeper in 
 
 Age's chill valley, 
 O, how soon will ye come, — too soon! — and 
 
 long to turn backward 
 Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, 
 
 where Judgment 
 Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad 
 
 like a mother, 
 Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving 
 
 heart was forgiven, 
 Life was a play, and your hands grasped after 
 
 the roses of heaven ! 
 Seventy years have I lived already ; the Father 
 
 Eternal 
 Gave to me gladness and care ; but the loveliest 
 
 hours of existence, 
 When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I 
 
 have instantly known them, 
 Known them all, all again; — they were my 
 
 childhood's acquaintance. 
 Therefore take, from henceforth, as guides in 
 
 the paths of existence, 
 Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and 
 
 Innocence, bride of man's childhood. 
 Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the 
 
 world of the blessed, 
 Beautiful, and in her hand a lily ; on life's 
 
 roaring billows 
 Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not, in 
 
 the ship she is sleeping. 
 Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men ; 
 
 in the desert 
 Angels descend and minister unto her ; she 
 
 herself knoweth 
 Naught of her glorious attendance ; but follows 
 
 faithful and humble, 
 Follows, so long as she may, her friend ; O, do 
 
 not reject her, 
 For she cometh from God, and she holdeth the 
 
 keys of the heavens. — 
 Prayer is Innocence' friend ; and willingly fly- 
 
 eth incessant 
 
 'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon 
 
 of heaven. 
 Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, 
 
 the spirit 
 Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like 
 
 flames ever upward. 
 Still he recalls with emotion his Father's mani- 
 fold mansions, 
 Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blos- 
 somed more freshly the flowers, 
 Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played 
 
 with the winged angels. 
 Then grows the earth too narrow, too close ; and 
 
 homesick for heaven 
 Longs the wanderer again ; and the spirit's 
 
 longings are worship ; 
 Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and 
 
 its tongue is entreaty. 
 Ah ! when the infinite burden of life descend- 
 
 eth upon us, 
 Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, 
 
 in the grave-yard, — 
 Then it is good to pray unto God , for his sor- 
 rowing children 
 Turns he ne'er from his door, but he heals and 
 
 helps and consoles them. 
 Yet is it better to pray when all things are pros- 
 perous with us, 
 Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful 
 
 Fortune 
 Kneels down before the Eternal's throne; and, 
 
 with hands interfolded, 
 Praises thankful and moved the only giver of 
 
 blessings. 
 Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that 
 
 comes not from Heaven ? 
 What has mankind forsooth, the poor ! that it 
 
 has not received ? 
 Therefore fall in the dust and pray ! The ser 
 
 aphs adoring 
 Cover with pinions six their face in the glory 
 
 of him who 
 Hung his masonry pendent on naught, when 
 
 the world he created. 
 Earth declareth his might, and the firmament 
 
 uttereth his glory. 
 Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward 
 
 from heaven, 
 Downward like withered leaves ; at the last 
 
 stroke of midnight, millenniums 
 Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees 
 
 them, but counts them as nothing. 
 Who shall stand in his presence ? The wrath 
 
 of the Judge is terrific, 
 Casting the insolent down at a glance. When 
 
 he speaks in his anger, 
 Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap 
 
 like the roe-buck. 
 Yet, why are ye afraid, ye children ? This 
 
 awful avenger, 
 Ah ! is a merciful God ! God's voice was not 
 
 in the earthquake, 
 Not in the fire nor the storm, but it was in the 
 
 whispering breezes. 
 
TEGNER. 
 
 167 
 
 Love is the root of creation, — God's essence ; 
 
 worlds without number 
 Lie in his bosom like children ; he made them 
 
 for this purpose only. 
 Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed 
 
 forth his Spirit 
 Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, 
 
 it laid its 
 Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a 
 
 flame out of heaven. 
 Quench, O, quench not that flame ! It is the 
 
 breath of your being. 
 Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father, 
 
 nor mother 
 Loved you as God has loved you ; for 't was 
 
 that you may be happy 
 Gave he his only Son. When he bowed down 
 
 his head in the death-Jiour, 
 Solemnized Love its triumph ; the sacrifice then 
 
 was completed. 
 Lo ! then was rent on a sudden the vail of the 
 
 temple, dividing 
 Earth and heaven apart ; and the dead, from 
 
 their sepulchres rising, 
 Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears 
 
 of each other 
 The answer, but dreamed of before, to creation's 
 
 enigma, — Atonement ! 
 Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for 
 
 Love is Atonement. 
 Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the mer- 
 ciful Father ; 
 Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from 
 
 fear, but affection ; — 
 Fear is the virtue of slaves ; but the heart that 
 
 loveth is willing ; 
 Perfect was, before God, and perfect is Love, 
 
 and Love only. 
 Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest 
 
 thou likewise thy brethren ; 
 One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, 
 
 is Love also. 
 Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp 
 
 on his forehead ? 
 Readest thou not in his face thine origin ? Is 
 
 be not sailing, 
 Lost like thyself, on an ocean unknown, and is 
 
 he not guided 
 By the same stars that guide thee ? Why 
 
 shouldst thou hate, then, thy brother ? 
 Hateth he thee, forgive ! For 't is sweet to 
 
 stammer one letter 
 Of the Eternal's language; — on earth it is call- 
 ed Forgiveness ! 
 Knowest thou Him who forgave, with the 
 
 crown of thorns round his temples ? 
 Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murder- 
 ers ? Say, dost thou know him ? 
 Ah ! thou confessest his name, so follow like- 
 wise his example ; 
 Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil 
 
 over his failings ; 
 Guide the erring aright ; for the good, the 
 
 heavenly Shepherd 
 
 Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it 
 
 back to its mother. 
 This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits 
 
 that we know it. 
 Love is the creature's welfare, with God ; but 
 
 Love among mortals 
 Is but an endless sigh ! He longs, and endures, 
 
 and stands waiting, 
 Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears 
 
 on his eyelids. 
 Hope, — so is called upon earth his recom- 
 pense, — Hope, the befriending, 
 Does what she can, for she points evermore up 
 
 to heaven, and faithful 
 Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the 
 
 grave, and beneath it 
 Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a 
 
 sweet play of shadows ! 
 Races, better than we, have leaned on her 
 
 wavering promise, 
 Having naught else beside Hope. Then praise 
 
 we our Father in heaven, 
 Him who has given us more ; for to us has 
 
 Hope been illumined, 
 Groping no longer in night; she is Faith, she 
 
 is living assurance. 
 Faith is enlightened Hope ; she is light, is the 
 
 eye of affection, 
 Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves 
 
 their visions in marble. 
 Faith is the sun of life ; and her countenance 
 
 shines like the Prophet's, 
 For she has looked upon God ; the heaven on 
 
 its stable foundation 
 Draws she with chains down to earth, and the 
 
 New Jerusalem sinketh 
 Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors 
 
 descending. 
 There enraptured she wanders, and looks at the 
 
 figures majestic, 
 Fears not the winged crowd ; in the midst of 
 
 them all is her homestead. 
 Therefore love and believe ; for works will 
 
 follow spontaneous, 
 Even as day does the sun ; the Right from the 
 
 Good is an offspring, 
 Love in a bodily shape ; and Christian works 
 
 are no more than 
 Animate Love and Faith, as flowers are the ani- 
 mate spring-tide. 
 Works do follow us all unto God ; there stand 
 
 and bear witness 
 Not what they seemed, — but what they were, 
 
 only. Blessed is he who 
 Hears their confession secure ; they are mute 
 
 upon earth, until Death's hand 
 Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, 
 
 does Death e'er alarm you ? 
 Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is 
 
 he, and is only 
 More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips 
 
 that are fading 
 Takes he the soul and departs, and, rocked in 
 
 the arms of affection, 
 
163 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 Places the ransomed child, new-born, 'fore the 
 
 face of its Father. 
 Sounds of his coming already I hear, — see 
 
 dimly his pinions, 
 Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon 
 
 them ! I fear not before him. 
 Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. 
 
 On his bosom 
 Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast ; and, 
 
 face to face standing, 
 Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by 
 
 vapors ; 
 Look on the light of the ages I loved, the 
 
 spirits majestic, 
 Nobler, better than I ; they stand by the throne 
 
 all transfigured, 
 Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and 
 
 are singing an anthem, 
 Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language 
 
 spoken by angels. 
 You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he 
 
 one day shall gather, 
 Never forgets he the weary; — then welcome, 
 
 ye loved ones, hereafter ! 
 Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, 
 
 forget not the promise ; 
 Wander from holiness onward to holiness ; earth 
 
 shall ye heed not ; 
 Earth is but dust, and heaven is light ; I have 
 
 pledged you to heaven. 
 God of the Universe, hear me ! thou Fountain 
 
 of Love everlasting, 
 Hark to the voice of thy servant ! I send up 
 
 my prayer to thy heaven ! 
 Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one 
 
 spirit of all these 
 Whom thou hast given me here ! I have loved 
 
 them all like a father. 
 May they bear witness for me, that I taught 
 
 them the way of salvation, 
 Faithful, so far as I knew of thy word ; again 
 
 may they know me, 
 Fall on their teacher's breast, and before thy 
 
 face may I place them 
 Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and 
 
 exclaiming with gladness, 
 ' Father, lo ! I am here, and the children, whom 
 
 thou hast given me ! ' " 
 
 Weeping, he spake in these words ; and 
 now, at the beck of the old man, 
 
 Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round 
 the altar's enclosure. 
 
 Kneeling, he read then the prayers of the con- 
 secration, and softly 
 
 With him the children read ; at the close, with 
 tremulous accents, 
 
 Asked he the peace of Heaven, a benediction 
 upon them. — 
 
 Now should have ended his task for the day ; 
 the following Sunday 
 
 Was for ths young appointed to eat of the 
 Lord's holy Supper. 
 
 Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the 
 teacher silent, and laid his 
 
 Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks up- 
 ward ; while thoughts high and holy 
 
 Flew through the midst of his soul, and his 
 eyes glanced with wonderful brightness. 
 
 "On the next Sunday, — who knows? — per 
 haps I shall rest in the grave-yard ! 
 
 Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken 
 untimely, 
 
 Bow down his head to the earth ! Why delay 
 I ? The hour is accomplished ; 
 
 Warm is the heart. I will so ! for to-day grows 
 the harvest of heaven. 
 
 What I began accomplish I now ; for what fail- 
 ing therein is 
 
 I, the old man, will answer to God and the 
 reverend father. 
 
 Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new- 
 come in heaven, 
 
 Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of 
 Atonement? 
 
 What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I 
 have told it you often. 
 
 Of the new covenant a symbol it is, of Atone- 
 ment a token, 
 
 'Stablished between earth and heaven. Man 
 by his sins and transgressions 
 
 Far has wandered from God, from his essence 
 'T was in the beginning 
 
 Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it 
 hangs its crown o'er the 
 
 Fall to this day ; in the Thought is the Fall ; 
 in the Heart the Atonement. 
 
 Infinite is the Fall, the Atonement infinite like- 
 wise. 
 
 See ! behind me, as far as the old man remem- 
 bers, and forward, 
 
 Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her 
 wearied pinions, 
 
 Sin and Atonement incessant go through the 
 lifetime of mortals. 
 
 Brought forth is Sin full-grown ; but Atonement 
 sleeps in our bosoms, 
 
 Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams of heav- 
 en and of angels, 
 
 Cannot awake to sensation ; is like the tones 
 in the harp's strings, 
 
 Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the de- 
 liverer's finger. 
 
 Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the 
 Prince of Atonement, 
 
 Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands 
 now with eyes all resplendent, 
 
 Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with 
 Sin and o'ercomes her. 
 
 Downward to earth he came and transfigured, 
 thence reascended ; 
 
 Not from the heart in like wise, for there he 
 still lives in the Spirit, 
 
 Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time 
 is, is Atonement. 
 
 Therefore with reverence receive this day her 
 visible token. 
 
 Tokens are dead, if the things do not live. The 
 light everlasting 
 
TEGNER. 
 
 Lb9 
 
 Unto the blind man is not, but is born of the 
 
 eye that has vision. 
 Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart 
 
 that is hallowed, 
 Lieth forgiveness enshrined; the intention alone 
 
 of amendment 
 Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, 
 
 and removes all 
 Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with 
 
 his arms wide extended, 
 Penitence weeping and praying, the Will that 
 
 is tried, and whose gold flows 
 Purified forth from the flames ; in a word, man- 
 kind by Atonement 
 Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh 
 
 Atonement's wine-cup. 
 But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with 
 
 hate in his bosom, 
 Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's 
 
 blessed body 
 And the Redeemer's blood ! To himself he 
 
 eateth and drinketh 
 Death and doom ! And from this preserve us, 
 
 thou heavenly Father ! 
 Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread 
 
 of Atonement? " 
 Thus with emotion he asked, and together an- 
 swered the children, 
 Yes ! with deep sobs interrupted. Then read 
 
 he the due supplications, 
 Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed 
 
 the organ and anthem : 
 " O Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our 
 
 transgressions, 
 Hear us ! give us thy peace ! have mercy, have 
 
 mere)' upon us ! " 
 The old man, with trembling hand, and heav- 
 enly pearls on his eyelids, 
 Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt 
 
 round the mystical symbols. 
 O, then seemed it to me, as if God, with the 
 
 broad eye of mid-day, 
 Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the 
 
 trees in the churchyard 
 Bowed down their summits of green, and the 
 
 grass on the graves 'gan to shiver ! 
 But in the children (I noted it well; I knew 
 
 it) there ran a 
 Tremor of holy rapture along through their 
 
 icy-cold members. 
 Decked like an altar before them, there stood 
 
 the green earth, and above it 
 Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen; 
 
 there saw they 
 Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right 
 
 hand the Redeemer. 
 Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, 
 
 and angel3 from gold clouds 
 Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with 
 
 their pinions of purple. 
 
 Closed was the teacher's task, and with 
 heaven in their hearts and their faces 
 Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, 
 weeping full sorely, 
 22 
 
 Downward to kiss that reverend hand ; but all 
 
 of them pressed he, 
 Moved, to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, 
 
 his hands full of blessings, 
 Now on the holy breast, and now on the inno 
 
 cent tresses. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM AXEL. 
 THE VETERAN. 
 
 I love the old heroic times 
 
 Of Charles the Twelfth, our country's glory, 
 And deem them fittest for the scenes 
 
 Of stern or tender story ; 
 For he was blithe as Peace may be, 
 Yet boisterous as Victory. 
 Even now, on high, there glide, 
 •Up and down, at eventide, 
 Mighty men, like those of old, 
 With frocks of blue and belts of gold 
 O, reverently I gaze upon 
 
 Those soldier spirits clad in light, 
 And hold as things most wonderful 
 
 Their coats of buff and swords of giant height 
 
 One of his oldest veterans 
 
 I knew before my boyhood's prime; 
 He seemed like some triumphal pillar, 
 
 .Undermined by Time. 
 The scars along his forehead were 
 Like sculptures on a sepulchre ; 
 There flowed behind that old man's ears 
 The silver of a hundred years ; 
 
 'T was all that old man had. 
 The stranger, gazing on his door, 
 Might sigh to think on one so poor ; 
 But Time had trained his soul, and he 
 Had shaken hands with Poverty ; 
 
 He was nor sick, nor sad. 
 With two possessions, all his pride, 
 Yet dearer than the world beside, — 
 The sword that earned his soldier fame, 
 A Bible, with King Charles's name, — 
 He lived, beneath a forest's shade, 
 Within a hut, himself had made, 
 
 And fancied like a tent. 
 And all that Sweden's hero did, 
 Of valor praised, or craven chid, 
 
 Or Cossack foeman bent, — 
 That now the child who runs may read 
 (For Fame, the Eagle, flew with speed), — 
 Were stored within that soldier's mind, 
 Each in their own heroic kind, 
 Like monumental urns beneath 
 A barrow in the field of death. 
 Oft as he told of toils gone through, 
 For Charles and his dragoons of blue, 
 That soldier seemed to rise in height, 
 Flashed from his eyes unwonted light, 
 And all his gestures, all his words, 
 Sprang out like flame from Swedish swords 
 Why say, that, in the winter nights, 
 He loved to tell his former fights ; 
 And, grateful, only spoke to praise 
 King Charles ; and never failed to raise, 
 O 
 
170 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 When mention of his name was made, 
 
 His rimless hat and torn cockade ? 
 
 My infant height scarce reached his knees, 
 
 And yet I loved his histories. 
 
 His sunken cheek and wrinkled brow 
 
 Have lived with me from then till now, 
 
 And, with his stories strange and true, 
 
 Keep rising in my mind anew ; 
 
 Like snowdrop bells, that wait to blow 
 
 Beneath the winter's shielding snow. 
 
 KING CHARLES'S GUARD. 
 
 He was of Charles's body-guard, 
 Swedish soldiers' best reward ; 
 Seven in number, like the train 
 Of sister stars in King Charles's Wain ; 
 Or nine at most, as the maidens be 
 Who weave the songs of Eternity. 
 They were trained to scorn of death, 
 
 And tried by fire and steel and blood, 
 And hardened, by their Christian faith, 
 
 Beyond the Viking hardihood 
 Of their sires, that, first and free, 
 Ploughed with keels the subject sea. 
 
 They lay to sleep on turf or plank, 
 With northern winds for lullaby, 
 And curtained by the colder sky, 
 
 As softly as on mossy bank. 
 Little they cared for the flames' red aid, 
 Save for the sake of the cannonade, 
 Casting light as fierce and dun 
 As a winter's blood-red sun. 
 They deemed no battle lost or won 
 To lesser odds than seven to one ; 
 And then retreated, soft and slow, 
 With their faces to the foe. 
 But harsher laws than these, I ween, 
 Lay upon those hardened men : 
 Never to look on a maiden's eye, 
 Never turn ear to a maiden's sigh, 
 Never to heed the sweet words she said, 
 Ere Charles, that cold, stern chief was wed. 
 No matter how soft voices strove 
 To match the music of the grove ; 
 How lips might mock the rosebud's hue, 
 How eyes, the violets steeped in dew ; 
 How breasts might heave for love's sweet sake, 
 Like floating swan on silver lake, — 
 Vain were eyes, and breasts, and words ; 
 They were wedded to their swords. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Love ! our being's waking bliss ' 
 Spirit garb of Happiness ! 
 Heaven's halo, sent to shine 
 O'er a world no more divine ! 
 Na.ure's heart, whose choicest measure 
 Beats in time to promised pleasure ; 
 Drop to drop, within the ocean ; 
 
 Star to star, in heaven above, 
 Moving, with harmonious motion, 
 
 Round the sun they love ; 
 
 Brotherhood and Sympathv 
 Are the laws that flow from thee. 
 Love ! that art, within the mind 
 Of our erring, hapless kind, 
 Even this, — a recollection 
 Of a holier affection, 
 
 Born in heaven ; fairest then, 
 With the silver chaplets round it 
 Of the singing stars that bound it, 
 Then nestled on its father's breast, 
 With angel-wings to shade its rest, — 
 
 Reflected last on men. 
 Ere then, as rich as Thought, as fair 
 As minstrel-dreams, its speech was Prayer 
 Its kindred sweet, those forms that bless 
 This world with their own loveliness; 
 And fill the sense with music, flung 
 From harps unearthly, Spirit-strung. 
 What if it fell to mix with men, 
 And none must feel it pure again ? 
 At some sweet times, it seems to wear 
 The seraph-robes that erst it bare ; 
 At some sweet times, its whispers come 
 Like echoes from its heavenly home, 
 
 When heart meets heart, and life is love 
 The breath that fans the spring's blue sky 
 The minstrel's magic melody, 
 
 In such soft numbers move; 
 But liker still, for that they be 
 Themselves the brood of Memory, 
 Those recollected distant chants 
 Of homes for which the Switzer pants ; 
 That raise beneath the tropic's glow 
 His old, familiar Alpine snow. 
 
 PER DANIEL AMADEUS ATTERBOM 
 
 This poet is the son of a country clergyman, 
 and was born at Abo, in 1790. After com- 
 pleting his college education at Upsala, inspired 
 with the love of German literature, he estab- 
 lished, in 1810, a monthly periodical, called 
 " Phosphorus," in which open war was declared 
 against the French school of poetry. This war 
 was carried on with unabated vigor for many 
 years, and Atterbom was always kept in the 
 field, as one of the prominent champions of the 
 German, or Romantic, school. In 1817—18, 
 he travelled through Germany, Italy, and Den- 
 mark ; and on his return, in 1819, was appoint- 
 ed tutor of the German language and literature 
 to the Crown Prince. In 1824, he was appoint- 
 ed Adjunct Professor of Philosophy, and, in 
 1828, Professor of Metaphysics, in the Univer 
 sity of Upsala. His principal poetic work is 
 entitled " Lycksalighetens 6 " (the Island of the 
 Blest), a dramatic romance in five adventures. 
 The following analysis and extract are taken 
 from the " Foreign Review and Continental 
 Miscellany," No. IV. 
 
 " Asdolf, a Northern king, wearied by the 
 monotony of life, longs for some adventurous 
 deviation from his daily round of duties and 
 
ATTERBOM. 
 
 171 
 
 amusements. He has an indistinct idea that 
 he may somewhere find a state of unalloyed fe- 
 licity, and is impatient to discover it ; for which 
 purpose he defers his union with Svanhvit, a 
 young and amiable princess, to whom he is be- 
 trothed. At length this restless wish is gratifi- 
 ed. On one of his hunting parties, he finds the 
 haunt of Anemotis, Mother of the Winds, and 
 there meets with Zephyr, who wafts him to the 
 Island of the Blest, where the fair Felicia reigns 
 as queen. At first sight, she believes the stran- 
 ger to be a wonderful bird (the phoenix), of 
 which many strange accounts had been related 
 to her; but Asdolf soon dispels this notion, and, 
 forgetting earth, with all its ties, asks and ob- 
 tains Felicia's hand in marriage. They pass 
 three hundred years in mutual bliss, though to 
 Asdolf the time has appeared only so many 
 minutes, when he is unfortunately awakened to 
 the recollection of his earthly life, which, not- 
 withstanding the caresses of Felicia, he deter- 
 mines to resume. Finding his resolution im- 
 movable, she gives him a splendid equipment, 
 with sundry spells and amulets, in order to 
 insure his safe return, when he sets out on a 
 winged horse, of the highest mettle, and arrives 
 on earth with wondrous expedition. As will 
 be readily conceived, his majesty finds matters 
 marvellously altered from what they were at 
 the period of his departure. His own subjects 
 are much infected with revolutionary notions of 
 general equality ; and our hero, being a high au- 
 tocrat, is disgusted by this manifestation of new- 
 fangled feeling. He fails, however, in his en- 
 deavours to restore the customs of ' the olden 
 time,' and resolves on returning to Felicia and 
 the Island of the Blest ; but on his way back, 
 being beguiled by the artifices of Time, who, 
 disguised as an infirm old man, allures him from 
 his horse, he loses the charm of fadeless youth, 
 which had been bestowed on him in the island, 
 and which, during his earthly journey, depend- 
 ed on his possession of the horse intrusted to 
 him by Felicia. Time then seizes and stifles 
 him, and his faithful friend the Zephyr carries 
 the corse to the Island of the Blest, when Fe- 
 licia, for the first time, discovers that happiness 
 is nowhere truly lasting. Unable with all her 
 art to restore life to her beloved, she resolves 
 to watch his body unceasingly, when her moth- 
 er, Nyx (Night), shows her the region of eternal 
 bliss, and Thanatos (Death), lighting his torch, 
 leads her to eternal day. 
 
 " The. pervading idea of this poem would ap- 
 pear to be, that death, as the metamorphosis of 
 the human being, is necessary, in order to con- 
 duct it to immortal bliss, and that the search 
 for happiness in earthly life is vain and unpro- 
 ductive. This the author has represented in 
 his romantic and didactic drama, amplifying 
 and illustrating, in much beautiful poetry, what 
 Fouque has finely said in the following lines : 
 
 " 'Man seht aus Nacht in Sonne, 
 Man ffeht aus Graus in Wonne, 
 Aus Toil in Leben ein.' 
 
 " The drama is divided into five adventures 
 The first is ' The Aerial Journey,' when Asdolf 
 is carried by Zephyr to the Happy Island ; the 
 second, ' Love,' when Felicia is united to As- 
 dolf (a masterly erotic effusion, of almost South- 
 ern coloring) ; the third, 'The Farewell,' when 
 Asdolf sets forth on his return to earth (this is 
 by far the weakest part of the poem ; the author 
 puzzles himself and his readers with politics, 
 and proves that they are by no means his prov- 
 ince) ; the fifth, ' The Return,' treating of As- 
 dolf 's death, and the final destruction of the 
 Happy Island." 
 
 EXTRACT FROM THE ISLAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 svanhvit (alone in her chamber). 
 No Asdolf yet, — in vain and everywhere 
 Hath he been sought for, since his foaming steed, 
 At morn, with vacant saddle, stood before 
 The lofty staircase, in the castle yard. 
 His drooping crest, and wildly rolling eye, 
 And limbs with frenzied terror quivering, 
 All seemed as though the midnight fiends had 
 
 urged 
 His swiftest flight, through many a wood and 
 
 plain. 
 O Lord ! that know'st what he hath witnessed 
 
 there, 
 Wouldst thou but give one single speaking sound 
 Unto the faithful creature's silent tongue, 
 That momentary voice would be, for me, 
 A call to life, or summons to the grave. 
 
 [She goes to the window. 
 And yet what childish fears are these ! How oft 
 Hath not my Asdolf boldest feats achieved 
 And ever home returned, unharmed and beauti-; 
 
 ful! 
 Yes, beautiful, alas ! like this cold flower 
 That proudly glances on the frosty pane. 
 Short is the violet's, short the cowslip's spring; — 
 The frost-flowers live far longer ; cold as they 
 The beautiful should be, that it may share 
 The splendor of the light without its heat; 
 For else the sun of life must soon dissolve 
 The hard, cold, shining pearls to liquid tears: 
 And tears — flow fast away. 
 
 [She breathes on the window. 
 Become transparent, thou fair Asdolf-flower, 
 That I may look into the vale beneath ! 
 There lies the city, — Asdolf 's capital. — 
 How wondrously the spotless vest of snow 
 On roof, and mount, and market-place now 
 
 smiles 
 A glittering welcome to the morning sun, 
 Whose blood-red beams shed beauty on the 
 
 earth ! 
 The Bride of Sacrifice makes no lament, 
 But smiles in silence, — knowing sadly well 
 That she is slighted, and that he, who could 
 Call forth her spring, doth not, but rather dwells 
 In other climes, where lavishly he pours 
 His fond embracing beams, while she, alas! 
 In wintry shade and lengthened loneliness 
 
L72 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 Cold on the solitary couch reclines. — 
 
 [After a pause. 
 What countless paths wind down, from divers 
 
 points, 
 To yonder city gates ! — O, wilt not thou, 
 My star, appear to me on one of them? 
 Whate'er I said, — thou art my worshipped sun. 
 Then pardon me ; — thou art not cold ; — O, no ! 
 Too warm, too glowing warm, art thou for me. 
 Yet thus it is ! Thy being's music has 
 A thousand chords with thousand varying tones, 
 Whilst I but one poor sound can offer thee 
 Of tenderness and truth. At times, indeed, 
 This, too, may have its power ; — but then it lasts 
 One and the same for ever, sounding still 
 Unalterably like itself alone ; 
 A wordless prayer to God for what we love, 
 'T is more a whisper than a sound, and charms 
 Like new-mown meadows, when the grass ex- 
 hales 
 Sweet fragrance to the foot that tramples it. 
 Kings, heroes, towering spirits among men, 
 Rush to their aim on wild and stormy wings, 
 And far beneath them view the world, whose 
 
 form 
 For ever varies on from hour to hour. 
 What would they ask of love ? That, volatile, 
 In changeful freshness it may charm their ears 
 With proud, triumphant songs, when high in air 
 Victorious banners wave; or sweetly lull 
 To rapturous repose, when round them roars 
 The awful thunder's everlasting voice ! 
 Mute, mean, and spiritless to them must seem 
 The maid who is no more than woman. How 
 Should she o'er-sound the storm their wings 
 have raised ? — 
 
 [Sitting down. 
 Great Lord ! how lonely I become within 
 These now uncheerful towers ! O'er all the 
 
 earth 
 No shield have I, — no mutual feeling left ! 
 'T is true that those around me all are kind, 
 And well I know they love me, — more, in- 
 deed, 
 Than my poor merits claim. Yet, even though 
 They raised me to my Asdolf 's royal throne, 
 As being the last of all his line, — ah, me ! 
 No solace could it bring ; — for then far less 
 Might I reveal the sorrow of my soul ! 
 A helpless maiden's tears like rain-drops fall, 
 Which in a July night, ere harvest-time, 
 Bedew the flowers, and, trembling, stand within 
 Their half-closed eyes unnumbered and un- 
 known. 
 
 [She rises. 
 Yet One there is, who counts the maiden's 
 
 tears ; — 
 But when will their sad number be fulfilled? — 
 
 [Walking to and fro. 
 How calm was I in former days ! — I now 
 Am so no more ! My heart beats heavily, . 
 Oppressed within its prison-cave. Ah ! fain 
 Would I that it might burst its bonds, so that 
 T were conscious Asdolf, I sometimes had 
 seemed 
 
 Not all unworthy in thine eyes. 
 
 [She takes the guitar. 
 A gentle friend — the Master from Vallandia — 
 Has taught me how I may converse with tiiee, 
 Thou cherished token of my Asdolf 's love ! 
 I have been told of far-off lakes, around 
 Whose shores the cypress and the willow wave, 
 And make a mournful shade above the stream, 
 Which, dark, and narrow on the surface, swells 
 Broad and unfathomably deep below ; — 
 From those dark lakes at certain times, and 
 
 most 
 On Sabbath morns and eves of festivals, 
 Uprising from the depths, is heard a sound 
 Most strange and wild, as of the tuneful bells 
 Of churches and of castles long since sunk-, 
 And, as the wanderer's steps approach the shoie, 
 He hears more plainly the lamenting tone 
 Of the dark waters, whilst the surface still 
 Continues motionless and calm, and seems 
 To listen with a melancholy joy, 
 While thus the swelling depths resound. 
 So let me strive to soften and subdue 
 My heart's dark swelling with a soothful song. 
 [She plays and sings. 
 
 " The maiden bound her hunting-net 
 At morning fresh and fair — " 
 
 Ah, no ! that lay doth ever make me grieve. 
 Another, then ! that of the hapless flower, 
 Surprised by frost and snow in early spring. 
 
 [Sings. 
 Hush thee, O, hush thee, 
 Slumber from snow and stormy sky, 
 
 Lovely and lone one ! 
 Now is the time for thee to die, 
 When vale and streamlet frozen lie. 
 Hush thee, O, hush thee ! 
 
 Hours hasten onward; — 
 For thee the last will soon be o'er. 
 
 Rest thee, O, rest thee ! 
 Flowers have withered thus before, — 
 And, my poor heart, what wouldstthou more.' 
 
 Rest thee, O, rest thee ! 
 
 Shadows should darkly 
 Enveil thy past delights and woes. 
 
 Forget, O, forget them ! 
 'T is thus that eve its shadow throws ; 
 But now, in noiseless night's repose, 
 
 Forget, O, forget them ! 
 
 Slumber, O, slumber ! 
 No friend hast thou like kindly snovj , 
 
 Sleep is well for thee, 
 For whom no second spring will blow; — 
 Then why, poor heart, still beating so ? 
 
 Slumber, O, slumber ! 
 
 Hush thee, O, hush thee ! 
 Resign thy life-breath in a sigh, 
 
 Listen no longer, 
 Life bids farewell to thee, — then die ! 
 Sad one, good night ! — in sweet sleep lie ! 
 
 Hush thee, O, hush thee ! 
 
ATTERBOM. — STAGNELIUS. 
 
 173 
 
 [She bursts into tears. 
 Would now that I might bid adieu to life ; 
 But, ah ! no voice to me replies, " Sleep well ! " 
 
 THE HYACINTH.* 
 
 The heart's blood am I of expiring strength, 
 
 Engraved on mine urn is its cry. 
 My dark glowing pangs, to thee are they known ? 
 Art thou, too, a stranger 'mid life's shadows 
 thrown, 
 
 Deceived by its dreamery ? 
 Learn that youth-giving joy to the stars alone 
 
 Was allotted ! Their youth in the sky 
 With circling dances they celebrate, 
 And our steps from the cradle illuminate 
 To the grave. 
 
 Why longer endeavours thine earnest glance 
 
 To a merciless Heaven to pray ? 
 An adamant door bars its tower of light ; 
 To earth's abyss from its dizzying height 
 
 What bridge may open a way ? 
 There Blessedness, Truth, may be throned in 
 might ; 
 
 But thou, canst thou destiny sway ? 
 Of suffering only can dust be secure ; 
 Who rises, thy happier lot to insure, 
 From the grave ? 
 
 Hope points, indeed, to a verdant shore, 
 
 Where the beautiful Sirens sing, 
 And waken their harps, while bright shines the 
 
 sun ; 
 But the bone-whitened coast shows where mur- 
 der is done, 
 And treachery dwells on each string. 
 Illusions, on distaffs of Nomas spun, 
 
 To the feeble distraction bring : 
 He is wise who disdains to fear or implore ; 
 But wisest he who desires nothing more 
 Than a grave. 
 
 Yet within thee, to battle with time and fate, 
 
 There blazes a fire divine : 
 Whate'er 's evanescent its flame shall consume ; 
 And if clouded the course of the planets in 
 gloom, 
 Thy star on the conflict shall shine ; 
 And soon shall the long, happy night of the 
 tomb, 
 With peace and her laurels, be thine. 
 He, whose bosom of heaven and hell holds the 
 
 fires, 
 Suffices himself, and no solace requires 
 But the grave. 
 
 ERIC JOHAN STAGNELIUS. 
 
 The most signal specimen of a genius at 
 once precocious and productive, which the an- 
 nals of Swedish literature afford, is Stagnelius. 
 
 * The old Greek fable makes the Hyacinth spring from 
 he blood of Aiax. 
 
 He died at the age of thirty, but has left behind 
 him three epic poems, — one of which, though 
 never completed, was written at the age of 
 eighteen, — five tragedies, and seven other dra- 
 matic sketches, and a very large collection of 
 elegies, sonnets, psalms, ballads, and miscella- 
 neous lyrics ; making, in all, three large octavo 
 volumes, written in the space of twelve years, 
 and marked with the impress of a high poetic 
 genius. 
 
 Stagnelius was the son of a parish priest in 
 Oland (afterwards bishop of Kalmar), and was 
 born in 1793. He studied first at the Uni- 
 versity of Lund, and then at Upsala, where, 
 upon passing his examination in 1814, he was 
 made clerk in the Department of Ecclesiastical 
 Affairs. This, or some similar office, he held 
 until his death, in 1823. His brief exist- 
 ence, though completely barren of incident, 
 was rich in intellectual achievements. " Stag- 
 nelius," says a writer in the " Foreign Re- 
 view " (No. I.), " was one of those truly poetic 
 beings, to whom Goethe's beautiful comparison, 
 likening the life of a poet to the gentle, ever- 
 working existence of the silkworm, may be 
 justly applied. He was so thoroughly a poet, 
 that all his thoughts, words, deeds, and even 
 his errors and excesses, bore the stamp of poetic 
 impulse. He is remarkable for a strain of deep 
 melancholy, a profound mystical intuition of 
 life and nature, and a longing for the moment 
 when the imprisoned anima might burst its 
 earthly tenement, and soar to the pleroma, as he 
 terms it, — the purer regions of celestial air. 
 These sentiments, cherished by the philosophy 
 of Schelling, and the Gnostic doctrines of the 
 Nazarenes, contained in the " Adam's Book," * 
 distinguished the poems of Stagnelius from all 
 that we have seen of Swedish poetry. Among 
 foreign poets, we can only compare him with 
 the German Novalis. Both thought they saw 
 in this visible world merely the symbolic ex- 
 pression of a more ecstatic order of things, and 
 both were early summoned to those blissful 
 regions after which they so fervently aspired, — 
 whose bright effulgence seems to have en- 
 chanted their mental gaze, while yet inhabitants 
 of earth." 
 
 To this article the reader is referred for a 
 more detailed account of the writings of Stag- 
 nelius. 
 
 FROM THE TRAGEDY OF THE MARTYRS. 
 
 EMILIA AND PERPETTJA. 
 
 EMILrA. 
 
 If that thou love me, wherefore not intr ist 
 Thy sorrows and thy pleasures to my bosom > 
 Confidence is the holy aliment 
 That nourishes the fire of tender feeling, 
 As the lamp's flame by Pallas' oil is fed. 
 
 * Edited by the late Dr. Norberg, the famous Swe.lisV 
 Orientalist, and published at Lund. 
 o2 
 
174 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 Believe me, he, who, silent, visionary, 
 Shuts up within himself his joy and grief, 
 Naught but self-love within his bosom kindles. 
 For even as the fire will in its eddy 
 Whirl up towards heaven whatever owns its 
 
 power ; 
 As iron, by the magnet's witchery 
 Attracted, will forsake its resting-place ; 
 So tenderness, wherever found, rests not, 
 Until united to its likeness. Where, 
 O, where are fled those former happy days, 
 When in thy laughing eye each new-born 
 
 thought 
 I read ? — when into a fond mother's breast 
 Thy hopes and fears, thy weal and woe were 
 
 poured ? 
 Now, bathed in tears, a gloomy wanderer 
 I find thee evermore. Thou sufferest; — 
 May not thy mother with thee mourn ? Is she 
 Unworthy to compassionate her child 3 
 
 PERPETUA. 
 
 Mother, I suffer not ! O, couldst thou know 
 The blessedness of tears ! Not sweeter falls, 
 I' th' hour of evening's crimson glow, the dew 
 On Syria's nardus-rose. The myrrh-tree's sweat- 
 drops 
 In Saba's groves less precious are than tears. 
 
 Ay, truly, they yield solace ; but that solace 
 
 By burning agony must be preceded ; 
 
 Their balm, Fate's sun, with scorching noontide 
 
 rays, 
 Expresses. Hapless child, thou sufferest ! 
 Strive not to laugh, — a ghost-like laughter only 
 Hovers round thy cold lips. 
 
 PERPETUA. 
 
 Alas ! this earth 
 
 Deserves not gladness. Like the butterfly 
 That has outlived the rose's day of bliss, 
 Our soul on dusky pinions here below 
 Round deserts flies, pining incessantly. 
 
 EMILIA. 
 
 My daughter, others praise life's plenteousness ; 
 Why pinest thou alone ? Youth's cup for thee 
 Still mantles, and each wafture of heaven's 
 
 breath 
 Should pleasure thee. Thou lovest not. Lo ! 
 
 this, 
 The single reason of thy melancholy. 
 Love, and be happy ! With a hundred tongues 
 Nature exhorts thee thus. Obey her voice ! 
 The hand of Death quenched thy first nuptial 
 
 torch : 
 Venus for thee superior bliss prepares 
 T th' second's light. O, bid her kindle it, 
 And by its golden beams begin a new 
 Olympian life ! Cornelius loves thee. Yet 
 In life's mid season, like the stately palm 
 He blooms, and Fortune dwells in his proud 
 
 halls. 
 Present him with thy hand at Hymen's altar, 
 
 And bid the Fates spin a rose-colored thread 
 Of many joyful years for both of you. 
 
 PERPETUA. 
 
 O, I conjure you, utter not a word 
 
 Of earthly happiness, of earthly love ! 
 
 Not theirs to satisfy the soul ; — I know them 
 
 O, force me not on my heart's higher longings 
 
 To act a murder, and false sacrifices 
 
 Offer to gods whose impotence I 've proved ! 
 
 EMILIA. 
 
 Wilt thou, then, daughter, haughtily reject 
 Each solace proffered by a mother's heart ? 
 Like the. delusive light in forest shades, 
 Fli'st thou injuriously our outstretched arms ! 
 Then let my tenderness no longer speak, 
 But mine upbraidings storm thy soul ! Now hear, 
 And answer. Wherefore dost thou thus forsake 
 Thy mother's home, thy father's ancient halls ? 
 Wherefore dost thou no longer celebrate 
 Our yearly festivals ? no longer crown 
 Our household gods with rosemary and myrtle, 
 Or offer holy salt on their chaste altars ? 
 Hast thou thy heart changed with thy residence, 
 And to the house that sheltered thee in child- 
 hood 
 Does no soft fire now draw thy soul ? Have all 
 The rosy recollections of thy youth 
 Fled with the hours' still circling dance ? 
 
 PERPETUA. 
 
 My heart 
 
 God sees, and in high heaven hears the sighs 
 
 I for your welfare breathe. 
 
 EMILIA. 
 
 With fiction's blossoms 
 
 Thou 'dst decorate the winter of thy heart. 
 
 Like serpent amidst roses does thy soul 
 
 Conceal itself. Thou breathe a sigh for us 
 
 To Heaven ? No ! The cloudy heights, to which 
 
 In solitary piety thou prayest, 
 
 For us have only wrath and thunderbolts. 
 
 grievous word, die not upon my lips ! 
 Infernal thought, embody thee in sound ! 
 
 Let it howl mournful as the north wind's sigh 
 In forest, or owl's hoot from moss-clad grave ! 
 Come hither, daughter ! Look into mine eyes. 
 Traitress, come hither ! Sink not to the ground 
 Like vapor; what thou thinkest in night eternal 
 To hide, before thy mother's gaze severe 
 It lies unveiled. Wretched one, thou 'rt a 
 Christian ! 
 
 PERPETUA. 
 
 O, woe is me, unhappy, that myself 
 
 1 was not first mine honor to proclaim ! 
 Yes, mother, I 'm a Christian. Holy waves 
 Have purified my soul ; from darkness' errors 
 The blessed mystery of the high Cross 
 
 Has called me to the path of light and truth. 
 The hidden manna I 've already tasted 
 That feeds the soul in deserts ; I have gathered 
 The golden fruit, in Eden's morning dew, 
 
STAGNELIUS. 
 
 175 
 
 That shines seraphically o'er life's stream. 
 O, grudge not to thy daughter her delight, 
 But share thyself her happiness, her glory ! 
 
 EMILIA. 
 
 Alas ! What sorceress from Thessalian huts 
 Has with her witcheries bewildered thee ? 
 What dream, of subterranean vapors formed, 
 Deceives thy heart? Which of the Eumenides 
 Has lured thee criminally to abandon 
 Thy childhood's faith, thy maidhood's golden 
 gods ? 
 
 PERPETOA. 
 
 Those gods are visionary, and the poets 
 Say truly, that by Night, black, desolate, 
 Void, unexisting Night, they were engendered. 
 
 cruel daughter, that into her grave 
 Precipitat'st thy mother ! Ne'er believe 
 
 1 can survive thee. Thou 'it the sun, whose rays 
 Of softened purple brighten my late autumn 
 And open life's last flowers of gladsomeness. 
 If thou art lost, what should remain for me 
 Save Death's cold winter night and sleep eternal? 
 
 Believe as likes thee, but conceal thy faith. 
 
 PERPETUA. 
 
 Thy tender counsel I may not obey ; 
 
 Thou biddest me against my conscience act : 
 
 Believe, and own thy faith, are life's conditions. 
 
 Have mercy on the heart that throbbed for thee 
 Whilst thine was yet unmoved ! O, turn again ! 
 Be as thou wast of yore ! 
 
 PERPETUA. 
 
 Thou, who in sorrow 
 To sorrow bor'st me, and a deathful life, 
 Take back thy gift ! I to the sacrifice 
 Offer me willingly 
 
 O God ! amongst the many habitations 
 
 That shine above, the thousand rose-formed 
 
 bowers 
 In Paradise, is there no place for her? 
 
 MARCION AND EUBULUS. 
 
 In the vale of Tiber, 
 Near to the gates of high and awful Rome, 
 There dwelt a saint. The humble hut still 
 
 stands, 
 Covered with weeds and shaded by tall pines, 
 In which she spent her earthly life, — alone 
 Her earthly life ; for, soaring far above 
 The crystal vault of stars, that purer flame 
 Of life, which earth could not retain, was borne 
 
 Unto the Tabernacle's kindred rays. 
 
 A maid she was as daylight chaste and fair, 
 
 Pure as the jewel in the kingly crown, 
 
 Spotless and beautiful as is the lily. 
 
 Her name was Theodora. Blessed within 
 
 That humble hut's obscurity, the care 
 
 Of Christian parents watched her infant steps, 
 
 And trained her for the heritage of light. 
 
 The sun of all creation's systems gave 
 
 To her a glorious growth, and yet in spring 
 
 The plant bore golden fruits, purpureal blooms 
 
 For God alone the maiden's bosom burned ; 
 
 And ever, when upon the eastern hills 
 
 Aurora raised the flag of day, or when 
 
 The evening star-lamp trembled in the west, 
 
 The lovely maiden prostrate prayed in tears 
 
 Before the sacred cross, nor thought upon 
 
 That cruel world of darkness and of crime, 
 
 So near the shelter of her blooming groves. 
 
 A VOICE. 
 
 O blissful knowledge ! knowing nothing more 
 Beyond the Saviour's wounds and heavenly 
 
 love ; 
 Dissolving in a tearful stream, to glide 
 In Love's wide ocean, heedless of the world ' 
 
 MARCION. 
 
 Thus life flowed on, — no change its course 
 
 disturbed, — 
 Until one eve, returning from the chase,' 
 The emperor beheld her steal along 
 The valley's path with timid steps, to seek 
 The cave of congregation. And a beam 
 Celestial from her pure blue eyes inflamed 
 The tyrant's tiger-breast, and kindled there 
 Wild passion's lawless fire : for natures vile 
 Forget how far above them shine the pure 
 (As children vainly wish to play with stars). 
 To the imperial halls the weeping maid 
 Was forced to follow in the tyrant's train. 
 
 A VOICE. 
 
 Who was this emperor ? He who governs now ? 
 
 My friends, what boots it if his name we know ? 
 
 Not ours is it to judge, or hate, or curse. 
 
 Yet duty bids me tell you all. Know, then, 
 
 'T was cruel Commodus, Aurelius' son, 
 
 He, who, all-clothed like Hercules, was seen 
 
 To drench the sand of amphitheatres 
 
 With streams of blood from elephants and slaves 
 
 SEVERAL VOICES. 
 
 Speak ! speak ! Our eager bosoms beat to learn 
 The triumph of a Christian's piety. 
 
 Two sceptres have the lords of earth, wherewith 
 Their slaves to sway, — with promises and 
 
 threats. 
 With promises the Csesar long besieged 
 The heart of Theodora. All that most 
 On earth is praised by man's inebriate mind — 
 
176 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 Gold, songs of lutes, and soft voluptuousness — 
 Was held before the captive maiden's gaze, 
 In long perspective of delight. But vain, 
 My friends, are life's allurements, weak 
 Their spell, against a Christian breast, inspired 
 And penetrated by celestial love ! 
 Then furiously the tyrant turned to threats. 
 O wrath most impotent ! The heart whose 
 
 strength 
 Is proof 'gainst Pleasure's overpowering smiles 
 Can ne'er be conquered by the throb of Pain ; 
 For, manacled with heavy chains, within 
 The dungeon's depth was Theodora plunged. 
 
 EUBCLtTS. 
 
 All hail, all hail, ye dungeons, bonds, and death ! 
 O sons of darkness, you, yourselves, thus lead 
 The longing martyr to the gates of heaven ! 
 Your murky cells present a boon to him, — 
 A sweet asylum from a world of woe ! 
 There Love divine in secret breathes, and there 
 Calm Contemplation lights her golden flame, 
 And Silence o'er the germ of inward life 
 Spreads the warm shelter of a mother's wings ! 
 'Mid dreariest darkness true light beams and 
 
 smiles, 
 To bless the soul's fond gaze ! And when the 
 
 frame 
 With iron bonds is rudely bound, O, then 
 The mind shakes offits chains with joy ! But say, 
 How suffered and how died the Christian maid ? 
 
 MARCION. 
 
 Hunger, and cold, and darkness, now combined 
 In vain to bend her lofty heart to crime. 
 Fierce serpents hissed within the prison-walls, 
 And there did loathsome lizards dwell, and 
 
 there 
 The toads crawled forth upon the clammy earth, 
 While from the roof monotonously fell 
 The chilly, ceaseless drops. No sunbeam came 
 That gloom to cheer. But, as among 
 The mouldering tombs a lonely lily rears 
 Its balmy crest, so bloomed that pious maid, 
 And sweetly smiled amidst surrounding gloom ! 
 Calm was her soul; — for, when celestial love 
 Is burning on the altar of the heart, 
 We heed not outward things ; and while illumed 
 By beams from the unclouded sun, what cares 
 The body if its earthward shadow be 
 Of morning or of eve ? The tyrant, thus 
 Beholding Theodora's heart unmoved 
 Alike by pain and pleasure, gave revenge 
 The place of hot desire, and doomed her death. 
 He sent a chosen freedman with a slave 
 To execute his fierce and murderous will, — 
 Who, when they reached the dungeon cave, be- 
 held 
 Amid the darkness, like an angel's look, 
 The beaming light of Theodora's smile ! 
 She heard the word with joy, and calmly clasped 
 Her hands in prayer; then, with enraptured 
 
 thought, 
 Exclaimed, "All hail, blessed isles of Paradise ! 
 Even now the breath of roses from your bowers 
 
 Is wafted towards me ! " And the freedman 
 
 smiled 
 In scorn, and, jesting, said, " Send me, fair maid, 
 From those celestial groves, for which you leave 
 Our sinful world, some wreath of purple blooms." 
 Then Theodora bound her flowing hair, 
 And, gently blushing, bared her ivory neck; — 
 One cruel blow — and down that fair head fell, — 
 Its golden locks ensanguined, but the smile 
 In death unaltered still ! The sand drank in 
 The crimsom tide of life. An earthquake shook 
 The vault, the torch extinguished, and around 
 Impenetrable darkness spread, — when, lo ! 
 A light, like spring-time's golden eves, illumed 
 The cave, and showed a lovely, beaming boy, 
 Whose snow-bright robe a starry girdle bound. 
 A basket on his lily arm he bore, 
 With flowerets of the rainbow's thousand hues; 
 And calling on the freedman by his name, 
 In tones whose sound was musically sweet 
 As bridal songs, the heavenly envoy said, 
 " Behold, how Theodora sends you flowers 
 From Paradise ! then come, O, come, and 
 
 choose ! " 
 Senseless to earth the freedman fell, — and lay 
 Till wakened by a mighty earthquake's voice. 
 The vision then had fled ; but day-beams 
 
 through 
 The shattered cavern shone, and lit their steps, 
 'Mid crumbling ruins, from the awful scene. 
 
 THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 
 Behold ! the birds fly 
 
 From Gauthiod's strand, 
 And seek with a sigh 
 
 Some far foreign land. 
 The sounds of their woe 
 
 With hollow winds blend : 
 " Where now must we go ? 
 
 Our flight whither tend ? " 
 'T is thus unto heaven that their wailings 
 ascend. 
 
 "The Scandian shore 
 
 We leave in despair, 
 Our days glided o'er 
 
 So blissfully there : 
 We there built our nest 
 
 Among bright blooming trees , 
 There rocked us to rest 
 
 The balm-bearing breeze : — 
 But now to far lands we must traverse the 
 seas. 
 
 " With rose-crown all bright 
 
 On tresses of gold, 
 The midsummer night 
 
 It was sweet to behold : 
 The calm was so deep, 
 
 So lovely the ray, 
 We could not then sleep, 
 
 But were tranced on the spray, 
 Till wakened by beams from the bright car 
 of Day. 
 
SJOBERG. 
 
 177 
 
 " The trees gently bent 
 
 O'er the plains in repose ; 
 With dew-drops besprent 
 
 Was the tremulous rose : 
 The oaks now are bare, 
 
 The rose is no more ; 
 The zephyr's light air 
 
 Is exchanged for the roar 
 Of storms, and the May-fields have mantles 
 of hoar. 
 
 " Then why do we stay 
 
 In the North, where the sun 
 More dimly each day 
 
 His brief course will run ? 
 And why need we sigh ? 
 
 We leave but a grave, — 
 To cleave through the sky 
 
 On the wings which God gave ; — 
 Then, Ocean, be welcome the roar of thy 
 wave ! " 
 
 Of rest thus bereaved, 
 
 They soar in the air, 
 But soon are received 
 
 Into regions more fair ; 
 Where elms gently shake 
 
 Iu the zephyr's light play, 
 Where rivulets take 
 
 Among myrtles their way, 
 An'l the groves are resounding with Hope's 
 happy lay 
 
 When earth's joys are o'er, 
 
 And the days darkly roll, 
 When autumn winds roar, — 
 
 Weep not, O my soul ! 
 Fair lands o'er the sea 
 
 For the birds brightly bloom; 
 A land smiles for thee, 
 
 Beyond the dark tomb, 
 Where beams never fading its beauties il- 
 lume ! 
 
 AMANDA. 
 
 Where sun and flower are beaming, 
 
 Amanda's charms appear ; 
 Her beauty's rays are streaming 
 
 Round all this earthly sphere : 
 The breeze, when gently blowing, — 
 
 The rose that scents the grove, — 
 The vine, when brightly glowing, — 
 
 All tell of her I love. 
 
 I hear her song's sweet numbers, 
 
 When Zephyr's breezy wings 
 Sweep o'er the gold harp's slumbers, 
 
 And wake its tuneful strings. 
 All — all the charms of nature 
 
 Amanda's beauty bear, 
 And show, in every feature, 
 
 Her godhead imaged there. 
 23 
 
 The spirits of the dying 
 
 Must quit this clay's control ; 
 But they to rest are flying 
 
 In regions of the soul ; — 
 The floods, now onward striding, 
 
 Are foaming, fierce, and free ; 
 Yet soon their waves, subsiding, 
 
 Will slumber in the sea. 
 
 But I must vainly languish 
 
 For joys I ne'er can know, 
 And wear a cureless anguish 
 
 In loneliness and woe ! 
 Fair goddess ! I shall ever 
 
 Behold thy beauty shine 
 Like stars above, — but never 
 
 Can hope to call thee mine ! 
 
 ERIC SJOBERG (VITALIS). 
 
 Eric Sjoberg, who wrote under the pseudo- 
 nym of Vitalis, has a distinguished name and 
 place among the modern poets of Sweden. He 
 is one of those poets, who, struggling with want 
 and disease, die young, and leave behind them 
 a melancholy fame. His poems are chiefly 
 lyrical ; and though some of them are of a 
 humorous nature, yet through them all " the 
 features of settled despondency are still distinct- 
 ly seen." The genius of this poet will be seen 
 in the passages of his works which follow. 
 They show great tenderness and delicacy of 
 feeling ; a profound sense of the beauties of 
 nature ; a sensibility tremblingly alive to the 
 whispering leaves of the woods, the tints of 
 the flowers, the warbling of the birds, and to 
 the silent language of the landscape, which he 
 interprets in a gentle moralizing vein. The 
 beautiful poem entitled " Spring Fancy," which 
 is very well translated, will remind the reader, 
 by its flowing verse, its graceful imagery, the 
 pensive melancholy of its tone, and the delicate 
 and gentle sentiment which pervades it, of 
 some of Bryant's best pieces. This poet's ex- 
 quisite organization seems to have been touched 
 even to finer issues by the ill health which 
 shed a subduing influence over his brief exist- 
 ence. The following well written sketch of his 
 life is from the " Foreign Review," No. VII. 
 
 " Eric Sjoberg was born in 1794, in the prov 
 ince of Sodermanland. While yet in his cra- 
 dle, he was exposed to the frowns and storms oi 
 life. Poverty attended the steps of the hoy, 
 checked the free and soaring genius of the 
 youth, and stood beside the death-bed of the 
 man. Sjoberg's father, a poor journeyman, 
 could do nothing to assist the education of his 
 son, who, thus thrown upon his native resour 
 ces, felt himself strengthened for exertions, of 
 which the wealthy have no need and no knowl- 
 edge. From a want of other materials, he was 
 induced to exercise the art of writing in the 
 primitive mode, on the bark of trees, which ha 
 
178 
 
 SWEDISH POETRY. 
 
 did in conjunction with a young companion, 
 with whom he thus established a correspond- 
 ence. The school of the small town of Trosa 
 soon became too bounded a sphere for the spirit 
 of Sjoberg, and the schoolmaster, a man of sense 
 and penetration, recommended that the boy 
 should be removed to Strengnas, an episcopal 
 see in Westmanland, where the severity of the 
 school discipline was such, that in 1814 he 
 quitted the college or gymnasium before the 
 usual period of probation, and proceeded to the 
 University of Upsala. 
 
 " Two pounds and ten shillings, the gratuity 
 of a friend, was the entire capital possessed by 
 our young student when he sought the classic 
 shades at Upsala Thenceforward his sole re- 
 liance was on the resources of a mind strength- 
 ened by constant exercise in the struggle with 
 want, — resources, on which the poor students 
 at the universities of Sweden must not unfre- 
 quently depend. He gained his livelihood by 
 instructing some fellow-students younger and 
 wealthier than himself. 
 
 "There is something awful in the struggling 
 of a noble mind against the never-clearing storms 
 of a life, throughout which hunger and misery 
 have fastened their fangs upon the sufferer's 
 heart The greater his magnanimity, the more 
 poignant is the pain which, like a lingering 
 malady, attacks the energies of the soul ; and, 
 if we sometimes see men come victorious from 
 the conflict, wc may with more reason number 
 them among the heroes of mankind, than those 
 whose brows are wreathed with laurels stained 
 by the tears and blood of thousands. If, on the 
 other hand, human nature sink subdued by the 
 woes and adversities of such a life, a heart- 
 less sneer but too often supplies the place of 
 sympathy. ' He ought to have struggled and 
 withstood, — he ought not to have been over- 
 powered,' are the sage and feeling remarks of 
 dull and callous natures. The soul of Sjoberg 
 was never subdued, but his bodily frame was 
 too weak to sustain the strife, and thus he fell 
 unconquered. 
 
 " The poetical genius of our author developed 
 itself under the most unfavorable circumstances. 
 Considering his life of want and misery, his 
 poetical productions may be likened to those 
 Northern flowers, the snow-drops, which blos- 
 som before Spring has wholly disengaged herself 
 from the cold embraces of Winter. His first 
 appearance, as a poet, before the literary world, 
 was in 1820, when he wrote some verses in an 
 Annual for Ladies; and with this first appear- 
 ance he became so universally admired, that, 
 in the following year, a collection of his poems 
 was published and read with great avidity. 
 
 " When, in the year 1822, the crown prince, 
 Oscar, visited Upsala, Sjoberg was recommend- 
 ed to his notice ; and as the prince, who is 
 Chancellor of the University, has been invaria- 
 bly distinguished bj' his bountiful and delicate 
 liberality in the encouragement of the votaries 
 of literature and science, it may be readily con- 
 
 ceived that the young poet was not passed over 
 with neglect. The support extended to him by 
 the prince will appear inconsiderable to our 
 English notions of pecuniary assistance. It 
 consisted of a pension of two hundred dollars 
 banco, about twenty pounds per annum, and 
 was an important sum for a man who had been 
 taught by necessity to accommodate his wants 
 to his resources. His biographer says, that the 
 year 1822 was perhaps the most free from care 
 which Sjoberg had experienced ; but he belong- 
 ed not to those who were content to eat the 
 bread of bounty, and, while basking in the sun- 
 shine of princely favor, he felt a blush of hon 
 est shame for his dependent condition. Profes- 
 sor Geijer, through whom the remittances were 
 made to Sjoberg, took occasion to inquire after 
 his poetical pursuits, and at the same time ex- 
 pressed a wish that he should devote his pow- 
 ers to an object of greater extent than any in 
 which he had been hitherto engaged. From 
 these inquiries and suggestions Sjoberg conclud- 
 ed that his royal patron required something 
 more for his money than minor poems, or that 
 the grant had perhaps been made under the sup 
 position that his abilities were greater than he 
 felt them to be. Such being his impression, the 
 year had hardly elapsed when he spontaneous- 
 ly resigned the pension, and threw himself once 
 more within the grasp of penury. The reason 
 which he alleged for this step was, the weak- 
 ened state of his health, which would not ad- 
 mit of his prosecuting his studies with the en- 
 ergy necessary for enabling him to graduate, 
 and thus attain that end which his patron had 
 probably had in view when he so liberally hon- 
 ored him with his support. He now depended 
 solely on his own exertions ; but he had a foe 
 to battle with, — disease, — and this he could not 
 overpower. Notwithstanding, however, the in- 
 terruptions in his studies, — interruptions caused 
 rather by want of health and means than of ap- 
 plication, — he took the degree of Master of Arts 
 in 1824. Having failed in an attempt to pro- 
 cure the appointment of Docens at the Univer- 
 sity, he turned his attention to the capital, but 
 life now became for him still more dark and 
 gloomy. Private tuition and translations from 
 the English afforded him but a scanty subsist- 
 ence till the spring of 1828, when he fell dan- 
 gerously ill ; and though it would appear that 
 every possible kindness was shown to him by 
 the family in which he was then employed as 
 tutor, he insisted on being removed to a public 
 hospital, where he expired on the 4th of March, 
 1828." 
 
 TO THE MOON, — h DEDICATION. 
 
 My gentle book I take beneath my arm, 
 And audience, O Moon ! I here implore, 
 
 Led by a secret, sympathetic charm 
 
 To thee, for thou art rich in silvery store 
 
SJOBERG. 
 
 179 
 
 Enlightened patrjn ! tell me, wilt thou give 
 What may be deemed a reasonable fee ? 
 
 If thou refuse, thy service I must leave, 
 And dedicate to other than to thee. 
 
 Yet no ! for kindly thou wilt earthward wend, 
 Where, cap in hand, submissively I stay; 
 
 And from thy height to me wilt downward send 
 At times a little, little silvery ray. 
 
 SPRING FANCY. 
 
 Love now is found ; — for from the lips of all 
 He murmurs forth in tones most wonderful ; 
 Is manifest alike in hues and sounds, 
 And beautiful alike in every tongue. 
 Within the verdant sanctuary of groves 
 The zephyr steals along to kiss the earth, 
 And by his kiss gives life to fragrant flowers : 
 The children of Platonic love are they. 
 So, too, the trees with green and various tongues 
 In gentle whisperings own, at eventide, 
 Their mutual and mysterious love ; as low 
 They downward bend their heads embracingly 
 In twilight, when no watchful eyes are on them. 
 The flowerets also love; and though no tongue 
 Have they, to tell their tenderness, they gaze 
 With streaming looks into each others' eyes, 
 And understand each other, although dumb : 
 Earth never hears a sweeter language spoken 
 Than that invented by these fond ones, who 
 With fervent glance fulfil the want of tongues. 
 The streamlet, too, clasping, with constant arms, 
 And folding to its breast the green Lemoniade, 
 Arrayed in living rubies and in gold, 
 Sighs forth its tender love in broken tones. 
 Nature ! I know thy heart's deep meaning well, 
 Thy flowery writings and discourse of birds, 
 Whereof the fair interpreting by thee 
 Was written on my heart's pure page with fire. 
 A word it was of holy flame, long stifled, 
 But now set free ; like to the enfranchised bird, 
 Which high upsoars and fills the air with songs, 
 Forgetting how of late the prison pressed 
 That love of song within his heart to pain, 
 While with a voiceful flight he mounts to heaven, 
 His home. Though o'er the wide earth none 
 
 these sounds 
 May understand, they still are known to God. 
 Ye flowerets ! I will gently dream among ye; 
 And I will give to ye a human heart, 
 And thus empower ye to return my love. 
 Sweet, even as childhood's sinless beauty, shines 
 The glance that greets me through your trem- 
 bling tears. 
 Fair angels ! blooming in eternal youth, 
 Ye r.e'er survive your early loveliness, 
 But even in death itself are beautiful. 
 And yet ye do not die, — but sink to rest, 
 When ruthless northern tempests raging come. 
 Ye will not look on life when stormful ; ne'er 
 Save when, in child-like sweetness, it disports 
 
 With Nature in the western breeze. But when 
 Destruction, striding o'er the fresh green fields, 
 Goes forth to battle with this blissful life, 
 Then ye close down your lovely lids in slum- 
 ber, 
 And on your mother's beauteous breast repose, 
 Until, the contest done, victorious life 
 In light and song reveals itself once more. 
 Then God arouses ye again from sleep, 
 Sending sweet May to whisper in your ears 
 That spring is blooming in the vaulted heaven, 
 And that 't is time for you yourselves to bloom 
 Ye then put off your verdant veil, — and feel 
 The spring-breeze spreading life upon youi 
 
 cheeks, 
 Which vie with roses planted by the Morn 
 Along the Garden of the East. And when 
 The sun shall come, your forms so bright and 
 
 fair 
 Will shine forth more magnificently still. 
 Thus I, too, shall not die; — men call it death, 
 When mortals soar unto the eternal Father, 
 Who yonder dwells upon the horizon's verge, 
 Where earth and heaven mingle in harmony 
 and joy ! 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 At morning I stood on the mountain's brow, 
 In its May-wreath crowned, and there 
 
 Saw day-rise in gold and in purple glow, 
 And I cried, — " O Life, how fair ! " 
 
 As the birds in the bowers their lay began, 
 When the dawning time was nigh, 
 
 So wakened for song in the breast of man 
 A passion heroic and high. 
 
 My spirit then felt the longing to soar 
 
 From home afar in its flight, 
 To roam, like the sun, still from shore to shore, 
 
 A creator of flowers and light. 
 
 At even I stood on the mountain's brow, 
 And, rapt in devotion and prayer, 
 
 Saw night-rise in silver and purple glow, 
 And I cried, — " O Death, how fair ! " 
 
 And when that the soft evening wind, so meek, 
 
 With its balmy breathing came, 
 It seemed as though Nature then kissed my 
 cheek 
 
 And tenderly sighed my name ! 
 
 I saw the vast Heaven encompassing all, 
 Like children the stars to her came ; 
 
 The exploits of man then seemed to me small, — 
 Naught great save the Infinite's name. 
 
 Ah ! how unheeded, all charms which invest 
 The joys and the hopes that men prize, 
 
 While the eterna' thoughts in the poet's breast, 
 Like stars in the heavens, arise ' 
 
GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 The earliest specimen of the ancient Gothic 
 tongue is Ulfila's translation of the Bible. He 
 was Bishop of the West Goths in the latter 
 half of the fourth century. Only fragments of 
 this translation remain. The celebrated " Codex 
 Argenteus," so called from the letters being 
 overlaid with silver leaf, now in the library of 
 the University of Upsala, contains the greater 
 part of the Evangelists. Other portions of the 
 work have been discovered by Knittel, in 
 Brunswick, and by Abbe Maj and Count Cas- 
 tiglione in Milan. A complete edition of Ulfila's 
 writings, so far as discovered, was published at 
 Altenburg in 1836. This language is generally 
 spoken of as the Mceso-Gothic, indicating its 
 Eastern or Scythian origin, and may be regard- 
 ed as the parent of all the Scandinavian and 
 Germanic dialects. 
 
 Of the fifth, sixth, and seventh centuries no 
 literary monuments remain, at least, none well 
 authenticated. At the beginning of the eighth 
 century, however, we find that the Gothic lan- 
 guage, in Germany, had assumed the two forms 
 of, 1., Upper German (Ober Deutsch), spoken in 
 the South of Germany, and embracing two dia- 
 lects, the Frankish (sometimes called Althoch- 
 deutsch, old High German), and the Alemannic 
 or Swabian ; and, 2., Low German (Nieder 
 Deutsch, Piatt Deutsch, Altsdchsisch) , spoken in 
 the North, and the parent of the Anglo-Saxon, 
 Frisic, Dutch, and Flemish. The Frankish was 
 the language of the court of Charlemagne ; 
 and the Swabian was carried to its greatest 
 refinement by the Minnesingers, in the twelfth 
 and thirteenth centuries. 
 
 From the union of the Upper and Lower 
 German sprang the modern High German 
 [Hock Deutsch), the character of which may be 
 considered as made permanent by Luther, in 
 the beginning of the sixteenth century. Speak- 
 ing of his translation of the Bible, he says, " I 
 have not a distinct, particular, and peculiar kind 
 of language, but I use the common German 
 language, in order that the inhabitants of both 
 Upper and Lower Countries may understand 
 me." Since Luther's time the High German 
 has been exclusively the language of literature 
 and science. The other forms of the language, 
 on account of the predominance of the High 
 German, have sunk to the rank of dialects, but 
 still exist in popular use, under a great variety 
 of subdivisions. Some of them are occasionally 
 employed by patriotic poets and writers of 
 popular songs. 
 
 These dialects have been classed as follows, 
 
 by Radlof:* 1. The German dialects in Italy ; 
 2. The Tyrolian; 3. The Salzburg; 4. The 
 Bavarian ; 5. The Austrian ; 6. The East Mid- 
 dle-German, embracing the Upper Saxon ; 7. 
 The South and West Middle- German, embrac- 
 ing the Nuremberg ; 8. The Swabian ; 9. The 
 Swiss in its various forms; 10. The dialects of 
 the Upper and Middle Rhine ; 11. The West- 
 ern Lower Rhine, embracing Aix-la-Chapelle, 
 Cologne, and Bonn ; 12. The Low German 
 dialects between the Rhine and the Elbe ; 13. 
 The Frisic ; 14. The Lower Saxon ; 15. The 
 dialects east of the Elbe ; 16. The Pomera- 
 nian ; 17. The Holstein and Schleswig ; 18. 
 The corrupted dialects, as the Pennsylvanian 
 and Jewish. These are the principal classes, 
 some of which embrace as many as eight or 
 ten subdivisions. 
 
 The translations from German poetry into 
 English are so numerous, and extended through 
 so many centuries, that they form in themselves 
 almost a complete history. It will be necessary, 
 therefore, in this introductory sketch, only to 
 indicate the successive periods of this history, 
 with a few remarks upon their prominent char- 
 acteristics. The history of German poetry may 
 be conveniently divided into seven periods. t 
 
 I. From the earliest times to 1100. The 
 earliest remains of German poetry belong to 
 the eighth century. As might naturally be ex- 
 pected, they are the song of a hero and the 
 prayer of a monk; "The Song of Hildebrand " 
 and "The Wessobrun Prayer," which have 
 been published together by Grimm (Cassel, 
 1812) ; who has also published a curious fac- 
 simile of the manuscript of the former (Gottin- 
 gen, 1830). The former is in the old Saxon 
 dialect, the latter in the Frankish. 
 
 The remains of the ninth century are more 
 numerous and important. They are, "The Har- 
 mony of the Evangelists," in old Saxon, which 
 has been published by Schmeller, under the 
 title of " Heliand " (Stuttgart, 1830) ; and in 
 Frankish, Otfried's " Krist, or Book of the 
 Evangelists," published by Graff (Konigsberg, 
 1831); — "Ludwigslied," or "Song of King 
 Lewis the Third," in celebration of his victory 
 over the Normans in 883 (Schilter, Thesau- 
 
 * Mustersaal alter Deutschen Mundarten, von J. G. Rad- 
 lof. 2 vols. Bonn: 1821-2. 
 
 t See Leitfaden zur Geschichte der Deutschen Literatur, 
 von F. A. Pischon. Berlin : 1343. 8vo. : andDenkm'ilerder 
 Deutschen Sprache. von den fruhesten Zeiten bis jezl, von 
 F. A. Pischon. 3 vols. 8vo. 1833-40-43,— a fourth vol- 
 ume to follow. 
 
GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 181 
 
 rus, Vol. II.) ; — " The Legend of Saint George " 
 (editions by Sandvig, Copenhagen, 1783 ; Do- 
 cen, Munich, 1813) ; — " The Song of the Sa- 
 maritan Woman" (Schilter, II.); — and frag- 
 ments of one or two psalms, and a poem on the 
 Last Judgment. 
 
 The only relic of the tenth century is a 
 Frankish fragment entitled " The Song of the 
 two Henries," which has been published in 
 Hoffmann's " Fundgruben " (Breslau, 1830); 
 and of the eleventh century we have only 
 "The Rhyme of Saint Anno," who was Arch- 
 bishop of Cologne ; and a fragment of an old 
 rhyme chronicle entitled " Merigato," meaning 
 the Great Home, or Garden of the World (edi- 
 tion by Hoffmann, Prague, 1834). 
 
 II. From 1100 to 1300. The poetry of the 
 twelfth century, of which numerous monuments 
 remain, consists chiefly of legends, prayers, 
 hymns, and benedictions. Among these is heard 
 occasionally the voice of a Minnesinger, chant- 
 ing some fragment of chivalrous romance, as if 
 by way of prelude to the universal chorus of 
 love and heroism which bursts forth from the 
 century following. Most worthy of note are, 
 "The Legend of the Virgin Mary," by Wern- 
 her, monk of Tegernsee (edition by Oetter, 
 Altdorf, 1802) ; — " The Song of Kaiser Karl," 
 by Pfjffe Chunrat (edition by Grimm, under 
 the title of " Ruolandes Liet," Gottingen, 1838); 
 — "The Poem of Alexander," by Pfaffe Lamp- 
 recht ; — the heroic romance of " King Roth- 
 er ; " — the legends of Pilate, of King Orendel, 
 and of Saints Oswald and Ulrich, together with 
 " The Litany of All Saints," " Contemplation 
 of Death," "The Life and Passion of Christ," 
 "The Laud of the Virgin Mary," and the old- 
 est German form of " Reinhart Fuchs," by 
 Heinrich der Glichsenare. 
 
 The thirteenth century is the age of the 
 Minnesingers, who filled the Swabian court 
 with their love-songs, and poetic romances of 
 chivalry. The names of more than a hundred 
 of these have been preserved, with portions, at 
 least, of their writings.* Of these the most 
 celebrated are, Hartmann von Aue, author of 
 " The Knight of the Lion," " Poor Henry," and 
 "The Legend of Saint Gregory on the Stone"; 
 — Wolfram von Eschenbach, author of " Ti- 
 turel, or the Guardian of the Grail," " Par- 
 cival," " Wilhelm von Oranse," and "Gott- 
 fried von Bouillon"; — Heinrich von Ofterdin- 
 gen, author of " King Laurin, or the Little 
 Garden of Roses," forming part of the " Hel- 
 
 * Bodmer and Manessen. S?mmlung von Minnesing- 
 ern aus dem Schwabischen Zeitpuncte, CXL. Dichler 
 enthaltend. Zurich: 1758-9. 2 vols. 4to. 
 
 Benecke. Minnelieder, Erg'anzung der Sammlung von 
 Minnesingern. Gb'Uingen : 1810-32. 2 vols. 8vo. 
 
 Muller. Sammlung Deutscher Gedichte aus dem XII., 
 XIII , unci XIV. Jahrhundert. 3 vols. Berlin : 1784-5. 4to. 
 
 Von der Hasen. Minnesinger. 4 vols. Leipzig: 1833. 
 4to. This collection of the Minnesingers embraces ihe 
 Manessen. Jena. Heidelberg, and Weingarien collections 
 
 Von der Hagen and Busching. Deutsche Gedichte des 
 MilHalters. 3 vols. Berlin : 1803-20-25. 4to. 
 
 denbuch," to whom also some critics attribute 
 the authorship of the " Nibelungenlied " ; — 
 Konrad Fleck, author of "Flor and Blank 
 flor " ; — Wirin von Gravenberg, author of" Vi 
 galois, the Knight of the Wheel " ; — Gottfried 
 von Strasburg, author of "Tristan"; — Konrad 
 von Wurtzburg, author of " The Trojan War," 
 "The GolderT Smithy," "The Knight of the 
 Swan," and several legends and tales ; — Wal- 
 ther von der Vogelweide ; — Herr Nithart; — 
 Hugo von Trinberg; — Dietmar von Ast. 
 
 Speaking of the lyric poems of the Minne 
 singers, Mr. Taylor, to whom we are indebted 
 for our numerous extracts, remarks : " Nothing 
 can breathe more clearly the sentiments of in- 
 nocent and tender affection than many of these 
 little productions. Narrow and circumscribed 
 "■as the field of such poetry may appear, its 
 charms are diversified by the varied attractions 
 of natural beauty and the impassioned tones of 
 feeling. Admiration of his lady's perfections, 
 joy in her smiles, grief at her frowns, and anx- 
 iety for her welfare, are expressed by the poet 
 in a thousand accents of simplicity and truth ; 
 and if extravagance or affectation sometimes 
 offends, it ought to be recollected that the 
 bounds of taste were not then so accurately 
 defined, nor the gallant spirit of chivalry so 
 chastened, as to render unnecessary some allow- 
 ance for the extravagance of a principle which 
 was in the main generous, and at any rate con- 
 ferred incalculable blessings on society, in ad- 
 vancing the interests and elevating the station 
 of its most defenceless portion. 
 
 " It is surely difficult, in the perusal of many 
 of these ancient songs, to abstain from partaking 
 in the joyous hilarity, the frolic festivity of 
 spirit, with which they seem to revel in the 
 charms of Nature, as clothed in her most smiling 
 forms. The gay meadows, the budding groves, 
 the breezes and flowers 
 
 . . . 'di primavera Candida e vermiglia,' 
 sparkle in the song ; and the buoyant efferves- 
 cence of youthful gayety is often in delightful 
 keeping with the bounding rhythm and musical 
 elegance of the verse." * 
 
 But the most important remains of this period 
 are the noble old epic of the " Nibelungen- 
 lied, "t and a collection of heroic poems known 
 by the name of the " Heldenbuch," or " The 
 Book of Heroes." 
 
 The first stanzas of the song of the Nibel- 
 ungen, like the overture of an opera, contain 
 the theme of the whole piece. 
 
 "In ancient song and story, marvels high are told, 
 Of knights of high emprise, and adventures manifold ; 
 Of joy and merry feasting, of lamenting woe and fear, 
 Of champions' bloody battles, many marvels shall ye heat 
 
 * Lays of the Minnesingers or German Troubadours of 
 the 12th and 13th Centuries (London : 1825). pp. 123. 124. 
 
 t The most beautiful edition of the Nibelungenlied is 
 Wi^and's : Leipsic : 1840. It is adorned with numerous 
 illustrations, and is a very beautiful specimen of typogra- 
 phy- 
 
182 
 
 GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 "A noble maid and fair grew up in Burgundy, 
 
 In all the land about, fairer none might be ; 
 
 She became a oueen full high, Chrimhild was she hight ; 
 
 But for her matchless beauty fell many a blade of might." 
 
 The " Heldenbuch," though somewhat similar 
 in character, is more heterogeneous in its mate- 
 rials. A brief account of both these works will 
 be given hereafter, in connexion with the ex- 
 tracts from them. For a more complete analysis 
 and criticism, the reader is referred to Weber 
 and Carlyle.* 
 
 Passing over the Latin plays of Roswitha, 
 the Nun of Gandersheim, who flourished in 
 the tenth century, and the Easter play of " Anti- 
 Christ," also in Latin, t which is only a panto- 
 mime interspersed with songs, belonging to the 
 twelfth century, the earliest traces of the Ger- 
 man drama belong to the close of this period. 
 At a much earlier time, and as far back as the 
 eleventh century, mention is made by the 
 chroniclers of mimes and players who fre- 
 quented the courts of princes and amused their 
 audiences with all kinds of pantomime. Noth- 
 ing, however, is said of their enacting plays, 
 and it is evident that they were not comedians, 
 but jugglers ; a race of vagabonds, who, early 
 in the twelfth century, came under the ban of 
 the civil law, being ranked with prize-fighters 
 and common thieves.* The earliest play in 
 which the German language is introduced is a 
 Mystery entitled " The Passion of Christ " (Das 
 Leiden Christi).§ It is written for the most 
 part in Latin, but with here and there a song 
 in German, and contains a representation of 
 the principal events of the Saviour's life, which 
 are made to follow each other in rapid succes- 
 sion, without interlude or change of scene. In 
 fact, the whole piece is little more than certain 
 portions of the Evangelists, changed from the 
 narrative to a dramatic form ; and this so un- 
 skilfully, that, at times, the extracts are brought 
 into curious juxtaposition by the omission of 
 the context. For example, when Zaccheus is 
 called down from the sycamore-tree with the 
 words, "Zaccheus, make haste and comedown, 
 for to-day I must abide at thy house," he replies 
 immediately, " Lord, if I have taken anything 
 from any man by false accusation, I restore him 
 fourfold." In the course of the play, the Devil 
 enters, seizes upon Judas, and hangs him in 
 the most summary manner. The stage direc- 
 tion is, " Statim veniat diabolus, et ducat Jvdam 
 ad suspendium, et suspendatur." In one point 
 of view this mystery is of some importance. 
 It shows the transition from Latin to German 
 in dramatic composition, and fixes this transition 
 as early as the thirteenth century. That plays, 
 entirely in the German language, were written 
 
 * Illustrations of Northern Antiquities (by Weber and 
 Jamiesok) Edinburgh: 1814. Critical and Miscellaneous 
 Essays, by Thomas Carlyle. 4 vols. Boston: 1S38-9. 
 
 t Published in Pezius, Thesaurus, Vol. II., Part III., 187. 
 
 1 See Rachsenspieget, Book I.. Art. 38. 
 
 § Published in Aretin, Beilr'age zur Geschichte und 
 LiLiratur. Vol. VII., p. 497. 
 
 before the close of this century, seems probable 
 from a fragment still extant, entitled " The Na 
 tivity of Christ."* In this fragment, Saint Au- 
 gustine is represented as calling upon Virgil to 
 give an account of what he knows concerning 
 Christ ; the author being apparently one of 
 those theologians of the Middle Ages who 
 regarded Virgil as a prophet, on account of the 
 well known passage in his fourth Eclogue. 
 
 III. From 1300 to 1500. This period, though 
 far less important than the preceding, is marked 
 by the same general characteristics We have 
 still romances, rhyme-chronicles, songs, le- 
 gends, paraphrases, prayers, hymns, and final- 
 ly a death-dance, and the lamentation of that 
 damned soul which goes wailing in the dark- 
 ness of the Middle Ages through all lands. 
 But the Muse assumes a more prosaic garb, the 
 Minnesingers give place to the Mastersingers, 
 the artist sinks to the artisan, the profession to 
 a trade. 
 
 " Far back towards the thirteenth century," 
 says Grimm, t " until which time nothing but 
 the long-drawn strains of old heroic poems 
 had been sung and heard, a wondrous throng 
 of tones and melodies resounds at once, as if 
 rising from the earth. From afar we fancy we 
 hear the same key-note, but, if we come nearer, 
 no tune is like another. One strives to rise 
 above the rest, another to fall back and softly 
 to modulate the strain , what the one repeats, 
 the other but half expresses. If we think, too, 
 of the accompanying music, we feel that this, 
 on account of the multitude of voices, for which 
 the instruments would not have been enough, 
 must have been simple in the highest degree. It 
 must have rested mainly on the rhymes, and have 
 been wanting in harmony, though not, indeed, 
 devoid of melody. A thousand pure and varied 
 colors lie there outspread, succeeding each other 
 in glaring brilliancy, and very seldom inter- 
 mixed ; and this is the reason that all the Minne- 
 songs, even the most diversified, seem still to 
 resemble each other. These poets called them- 
 selves Nightingales ; and, certainly, no compari- 
 son can express, more strikingly than that of 
 the song of birds, their rich and unattainable 
 notes, in which, at every moment, the ancient 
 warblings recur always with new modulations 
 In the fresh and youthful Minnepoesy, all art 
 has acquired the appearance of nature, and 
 is, too, in a certain sense, purely natural. Never 
 before, and never since, has a poetry so inno- 
 cent, so loving, so unaffected, left the human 
 soul to step upon the earth, and it may be said 
 with truth, that the mysterious nature of rhyme 
 was never so fully recognized nor so publicly 
 employed by a poetizing people. 
 
 "A few centuries later, we no longer see 
 courts, at which minstrels arrive to gladden the 
 
 * Puhlished in Dieterichius, Specimen Antiquitatum 
 Biblicarum. Marburg: 1642. p. 122. 
 
 t fiber den altdeutschen Meistergesang. Von Jacob 
 Grimm. Gb'ttingen: 1811. 8vo. 
 
GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 183 
 
 revel with their songs, and to exalt the liberal- 
 ity of the lord with their ingenious eulogy. 
 We find quiet shut-up cities, within whose 
 walls honest burghers dwell, who practise 
 among themselves a singular and rigid art. If 
 we examine this more closely, it has not at all 
 the aspect of a new invention. No reason 
 whatever can be imagined, why the burgher 
 class should have introduced among themselves 
 a peculiar art of rhyme. Many affirm, that they 
 guarded With pride and fidelity what had come 
 down from former times. Every other ornament 
 is far removed from their poetry ; but the rhymes 
 stand solitary in the ancient places, where they 
 no longer rightfully belong, and without signif- 
 icance, as the memorials of a lost possession 
 are continued long after their meaning has 
 ceased to be remembered. The later Master- 
 song has been hitherto entirely misapprehended, 
 and its ancient origin has not been observed, 
 in its very awkwardness. I affirm, that its ap- 
 pearance would be inexplicable to us, if we 
 could not go back to the very first bloom of the 
 Minnesong. For, the more firmly and fatally 
 any thing whose glory has departed is adhered 
 to, the more excellent and solid must have been 
 the groundwork ; and without enthusiasm at the 
 beginning, it is impossible to understand the rev- 
 erence with which a people can remain faithful 
 to the empty dogmas of a creed. These two pe- 
 riods, therefore, must necessarily refer to each 
 other ; and yet in each there is a point not easily 
 settled, where they are not intimately united." 
 
 The most noted poetic writers of the four- 
 teenth century are Ulrich Boner, author of 
 the " Edelstein," a collection of one hundred 
 fables (edition by Benecke, Berlin, 1816) ; — 
 Johannes Frankenstein, author of a poem on 
 the Life and Passion of Christ; — Heinrich 
 Frauenlob, the last of the Minnesingers; — 
 Ottokar von Horneck, author of a rhyme chron- 
 icle; — Peter der Suchenwirth, author of a 
 hymn to the Virgin ; — Heinrich der Teichner, 
 author of poetic aphorisms ; — Halb Suter of 
 Lucerne, famous for his ballad of " The Battle 
 of Sempach " ; — and two Mastersingers, Mus- 
 catbluth, and Heinrich von Mtlglin. Two al- 
 legorical poems also grace the century : " Gott 
 Amor, or the Lore of Love," and " The Chase, 
 a Poem on Love." 
 
 In the poetic catalogue of the fifteenth cen- 
 tury the most distinguished names are Heinrich 
 von der Neuenstadt, author of the romance of 
 "Apolloniusof Tyre"; — Hans von Bilhel, author 
 of "The Seven Wise Masters "; — Hermann von 
 Sachsenheim, author of the romance of "The 
 Moorish Princess " ; — Veit Weber, the Swiss 
 ballad-singer ; — Sebastian Brant, author of" The 
 Ship of Fools " (edition of Basel, 1494), upon 
 which Geiler von Kaisersberg wrote sermons in 
 Latin, and preached them in German ; — Kaspar 
 von der Roen, who rewrote most of " The Book 
 of Heroes " ; — and three dramatic writers, Hans 
 Rosenblilt, a Nuremberg painter, Hans Folz, a 
 Nuremberg barber, both authors of sundry 
 
 Shrove-tide plays; — and Theodorich Schern- 
 berg, a priest, who wrote the solemn mystery 
 of "The Apotheosis of Pope Joan, or the Play 
 of Frau Jutta," the grandest drama Germany 
 had yet wondered at. No less than five and 
 twenty personages are introduced ; the most 
 remarkable of which are eight Devils, Lillis, 
 the Devil's mother, three Angels, Christ, the 
 Virgin Mary, Pope Basilius, four Cardinals, a 
 Roman Senator, and Death. The scene changes 
 from Hell to Heaven, from Earth to Purgatory. 
 The first scene is in Hell. The devils hold 
 counsel how to lead Jutta into some deadly sin 
 against the church. A priest seduces her, and 
 she elopes with him to Paris, where, disguised 
 as a man, she studies theology. From Paris 
 she goes to Rome ; is made Cardinal in one 
 scene, and Pope in the next. This strange 
 anomaly in the apostolic succession calls down 
 the vengeance of Heaven ; and an angel is sent 
 to her to ascertain whether she prefers eternal 
 perdition, or humiliation and repentance. She 
 promises the latter. Death enters, and, after a 
 long disputation, she dies in child-bed, and a 
 devil bears her away to Hell, where she is tor- 
 mented by Lucifer and his attendants, in the 
 vain hope that she will deny God. She prays 
 to the Virgin for mercy ; and finally an angel 
 descends and conducts her up to Heaven.* — 
 To the close of the fifteenth century belongs 
 also the renowned " Reineke Fuchs " of Hein- 
 rich von Alkmaar. 
 
 IV. From 1500 to 1600. The sixteenth cen- 
 tury was the golden age of the Mastersingers. 
 These poets were for the most part mechanics, 
 who had incorporated themselves into guilds or 
 singing schools, and beautified their daily toil 
 by the charms of song. 
 
 " As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic 
 
 rhyme. 
 And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's 
 
 chime, 
 Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flower 
 
 of poesy bloom 
 In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom." 
 
 The corporation boasted of great antiquity ; 
 dating from a very early though rather indefinite 
 period, far back in the Middle Ages. It was ori- 
 ginally called the Corporation of the Twelve 
 Wise Masters. The Mastersingers flourished 
 chiefly in the southern cities of Germany, and in 
 the sixteenth century Nuremberg was the great 
 metropolis of their song-craft. The following 
 sketch of their art is from the " Retrospective 
 Review," Vol. X., p. 113.t 
 
 " In the fourteenth century, while Germany 
 was kept in continual agitation by the feuds 
 and broils of rival princes and barons, there 
 sprang up among the inhabitants of the towns, 
 who devoted themselves to commerce and the 
 
 * See Bouterwek. Geschichte der Poesie und Bered- 
 samkeit. Vol. IX., p. 363. 
 
 t See also Lays of the Minnesingers, p. 309, and Bou- 
 tehwek's Geschichte der Poesie und Beredsamkeit, Vol. 
 IX. , p. 270. 
 
184 
 
 GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 arts, the first perceptible germ of those muni- 
 cipal orders, which for so long a time rendered 
 prosperous and flourishing the incorporated ci- 
 ries of that country ; and which, in England, 
 even at this day, is a remarkable feature among 
 our popular institutions. Already in the thir- 
 teenth century, the masons in all parts of Ger- 
 many had formed themselves into a strict cor- 
 poration, which with uniform laws and cere- 
 monies received into its bosom apprentices, com- 
 panions, and masters; and which, throughout 
 all Europe, erected to the Divinity those sublime 
 temples which have since been denominated 
 Gothic. In the fourteenth century, all the arts 
 and trades imitated the example of the masons, 
 by dividing themselves into different societies ; 
 and, as moral bodies, took part in the adminis- 
 tration of public affairs, and deliberated in mu- 
 nicipal council upon laws for their internal 
 regulation. These incorporated mechanics usu- 
 ally met together on holidays ; and, after the 
 disposal of civil business, either read, in the 
 long winter evenings, the chronicles of their 
 country, or the ancient Nordic poems and ero- 
 tic ballads. These readings could hardly fail 
 to suggest in many the idea of entertaining the 
 company with some composition of their own. 
 And there can be little doubt, that the readings 
 of these assembled artisans were the main cause 
 that awakened in many a bosom the dormant 
 spirit of poetrv, in that unlettered age. 
 
 "The elementary step towards organization 
 being thus imperceptibly compassed, they pro- 
 ceeded quite naturally to select the most excel- 
 lent from among their company, and, by com- 
 mon consent, established a poetic corporation 
 under the name of Master-singers. Adopted 
 in a particular citv, the genius of the German 
 population soon fastened on the fascinating nov- 
 elty, and bore it onwards. The intimate, uni- 
 form, and constant relations, which subsisted 
 between the artisans of those times and those 
 countries, materially hastened its dissemination, 
 and rendered it universal. The birthplace of 
 this poetic phenomenon was Mentz. Thence 
 it passed rapidly into the other cities of Ger- 
 many, particularly Augsburg and Nuremberg. 
 The masters of Mentz, to give celebrity to their 
 new institution, taught their pupils that this 
 school of Magistral Song was founded from an- 
 cient time, by very noble and illustrious per- 
 sons, — and they named the following: — 
 
 " 1. Walter, Lord of the Vogelweide ; 2. 
 Wolfgang Eschenbach, cavalier or knight ; 3. 
 Konrad Marner, cavalier ; 4. H. Frauenlob, of 
 Mentz, and, 5. H. von Milglin, of Mentz, theo- 
 logicians; 6. M. Klingsohr; 7. M. Starke Papp; 
 and five honorable burghers,' namely, 8. Bar- 
 tholomew Regenbogen, a blacksmith ; 9. The 
 Roman of Zwickau ; 10. The Chancellor, a 
 fisherman ; 11. Konrad of Wdrtzburg ; and, 12. 
 Stoll, senior. 
 
 " They affirmed, moreover, that "he Emperor 
 Otho the First, in the year 962, cited these 
 twelve to appear at the University of Pavia. 
 
 There they were publicly examine J by the pro- 
 fessors, in the presence of a multitude of learned 
 persons, and acknowledged masters in their art. 
 On this occasion, Otho presented these masters 
 and their academy with a diadem of gold, to 
 adorn and crown him who should come off the 
 victor in song. The documents relative to these 
 transactions were preserved for seven hundred 
 years in the archives of Mentz, whence they 
 were taken and carried into Alsace, at the time 
 of the Smalkaldic war. 
 
 " It is easy to perceive that this history is an 
 artful invention of the founders of the Magistral 
 Song, to give more importance and sanctity to 
 their corporation. The singers of Augsburg 
 and Nuremberg had, notwithstanding, each of 
 them their own protomasters, — twelve, also; 
 but they dated from more recent times, and did 
 not clash with the preeminence of Mentz : on 
 the contrarv, they mentioned the masters of that 
 school in their songs always with profound re- 
 spect. 
 
 "Be that as it may, we have indicated with 
 great historical precision the epoch in which 
 this sect originated, whose aim was to promote 
 the development of music and poetry among 
 the German people. To accomplish this, the 
 Masters of the Song assembled together on holi- 
 days, generally in the evening, either in the 
 halls of the arts, or in the churches, and there 
 performed their poetico-musical exercises. 
 
 " It was their custom, by written placards, 
 handsomely ornamented, and exposed in all the 
 public places, to invite the lovers of the fine 
 arts to these assemblies ; and the ceremony was 
 arranged as follows. The concurrents for the 
 distinction of Master placed themselves, one 
 after the other, in a high chair, whose elevation 
 gave it the appearance of a cathedral throne. 
 By the side of the concurrent sat four judges, — 
 Mercker, — one of whom was to pronounce upon 
 the subject of the song ; to the second belonged 
 its prosody ; the rhymes to a third ; and a fourth 
 kept an account of its melody. So that, to ar- 
 rive at the mastership, it was not simply requi- 
 site to be a good poet, but the candidate must 
 set his verses to music, and sing them too ! 
 
 "On mounting the rostrum, the performer 
 first briefly complimented the masters and the 
 audience. He then set forth the subject of his 
 poem, — its particular form, whether of three, 
 five, or seven strophes, — the quality of the 
 rhymes, or verses, — and lastly, the melody he 
 proposed to adopt. Of all this the judges kept 
 an exact account. In this manner, one after 
 the other, the contending parties sang their 
 compositions from the chair; and «vhen they 
 had all finished, the judges began u examine, 
 from hand to hand, the poem of each competi- 
 tor, in the quadruple relation already pointed 
 out. This examination over, they called the 
 ordinary president of the assembly, if he did 
 not happen to be among the concurrents ; but 
 if otherwise, one of the ancient masters ; and 
 gave in their judgment to him. The president 
 
GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 185 
 
 .hen ascended in cathedram, having at each 
 side two judges, and proceeded, with a loud, 
 intelligible voice, to announce the judgment. 
 This comprehended, first, the adjudication of 
 the crown to the most distinguished poet; then, 
 that of the garland to the next best ; and final- 
 ly, the penal sentence against those who had 
 neglected the rules of the art. At the sound 
 of trumpets and other instruments, the two vic- 
 tor poets now approached the president, who 
 placed upon their heads the insignia of their 
 triumph, amid the shouts of the acclaiming au- 
 ditory. The bursar went his rounds with a 
 bag, into which all who had incurred a pen- 
 alty dropped it acquiescingly, as he passed 
 along. This was the signal for the society to 
 separate, which they now did, with a hand- 
 some rcnvoy to the audience ; and its members, 
 in good harmony, repaired either to one of 
 their cafes, or some public room. There, seat- 
 ed at the festive board, their only themes po- 
 etry and the fine arts, they passed the brimming 
 beaker in quick succession ; and improvisation, 
 in those rhymed couplets which are called 
 knittdverse, became the order of the night. 
 Woe to him who had not always a rhyme at 
 his fingers' ends, or some burlesque idea to 
 compensate for it ! for he would have been the 
 butt of the company. 
 
 " Such were the singular customs of the Mas- 
 tersingers ; but yet more singular than these 
 customs were the laws upon which they ground- 
 ed their judgments. It would be foreign to 
 the purpose of an article like the present, to 
 particularize the many strange regulations and 
 absurdities of their poetic code ; but it may be 
 remarked, that they fettered the freedom of the 
 Muse with every impediment that an ingenious 
 fancy could devise.* They had thirty-two laws 
 for the minutim of composition, which it was 
 compulsory on each candidate to observe; and 
 to the infraction of any one of these was an- 
 
 * "Every song or poem, for instance, had its given num- 
 ber of rhymes and syllables, prescribed and limited by the 
 master ; and every singer, poet, or judge, was obliged to 
 count them upon his fingers. The song (Bar) was confin- 
 ed to three, five, or seven stanzas, or verses (Gesctze), 
 which were divided into two principal strophes (Stolhn), 
 each finishing with a crotchet, and sung to the same air; 
 then followed the antistrophe (Abgesang), in a different 
 melody; and, ordinarily, the song terminated with a stro- 
 phe, set to the same melody as the two former. The 
 rhymes, or verses, employed in these songs, or poems, 
 were of seven sorts. They had their dumb or mute rhymes, 
 called Slumpfe Reime; sounding rhymes, or Klingende 
 Reime; sounding and beating rhymes, Klinge?ide Schlag- 
 reime; modes, or blank verses. Weisen, odcr einfache 
 Verse; pauses, Pausen ; coronets, Kronlein; and their 
 mute, beating rhymes, or Slumpfe Schlagreime. To each 
 and all of these verses were assigned their several stations 
 in the poem, and often under such hampering restrictions 
 as must have heen very prejudicial to the sense. Neither 
 was it allowable to change this arbitrary location, under 
 any color of poetic license; for the principal merit in these 
 compositions was their punctilious adaptation to a me- 
 chanical standard, from which any signal departure was 
 punished by fine and disqualification for the prize." 
 24 
 
 nexed a penalty, often as fanciful as the law it- 
 self. With such obstacles to the attainment of 
 perfection, even upon their own principles, a 
 freedom from faults was almost altogether im- 
 possible ; consequently, those performers who 
 numbered the fewest errors were crowned as 
 conquerors. Deducting these aberrations of the 
 victors, the next business was to count the 
 faults of the vanquished ; and every syllable 
 in excess of such deduction was expiated by a 
 small pecuniary fine, the product of which went 
 towards the entertainments, and similar ex- 
 penses.* All the certaminal or master songs 
 were performed in the high German language, 
 from which no deviation was tolerated under 
 any circumstances. Nor was the plea of his 
 own particular provincial idiom of any service 
 to the offending singer. If- he was ignorant 
 of the Teutonic language, he was desired to go 
 back and study in the received standards: — 
 these were the Bibles of Witteinberg, Nurem- 
 berg, and Frankfort, and the public records of 
 the lordships and principalities of the empire. 
 It ought to be mentioned here, that the harmo- 
 nies or tunes of the Masters) ngers were of 
 high antiquity, and held in great reverence 
 by that extraordinary body. They are said, 
 indeed, to have preserved, traditionally, the 
 ancient melodies of the Minnesingers, or love- 
 minstrels; more especially those which were 
 supposed to belong to the twelve founders of 
 the school of song. According to some writ- 
 ers, there were not less than four hundred of 
 these melodies ; and their names were singular 
 enough. There was the Feilweis, or Melo- 
 dy of the File ; the Preisweis, or Melody of 
 Praise ; Zarte Buchstahcnioeis, the Tender 
 Melody of Letters ; Geschwinde Pflugweis, the 
 Quick Melody of the Plough. Besides these, 
 the High Mlegro Melody of Praise, the Hard 
 Melody of the Field, the Long Tail of the 
 Swallow, and the Long, Double Harmony of 
 the Dove, were among their constant and fa- 
 miliar favorites. In the certaminal exercises, 
 the singers were confined to a rigorous obser- 
 vation of the ancient metres as well as notes 
 of these melodies. But the composition of 
 original airs was not, on that account, discour- 
 aged ; and many of these, in manuscript, are 
 to be found in the library of Traubot at Leip- 
 zig, and in that of Vienna, and others. 
 
 " Such rules and institutions, it is evident, 
 
 * "This syllabical assessment of the penalties was another 
 peculiar feature in the institution of the Mastersinpers; 
 and, from the impossibility of a strict adherence, on the 
 part of any performer, to such a vexatious canon of com- 
 position, must have been a very material and equally cer- 
 tain source of revenue. Exempli gratia : a verse too long, 
 or loo short, received its punishment syllable by syllable ; 
 a word too hard, or too soft, — a note too high, or too low, 
 — a change of measure, or of melody, — a pause omiltod, 
 or introduced, — a strophe more, or less, than the regula- 
 tion, — rhythm violated, — rhyme neglected, — and twenty 
 other such mechanical minutim, pai 1 their forfeit accord- 
 ing to the syllabic tariff." 
 
 p2 
 
186 
 
 GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 were little calculated to kindle the flame of 
 Doetrv in ordinary bosoms. And if these 
 meetings of the United Artisans did not pro- 
 duce any first-rate geniuses, where is the won- 
 der ? Has even one, among all the literary 
 academies of cultivated Europe, been able to 
 achieve more ? The Society of the Master- 
 singers has not been wanting, for all this, in 
 many excellent consequences. Music and me- 
 tre constituted its essential elements, and civ- 
 ilization felt her inarch quickened by their in- 
 fluence. It preserved, too, among the people 
 recollections of antiquity, which else had un- 
 doubtedly perished; and called forth that pa- 
 triarcho-biblical spirit, which rendered so ven- 
 erable the burgher families and artisans of the 
 cities of Germany; nay, more, universalized 
 the high German idiom, and made it the lan- 
 guage of the people. In the midst of its many 
 curious arrangements, and fantastical and use- 
 less formalities, it had the peculiar merit to be- 
 come the guardian of its native tongue, and trans- 
 mit it pure through the deflux of barbarous ages." 
 
 The greatest poet of this period is Hans 
 Sachs, the son of a barber, and by trade a cob- 
 bler. He was born in Nuremberg in 1494, and 
 died there in 1575 at the age of eighty-two. 
 Eight years before his death, he took an inven- 
 tory of his poetic stock, and found that he had 
 written, between the years 1514 and 1567, the 
 immense number of 6181 pieces ; namely, 
 4200 Mastersongs ; 208 comedies and trage- 
 dies; 1700 comic tales; 73 miscellaneous ly- 
 rics; in all, thirty-four folio volumes of manu- 
 script, of which three have been published 
 (Nuremberg, 1558-61). His writings are 
 marked by shrewdness, good sense, and moth- 
 er wit ; and the portrait of him, by Hans Hoff- 
 mann, has a mingled expression of intelligence, 
 drollery, and good nature. Adam Puschrnann, 
 his contemporary and friend, describes him, in 
 a song upon his death, as seen in a vision on 
 Christmas eve: "In the midst of the garden 
 stood a fair summer-house, wherein there was 
 a hall paved with marble, with beautiful es- 
 cutcheons and figures bold and daring; and 
 round about the hall were windows, through 
 which were seen the fruits in the garden with- 
 out ; and in the middle, a round table covered 
 with green silk ; whereat sat an old man gray 
 and white, and like a dove ; and he had a great 
 beard, and read in a great book with golden 
 clasps." * 
 
 The other poetic names of this century are 
 few in number. The most distinguished are 
 Martin Luther, Johann Fischart, Ulrich von 
 Hutten, Bartholomew Ringwaldt, Joachim Be- 
 litz, Heinrich Knaust, Paul Schede, Peter De- 
 naisius, Ambrose Metzger, and Georg Hager. 
 These, and a few others, are writers of songs 
 and spiritual poems, which, with the anonymous 
 popular ballads, make the chief part of the poe- 
 try of the period. 
 
 * Erlaoh Volkslieder der Deutschen. Vol. I. p. 69. 
 
 V. From 1600 to 1700. This is, perhaps, 
 the darkest period in German poetry. The 
 distractions of the Thirty Years' War were 
 fatal to literature. The old romantic spirit wag 
 entirely gone, and the little intellectual energy 
 which remained was employed on the imita- 
 tion of foreign models. The language, too, was 
 much corrupted by the admixture of foreign 
 words. Epic poetry had almost entirely disap- 
 peared ; and lyric poetry, particularly that of 
 the church, affords the most favorable speci- 
 mens of the poetic talent of the age. The 
 principal poets of this period are Jacob Ayrer, 
 author of thirty tragedies and comedies and 
 thirty-six Shrove-tide plays, in one of which, 
 Priam, Ulysses, and Achilles are represented as 
 suffering with the gout, and choose Hans Sachs 
 to accuse Queen Podagra before the court of 
 Jupiter, where Petrarch appears as her advo- 
 cate ; — Martin Opitz, author of various didac- 
 tic, descriptive, and dramatic poems, and many 
 translations; — Simon Dach ; — Paul Flemming; 
 
 — Andreas Gryphius, author of seven tragedies 
 in rhymed Alexandrines ; — Paul Gerhardt; — 
 Johann Klai, author of legendary melodramas ; — 
 Hofmann von Hofmannswaldau ; — Johann Rist; 
 
 — Andreas Tscherning; — Kaspar von Lohen- 
 stein ; — and Friedrich von Canitz. From these, 
 and some twenty other poets of the seventeenth 
 century, few translations have been made into 
 English. The reader will find, however, nu- 
 merous extracts from them in the collections of 
 Matthisson and Erlach.* 
 
 VI. From 1700 to 1770. We at length be- 
 gin to emerge from the Black Forest of German 
 literature, " whence issuing, we again behold 
 the stars." This first half of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury is marked by a better and more national 
 taste. The more congenial influence of Eng- 
 lish writers gains steadily upon that of the 
 French ; while the study of the ancient classic 
 models becomes more and more apparent, and 
 the language advances in purity, copiousness, 
 and vigor. 
 
 The poets of this period are usually divided 
 into groups or schools, as the Swiss, the Saxon, 
 the Hamburg, and the Berlin schools. This 
 division, though rather arbitrary, may conven- 
 iently be followed here ; but, as the literary 
 history of the period will be given more com- 
 pletely in the biographical sketches accompany- 
 ing the extracts, it will be necessary to mention 
 only some of the most distinguished names in 
 the several schools. 1. The Swiss school ; 
 Haller, Bodmer, Breitinger, and Gessner. 2. 
 The Saxon ; Gottsched, Gellert, Garner, Licht- 
 wer, Giseke, Kreuz, Weisse, and Cronegk. 
 3. The Hamburg ; Hngedorn, Kramer, and 
 Klopstock. 4. The Berlin ; Gleim, Kleist, Uz, 
 Ramler, and Lessing. 
 
 * Lyrische Anthologie, von Friedrich Matthisson. 
 20 vols. Zurich: 1803-7. 12mo. — Volkslieder der Deut- 
 schen, durch Friedrich Karl von Erlach. 4 vols 
 Mannheim : 1334-5. 8vo. 
 
GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 187 
 
 VII. From 1770 to the present time. This 
 's the last and most important period of Ger- 
 man literary history; illustrious with the names 
 of Herder, Wieland, Goethe, and Schiller, 
 and many others, which, though subordinate 
 here, would have been of the highest distinc- 
 tion in any former age. This period is divided 
 into three subdivisions. First, the Storm and 
 Pressure Period (Sturjn-und-Drang-Periode), 
 60 called from the restless spirit at work in lit- 
 erature, the best exponents of which are Schil- 
 ler's " Robbers," and Goethe's " Gotz von Ber- 
 lichingen." Tiiis period extends from 1770 to 
 1794. Second, the union of Goethe and Schil- 
 ler, the Schlegel and Tieck school, and the 
 modern Romanticists. This period extends from 
 1794 to about 1813. Third, the most recent 
 period, from 1813 to 1844, embracing the patri- 
 otic poets of the War of Liberation, as Schenk- 
 endorf, Korner, and Ruckert, the writers of the 
 Destiny dramas, as Werner, Mitller, and Grill- 
 parzer, and the living poets, as Uhland, Freilig- 
 rath, Auersperg, Herwegh, Hoffmann von Fal- 
 lersleben, and others. 
 
 Such is, in the briefest view possible, this 
 wide and important portion of the field of Ger- 
 man culture which lies between the present 
 day and the middle of the last century. Here 
 are the dwellings of Goethe, and Schiller, and 
 Lessing; there the farms of Voss, and Herder, 
 and Jean Paul ; and yonder the grave-yard, 
 with Matthisson making an elegy, and other 
 sentimental poets leaning with their elbows on 
 the tomb-stones. And then we have the old 
 and melancholy tale, — the struggle against 
 poverty, the suffering, sorrowful life, the ear- 
 ly, mournful death, — still another confirmation 
 of the fact, that men of genius too often resem- 
 ble the fabled son of Ocean and Earth, who by 
 day was wafted through the air to distribute 
 corn over the world, but at night was laid on 
 burning coals to render him immortal. 
 
 One important portion of German poetry still 
 remains to be noticed, — the great mass of Pop- 
 ular Songs, of uncertain date, and by unknown 
 authors. The ancient German ballads are cer- 
 tainly inferior, as a whole, to the English, Dan- 
 ish, Swedish, and Spanish ; but the German 
 popular songs, blooming like wild-flowers over 
 the broad field of literature from the fifteenth 
 century to the present lime, surpass in beauty, 
 variety, and quantity those of any other coun- 
 try. Among their thousand sweet and mingled 
 odors criticism often finds itself at fault, as the 
 hunter's hounds on Mount Hymettus were 
 thrown off their scent by the fragrance of its 
 infinite wild-flowers. They exhibit the more 
 humble forms of human life, as seen in streets, 
 workshops, garrisons, mines, fields, and cottages ; 
 and give expression to the feelings of hope, joy, 
 longing, and despair, from thousands of hearts 
 which have no other records than these. 
 
 Many collections of these songs have been 
 made, among which those of Eschenburg,G6rres, 
 Wolf, Bardale, Zarnach, Meinert, Erlach, Busch- 
 
 ing, and Von der Hagen may be particularly 
 mentioned. But the most popular collection of 
 all is that published by Arnim and Brenlano, 
 under the title of "The Boy's Wonder-horn."* 
 A youth on a swift steed comes riding up to the 
 castle of the empress, bearing in his hand a 
 beautiful ivory horn adorned with precious 
 stones and little silver bells, which a fairy has 
 sent to the empress as a reward for her purity. 
 He leaves the horn in her hand, saying : 
 
 " One pressure of your finger, 
 One pressure of your finger, 
 And all these bells around 
 Will breathe a. sweeter sound 
 Than e'er from harp-string rang, 
 Than e'er a woman sang." 
 
 " I know not how to praise this book as it 
 deserves," says Heine, t "It contains the most 
 beauteous flowers of the German mind ; and he, 
 who would become acquainted with the Ger- 
 man people in their most love-inspiring aspect, 
 must study these traditionary songs. At this 
 moment the ' Wunderhorn ' lies before me, and 
 it appears as if I were inhaling the fragrance 
 of the German linden. The linden plays a 
 leading character in these songs; lovers com- 
 mune beneath its evening shade ; it is their fa- 
 vorite tree, perhaps because the linden leaf 
 bears the shape of the human heart. This re- 
 mark was once made to me by a German poet 
 who is my greatest favorite, namely, — myself. 
 Upon the title-page of the volume is a boy 
 blowing a horn, and when a German in a 
 strange land look3 upon it for any length of 
 time, the most familiar notes seem to greet his 
 ear, and he is almost overcome with homesick- 
 ness; as was the Swiss soldier who stood sen- 
 tinel on the Strasburg tower, and when he 
 caught the herdsman's note, flung down his 
 pike, swam across the Rhine, but was soon re- 
 taken, and shot as a deserter. The ' Knaben 
 Wunderhorn ' contains the most touching song 
 upon it, a song full of beauty. 
 
 "In these popular ballads there is an inde- 
 scribable fascination. The poets of Art strive to 
 imitate these productions of Nature, as men 
 concoct artificial mineral-waters. Yet, when 
 by chemical process they have discovered the 
 component parts, the all-important something 
 escapes them still, namely, the sympathetic 
 power of Nature. In these songs one feels the 
 heart-beatings of the German people; here re- 
 veals itself all the sombre joyousness, all the 
 idle wisdom of the nation; here German anger 
 drums its measure, here German jest pipes its 
 notes, and here German love blends its kisses; 
 here drop the generous wines, and here, the 
 unaffected tears of Germany ; the latter are oft 
 
 * Des Knaben Wunderhorn. Alte Deutsche Lieder ge- 
 eammelt von L. A v. Arnim und Clemens Brentano. 3 
 vols. Heidelberg: 1809- 19. 8vo. 
 
 f Letters Auxiliary to the History of Modern Polite Lit- 
 erature in Germany. By Heinrich Heine. Translated 
 by G. W. Haven. Boston : lb36. 16mo. 
 
188 
 
 GERMAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 more costly than the former, for iron and salt 
 are there commingled. 
 
 "It is, for the most part, wanderers, vaga- 
 bonds, soldiers, travelling scholars, and journey- 
 men,* who composed such songs. The greatir 
 part, however, we owe to the journeymen. How 
 often, in my pedestrial journeys, have I asso- 
 ciated myself with this last class of travellers, 
 and remarked, how, when they were excited 
 by any unusual event, they would improvisate 
 a snatch of native song, or whistle aloud in the 
 free air ! Even the little birds that rested upon 
 the branches listed to the song, and when an- 
 other lad, with knapsack and v/anderer's staff, 
 came sauntering by, the little birds whistled the 
 fragment in his ear, then he adjoined the want- 
 ing lines, and the song was finished. The words 
 fall from heaven upon the lips of such a wan- 
 derer, and he has only to speak them forth, and 
 they are sweeter than all the beautiful poetic 
 phrases which we delve from the depths of our 
 hearts." 
 
 In conclusion, it may be remarked, that what 
 Thomas Fuller said of the Bible may also be 
 said of German literature : " Wheresoever its 
 surface doth not laugh and sing with corn, there 
 the heart thereof within is merry with mines, 
 affording, where not plain matter, hidden mys- 
 teries." But until recently a great portion of 
 the English public perceived only the hidden 
 mysteries, and not the laughing and singing of 
 the corn. They seemed to think that German 
 literature consisted only of ghost-stories, senti- 
 mental novels, and mystic books of philosophy. 
 They started back in terror from the appalling 
 spectre of a German metaphysician, as Dante 
 from the form of Lucifer, when he beheld it 
 looming through the misty atmosphere, and, 
 like a windmill, whirling in the blast : 
 " Vczilla regis prodeunt inferni 
 Verso di noi ; pero dinanzi mira, 
 Disse '1 maestro mio, se tu '1 discerni. 
 
 Come quando una grossa nebbia spira, 
 O quando 1' emisperio nostro annolta, 
 Par da lungi un mulin che '1 vento gira. 
 Veder mi parve un tal dificio allotta." 
 Many still form their idea of this literature 
 from a poor translation of " The Sorrows of 
 Werther"; others from some of Hoffmann's wild 
 tales. Not finding these to their taste, they lose 
 all patience ; call the whole literature silly, 
 rhapsodical, absurd, and immoral; and finally 
 exclaim, with Danton in the French Assembly, 
 " Gentlemen, in future let us have prose and 
 decency ! " 
 
 Before closing, it may be well to explain in a 
 few words a form of speech that has been of 
 late years much used in literary criticism, name- 
 ly, the convenient expressions, Objectivity and 
 Subjectivity. Objectivity is the power of looking 
 
 * "In many of the German states, mechanics, after they 
 have finished their apprenticeship, are obliged to wander 
 through the country for two or three years, as alluded to in 
 the text, and to sojourn for a longer or shorter period in the 
 different cities and towns, in the capacity of journeymen, 
 under the masters of their respective guilds." 
 
 upon all things as objects of art. The objective 
 writer is an artist, wh«, forgetful of himself, sees 
 only the object before him. All scenes and per- 
 sons are described without betraying any of the 
 describer's own peculiarities. The author is not 
 seen in his book. He never speaks in his own 
 person, nor is the reader reminded of him. 
 Shakspeare and Scott are, perhaps, the most ob- 
 jective of writers. Their heroes are not portraits 
 of themselves, but of objects out of themselves. 
 In the same way, the old classic writers are for 
 the most part objective. Subjectivity, on the 
 other hand, is the power by which a writer 
 stamps himself on all he writes, and gives it 
 the coloring of his own mind. The author is 
 never lost sight of in his work. We hear 
 always the same voice, though somewhat coun- 
 terfeited ; see always the same face, though 
 partially concealed under various masks. Most 
 modern writers are subjective. Like Snug, the 
 joiner, in " The Midsummer Night's Dream," 
 they let half the face be seen through the lion's 
 neck, and say, " I one Snug the joiner am ! " 
 or, like Moonshine in the same play, exclaim : 
 " All that I have to say is, to tell you that the 
 lantern is the moon ; I, the man in the moon ; 
 this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush ; and this dog, 
 my dog." Such are the expressions, Objectivity 
 and Subjectivity ; from which the not very trans- 
 parent mixture has been formed, called Subjec- 
 tive-Objectivity. This is the desirable power of 
 seeing ourselves as others see us. Launce, in 
 "The Two Gentlemen of Verona," seems to 
 have a confused notion of it, when he says : 
 "I am the dog; — no, the dog is himself, and 
 I am the dog ; — O, the dog is me, and I am 
 myself: — Ay, so, so." 
 
 In addition to the works already cited, for a 
 more complete history of German literature, 
 the reader is referred to Madame de Stael's 
 "Allemagne"; — Franz Horn's " Poesie und 
 Beredsamkeit der Deutschen," 3 vols., Berlin, 
 1822-4, 8vo. ; — Taylor's "Historic Survey 
 of German Poetry," 3 vols., London, 1830, 
 8vo. ; — Gervinus, " Geschichte der Poetischen 
 National-Literatur der Deutschen," 5 vols., 
 Leipzig, 1840 — 3, 8vo. ; an excellent analysis 
 of which may be found in the "North Ameri- 
 can Review," for January, 1844; — Menzel's 
 " German Literature," translated by C. C. Fel- 
 ton, 3 vols., Boston, 1840, 12mo. ; — Peschier's 
 " Histoire de la Litterature Allemande," 2 vols., 
 Paris, 1836, 8vo. ; — Henry and Apflel's "His- 
 toire de la Litterature Allemande," Paris, 1839, 
 8vo. Vast stores of the German literature of the 
 Middle Ages may be found in the publications 
 of the " Literarischer Verein," in Stuttgart, and 
 the " Bibliothek der gesammten Deutschen Na- 
 tional-Literatur," which was commenced in 
 1839, by Basse, in Quedlinburg. See also Mail- 
 iith and Kdffinger's " Koloczaer Codex alt- 
 deutscher Gedichte," Pesth, 1817, and Grimm's 
 " Altdeutsche Walder," 3 vols., Cassel, 1813- 
 16, 8vo. 
 
FIRST PERIOD-CENTURIES VIII.-XI. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 SONG OF OLD HILDEBRAND. 
 
 I have heard say, that Hildebrand and Ara- 
 elung agreed to go on a warlike expedition. 
 These kinsmen made readv their horses, pre- 
 pared their war-shirts, and girded on their ehain- 
 hilted swords. 
 
 As they rode to the meeting of heroes, Hil- 
 debrand, Herbrand's son (he was one of the 
 wise, and questioned in few words), said to his 
 companion: "If thou wilt tell me who was 
 thy father, and of what people thou 'art sprung, 
 I will give thee three garments." 
 
 " I am a child of the Huns," answered Ame- 
 lung, " and our old people have told me that 
 my father's name was Hildebrand. In former 
 times he came from the East, flying the enmity 
 of Otto-asa, and put himself with Theodoric 
 and his blades. 
 
 " He left behind, in the land, a bride in 
 child-bed, and a child without inheritance ; and 
 went to the South with Theodoric, where he 
 stood manv brunts. 
 
 " He was a man without connexions, not a 
 match for Otto-asa ; but he was a good soldier, 
 while he strove under Theodoric, acquired do- 
 mains, was his people's father, and dear to 
 brave men. I do not believe that he is liv- 
 ing." 
 
 " My worthy god Irmin in heaven above," 
 quoth Hildebrand, " do not let me fight with so 
 near a kinsman ! " Then he untwisted golden 
 bracelets from his arm, and imperial rings, which 
 his king had given him, saving: "This I give 
 thee, not without good will ; I am thy father 
 Hildebrand." 
 
 Amelung answered : " With willing soul be 
 gifts taken, tit for tat. Thou art not of his age. 
 Craftily thou seekest to deceive me : but I will 
 convict thee out of thine own mouth. Thou 
 art so advanced in years, that thou must be old- 
 er than he. And shipwrecked men told me, 
 that he died by the Wendel-sea,* in the West." 
 
 Then Hildebrand answered : " I well see 
 thou hast in thy breast no Lord God, and carest 
 naught for his kingdom. Go now, so God be 
 willing," said Hildebrand ; "I would we were 
 parted. Sixty summers have I wandered out 
 of my country, and sometimes I have joined 
 archers, but in no borough did they ever fasten 
 my legs ; and now my nearest kinsman would 
 aim his battle-axe at my neck, or I must bind 
 his legs. Yet you may now easily, if your 
 
 * The Sea of Venice, the Adriatic. 
 
 valor is up, win the spoils of the dead from one 
 you should venerate, if you have any sense of 
 right. He would be a base Ostrogoth," con- 
 tinued Hildebrand, " who should refuse thee 
 battle, seeing thou so greatly desirest it. Good 
 commoners, be judges which it is who flinches 
 in the field, and which it is who ought to have 
 our two coats of mail." 
 
 Then they let fly their ashen spears with 
 such force that they stuck in the shields. 
 Then they struck together their stone axes, and 
 uplifted hostilely their white shields, till their 
 loins and bellies quivered. 
 
 But the lady Utta rushed in between them : 
 " I know," said she, " the cross of gold which 
 I gave him for his shield ; this is my Hilde- 
 brand. You, Amelung, sheathe your sword ; 
 this is your father." 
 
 Then she led both champions into her hall, 
 and gave them meal and wine and many em- 
 braces. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF THE SONG OF LOUIS 
 THE THIRD. 
 
 Then took he shield and spear, 
 And quickly forward rode ; 
 Willing to wreak revenge 
 Against his gathering foes. 
 
 Erelong he saw from far 
 The Norman force approach : 
 " Thank God ! " said he aloud : 
 He saw w T hat he desired. 
 
 The king rode bravely on, 
 And sang a Frankish hymn, 
 And all his people joined : 
 " Kyrieleison." 
 
 The song was sung ; 
 
 The fight begun : 
 
 The blood shone in the cheeks 
 
 Of the merry Franks : 
 
 But no blade of them all 
 
 Fought so bravely as Ludovic. 
 
 FROM THE RHYME OF ST. ANNO 
 
 Before St. Anno 
 Six were sainted 
 Of our holy bishops ; 
 Like the seven stars, 
 
190 GERMAN 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 They shall shine from heaven. 
 
 And was counted among the first barons. 
 
 Purer and brighter 
 
 At worship, in his gestures, 
 
 Is the light of Anno 
 
 He was awful as an angel. 
 
 Than a hyacinth set in a golden ring. 
 
 Many a man knew his goodness ; 
 
 This darling man 
 
 Hear what were his manners : 
 
 We will have for a pattern ; 
 
 His words were frank and open ; 
 
 And those that would grow 
 
 He spoke truth, fearing no man. 
 
 In virtue and trustiness 
 
 Like a lion he sat among princes, 
 
 Shall dress by him as at a mirror. 
 
 Like a lamb he walked among the needy. 
 
 As the sun in the air, 
 
 To the unruly he was sharp, 
 
 Which goes between heaven and earth, 
 
 To the gentle he was mild. 
 
 Glitters to both : 
 
 Widows and orphans 
 
 So went Bishop Anno 
 
 Praised him always. 
 
 Between God and man. 
 
 Preaching and praying 
 
 Such was his virtue in the palace, 
 
 Nobody could do better. 
 
 That the empire obeyed him. 
 
 Happy was Cologne 
 
 He behaved with honor to both sides, 
 
 To be worthy of such a bishop. 
 
 SECOND PERIOD. -CENTURIES XII., XIII. 
 
 MINNESINGERS. ' 
 
 CONRAD VON KIRCHBERG. 
 
 
 
 
 Our manly youths, — where are they now ' 
 
 Count Conrad von Kirchberg was a Swa- 
 
 Bid them up and with us go 
 
 bian, who lived in the latter part of the twelfth 
 
 To the sporters on the plain : 
 
 century. He was the author of several songs, 
 
 Bid adieu to care and pain 
 
 and this is all that is known of him. 
 
 Now, thou pale and wounded lover ! 
 
 
 
 Thou thy peace shalt soon recover. 
 
 May, sweet May, again is come, 
 
 Many a laughing lip and eye 
 
 May that frees the land from gloom ; 
 
 Speaks the light heart's gayety ; 
 
 Children, children, up, and see 
 
 Lovely flowers around we find, 
 
 All her stores of jollity ! 
 
 In the smiling verdure twined, 
 
 On the laughing hedgerow's side 
 
 Richly steeped in May-dews glowing. 
 
 She hath spread her treasures wide ; 
 
 Youths, rejoice ! the flowers are blowing ! 
 
 She is in the greenwood shade, 
 
 Sing ye ! join the chorus gay ! 
 
 Where the nightingale hath made 
 
 Hail this merry, merry May ! 
 
 Every branch and every tree 
 
 
 Ring with her sweet melody; 
 
 O, if to my love restored, — 
 
 Hill and dale are May's own treasures. 
 
 To her, o'er all her sex adored, — 
 
 Youths, rejoice ! In sportive measures 
 
 What supreme delight were mine ! 
 
 Sing ye ! join the chorus gay ! 
 
 How would care her sway resign ! 
 
 Hail this merry, merry May ! 
 
 Merrily in the bloom of May 
 
 
 Would I weave a garland gay. 
 
 Up, then, children ! we will go 
 
 Better than the best is she, 
 
 Where the blooming roses grow ; 
 
 Purer than all purity ; 
 
 In a joyful company 
 
 For her spotless self alone 
 
 We the bursting flowers will see : 
 
 I will praise this changeless one ; 
 
 Up, your festal dress prepare ! 
 
 Thankful or unthankful, she 
 
 Where gay hearts are meeting, there 
 
 Shall my song, my idol be. 
 
 May hath pleasures most inviting, 
 
 Youths, then join the chorus gay ! 
 
 Heart and sight and ear delighting. 
 
 Hail this merry, merry May ! 
 
 Listen to the birds' sweet song : 
 
 
 Hark ! how soft it floats along ! 
 Courtly dames, our pleasures share ! 
 
 t 
 
 
 Never saw I May so fair ; 
 
 HEINRICH VON RISPACH. 
 
 Therefore dancing will we go. 
 
 
 
 Youths, rejoice ! the flowerets blow ! 
 
 Heinrich von Rispach, or the Virtuous 
 
 Sing ye ! join the chorus gay ! 
 
 Clerk, flourished in the latter part of the twelfth 
 
 Hail this merry, merry May ! 
 
 century, and lived as late as 1207, as he was 
 
MINNESINGERS. 
 
 191 
 
 one of the combatants at the poetical battle of 
 the Wartburg, which took place in that year. 
 
 The woodlands with my songs resound, 
 
 As still I seek to gain 
 The favor of that lady fair 
 
 Who causeth all my pain. 
 
 My fate is like the nightingale's, 
 
 That singeth all night long, 
 While still the woodlands mournfully 
 
 But echo back her song. 
 
 What care the wild woods, as they wave, 
 * For all the songster's pains ? 
 Who gives her the reward of thanks 
 For all her tuneful strains ? 
 
 In dull and mute ingratitude 
 Her sweetest songs they hear, 
 
 Their tenants roam the desert wild, 
 And want no music there. 
 
 WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH. 
 
 Wolfram von Eschenbach, one of the 
 most voluminous poets of the Middle Ages, 
 belonged to a noble family of the Upper Pala- 
 tinate. He lived in the latter part of the 
 twelfth century, and the first part of the thir- 
 teenth. But little is known of his private 
 life, except that he supported himself by his 
 poetical genius, and the liberality of the princes 
 at whose courts he was entertained. Early in 
 the thirteenth century, he was a dependent of 
 Hermann, the landgrave of Thuringia. To- 
 wards the close of his life he returned to the 
 castle of his ancestors, and about the year 1228, 
 died and was buried in the church of our Lady 
 of Eschenbach. 
 
 Wolfram von Eschenbach is more renowned 
 for long narrative poems than for amorous dit- 
 ties. Besides his traditional fame, as one of the 
 champions in the poetic tourney at the Wart- 
 burg, his poems of "Parcival," " Titurel," and 
 " William and Kiburg " have given him a lofty 
 place among the German bards. The poem of 
 "Parcival" treats of the Saint-Greal, or Holy 
 Grail, a relic in the form of a vase, made of a 
 single emerald, and containing the holy sacra- 
 ment, or, according to other traditions, the blood 
 of the Saviour, collected by Joseph of Arima- 
 thea, and intrusted to the care of angels, who 
 had long held it suspended in the air, beyond 
 the sight of mortals. Titurel built a temple, 
 according to a design traced by the hand of 
 God, which contained the consecrated vase, 
 and became the abode of a monastic and chiv- 
 alrous order, who took the name of Templars. 
 These persons were charged with the duty of 
 watching over the relic, guarding the edifice, 
 and protecting the kingdom. The king of Saint- 
 Greal was at the same time the ecclesiastical 
 
 chief. The election of the king was determined 
 by the will of God, the name of the chosen 
 monarch being written miraculously on the 
 vase itself. Parcival, one of the Knights of the 
 Round Table, owed his elevation to a similar 
 intimation of the divine will. 
 
 When sin had made great progress in the 
 West, the Saint-Greal was ordered by the Al- 
 mighty to be transferred to the East. Parcival 
 was at this time king of Saint-Greal. The 
 vase, the temple, the kingdom, and the order 
 of defenders were all transported, in a single 
 day, to India. A Christian tribe, who had pre- 
 served their religion in its primeval purity, 
 lived there, surrounded by pagans, under the 
 government of the renowned but mysterious 
 Prester John. This treasure, according to the 
 ancient traditions, had been in the possession 
 of Titurel before Parcival, although the poem 
 which bears his name was composed at a later 
 period. 
 
 Another epic poem of Eschenbach is on the 
 subject of William and Kiburg ; the latter was 
 the wife of William of Orange, whose sister 
 had married Louis le Debonnaire, the son of 
 Charlemagne. These poems, as Eschenbach 
 left them, did not form a complete whole, but 
 were afterwards arranged and completed by 
 other poets. Eschenbach was received into the 
 ranks of chivalry, as he takes good care to in- 
 form us ; and it was in the character and qual- 
 ity of knight that he appeared at the poetic 
 combat of the Wartburg. Like most cavaliers 
 of the age, it is stated that Eschenbach could 
 neither read nor write. A local tradition in- 
 forms us, that he was visited in the chamber he 
 occupied at Eisenach, in the house of one 
 Gottschalk, by the familiar spirit of Klinsor 
 the magician, who had arrived at Eisenach 
 through the air, and taken lodgings with a 
 warm citizen named Hellegrave, or Count of 
 Hell. This malicious demon wrote on the 
 wall of Eschenbach's chamber words signifying 
 that the poet was no better than a layman, 
 which meant in those days an ignoramus. The 
 host of Eschenbach, in his zeal for the repu- 
 tation of his guest, caused the stone on which 
 the inscription was written to be taken out of 
 the wall and thrown into the neighbouring 
 stream of the Horsel ; but the room is still 
 called " the dark chamber." 
 
 In consequence of the defect above mention- 
 ed in Eschenbach's education, — a serious one, 
 it must be confessed, for a poet, — he was com- 
 pelled to employ a reader, when he had occa- 
 sion to make use of books, and to dictate to an 
 amanuensis, whenever he composed. His poems 
 generally were imitations of the Romance or 
 Provencal literature, in which the spirit of 
 chivalry was first breathed into verse. These 
 poems sometimes took the form of a monologue, 
 and sometimes that of a conversation with his 
 characters, one of whom, a special favorite of 
 the poet, was Dame Aventure. 
 
 As a poet, Wolfram betrays more of his own 
 
L92 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 individual character than is common in the 
 poets of an early age. Many significant allu- 
 sions occur in his works to his amours, success- 
 ful or unsuccessful. He blames those who at- 
 tempt to sing of love without having felt its 
 ardors. In " Parcival," he complains at times 
 of the mischievous god, and launches his re- 
 proaches against some hard-hearted fair one 
 who had refused to listen to his wooings. His 
 minor poems, however, breathe a satisfied-spirit, 
 and hint strongly that all the dames to whom 
 his courtesies were offered did not turn a deaf 
 ear to his prayers. In the poem of " Parcival," 
 however, he shows more of the inspiration of 
 chivalry and devotion than of love. He de- 
 scribes the untaught and simple youth of his he- 
 ro, his chaste love, his innocence, his fidelity, 
 and his trust in God. The practice of these 
 virtues exposes him to great misfortunes, but 
 also prepares him for the highest dignity, that 
 of being king of the Saint-Greal in the para- 
 disaical country of the early Christians. 
 
 The poem of "William and Kiburg " bears 
 a strong resemblance to the ancient epopee. 
 The style is pure, vigorous, and concise, and 
 the tone of the poem has less of the romantic 
 exaltation and enthusiasm than was common at 
 the time. The descriptions of battles are mi- 
 nute and faithful, and show the read)' skill of 
 one who has seen, and perhaps taken part in, 
 actions similar to those he delineates. The 
 love and constancy of William and Kiburg are 
 fully and characteristically represented ; and 
 her heroic defence of the castle, during her 
 husband's absence, is told with epic animation. 
 
 But of all his poems, that of " Titurel " con- 
 tributed the most to his renown, as is proved 
 by the numerous copies of it that were made 
 during a series of ages. Many other produc- 
 tions of note, in the early periods of the German 
 language, have been attributed to him, — as, for 
 example, " The Adventures of Wolfdietrich," in 
 the " Heldenbuch," — just as a great number of 
 epic compositions by nameless bards among the 
 early Greeks were popularly assigned to the 
 mighty name of Homer. 
 
 Would I the lofty spirit melt 
 
 Of that proud dame who dwells so high, 
 Kind Heaven must aid me, or unfelt 
 
 By her will be its agony. 
 Joy in my soul no place can find : 
 
 As well might I a suitor be 
 To thunderbolts, as hope her mind 
 
 Will turn in softer mood to me. 
 
 Those cheeks are beautiful, are bright 
 
 As the red rose with dewdrops graced; 
 And faultless is the lovely light 
 
 Of those dear eyes, that, on me placed, 
 Pierce to my very heart, and fill 
 
 My soul with love's consuming fires, 
 While passion burns and reigns at will; 
 
 So deep the love that fair inspires! 
 
 But joy upon her beauteous form 
 
 Attends, her hues so bright to shed 
 O'er those red lips, before whose warm 
 
 And beaming smile all care is fled. 
 She is to me all light and joy; 
 
 I faint, I die, before her frown ; 
 Even Venus, lived she yet on earth, 
 
 A fairer goddess here must own. 
 
 While many mourn the vanished light 
 
 Of summer, and the sweet sun's face, 
 I mourn that these, however bright, 
 
 No anguish from the soul can chase 
 By love inflicted : all around, 
 
 Nor song of birds, nor ladies' bloorrj, 
 Nor flowers upspringing from the ground, 
 
 Can chase or cheer the spirit's gloom. 
 
 Yet still thine aid, beloved, impart ; 
 
 Of all thy power, thy love, make trial ; 
 Bid joy revive in this sad heart, 
 
 Joy that expires at thy denial : 
 Well may I pour my prayer to thee, 
 
 Beloved lady, since 't is thine 
 Alone to send such care on me ; 
 
 Alone for thee I ceaseless pine. 
 
 THE EMPEROR HENRY. 
 
 It is doubtful which Henry this is. Pischon 
 hesitatingly calls him Henry, sixth emperor of 
 that name, and the son of Frederic Barbarossa. 
 If he was so, he died in 1197. 
 
 I greet in song that sweetest one 
 
 Whom I can ne'er forget, 
 Though many a day is past and gone 
 
 Since face to face we met. 
 Who sings this votive song for me, 
 Or man or woman, he or she, 
 To her, my absent one, shall welcome be. 
 
 Kingdom and lands are naught to me, 
 When with her presence weighed ; 
 
 And when her face no more I see, 
 My power and greatness fade ; 
 
 Then of my wealth I reckon none, 
 
 But sorrow only, for mine own : 
 Rising and falling, thus my life moves on. 
 
 He errs, whose heart will not believe 
 
 That I might yet be biest, 
 Though never crown again had leave 
 
 Upon my head to rest : 
 This loss I might supply ; but when 
 Her love was gone, what had I then ? 
 Nor joy, hope, solace could I know again. 
 
 WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE 
 
 Walther von der Vogelweide, one of the 
 most distinguished of the Minnesingers, was 
 
MINNESINGERS. 
 
 193 
 
 born in the latter half of the twei'fth century, of 
 a noble family belonging to the Upper Thurgau. 
 The name Vogelweide (Bird-meadow) appears 
 to have been taken from that of their castle. 
 The poet led a wandering life ; sometimes at the 
 court of Frederic, the duke of Austria and Sti- 
 ria; then kindly received by Philip Augustus, 
 king of France ; then remaining long at the 
 magnificent court of the Landgrave of Thurin- 
 gia, the great patron of the poets of his age, who 
 instituted the poetical contest, called the War 
 of the Wartburg, in which Walther took part. 
 A work is still preserved, called "The Wart- 
 burg War," consisting of the alternate songs 
 of the bards who took part in this poetical joust. 
 
 Tradition places the date of this tuneful tour- 
 ney in the year 1207, the most brilliant epoch of 
 ancient German poetry, not only for the illus- 
 trious names that have been handed down to 
 our da)-, but for the impulse given to the ancient 
 national and heroic poetry by unknown min- 
 strels. Hermann, landgrave of Thuringia, had 
 gathered round his court many of the most fa- 
 mous Minnesingers, who had celebrated in lays 
 and ballads the warlike deeds of his martial 
 house. Heinrich von Ofterdingen appears as 
 the champion of the Austrian prince, throws 
 down the gauntlet to all the poets, and offers to 
 maintain the virtues of his hero against all the 
 singing tribe, under penalty of being hanged in 
 case of defeat. Walther, as court poet of the 
 Thuringian prince, accepts the challenge, and 
 enters the lists against Heinrich von Ofterdin- 
 gen. Walther regrets that he is obliged to de- 
 clare against the Duke of Austria and his brave 
 cavaliers ; then he praises the King of France, 
 Philip Augustus, in whose reign the poetry of 
 the North of France rivalled the glory of the 
 Provencal muse, as the poet could testify from 
 his own knowledge, for he had crossed the 
 Rhine and visited the banks of the Seine. But 
 in the course of the contest he partially recants, 
 and sets the gracious duke above the monarch, 
 calling him the sun ; but the landgrave he com- 
 pares to the brightness that precedes the sun. 
 Ofterdingen complains of Walther, accuses him 
 of playing an unfair game, and resorts to Klin- 
 sor of Hungary to sustain the supremacy of 
 Austria. The other champions call for Stemp- 
 fel of Eisenach, who stands ready with the hal- 
 ter ; but Ofterdingen is protected by the land- 
 gravine, who intercedes in his defence. — The 
 place of this scene was the great hall of the 
 Wirtburg castle, — a hall that still exists, and 
 is shown as a monument of the joust. 
 
 After the arrival of Frederic the Second in 
 Germany, Walther revisited the court of Vienna, 
 where he was kindly received by Leopold the 
 Seventh. In the contests between the temporal 
 and spiritual powers, the poet showed himself an 
 ardent friend of the empire, though he bewailed 
 the bloody quarrels, and described them as accom- 
 panied by awful signs in the sky. These quar- 
 rels began with the excommunication of Otho, 
 and ended only with the deposition of Frederic 
 25 
 
 the Second, and the annihilation of the Hohen- 
 staufen family; an event which Walther did 
 not live to witness. The apparent cause of 
 these conflicts was the promise made by Fred- 
 eric to undertake a crusade immediately upon 
 his elevation ; a promise he was unable to keep, 
 on account of domestic wars. The heart of 
 Walther was divided between two great de- 
 sires; the reestablishment of the universal do- 
 minion of the German-Roman empire, and the 
 power and majesty of his temporal chief. Since 
 1187, the Holy Sepulchre had been in the hands 
 of the infidels, and Walther many times entreat- 
 ed the emperor to undertake the crusade he had 
 promised at his coronation. Pressed by the 
 importunities of Walther, the emperor finally 
 resolved, in spite of many unfavorable circum- 
 stances, to embark at Otranto ; but, falling sick, 
 he was compelled to return, and encounter t 
 new excommunication from the pope. Walther 
 censures the bulls fulminated from the Vatican. 
 The crueade, however, on which Walther's 
 heart was set, at length came to pass, and the 
 poet had the satisfaction and joy to bow, with 
 his great emperor, at the tomb of the Saviour, 
 redeemed from the infidels. 
 
 From this time forth, the poet's "life seemed 
 to him rich and noble, because his sinful eyes 
 had seen the Holy Land." The Emperor 
 Frederic had made a triumphal entry into Jeru 
 salem, at the head of his faithful Germans, on 
 the 27th of March, 1229 ; the following Sunday 
 he appeared in the church of the Holy Sepul- 
 chre, and, taking the crown from the altar, 
 placed it upon his own head. During this cer- 
 emony, the Germans sang a chant, and the 
 grand-master of the Teutonic order pronounced 
 a discourse in German. Walther was probably 
 present at this spectacle, and saw the desire of 
 his soul fulfilled, — the chief of the German 
 empire and of the Christian world crowned 
 with glory on the most sacred spot on earth. 
 
 No later events are mentioned in the poems 
 of Walther. and the swan of ancient Germany 
 appears to have died a short time after. His 
 voice had resounded, as he says himself, more 
 than fort)' years. 
 
 Walther seems to have adopted all the habits 
 and manners of the wandering minstrels of the 
 times. He travelled from court to court, gen- 
 erally received with honor, tarrying with the 
 German princes who protected the arts of poet- 
 ry and music, and sometimes at foreign courts, 
 and was welcomed everywhere. He made no 
 scruple to accept pensions and entertainments 
 for his services. "It is true," says Raczynski,* 
 " that knights possessing fiefs received presents 
 of dresses, armor, and horses, and a great num- 
 ber of knights-errant, as well as bards and 
 troubadours, resorted to the tourneys for this 
 kind of alms ; but the latter accepted whatev- 
 er was offered them, particularly second-hand 
 clothes. Walther boasts of never having taken 
 
 * Histoire de 1'Art Moderne en Allemagne. 
 
194 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 any such present. He sings his ballads, accom- 
 panying himself with the violin. He played 
 this instrument also to enliven the dance, in 
 imitation of the Dukes of Austria, Leopold and 
 Frederic, who sung and managed the ball them- 
 selves." The proud and chivalrous baron and 
 fiddler, Volker of the Nibelungenlied, did the 
 same at the nuptials of Chrimhild. 
 
 But Walther sang not for princes alone. 
 Love formed the theme of many a gentle ditty 
 chanted by the bard, until late in life. He sings 
 of the fair one's cruelty, by whose side he be- 
 comes like a feeble child ; even a refusal, ac- 
 companied by her angelic smile, makes him 
 happy. He paints her beauties with brilliant 
 colors, and prefers the sight of her cheeks, 
 clothed with the peach's downy hue, to the 
 contemplation of the empyrean and the celestial 
 car. Her praise of his poetry puts him in an 
 ecstasy ; and she it is, who inspires him to say, 
 that " he who possesses the love of a noble 
 woman holds all vice in scorn." Thus had 
 love exalted the soul of Walther. 
 
 Walther's residence at the courts of princes, 
 his superior genius, the dignity of his poetry, 
 the cutting satire which he knew how to use 
 with great effect, and his vehement patriotism 
 gave him a powerful influence. His poems 
 were the favorites of the emperor and the prin- 
 ces. His chief desire is the honor and repose 
 of his country and of Christianity. The dis- 
 union of the temporal and spiritual powers, and 
 the universal degeneracy of all classes and all 
 ages, are the cause of his sorrows, and the 
 theme of his perpetual complaints. He vene- 
 rates the pope, as the spiritual head of the Chris- 
 tian religion ; but he disapproves of the abuse 
 of papal power. Among the vices of his time, 
 the one which meets with his severest repre- 
 hension is that of immoderate drinking. 
 
 When old age approaches, Walther piously 
 fixes his thoughts upon the region beyond the 
 grave. " In this valley of tears, every joy de- 
 parts, like the fleeting tints of the flowers, and 
 dries up like the grass of the field." And 
 therefore he lifts his eyes towards eternal fe- 
 licity. His poems assume a graver character, 
 and the gloomy feelings and dark anticipations, 
 common to old men, often find utterance in 
 them. He was deeply versed in the history of 
 the saints. He had travelled much, and the old 
 heroic spirit of Germany breathes with manly 
 vigor in his patriotic songs. For Walther was 
 a true poet; his voice was heard with respect 
 and admiration, and he stood among the fore- 
 most men of his age. 
 
 There is a tradition that Walther was buried 
 beneath a tree, within the precincts of the Min- 
 ster at WUrtzburg, and that he directed in his 
 will that the birds should be fed at stated times 
 on his tomb. This is the subject of one of the 
 pictures recently executed at Munich, which is 
 thus described by Raczynski, in his great work 
 on German art. " The picture in the middle of 
 the second wall shows us the figure of the poet 
 
 reclining on the tomb. About it are flying little 
 birds, which the children of the choir are feed- 
 ing. This picture, executed by a modern artist 
 with great simplicity, is the most pleasing of all. 
 The idea is taken from an old tradition. Wal- 
 ther, according to all the testimonies, died at 
 Wilrtzburg ; his tomb was found in the court 
 of the new Minster, surrounded by the luxuri- 
 ant vegetation. A tree with heavy branches 
 bent over the tombstone, and in its foliage were 
 sporting thousands of little birds, drawn thither 
 by the water and the food which, according to 
 the last will of Walther, were daily placed upon 
 his tomb. At a later period, this birds' food 
 was altered by the monks into small loaves for 
 themselves, on the anniversary of the poet's 
 birth. An epitaph in Latin verse explains this 
 pious legacy." 
 
 The poems of Walther have been published 
 by Lachmann in the original text (Berlin, 1827 
 — 28), and translated into modern German by 
 Simrock and Wackernagel. 
 
 When from the sod the flowerets spring, 
 And smile to meet the sun's bright ray, 
 When birds their sweetest carols sing, 
 
 In all the morning pride of May, 
 What lovelier than the prospect there ? 
 Can earth boast any thing more fair ? 
 To me it seems an almost heaven, 
 So beauteous to my eyes that vision bright is 
 given. 
 
 But when a lady chaste and fair, 
 Noble, and clad in rich attire, 
 Walks through the throng with gracious air, 
 
 As sun that bids the stars retire, — 
 Then, where are all thy boastings, May ? 
 What hast thou beautiful and gay, 
 Compared with that supreme delight ? 
 We leave thy loveliest flowers, and watch that 
 lady bright. 
 
 Wouldst thou believe me, — come and place 
 
 Before thee all this pride of May ; 
 Then look but on my lady's face, 
 
 And which is best and brightest say : 
 For me, how soon (if choice were mine) 
 This would I take, and that resign, 
 And say, " Though sweet thy beauties, May, 
 I 'd rather forfeit all than lose my lady gay ! " 
 
 'T was summer, — through the opening grass 
 
 The joyous flowers upsprang, 
 The birds in all their different tribes 
 
 Loud in the woodlands sang : 
 Then forth I went, and wandered far 
 
 The wide green meadow o'er; 
 Where cool and clear the fountain played, 
 
 There strayed I in that hour. 
 
 Roaming on, the nightingale 
 
 Sang sweetly in my ear ; 
 And by the greenwood's shady side 
 
 A dream ctiie to me there ; 
 
MINNESINGERS. 
 
 195 
 
 Fast by the fountain, where bright flowers 
 
 Of sparkling hue we see, 
 Close sheltered from the summer heat, 
 
 That vision came to me. 
 
 All care was banished, and repose 
 Came o'er my wearied breast, 
 
 And kingdoms seemed to wait on me, 
 For I was with the blest. 
 
 Yet, while it seemed as if away 
 
 My spirit soared on high, 
 And in the boundless joys of heaven 
 
 Was rapt in ecstasy, — 
 E'en then, my body revelled still 
 
 In earth's festivity; 
 And surely never was a dream 
 
 So sweet as this to me. 
 
 Thus I dreamed on, and might have dwelt 
 
 Still on that rapturous dream, 
 When, hark ! a raven's luckless note 
 
 (Sooth, 't was a direful scream ! ) 
 Broke up the vision of delight, 
 
 Instant my joy was past : 
 O, had a stone but met my hand, 
 
 That hour had been his last ! 
 
 HEINRICH VON MORUNG 
 
 Very little is known of this poet. He lived 
 in the first half of the thirteenth century. 
 
 Mv lady dearly loves a pretty bird, 
 
 That sings, and echoes back her gentle tone; 
 Were I, too, near her, never should be heard 
 
 A songster's note more pleasant than my own ; 
 Sweeter than sweetest nightingale I 'd sing. 
 For thee, my lady fair, 
 This yoke of love I bear : 
 Deign thou to comfort me, and ease my sorrow- 
 ing. 
 
 Were but the troubles of my heart by her 
 Regarded, I would triumph in my pain; 
 But her proud heart stands firmly, and tb.e stir 
 
 Of passionate grief o'ercomes not her disdain. 
 Yet, yet I do remember how before 
 My eyes she stood and spoke, 
 And on her gentle look 
 My earnest gaze was fixed : O, were it so once 
 more ! 
 
 Hast thou seen 
 My heart's true queen 
 At the window gazing ; 
 Her whose love 
 Can care remove, 
 All my sorrows easing? 
 Like the sun at first uprising, 
 She was shrouded, 
 And o'erclouded 
 Was my spirit, — now rejoicing. 
 
 Is there none 
 Whose heart can own 
 A generous, kindly feeling ? 
 Let him aid me 
 Find that lady 
 Who from me is stealing; 
 That her beauteous smile may cheer me 
 Ere I go ; 
 For love and woe 
 To the silent grave fast bear me. 
 
 Then upon 
 My burial-stone 
 Men shall write how dearly 
 Siie was prized, 
 And I despised, 
 I that loved sincerely ; 
 Then the passing swain shall see 
 My complaining, 
 Her disdaining ; 
 Such sad fate she dealt to me. 
 
 BURKHART VON HOHENFELS. 
 
 This poet also lived in the first half of the 
 thirteenth century. Many of his poems were, 
 published by Bodmer. 
 
 Like the sun's uprising light 
 Shines that maid, before whom fade 
 Other charms, however bright; 
 As the stars at break of day, 
 Late so brilliant, fade away. 
 
 When my spirit light had flown 
 Wanton forth in pleasure's quest, 
 Then those beaming eyes have shone 
 O'er the rover's path, and led 
 Home to her from whom it sped. 
 
 When again its wing it took 
 Falcon-like for joy to soar, 
 Ne'er the gentle spell it broke ; 
 Soon again it sought its home 
 In that breast it wandered from. 
 
 O'er it fear was ever coming 
 Lest its mistress, at the thought 
 That for other loves 't was roaming, 
 Vengeful all its joys might blight ; 
 Therefore back it winged its flight. 
 
 GOTTFRIED VON NIFEN. 
 
 Gottfried von Nifen also belongs to the 
 early part of the thirteenth century. Some of 
 his songs were published by Bodmer, and others 
 by Benecke in his "Erg!lnzung der Sammlung 
 von Minnesingern." In a war with the Bish- 
 op of Costnitz, he and his brother were taken 
 prisoners by the martial prelate. 
 
196 
 
 GERMAN POETRY". 
 
 Up, up ! let us greet 
 The season so sweet ! 
 
 For winter is gone, 
 And the flowers are springing, 
 And little birds singing, 
 Their soft notes ringing, 
 
 And bright is the sun ! 
 Where all was dressed 
 In a snowy vest, 
 There grass is growing, 
 With dewdrops glowing, 
 
 And flowers are seen 
 
 On beds so green. 
 
 All down in the grove, 
 Around, above, 
 
 Sweet music floats ; 
 As now loudly vying, 
 Now softly sighing, 
 The nightingale 's plying 
 
 Her tuneful notes, 
 And joyous at spring 
 Her companions sing. 
 Up, maidens, repair 
 To the meadows so fair, 
 
 And dance we away 
 
 This merry May ! 
 
 Yet, though May is blooming, 
 And summer is coming, 
 
 And birds may sing, 
 What boots me the joy, 
 If my fair, too coy, 
 
 This heart will wring ; 
 If that auburn hair, 
 Those eyes so fair, 
 Those lips so smiling, 
 Are only beguiling 
 
 And piercing my heart 
 
 With witching art ? 
 
 DIETMAR VON AST. 
 
 Dietmar von Ast, Aist, or Eist, in the 
 Thurgau, belongs to the twelfth, or, at the latest, 
 to the beginning of the thirteenth century. In 
 point of literary merit, he is one of the best of 
 the Minnesingers. Some of his pieces are giv- 
 en by Pischon, Vol. I. p. 570. 
 
 By the heath stood a lady 
 
 All lonely and fair ; 
 As she watched for her lover, 
 
 A falcon flew near. 
 "Happy falcon ! " she cried, 
 
 " Who can flv where he list, 
 And can choose in the forest 
 
 The tree he loves best ! 
 
 " Thus, too, had I chosen 
 One knight for mine own, 
 
 Him my eye had selected, 
 Him prized I alone : 
 
 But other fair ladies 
 
 Have envied my joy , 
 And why ? for I sought not 
 
 Their bliss to destroy. 
 
 "As to thee, lovely summer, 
 
 Returns the birds' strain, 
 As on yonder green linden 
 
 The leaves spring again, 
 So constant doth grief 
 
 At my eyes overflow, 
 And wilt not thou, dearest, 
 
 Return to me now ? 
 
 " Ves, come, my own hero, 
 
 All others desert ! 
 When first my eye saw thee, 
 
 How graceful thou wert ; 
 How fair was thy presence, 
 
 How graceful, how bright ! 
 Then think of me only, 
 
 My own chosen knight ! " 
 
 There sat upon the linden-tree 
 
 A bird and sang its strain ; 
 So sweet it sang, that, as I heard, 
 
 My heart went back again : 
 It went to one remembered spot, 
 
 I saw the rose-trees grow, 
 And thought again the thoughts of love 
 
 There cherished long ago. 
 
 A thousand years to me it seems 
 
 Since by my fair I sat, 
 Vet thus to have been a stranger long 
 
 Was not my choice, but fate : 
 Since then I have not seen the flowers. 
 
 Nor heard the birds' sweet song; 
 Mr joys have all too briefly passed, 
 
 My griefs been all too long. 
 
 CHRISTIAN VON HAMLE. 
 
 Nothing is known of the history of this po- 
 et, except that he flourished about the middle 
 of thenhirteenth century. 
 
 Would that the meadow could speak ! 
 
 And then would it truly declare 
 How happy was yesterday, 
 
 When my lady-love was there ; 
 When she plucked ils flowers, and gently pressed 
 Her lovely feet on its verdant breast. 
 
 Meadow, what transport was thine, 
 When my lady walked across thee, 
 
 And her white hands plucked the flowers, 
 Those beautiful flowers that emboss thee ! 
 
 O, suffer me, then, thou bright green sod, 
 
 To set my feet where my lady trod ! 
 
 Meadow, pray thou for the ease 
 
 Of a heart that with love is panting ' 
 
MINNESINGERS. 
 
 197 
 
 And so will I pray, that, her feet 
 
 On thy sod my lady planting, 
 No wintry snows may ever lie there, 
 And my heart be green as your vesture fair. 
 
 RUDOLPH VON ROTHENBERG. 
 
 This poet sprang from a noble family of the 
 same name in the Aar-gau, in the time of Fred- 
 eric the Second. He appears to have taken 
 part in one of the crusades. 
 
 A stranger pilgrim spoke to me, 
 Unquestioned, of my lady bright: 
 
 He told me of her beauty rare, 
 
 How kind she was, how courteous, fair ; 
 A tale it was of soft delight, 
 
 That o'er my heart came pleasantly. 
 
 " Heaven grant my love a happy day ! " 
 Each other greeting thus denied, 
 
 Still does my spirit fondly say, 
 
 Ever, at morning's earliest ray ; 
 And, ne'er forgot, at eventide, 
 
 My kind " goodnight " I constant pay. 
 
 Almost by reason was my frame 
 Deserted, when I left her last, 
 
 When fair she beamed upon my eye, 
 
 Bright as the glowing evening sky ; 
 Joy in her favor was o'ercast 
 
 By sorrowing thoughts that o'er me came. 
 
 She bade me, when I from her, went, 
 My sorrowing song to her convey ; 
 
 And I would pour it now to her, 
 
 Could I but find a messenger, 
 
 Who, bearing to her hand the lay, 
 
 Might gracefully my song present. 
 
 And should one herald fail, away 
 
 Straight would I send a thousand more ; 
 
 And should they all convey the song, 
 
 And dwell in concert soft and long 
 Upon the strain, — perhaps that hour 
 
 A thankful word my toil might pay. 
 
 HEINRICH HERZOG VON ANHALT. 
 
 This prince, surnamed "the Fat," was a poet 
 of considerable distinction in his time. He 
 died in 1267. 
 
 Stay ! let the breeze still blow on me 
 
 That passed o'er her, my heart's true queen ! 
 
 Were she not sweet as sweet can be, 
 So soft that breeze had never been. 
 
 O'ercome, my heart to her bows down ; 
 
 Yet Heaven protect thee, lady, still! 
 O, were those roseate lips my own, 
 
 I might defy e'en age's chill ' 
 
 Before that loveliest of the land 
 
 Well may the boaster's tongue run low : 
 
 I view those eyes, that lily hand, 
 
 And still toward where she tarries bow. 
 
 O, might I that fair form enfold, 
 As evening sweetly closed on us ! 
 
 No, — that were more than heart could hold ; 
 Enough for me to praise her thus. 
 
 COUNT KRAFT OF TOGGENBURG. 
 
 This poet belonged to the thirteenth century. 
 His death took place in 1270. 
 
 Does any one seek the soul of mirth, 
 Let him hie to the greenwood tree, 
 
 And there, beneath the verdant shade, 
 The bloom of the summer see; 
 For there sing the birds right merrily, 
 
 And there will the bounding heart upspring 
 
 To the lofty clouds on joyful wing. 
 
 On the hedgerows spring a thousand flowers, 
 And he, from whose heart sweet May 
 
 Hath banished care, finds man)' a joy; 
 And I, too, would be gay, 
 Were the load of pining care away ; 
 
 Were my lady kind, my soul were light, 
 
 Joy crowning joy would raise its flight. 
 
 The flowers, leaves, hills, the vale, and mead, 
 And May with all its light, 
 
 Compared with the roses, are pale indeed, 
 Which my lady bears ; and bright 
 My eyes will shine, as they meet my sight, 
 
 Those beautiful lips of rosy hue, 
 
 As red as the rose just steeped in dew. 
 
 STEINMAR. 
 
 This poet belongs to the middle of the thir- 
 teenth century. He sprang from a family in 
 the ZUrich-gau, or the Tyrol. 
 
 With the graceful corn upspringing, 
 With the birds around me singing, 
 With the leaf-crowned forests waving, 
 Sweet May-dews the herbage laving, 
 With the flowers that round me bloom, 
 To my lady dear I '11 come : 
 All things beautiful and bright, 
 Sweet in sound and fair to sight; 
 Nothing, nothing is too rare 
 For my beauteous lady fair ; 
 
 Every thing I Ml do and be, 
 
 So my lady solace me. 
 
 She is one in whom I find 
 All things fair and bright combined 
 When her beauteous form I see, 
 Kings themselves might envy me, 
 a2 
 
198 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Joy with joy is gilded o'er, 
 Till the heart can hold no more. 
 She is bright as morning sun, 
 She my fairest, loveliest one ; 
 For the honor of the fair, 
 I will sing her beauty rare ; 
 
 Every thing I '11 do and be, 
 
 So my lady solace me. 
 
 Solace me, then, sweetest! — be 
 
 Such in heart as I to thee ; 
 
 Ope thy beauteous lips of love, 
 
 Call me thine, and then above 
 
 Merrily, merrily I will sail 
 
 With the light clouds on the gale. 
 
 Dear one, deign my heart to bless, 
 
 Steer me on to happiness, 
 
 Thou, in whom my soul confideth, 
 
 Thou, whose love my spirit guideth ! 
 
 Every thing I '11 do and be, 
 
 So my lady solace me. 
 
 CONRAD VON WURTZBURG. 
 
 Conrad von Wurtzburg flourished in the 
 latter part of the thirteenth century. He died 
 in 1287. His poems are very numerous, and 
 have much merit. 
 
 See how from the meadows pass 
 Brilliant flowers and verdant grass! 
 
 All their hues now they lose : o'er them hung, 
 Mournful robes the woods invest, 
 Late with leafy honors dressed : 
 
 Yesterday the roses gay blooming sprung, 
 Beauteously the fields adorning ; 
 
 Now their sallow branches fail : 
 Wild her tuneful notes at morning 
 Sung the lovely nightingale ; 
 
 Now in woe, mournful, low, is her song. 
 
 Nor for lily nor rose sighs he, 
 Nor for birds' sweet harmony, 
 He to whom winter's gloom brings delight: 
 Seated by his leman dear, 
 He forgets the altered year ; 
 Sweetly glide at eventide the moments bright. 
 Better this than culling posies ; 
 For his lady's love he deems 
 Sweeter than the sweetest roses ; 
 Little he the swain esteems 
 Not possessing that best blessing, — love's de- 
 light. 
 
 OTHO, MARGRAVE OF BRANDEN- 
 BURG. 
 
 This prince reigned from 1266 to 1304. He 
 was called " Otto mit dem Pfeile," Otho with 
 the Arrow. 
 
 Again appears the cheerful May, 
 On many a heart its joy it pours, 
 
 A thousand flowers their sweets display, 
 And what more blooming than the bowers ? 
 
 Sweet is the various music there, 
 
 New clad in leaves the wild woods are, 
 And many a pensive heart this hour to joy re- 
 stores. 
 
 And all the live-long day I '11 strive 
 
 For favor in my lady's eyes ; 
 And must I die in gloom, nor live 
 
 To win and wear that peerless prize, 
 Yet am I still consoled to know 
 That she the death-wound doth bestow, 
 That from her rosy lips the fatal sentence flies 
 
 Make room unto my loved lady bright, 
 
 And let me view her body chaste and fair ; 
 Emperors with honor may behold the sight, 
 
 And must confess her form without compare. 
 My heart, when all men praise her, higher 
 
 swells ; 
 Still must I sing how far the maid excels, 
 And humbly bow toward the region where she 
 dwells. 
 
 O lady-love, be thou my messenger ! 
 
 Say, I adore her from my inmost soul, 
 With faith entire, and love no maid but her ; 
 
 Her beauties bright my senses all control ; 
 And well she might my sorrowing fears beguile : 
 If once her rosy lips on me would smile, 
 My cares would all be gone, and ease my heart 
 the while. 
 
 Two bitter woes have wounded me to death ; 
 Well may ye ween, all pleasures did they 
 chase ; 
 The blowing flowers are faded on the heath ; 
 Thus have I sorrow from her lovely face. 
 'T is she alone can wound my heart and heal : 
 But if her heart my ardent love could feel, 
 No more my soul would strive its sorrows to 
 conceal. 
 
 THE CHANCELLOR. 
 
 The name of the person designated by this 
 title is unknown. An ancient ballad of " The 
 twelve old Masters," calls him " a fisher in 
 Steiermark." 
 
 Who would summer pleasures try, 
 Let him to the meadows hie. 
 O'er the mountain, in the vale, 
 Gladsome sounds and sights prevail : 
 In the fields fresh flowers are springing, 
 In the boughs new carols singing, 
 Richly in sweet harmony 
 There the birds new music ply. 
 
MINNESINGERS. 
 
 199 
 
 This is all thine own, sweet May ! 
 As thy softer breezes play, 
 Snow and frost-work melt away. 
 
 Old and young, come forth ! for ye 
 Winter-bound again are free ; 
 Up ! ye shall not grieve again. 
 Look upon that verdant plain, 
 Its gloomy robe no more it wears ; 
 How beauteously its face appears ! 
 He who 'mid the flowers enjoys 
 The sweetness of his lady's eyes, 
 Let him cast his cares away, 
 And give the meed of thanks to May. 
 
 From the heart's most deep recess, 
 Hovering smiles, intent to bless, 
 Gather on my lady's lips; 
 Smiles, that other smiles eclipse ; 
 Smiles, more potent, care-dispelling, 
 Than the bank with flowers sweet-smelling, 
 Than the birds' melodious measures, 
 Than our choicest woodland treasures, 
 Than the flower-besprinkled plains, 
 Than the nightingale's sweet strains; 
 Fairer, sweeter, beauty reigns. 
 
 HEINRICH HERZOG VON BRESLAU. 
 
 Hexry, the fourth of that name, entitled Her- 
 zog Heinrich von Pressela, reigned from 1266 
 to 1299. His poem, " The Poet's Complaint," 
 has been much admired. 
 
 To thee, O May, I must complain, — 
 
 Summer, I complain to thee, — 
 And thee, thou flower-bespangled Plain, — 
 
 And Meadow, dazzling bright to see ! 
 To thee, O Greenwood, thee, O Sun, 
 
 And thee, too, Love, my song shall be 
 Of all the pain my ladv's scorn 
 
 Relentlessly inflicts on me. 
 Yet, would ye all with one consent 
 Lend me your aid, she might repent : 
 Then, for kind heaven's sake, hear, and give 
 
 me back content ! 
 
 may, &c. 
 What is the wrong ? Stand forth and tell us 
 
 what ; 
 Unless just cause be shown, we hear thee not. 
 
 POET. 
 
 She lets my fancy feed on bliss ; 
 But when, believing in her love, 
 
 1 seek her passion's strength to prove, 
 She lets me perish merciless ; 
 
 Ah ! woe is me, that e'er I knew 
 
 Her from whose love such misery doth ensue ! 
 
 MAY. 
 
 I, May, will straight my flowers command, 
 
 My roses bright, and lilies white, 
 No more for her their charms expand. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 And I, bright Summer, will restrain 
 
 The birds' sweet throats ; their tuneful notes 
 No more shall charm her ear again. 
 
 PLAIN. 
 
 When on the Plain she doth appear, 
 
 My flowerets gay shall fade away ; 
 Thus crossed, perchance to thee she '11 tur 
 again her ear. 
 
 And I, the Mead, will help thee too ; 
 
 Gazing on me, her fate shall be, 
 That my bright charms shall blind her view 
 
 And I, the Greenwood, break my bowers 
 
 When the fair maid flies to my shade, 
 Till she to thee her smile restores. 
 
 I, Sun, will pierce her frozen heart, 
 
 Till from the blaze of my bright rays 
 Vainly she flies, — then learns a gentler part 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 I, Love, will banish instantly 
 
 Whatever dear and sweet I bear, 
 Till she in pity turn to thee. 
 
 Alas ! must all her joys thus flee ? 
 
 Nay, rather I would joyless die, 
 
 How great soe'er my pain may be. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Seek'st thou revenge ? — saith Love, — then ai 
 
 my nod 
 The paths of joy shall close, so lately trod. 
 
 POET. 
 
 Nay, then, — O, leave her not thus shorn of bliss ! 
 Leave me to die forlorn, so hers be happiness. 
 
 ALBRECHT VON RAPRECHTSWEIL. 
 Of this poet nothing is known. 
 
 OjicE more mounts my spirit gay, 
 Once more comes the bloom of May ; 
 See ! upon the branches spring 
 Green buds, almost opening, 
 And the nightingale so fair 
 Sings herself to slumber there. 
 Honored be the songstress dear, 
 She who trains the branches here ; 
 Ever may she happy be 
 Who inspires the birds and me 
 With this gladsome gayety. 
 
 She has angel loveliness; 
 Would she deign my heart to bless, — 
 She that sends me health and joy, — 
 Blest above all bliss were I, 
 
200 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Heaven would then be mine on earth, 
 For in her lies all my mirth. 
 With each lovely color she 
 Decks her fair face daintily ; 
 Red, and white, and auburn there 
 Blend their beauties rich and rare ; 
 And embosomed in her mind 
 All things fair and pure we find. 
 
 ULRICH VON LICHTENSTEIN. 
 
 Ulrich von Lichtenstein, a celebrated 
 Minnesinger about the middle of the thirteenth 
 century, has left the romance, " Frauendienst " 
 (Lady-service) ; a curious and interesting pic- 
 ture of his age. It is in reality the chivalric 
 life of the author ; " having served," he says, 
 " thirty-three years as a true knight, when he 
 wrote his book." — He was educated in the 
 chivalric virtues by the Margrave Henry of 
 Austria, who taught him to talk of the ladies, 
 to ride on horseback, and to write soft verses. — 
 This romance is a series of wild adventures, il- 
 lustrated by " dance-songs," " watch-songs," &c. 
 
 " Lady beauteous, lady pure, 
 
 Lady happy, lady kind, 
 Love, methinks, has little power, 
 
 So proud thy bearing, o'er thy mind. 
 Didst thou feel the power of love, 
 Then would those fair lips unclose, 
 And be taught in sighs to move." 
 
 " What is love, then, good sir knight? 
 
 Is it man or woman ? say ; 
 Tell me, if I know it not, 
 
 How it comes to pass, I pray. 
 
 Thou shouldst tell me all its story, 
 Whence, and where, it cometh here, 
 That my heart may yet be wary." 
 
 " Lady, love so mighty is, 
 
 All things living to her bow; 
 Various is her power, but I 
 
 Will tell thee what of her I know. 
 Love is good, and love is ill, 
 Jov and woe she can bestow, 
 Spreading life and spirit still." 
 
 " Can love banish, courteous knight, 
 
 Pining grief and wasting woe, 
 Pour gay spirits on the heart, 
 Polish, grace, and ease bestow ? 
 If in her these powers may meet, 
 Great is she, and thus shall be 
 Her praise and honor great." 
 
 " Lady, I will say yet more : 
 
 Lovely are her gifts, her hand 
 Joy bestows, and honor too > 
 
 The virtues come at her command, 
 Joys of sight and joys of heart 
 She bestows, as she may choose, 
 And splendid fortune doth impart." 
 
 " How shall I obtain, sir knight, 
 
 All these gifts of lady-love ? 
 Must I bear a load of care? 
 
 Much too weak my frame would prove. 
 Grief and care I cannot bear ; 
 Can I, then, the boon obtain ? 
 Tell me, sir knight, then, how and where. 
 
 " Lady, thou shouldst think of me 
 
 As I of thee think, — heartily: 
 Thus shall we together blend 
 
 Firm in love's sweet harmony, — 
 Thou still mine, I still thine." 
 
 "It cannot be, sir knight, with me; 
 Be your own, I '11 still be mine." 
 
 GOESLI VON EHENHEIM. 
 
 This poet, of whom only a few verses re- 
 main, belongs to the first half of the thirteenth 
 century. 
 
 Now will the foe of every flower 
 Send forth the tempest of his rage ; 
 List ! how his winds the battle wage, 
 
 And blow the fields and woodlands o'er ! 
 
 Him naught withstands : his giant power 
 Tears from the plat the rose away, 
 And withers up each floweret gay ; 
 
 So sharp his rage is to devour. 
 
 For this the meads are sorrowing, 
 The birds are dumb, no longer song 
 Bursts the mute groves and hills among, 
 
 Chilled by cold snows; — yet still my love I 
 sing. 
 
 THE THURINGIAN. 
 
 The name of this poet is unknown. He 
 has been supposed by some to be the Land- 
 grave of Thuringia, the patron of the Minne- 
 singers at the beginning of the thirteenth cen 
 tury, and by others to be the same as Christian 
 von Lupin. 
 
 The pleasant season must away, 
 
 The song of birds no more 
 Must echo from the verdant spray; 
 
 Chill frost asserts its power. 
 Where now is gone thy bloom, 
 
 Thy flowers so fair ? 
 The verdant pride of mead and grove, 
 The leaf-crowned forest, where ? 
 In the whitening frost their bloom is lost, 
 And gone are their joys as the things that were. 
 
 Nor frost nor snow o'er me have power 
 E'er since my heart hath known 
 
 Those laughter-loving lips, whose charms, 
 Just like a rose new-blown, 
 
MINNESINGERS. 
 
 iOi 
 
 More sweet each passing hour, 
 
 The last outvie ; 
 So lovely shines that lady fair, 
 Of deathless memory, 
 Whose form so bright is my heart's delight, 
 Like the eastern day to the watching eye. 
 
 WINCESLAUS, KING OF BOHEMIA. 
 
 This king belongs to the middle of the thir- 
 teenth century. Two songs and a watch-song 
 by him have been preserved. 
 
 Now that stern winter each blossom is blighting, 
 And birds in the woodlands no longer we hear, 
 
 I will repair to a scene more inviting, 
 
 Nor will he repent who shall follow me there. 
 
 Instead of the flowers the plain so adorning, 
 
 Beautiful fair ones shall bloom like the morning; 
 
 0, what a vivid and glorious dawning ! 
 
 Sweet smiles, sprightly converse, the drooping 
 heart cheer. 
 
 Dares any one now, as in joy he reposes, 
 
 His happy hours crowned by the smiles of 
 the fair, 
 Still love and lament for the summer's past 
 roses ? 
 Ill, then, deserves he a blessing so rare. 
 Mine be the joys which his heart cannot meas- 
 ure ; 
 Might I behold but my heart's dearest treasure, 
 Forgotten were all in that exquisite pleasure, 
 E'en the tale I once told thee, — forgive it, 
 my fair ! 
 
 Beautiful one, to my heart ever nearest, 
 
 The solace of joy that remaineth to me 
 Rests in thy favor, thou brightest and dearest, 
 
 Me shall thy beauty from misery free ; 
 Long ftiay it cheer me, to happiness guide me, 
 And O might it be, when thou smilest beside me, 
 In that blessed moment such joy might betide 
 me, 
 To touch those bright lips as they smile up- 
 
 LUTOLT VON SEVEN. 
 
 Luithold von Savene, or Liltolt von Seven, 
 was the lord of Hagenau. He died about 1230. 
 
 In the woods and meadows green, 
 May shines forth so pleasantly, 
 That 'he lovely prospect there 
 
 Jo) enough might bring to me • 
 But I covet for my mind 
 rfolace none, 
 Save this alone, 
 Thai my lady should be kind. 
 
 Happy, whom the song of birds 
 
 Gladdens, and the bloom of May ; 
 He may take his fill of each, 
 
 Freely revel and be gay : 
 He may take his choice of joy; 
 Flowers fresh springing, 
 Birds sweet singing, 
 All in loveliest harmony! 
 
 Me my lady's favor glads 
 
 More than flowerets red or fair; 
 Song I want not, for her grace 
 
 Frees me from each pining care. 
 Well, then, may her noble smile 
 Pleasure give, 
 Pain relieve, 
 And my heart of grief beguile. 
 
 JOHANN HADLOUB. 
 
 Johann Hadloub, a native of Zurich, lived 
 at the end of the thirteenth century. With 
 him and two or three contemporaries closes the 
 line of true Minnesingers, and for a long time 
 also the poetic fame of Germany. He was the 
 friend of Rudiger von Manesse, the judicious 
 patron and protector of the Minnesingers, whose 
 poems he collected and copied. This collection, 
 embracing works of one hundred and thirty-six 
 Minnesingers, was published by Bodmer and 
 Breitinger. 
 
 Far as I journey from my lady fair, 
 I have a messenger who quickly goes, 
 Morning, and noon, and at the evening's close : 
 Where'er she wanders, he pursues her there. 
 
 A restless, faithful, secret messenger 
 Well may he be, who, from my heart of hearts, 
 Charged with love's deepest secrets, thus de- 
 parts, 
 And wings his way to her ! 
 'T is every thought I form that doth pursue 
 Thee, lady fair ! 
 Ah ! would that there 
 My wearied self had leave to follow too ! 
 
 I saw yon infant in her arms caressed, 
 
 And as I gazed on her my pulse beat high : 
 
 Gently she clasped it to her snowy breast, 
 While I, in rapture lost, stood musing by : 
 
 Then her white hands around his neck she flung, 
 And pressed it to her lips, and tenderly 
 
 Kissed his fair cheek, as o'er the babe she hung. 
 
 And he, that happy infant, threw his arms 
 Around her neck, imprinting many a kiss ; 
 
 Joying, as I would joy, to see such charms, 
 As though he knew how blest a lot were his. 
 
 How could I gaze on him and not repine ? 
 "Alas !" I cried, " would that I shared the bliss 
 
 Of that embrace, and that such joy were mine ! ' 
 
202 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Straight she was gone ; and then that lovely 
 child 
 Ran joyfully to meet my warm embrace : 
 Then fancy with fond thoughts my soul be- 
 guiled ; — 
 It was herself! O dream of love and grace ! 
 I clasped it, where her gentle hands had pressed, 
 I kissed each spot which bore her lips' sweet 
 trace, 
 And joy the while went bounding through my 
 breast. 
 
 WATCH-SONGS 
 
 The watch-song was a species of ballad, 
 cultivated by the Minnesingers, representing 
 stolen interviews between the lover and his 
 mistress. They begin generally with a parley 
 between the knight and the warder of the cas- 
 tle where his lady-love is dwelling, and end 
 with the reluctant parting of the lovers. 
 
 The sun is gone down, 
 
 And the moon upward springeth, 
 The night creepeth onward, 
 
 The nightingale singeth. 
 To himself said a watchman, 
 
 " Is any knight waiting 
 In pain for his lady, 
 
 To give her his greeting? 
 
 Now, then, for their meeting! " 
 
 His words heard a knight, 
 
 In the garden while roaming: 
 
 " Ah ! watchman," he said, 
 " Is the daylight fast corning, 
 
 And may I not see her, 
 
 And wilt not thou aid me ? " 
 
 " Go, wait in thy covert, 
 Lest the cock crow reveille, 
 And the dawn should betray thee." 
 
 Then in went that watchman 
 
 And called for the fair, 
 And gently he roused her: 
 
 " Rise, lady ! prepare ! 
 New tidings I bring thee, 
 
 And strange to thine ear; 
 Come, rouse thee up quickly, 
 
 Thy knight tarries near ; 
 
 Rise, lady ! appear ! " 
 
 " Ah, watchman ! though purely 
 
 The moon shines above, 
 Yet trust not securely 
 
 That feigned tale of love : 
 Far, far from my presence 
 
 My own knight is straying; 
 And sadly repining, 
 
 I mourn his long staying, 
 
 And weep his delaying." 
 
 " Nay, lady ! yet trust me, 
 N^ falsehood is there." 
 
 Then up sprang that lady 
 
 And braided her hair, 
 And donned her white garment, 
 
 Her purest of white ; 
 And, her heart with joy trembling, 
 
 She rushed to the sight 
 
 Of her own faithful knight. 
 
 I heard before the dawn of day 
 
 The watchman loud proclaim : 
 " If any knightly lover stay 
 
 In secret with his dame, 
 Take heed, the sun will soon appear ; 
 Then fly, ye knights, your ladies dear, 
 Fly ere the daylight dawn ! 
 
 " Brightly gleams the firmament, 
 
 In silvery splendor gay, 
 Rejoicing that the night is spent, 
 
 The lark salutes the day : 
 Then fly, ye lovers, and be gone ! 
 Take leave, before the night is done, 
 And jealous eyes appear ! " 
 
 That watchman's call did wound my heart. 
 
 And banished my delight : 
 " Alas ! the envious sun will part 
 
 Our loves, my lady bright ! " 
 On me she looked with downcast eye, 
 Despairing at my mournful cry, 
 " We tarry here too long ! " 
 
 Straight to the wicket did she speed : 
 " Good watchman, spare thy joke ! 
 
 Warn not my love, till o'er the mead 
 The morning sun has broke : 
 
 Too short, alas ! the time, since here 
 
 I tarried with my leman dear, 
 
 In love and converse sweet." 
 
 " Lady, be warned ! on roof and mead 
 
 The dewdrops glitter gay ; 
 Then quickly bid thy leman speed, 
 
 Nor linger till the day ; 
 For by the twilight did I mark 
 Wolves hying to their covert dark, 
 And stags to covert fly." 
 
 Now by the rising sun I viewed 
 
 In tears my lady's face : 
 She gave me many a token good, 
 
 And many a soft embrace. 
 Our parting bitterly we mourned; 
 The hearts, which erst with rapture burned, 
 Were cold with woe and care. 
 
 A ring, with glittering ruby red, 
 
 Gave me that lady sheen, 
 And with me from the castle sped 
 
 Along the meadow green ; 
 And whilst I saw my leman bright, 
 She waved on high her 'kerchief white . 
 " Courage ! To arms ! " she cried 
 
THE HELDENBUCH. 
 
 203 
 
 In the raging fight each pennon white 
 
 Reminds me of her love ; 
 In the field of blood, with mournful mood, 
 
 I see her 'kerchief move; 
 
 Through foes I hew, whene'er I view 
 Her ruby ring, and blithely sing, 
 "Lady, I fight for thee I " 
 
 THE HELDENBUCH, OE BOOK OF THE HEROES. 
 
 This is the title of a collection of old Ger- 
 man poems, embodying a great variety of na- 
 tional traditions, from the time of Attila and 
 the irruption of the German nations into the 
 Roman Empire. They were written at differ- 
 ent times, by various poets, the oldest of them 
 belonging to the Swabian period. Among their 
 authors, the names of Heinrich von Ofterdingen 
 and Wolfram yon Eschenbach are enumerated. 
 Some of the old poems were remodelled in 
 1472, by Kaspar von der Roen, a Frank, and the 
 oldest printed copies give the revised test. An 
 edition was published at Berlin, in 1820 — 25, 
 under the title of " Der Helden Buch, in der 
 Ursprache, herausgegeben von Friedrich Hein- 
 rich von der Hagen, und Anton Primisser." 
 It forms the second and third volumes of 
 " Deutsche Gedichte des Mitteialters," the first 
 volume of which appeared in 1808. 
 
 The first part contains the poem of " Gu- 
 drun," consisting of 6824 lines; " Biterolf and 
 Dietlieb," consisting of 13510 lines; "The 
 Great Rose-garden," consisting of 2464 lines; 
 and a part of the " Heldenbuch " of Kaspar von 
 der Roen. The second part contains the re- 
 mainder, together with fragments of "The Song 
 of Hildebrand." 
 
 The poem of " Gudrun " is made up of a 
 variety of shorter pieces, and consists of three 
 parts. The first relates the adventures of Ha- 
 gen, son of Siegebant, the king of Ireland, 
 who was stolen by a griffin, and grew up in 
 the forests ; and then, returning home a stout 
 and stately hero, succeeded to the throne of 
 Ireland. The second relates the adventures 
 of Hagen's beautiful daughter Hilde, who is 
 wooed and carried off by King Hetel of Hege- 
 lingen. The third and most important part 
 relates the fortunes of Gudrun, the daughter of 
 Hetel and Hilde, who is betrothed to Herwig of 
 Seeland, but is seized and borne away into cap- 
 tivity by Hartmut, king of Normandy. Under 
 all her trials she remains faithful to Herwig ; 
 and at last, after several years of endurance, is 
 rescued by her brother Ortwin, and her lover, 
 whom she thereupon marries. 
 
 The poems of " Biterolf and Dietlieb " and 
 " The Great Rose-garden " come within the 
 circle of the adventures of the Nibelungen. 
 Many of the personages are the same in both ; 
 and the battles are but the preludes to the " Ni- 
 belungen Noth," with which they have the clos- 
 est connexion. 
 
 But what is usually understood by the " Hel- 
 
 denbuch " is the collection of poems, as it was 
 reproduced under this title by Kaspar von der 
 Roen, consisting of four parts. The following 
 analysis of these poems is given by Carlyle.* 
 
 " ' The Hero-Book, which is of new cor- 
 rected and improved, adorned with beautiful 
 Figures. Printed at Frankfurt on the Mayn, 
 through Weygand Han, and Sygmund Feyera- 
 bend. 
 
 " ' Part First saith of Kaiser Otnit and the 
 little King Elberich, how they with great peril, 
 over sea, in Heathendom, won from a king his 
 daughter (and how he in lawful marriage took 
 her to wife).' 
 
 " From which announcement the reader al- 
 ready guesses the contents : how this little 
 King Elberich was a Dwarf, or Elf, some half- 
 span long, yet full of cunning practices and 
 the most helpful activity; nay, stranger sti'l, 
 had been Kaiser Otnit of Lampartei or Lom- 
 bardy's father, — having had his own ulterior 
 views in that indiscretion : how they sailed 
 with Messina ships into Paynim land ; fought 
 with that unspeakable Turk, King Machabol, 
 in and about his fortress and metropolis of 
 Montebur, which was all stuck round with 
 Christian heads ; slew from seventy to a hun- 
 dred thousand of the Infidels at one heat ; saw 
 the lady on the battlements ; and at length, 
 chiefly by Dwarf Elberich's help, carried her 
 off in triumph ; wedded her in Messina ; and 
 without difficulty, rooting out the Mahometan 
 prejudice, converted her to the creed of Mother 
 Church. The fair runaway seems to have been 
 of a gentle, tractable disposition, very different 
 from old Machabol ; concerning whom it is 
 here chiefly to be noted, that Dwarf Elberich, 
 rendering himself invisible on their first inter- 
 view, plucks out a handful of hair from his 
 chin ; thereby increasing to a tenfold pitch the 
 royal choler ; and, what is still more remark- 
 able, furnishing the poet Wieland, six centuries 
 afterwards, with the critical incident in his 
 ' Oberon.' As for the young lady herself, we 
 cannot but admit that she was well worth sail- 
 ing to Heathendom for ; and shall here give 
 the description of her, as she first appeared on 
 the battlements during the fight, in a version 
 as verbal and literal as the plainest prose can 
 make it. Considered as a detached passage, it 
 is perhaps the finest we have met with in the 
 ' Heldenbuch.' 
 
 * Carlyle's Miscellanies, Vol. II., pp. 326-333. 
 
204 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 " ' Her heart burnt (with anxiety) as beautiful 
 just as a red ruby, like the full moon her eyes 
 (eyelings, pretty eyes) gave sheen. Herself 
 had the maiden pure well adorned with roses, 
 and also with pearls small. No one there com- 
 forted the maid. She was fair of body, and in 
 the waist slender ; right as a (golden) candle- 
 stick well fashioned everywhere : her two hands 
 proper, so that she wanted naught ; her little 
 nails fair and pure, that you could see yourself 
 therein. Her hair was beautifully girt with 
 noble silk (band) fine ; she let it flow down, 
 the lovely maidling. She wore a crown with 
 jewels, it was of gold so red : for Elberich the 
 very small the maid had need (to console her). 
 There in front of the crown lay a carbuncle- 
 stone, which in the palace fair even as a taper 
 seemed ; on her head the hair was glossy and 
 also fine, it shone as bright even as the sun's 
 sheen. The maid she stood alone, right sad 
 was her mind ; her color it was pure, lovely as 
 milk and blood : out through her pure locks 
 shone her neck like the snow. Elberich the very 
 small was touched with the maiden's sorrow.' 
 
 " Happy man was Kaiser Otnit, blessed 
 with such a wife, after all his travail; — had 
 not the Turk Machabol cunningly sent him, in 
 revenge, a box of young dragons, or dragon- 
 eggs, by the hands of a caitiff Infidel, contriver 
 of the mischief; by whom in due course of 
 time they were hatched and nursed, to the in- 
 finite woe of all Lampartei, and ultimately to 
 the death of Kaiser Otnit himself, whom they 
 swallowed and attempted to digest, once with- 
 out effect, but the next time too fatally, crown 
 and all ! 
 
 " ' Part Second announceth (meldet) of Herr 
 Hugdietrich and his son Wolfdietrich ; how 
 they, for justice' sake, oft by their doughty acts 
 succoured distressed persons, with other bold 
 heroes that stood by them in extremity.' 
 
 " Concerning which Hugdietrich, Emperor 
 of Greece, and his son Wolfdietrich, one day 
 the renowned Dietrich of Bern, we can here 
 say little more than that the former trained 
 himself to sempstress' work, and for many 
 weeks plied his needle, before he could get 
 wedded and produce Wolfdietrich ; who, com- 
 ing into the world in this clandestine manner, 
 was let down into the castle-ditch, and like 
 Romulus and Remus nursed by a wolf, whence 
 his name. However, after never-imagined ad- 
 ventures, with enchanters and enchantresses, pa- 
 gans and giants, in all quarters of the globe, he 
 finally, with utmost effort, slaughtered those 
 Lornbardy dragons ; then married Kaiser Otnit's 
 widow, whom he had rather flirted with before; 
 and so lived universally respected in his new 
 empire, performing yet other notable achieve- 
 ments. One strange property he had, some- 
 times useful to him, sometimes hurtful : that his 
 breath, when he became angry, grew flame, red 
 hot, and would take the temper out of swords. 
 We find him again in the ' Nibelungen,' among 
 King Etzel's (Attila's) followers ; a staid, cau- 
 
 tious, yet still invincible man ; on which ccca 
 sion, though with great reluctance, he is forced 
 to interfere, and does so with effect. Dietrich 
 is the favorite hero of all those Southern fic- 
 tions; and well acknowledged in the Northern 
 also, where the chief man, however, as we 
 shall find, is not he, but Siegfried. 
 
 " ' Part Third showeth of the Rose-garden 
 at Worms, which was planted by Chrimhild, 
 King Ghibich's daughter ; whereby afterwards 
 most part of those Heroes and Giants came to 
 destruction and were slain.' 
 
 " In this Third Part, the Southern or Lom- 
 bard Heroes come into contact and collision 
 with another as notable Northern class, and 
 for us much more important. Chrimhild, 
 whose ulterior history makes such a figure in 
 the 'Nibelungen,' had, it would seem, near the 
 ancient city of Worms, a Rose-garden, some 
 seven English miles in circuit ; fenced only by 
 a silk thread ; wherein, however, she main- 
 tained twelve stout fighting men ; several of 
 whom, as Hagen, Volker, her three brothers, 
 above all the gallant Siegfried, her betrothed, 
 we shall meet with again : these, so unspeak- 
 able was their prowess, sufficed to defend the 
 silk-thread Garden against all mortals. Our 
 good antiquary, Von der Hagen, imagines that 
 this Rose-garden business (in the primeval Tra- 
 dition) glances obliquely at the Ecliptic with 
 its Twelve Signs, at Jupiter's fight with the 
 Titans, and we know not what confused skir- 
 mishing in the Utgard, or Asgard, or Midgard, 
 of the Scandinavians. Be this as it may, 
 Chrimhild, we are here told, being very beau- 
 tiful, and very wilful, boasts, in the pride of 
 her heart, that no heroes on earth are to be 
 compared with hers ; and hearing accidentally 
 that Dietrich of Bern has a high character in 
 this line, forthwith challenges him to visit 
 Worms, and, with eleven picked men, to do bat- 
 tle there against those other twelve champions 
 of Christendom that watch her Rose-garden. 
 Dietrich, in a towering passion at the style of the 
 message, which was ' surly and stout,' instantly 
 pitches upon his eleven seconds, who also are 
 to be principals ; and with a retinue of other 
 sixty thousand, by quick stages, in which ob- 
 stacles enough are overcome, reaches Worms, 
 and declares himself ready. Among these 
 eleven Lombard heroes of his are likewise 
 several whom we meet with again in the 'Ni- 
 belungen ' ; beside Dietrich himself, we have 
 the old Duke Hildebrand, Wolfhart, Ortwin. 
 Notable among them, in another way, is Monk 
 Ilsan, a truculent, graybearded fellow, equal to 
 any Friar Tuck in 'Robin Hood.' 
 
 "The conditions of fight are socn agreed on: 
 there are to be twelve successive duels, each 
 challenger being expected to find his match ; 
 and the prize of victory is a Rose-garland from 
 Chrimhild, and ein Helssenund ein Kttssen, that 
 is to say virtually, one kiss from her fair lips, 
 to each. But here, as it ever should do, pride 
 gets a fall ; for Chrimhild's bully-hectors are, 
 
THE HELDENBUCH. 
 
 205 
 
 in divers ways, all successively felled to the 
 ground by the Berners ; some of whom, as old 
 Hildebrand, will not even take her kiss when 
 it is due : even Siegfried himself, most reluc- 
 tantly engaged with by Dietrich, and for a 
 while victorious, is at last forced to seek shelter 
 in her lap. Nay, Monk Ilsan, after the regular 
 fight is over, and his part in it well performed, 
 calls out, in succession, fifty-two other idle 
 champions of the Garden, part of them giants, 
 and routs the whole fraternity ; thereby earn- 
 ing, besides his own regular allowance, fifty- 
 two spare garlands, and fifty-two several kisses; 
 in the course of which latter, Chrimhild's 
 cheek, a just punishment as seemed, was 
 scratched to the drawing of blood by his rough 
 beard. It only remains to be added, that King 
 Ghibich, Chrimhild's father, is now fain to do 
 homage for his kingdom to Dietrich ; who re- 
 turns triumphant to his own country ; where, 
 also, Monk Ilsan, according to promise, distrib- 
 utes these fifty-two garlands among his fellow- 
 friars, crushing a garland on the bare crown 
 of each, till ' the red blood ran over their ears.' 
 Under which hard, but not undeserved treat- 
 ment, they all agreed to pray for remission of 
 Ilsan's sins : indeed, such as continued refrac- 
 tory he tied together by the beards, and hung 
 pair-wise over poles ; whereby the stoutest 
 soon gave in. 
 
 " ' So endeth here this ditty 
 
 Of strife from woman's pride : 
 God on our griefs take pity, 
 And Mary still by us abide !' 
 " ' In Part Fourth is announced (gemclt) of 
 the little King Laurin, the Dwarf, how he en- 
 compassed his Rose-garden with so great man- 
 hood and art-magic, till at last he was van- 
 quished by the Heroes, and forced to become 
 their Juggler, with,' &c, &c. 
 
 " Of which Fourth and, happily, last Part we 
 shall here say nothing ; inasmuch as, except 
 that certain of our old heroes again figure there, 
 it has no coherence or connexion with the rest 
 of the ' Heldenbuch ' ; and is simply a new 
 tale, which, by way of episode, Heinrich von 
 • Ofterdingen, as we learn from his own words, 
 had subsequently appended thereto. He says : 
 " ' Heinrich von Ofterdingen 
 This story hath been singing, 
 To the joy of princes bold: 
 They gave him silver and gold, 
 Moreover pennies and garments rich: 
 Here endeth this book, the which 
 Doth sing our noble Heroes' story : 
 God help us all to heavenly glory ! ' 
 " Such is some outline of the famous ' Hel- 
 denbuch'; on which it is not our business here 
 to add any criticism. The fact that it has so 
 long been popular betokens a certain worth in 
 it ; the kind and degree of which is also in 
 some measure apparent. In poetry,' the rude 
 man,' it has been said, 'requires only to see 
 something going on ; the man of more refine- 
 ment wishes to feel ; the truly refined man 
 must be made to reflect.' For the first of these 
 
 classes our ' Hero Book,' as has been apparent 
 enough, provides in abundance ; for the other 
 two scantily ; indeed, for the second not at all 
 Nevertheless, our estimate of this work, which, 
 as a series of antique traditions, may have 
 considerable meaning, is apt rather to be too 
 low. Let us remember that this is not the 
 original ' Heldenbuch ' which we now see ; but 
 only a version of it into the knight-errant dia- 
 lect of the thirteenth, indeed, partly of the 
 fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, with all the 
 fantastic monstrosities, now so trivial, pertain- 
 ing to that style ; under which disguises the 
 really antique earnest groundwork, interesting 
 as old Thought, if not as old Poetry, is all but 
 quite obscured from us. But antiquarian dili- 
 gence is now busy with the ' Heldenbuch ' also, 
 from which what light is in it will doubtless be 
 elicited, and here and there a deformity re- 
 moved. Though the Ethiop cannot change his 
 skin, there is no need that even he should go 
 abroad unwashed." 
 
 I. — OTNIT. 
 
 SIR OTNIT AND DWARF ELBERICH. 
 
 " If thou wilt seek the adventure, don thy ar- 
 mor strong ; 
 
 Far to the left thou ride the towering rocks 
 along : 
 
 But bide thee, champion, and await, where 
 grows a linden-tree ; 
 
 There, flowing from the rock, a well thine eyes 
 will see. 
 
 " Far around the meadow spread the branches 
 
 green, 
 Five hundred armed knights may stand beneath 
 
 the shade, I ween. 
 Below the linden-tree await, and thou wilt 
 
 meet full soon 
 The marvellous adventure ; there must the 
 
 deed be done." 
 
 And now the noble champion to a garden did 
 
 he pass, 
 Where all with lovely flowers sprinkled was 
 
 the grass ; 
 The birds right sweetly chanted, loud and merry 
 
 they sung : 
 Rapidly his nnble steed passed the mead along. 
 
 Through the clouds with splendor gleamed the 
 
 sun so cheerfully ; 
 And suddenly the prince beheld the rock and 
 
 the linden-tree. 
 To the ground the earth was pressed, that saw 
 
 the champion good ; 
 And there he found a foot-path small, with 
 
 little feet was trod. 
 
 Quickly rode the fearless king along the rocky 
 
 mount, 
 Where he viewed the linden-tree standing by 
 
 the fount : 
 
 R 
 
206 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 The linden-tree with leaves so green was laden 
 
 heavily ; 
 On the branches many a guest chanted merrily : 
 
 Many a duel sang the birds, with loud and joy- 
 ous cheer. 
 
 Then spake the noble emperor, " Rightly did I 
 speer:" 
 
 Up spake the champion joyfully, " The linden 
 have I found " ; 
 
 By the bridle took his steed, and leaped upon 
 the ground. 
 
 By the hand the noble courser led the cham- 
 pion stout, 
 
 And eagerly he looked the linden-tree about : 
 
 He spake : " No tree upon the earth with thee 
 may compare." — 
 
 He saw where in the grass lay a child so fair. 
 
 Much did the hero marvel who that child 
 might be : 
 
 Upon his little body knightly gear had he ; 
 
 So rich, no princess' son nobler arms might 
 bear ; 
 
 Richly were they dighted with gold and dia- 
 monds fair. 
 
 And as the child before him lay all in the grass 
 
 so green, 
 Spake Otnit, " Fairer infant in the world may 
 
 not be seen. 
 I rode to seek adventures all the murky night, 
 And along with me I '11 bear thee, thou infant 
 
 fair and bright." 
 
 Lightly he weened the child to take, and bear 
 
 him o'er the plain, 
 But on his heart he struck him with wondrous 
 
 might and main ; 
 That loudly cried Sir Otnit, writhing with pain 
 
 and woe, 
 "Where lies thy mighty power hid? — for full 
 
 weighty was the blow." 
 
 Forced by the hero's strength, he knelt upon 
 his knee : 
 
 " Save me, noble Otnit, for thy chivalry ! 
 
 A hauberk will I give thee, strong, and of won- 
 drous might : 
 
 Better armor never bore champion in the fight. 
 
 " Not eighty thousand marks would buy the 
 
 hauberk bright. 
 A sword of mound I '11 give thee, Otnit, thou 
 
 royal knight : 
 Through armor, both of gold and steel, cuts 
 
 the weapon keen ; 
 The helmet could its edge withstand ne'er in 
 
 this world was seen. 
 
 "Better blade was never held in hero's hand : 
 I brought it from afar, Almary hight the land : 
 "T was wrought by cunning dwarfs, clear as the 
 
 clearest glass : 
 I found the glittering falchion in the mountain 
 
 Zeighelsass." 
 
 II. _ WOLFDIETRICH. 
 
 WOLFDIETRICH'S INFANCY. 
 
 Is the moat the new-born babe meanwhile in 
 
 silence lay, 
 Sleeping on the verdant grass, gently, all the 
 
 day; 
 From the swathing and the bath the child had 
 
 stinted weeping : 
 No one saw or heard its voice in the meadow 
 
 sleeping. 
 
 But, prowling for his prey, roved a savage wolf 
 
 about ; 
 Hens and capons for his young oft in the moat 
 
 he sought : 
 In his teeth the infant suddenly he caught ; 
 And to the murky forest his sleeping prey he 
 
 brought. 
 
 Unto a hollow rock he ran the forest-path 
 
 along : 
 There the two old wolves abode, breeding up 
 
 their young: 
 Four whelps, but three days old, in the hollow 
 
 lay; 
 No wiser than the child they were, for they 
 
 never saw the day. 
 
 The old wolf threw the babe before his savage 
 
 brood ; 
 To the forest had he brought it, to serve them 
 
 for their food : 
 But blind they were, and sought about their 
 
 mother's teat to gain ; 
 And safely lay the infant young, sleeping in 
 
 the den. 
 
 WOLFDIETRICH AND THE GIANTS. 
 
 Rapidly the Greeks pursued, all the day, until 
 
 the night : 
 Hastily the heroes fled, while their steeds had 
 
 strength and might ; 
 To the forest green they hied them, there lay 
 
 they all concealed, 
 Till the morning chased the night, and the 
 
 rising sun revealed. 
 
 Down they laid them on the grass gently to 
 repose 
 
 (But long they rested not, for with terror they 
 arose) : 
 
 Their bloody armor they unlaced, their wea- 
 pons down they laid ; 
 
 By a fountain cool they rested, beneath a lin- 
 den's shade. 
 
 But one did keep his armor on ; Wolfdieterich 
 
 he hight ; 
 Would not lay down his weapons, nor unlace 
 
 his helmet bright ; 
 Silently he wandered through the forest wide, 
 And left his weary champions by the fountain's 
 
 side. 
 
THE HELDENBUCH. 
 
 207 
 
 Twelve giants found the knights all on the 
 
 grass reclined : 
 Silently did creep along those sworn brothers 
 
 of the fiend ; 
 In their hands huge iron poles and falchions 
 
 did they hold ; 
 Naked and unarmed, they seized and bound the 
 
 heroes bold. 
 
 Quick they sent the tidings to the castle of 
 
 Tremound : 
 Glad was Palmund, giant fierce, when he saw 
 
 the champions bound ; 
 Cast them in a dungeon dark ; heavily he 
 
 chained them : 
 Of their woe and sad mischance there to God 
 
 they plained them. 
 
 Scornfully fierce Palmund spake with bitter 
 taunt : 
 
 " Alfan in the field ye conquered ; but where 
 is now your vaunt ? 
 
 Would I had in prison dark King Hughdie- 
 trich's son ! 
 
 He should feed on bread and water, in a dun- 
 geon all alone." 
 
 But now Wolfdieterich back to the fountain 
 
 sped, 
 Beneath the linden's shade, where he weened 
 
 the kemps were laid : 
 All around he sought them : wofully he cried, 
 " Alas, that e'er I left them by the fountain's 
 
 side ! " 
 
 He threw him on the grass, and sighed in 
 
 mournful mood ; 
 Many a blow upon his breast struck the hero 
 
 good; 
 Loudly on their names he called, the forest all 
 
 around : 
 Up the giants started, when they heard his 
 
 voice resound. 
 
 "Arise, and seize your weapons!" Palmund 
 
 cried aloud ; 
 " Quickly to my prison bring that champion 
 
 proud." 
 Many falls they caught, running down the 
 
 mountain, 
 Ere they viewed Wolfdieterich standing by the 
 
 fountain. 
 
 Giant Wilker led them on ; before the king he 
 
 sprung, 
 Stamping on the grass with his pole of iron 
 
 long: 
 " Little wight ! " he shouted, " straight thy fal- 
 
 ■ chion yield ; 
 Captive will I lead thee quickly o'er the field." 
 
 ■■ Proudly I bore my weapon from all the Gre- 
 cian host ; 
 
 No hand but this shall wield it, for all thy 
 taunting boast ; 
 
 If thou wilt gain the blade, hotly must thou 
 
 fight: 
 Come near, and shield thee well ; I defy thee, 
 
 monstrous wight ! " 
 
 WOLFDIETRICH AND WILD ELSE. 
 
 When soundly slept Sir Bechtung, came the 
 
 rough and savage dame, 
 Running where the hero stood watching by the 
 
 flame : 
 On four feet did she crawl along, like to a 
 
 shaggy bear : 
 The champion cried, " From savage beasts why 
 
 hast thou wandered here ? " 
 
 Up and spake the hairy Else : " Gentle I am 
 and mild : 
 
 If thou wilt clip me, prince, from all care I 
 will thee shield ; 
 
 A kingdom will I give thee, and many a spa- 
 cious land ; 
 
 Thirty castles, fair and strong, will I yield to 
 thy command." 
 
 With horror spake Wolfdieterich : " Thy gifts 
 
 will I not take, 
 Nor touch thy laithly body, for thy savage 
 
 kingdom's sake : 
 The devil's mate thou art, then speed thee 
 
 down to hell : 
 Much I marvel at thy visage, and I loathe thy 
 
 horrid yell." 
 
 She took a spell of grammary, and threw it on 
 
 the knight : 
 Still he stood, and moved not (I tell the tale 
 
 aright) : 
 She took from him his falchion, unlaced his 
 
 hauberk bright : 
 Mournfully Wolfdietrich cried, " Gone is all 
 
 my might. 
 
 " If my faithful kemps eleven should from their 
 
 sleep awake, 
 How would they laugh, that woman's hand 
 
 could from me my weapon take ! 
 Scornfully the knights would say, ttrat, like a 
 
 coward slave, 
 My falchion I had yielded, this wretched life 
 
 to save." 
 
 But vain were his laments ; for through the 
 
 forest dark, 
 With arts of witching grammary, a pathway 
 
 she did mark : 
 Following through the woods, with speed along 
 
 he passed ; 
 For sixty miles he wandered, till he found the 
 
 Else at last. 
 
 " Wilt thou win me for thy wife, hero young 
 
 and fair? " 
 Wrathfully Wolfdieterich spake with angry 
 
 cheer : 
 
208 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 " Restore my armor speedily ; give back my 
 
 weapon bright, 
 Which thou with witching malice didst steal 
 
 this hinder night." 
 
 " Then yield thy gentle body, thou weary 
 wight, to me ; 
 
 With honors will I crown thy locks right glo- 
 riously." 
 
 " With the devil may'st thou sleep ; little care 
 I for my life : 
 
 Well may I spare the love of such a laithly 
 wife." 
 
 Another spell of might she threw upon the he- 
 ro good ; 
 
 Fearfully she witched him; motionless he stood : 
 
 He slept a sleep of grammary, for mighty was 
 the spell : 
 
 Down upon his glittering shield on the sod he 
 fell. 
 
 All above his ears his golden hair she cut; . 
 Like a fool she dight him, that his champions 
 
 knew him not : 
 Witless roved the hero for a year the forest 
 
 round ; 
 On the earth his food he gathered, as in the 
 
 book is found. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 
 
 Now roved Wolfdieterich, the prince without a 
 
 peer, 
 Around the murky forest, witless for a year; 
 But God his sorrows pitied, when he saw the 
 
 hero shent ; 
 Quickly to the ugly witch message did he send. 
 
 An angel bright before her suddenly she viewed : 
 " Say, wilt thou bring," he questioned, "to his 
 
 death the hero good? 
 God has sent his sond, to warn thee, woman 
 
 fell; 
 If thou wouldst save thy life, quickly undo the 
 
 spell." 
 
 When the threatening message the savage wo- 
 man heard, 
 
 And that at God's supreme command the angel 
 had appeared, 
 
 Rapidly she sped her where roved the champion 
 
 Around the murky forest, witless and alone. 
 
 There, naked, like an innocent, run the hero 
 
 bold: 
 Straight the spell of grammary from his ear she 
 
 did unfold : 
 His wits he soon recovered, when the spell 
 
 was from his ear, 
 But his visage and his form were black and foul 
 
 of cheer. 
 
 " Wilt thou win me for thy wife ? gentle hero, 
 
 say." 
 Speedily he answered to the lady, " Nay ; 
 
 Never will I wed thee, here I pledge my fay, 
 Till in holy fount thy sins are washed away." 
 
 " Son of kings, O, care thee not ! If thou my 
 
 love wilt gain, 
 Soon, baptized in holy fount, will I wash me 
 
 clean : 
 In joy and sweet delight merry shalt thou be, 
 Though now my body rough and black with 
 
 loathing thou dost see." 
 
 "No, since my knights are lost, not for woman's 
 
 love I long, 
 When wild about the woods drove me thy 
 
 magic strong." 
 " To thy brothers hied they, gentle hero, hark ! 
 But heavily they chained them ; threw them 
 
 in dungeon dark." 
 
 "How may I woo thee in the woods? lady, 
 
 quickly speak ; 
 Or how embrace thy hairy form, or kiss thy 
 
 bristly cheek ? " 
 "Fear not: I will guide thee safely to my 
 
 realm ; 
 Give thee back thy falchion, thy hauberk, and 
 
 thy helm." 
 
 By the hand she led Wolfdietrich unto the for- 
 est's end ; 
 
 To the sea she guided him ; a ship lay on the 
 strand : 
 
 To a spacious realm she brought him, hight the 
 land of Troy. 
 
 " Wilt thou take me to thy wife, all around 
 thou shalt enjoy." 
 
 To a rich and gorgeous chamber she led the 
 
 wondering knight : 
 There stood a well of youth, flowing clear and 
 
 bright ; 
 The left side was full cold, but warmly flowed 
 
 the right : 
 She leaped into the wondrous well, praying to 
 . God of might. 
 
 Rough Else, the mighty queen, in the baptism 
 
 did he call 
 Lady Siegheminn, 1 the fairest dame of all. 
 Her bristly hide she left all in the flowing tide. 
 Never gazing champion lovelier lady eyed. 
 
 Her shape was formed for love, slender, fair, 
 
 and tall, 
 Straight as is the taper burning in the hall; 
 Brightly gleamed her cheeks, like the opening 
 
 rose : 
 Wondering stood Wolfdieterich, and forgot his 
 
 pains and woes. 
 
 " Wilt thou win me to thy love ? gentle hero, 
 
 say." 
 Quickly spake Wolfdieterich, — "Gladly, by 
 
 my fay ; 
 
 i The name is compounded of sieg, victory, and minne i 
 love. 
 
THE HELDENBUCH. 
 
 209 
 
 Mirror of ladies lovely, fain would I lay thee 
 
 near, 
 But, alas ! my form is laithly, and black am I 
 
 of cheer." 
 
 To the loving youth she said, " If beauteous 
 
 thou wilt be, 
 In the flowing fountain bathe thee speedily ; 
 Fair thy visage will become, as before a year ; 
 Nobly, champion bold and brave, will thy form 
 
 appear." 
 
 Black and foul he leaped into the well of youth, 
 But white and fair he issued, with noble form, 
 
 forsooth. 
 In his arms, with gentle love, did he clip the 
 
 maid ; 
 Merrily he kissed the dame, as she led him to 
 
 her bed. 
 
 WOLFDIETRICH AND THE STAG WITH GOLDEN 
 . HORNS. 
 
 They sped them to the forest in the merry 
 
 month of May, 
 When for the glowing summer the fruit-trees 
 
 blossomed gay. 
 A gorgeous tent was pitched upon the meadow 
 
 green : 
 Straight a stag of noble form before the tent 
 
 was seen. 
 
 Round his spreading antlers was wound the 
 
 glittering gold ; 
 Full of joy and marvel, gazed on the stag the 
 
 hero bold : 
 'Twas done with arts of magic, by a giant fierce 
 
 and wild, 
 With subtle sleights to win to his bed Dame 
 
 Sieghminn mild. 
 
 And when Wolfdieterich beheld the noble deer, 
 Hearken how the hero spake to his gentle peer : 
 "Await thou, royal lady; my meiny soon re- 
 turns ; 
 With my hounds I '11 hunt the stag with the 
 golden horns." 
 
 To their palfreys speedily the king and his 
 
 meiny flew : 
 Through the woods they chased the stag, with 
 
 many a loud halloo. 
 But silently the giant came where the lady lay; 
 With the tent he seized her, and bore the prize 
 
 away. 
 
 O'er the sea he brought the dame, to a distant 
 
 land, 
 Where, deep within a forest, his castle strong 
 
 did stand. 
 Though for half a year they sought all around 
 
 that lady fair, 
 They never found the castle where she lay in 
 
 woe and care. 
 
 27 
 
 Around the forest hunted Wolfdietrich and his 
 
 men ; 
 Down they brought the noble stag, and proudly 
 
 turned again : 
 Merrily they spurred through the wood wit! 
 
 speed, 
 Where they left the gorgeous tent on the ver 
 
 dant mead. 
 
 WOLFDIETRICH IN THE GIANT'S CASTLE. 
 
 He led the weary pilgrim into the castle-Jiall, 
 Where brightly burned the fire, and many a 
 
 taper tall : 
 On a seat he sat him down, and made him right 
 
 good cheer : 
 His eyes around the hall cast the hero without 
 
 fear. 
 
 With anxious care he looked for his lady bright, 
 And he viewed the gorgeous tent once in the 
 
 forest pight. 
 Cheerfully the hero thought, " Rightly have I 
 
 sped : 
 In the perilous adventure God will be mine 
 
 aid!" 
 
 From the glittering flame straight the champion 
 sprung; 
 
 Sharply he eyed the tent, which the giant stole 
 with wrong. 
 
 Wondering, spake Sir Tressan, — " Weary palm- 
 er, stay ; 
 
 Rest thee by the fire, for long has been thy 
 way." 
 
 Up and spake Wolfdieterich, — "Strange mar- 
 vels have I seen, 
 
 And heard of bold adventures, in lands where 
 I have been ; 
 
 Once I saw an emperor, Otnit is his name, 
 
 Would dare defy thee boldly, for mighty is his 
 fame." 
 
 When he had spoke the speech to the giant old, 
 Grimly by the fire sat him down the palmer 
 
 bold; 
 Waiting with impatience, long the time him 
 
 thought 
 Till into the glittering hall the supper-meat was 
 
 brought. 
 
 But to call them to their meat, loud did a horn 
 resound : 
 
 Soon entered many high-born men, and stood 
 the hall around : 
 
 In the giant's courtly hall, winsome dwarfs ap- 
 peared, 
 
 Who the castle and the mount with cunning 
 arts had reared. 
 
 Among the dwarfs the gentle queen up to the 
 
 deas was led : 
 The palmer straight she welcomed, her cheeks 
 
 with blushes red i 
 
210 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 " With that palmer will I sit at the board," she 
 
 cried : 
 Soon they placed Wolfdieterich by the lady's 
 
 side. 
 
 Suddenly Sir Tressan seized his struggling bride. 
 Ho ! how soon Wolfdieterich his sclaveyn threw 
 
 aside ! 
 Out he drew his falchion: "Hold!" spake he 
 
 wrathfully ; 
 " That lovely bride of thine, Sir Giant, leave 
 
 to me." 
 
 Dar'st thou fight me, silly swain ? " cried Sir 
 Tressan fierce ; 
 
 "But shame befall the champion who an un- 
 armed knight would pierce ! 
 
 Dight thee in hauberk quickly ; and he who in 
 the fight 
 
 Strikes his opponent down, let him take the 
 lady bright." 
 
 Glad was the palmer when he heard that thus 
 
 the giant said. 
 Speedily the cunning dwarfs upon the ground 
 
 have laid, 
 Right between the champions, three weighty 
 
 coats of mail : 
 " Palmer, choose in which thou wilt the giant 
 
 fierce assail." 
 
 Here lay an ancient hauberk, fast was every 
 
 ring; 
 There lay two of glittering gold, fit for the 
 
 mightiest king : 
 But soon the palmer seized the hauberk old and 
 
 black. 
 " Who bade thee take that hauberk old ? " in 
 
 wrath the giant spake. 
 
 WOLFDIETRICH AND SIR BELLIGAN. 
 
 'Look to thy foot, Sir Knight," spake the hea- 
 then Belligan ; 
 
 " Thou must leave it here to pledge, nor bear 
 it hence again ; 
 
 Fast unto the ground I will pin it with my 
 knife ; 
 
 Such is my skill and mastery : Christian, guard 
 thy life ! " 
 
 J. he heathen threw the weapon rathly through 
 
 the air ; 
 But cunningly Wolfdieterich leaped quickly 
 
 from the chair, 
 And down upon the sticks again he did alight: 
 No bird in air had done it, to tell the truth 
 
 aright. 
 
 Faully cursed the pagan, when he had tint that 
 
 throw, 
 And to Mahomet, his god, he plained him of 
 
 his woe : 
 
 " Never will I leave thee, thou god of migh* 
 
 and main, 
 If thou wilt grant thy help, when I throw the 
 
 knife again. 
 
 "Who taught thee thus to leap ? say, thou bold 
 
 compeer." 
 But Sir Wolfdieterich spake with cunning 
 
 cheer : 
 " Say no more, Sir Belligan : what boots that 
 
 speech of thine ? 
 With thy second throw, alas ! I must lose this 
 
 life of mine." 
 
 Again the heathen cried, " That leap I learned 
 of yore, 
 
 From my noble master, Bechtung ; right won- 
 drous was his lore. 
 
 Say, is thy name Wolfdieterich, and art thou 
 bred in Greece ? 
 
 If thou be, thou shalt baptize me, and our en- 
 mity shall cease." 
 
 But when the Christian knight his fear and 
 
 terror viewed, 
 " May knight be born of savage wolves ? " cried 
 
 the champion good : 
 " Alas ! my rank I must conceal ; but thou 
 
 shalt know my name, 
 When thrice thy blows have missed. Come, 
 
 renew the bloody game." 
 
 Again with wrath the pagan heaved his hand 
 
 on high ; 
 Again he threw the weapon, and prayed for 
 
 victory : 
 Two locks from the hero's temple he cut with 
 
 cunning skill, 
 As if the shears had clipped them ; but he did 
 
 none other ill. 
 
 Speedily Wolfdieterich cried to God his life to 
 
 save. 
 "Heathen hound, how cunningly a tonsure 
 
 thou canst shave ! 
 I shall need a priest no more, to shrive me of 
 
 my sin ; 
 By the help of God on high, I hope the fight 
 
 to win." 
 
 " Have I not hit thee yet ? " spake Belligan 
 
 with wrath. 
 "Ay, thou hast shaved my crown, but done no 
 
 other scath : 
 As yet I bear no wound, then throw the other 
 
 knife : 
 If once again thy weapon miss, it 's I have 
 
 gained the strife." 
 
 "Christian, guard thy heart ! " cried the hea- 
 then king accursed ; 
 
 " Soon a bloody well from thy side shall burst. 
 
 Keen is the trusty weapon, and bears the name 
 of Death ! 
 
 Thou need'st not guard thy life ; thou hast 
 breathed thy latest breath " 
 
THE HELDENBUCH. 
 
 211 
 
 The Christian wound St. George's shirt his 
 body all about : 
 
 Quickly passed the weapon keen through the 
 buckler stout ; 
 
 But from the wondrous shirt to the ground the 
 knife did start, 
 
 Shivered into splinters, nor touched the cham- 
 pion's heart. 
 
 "I have stood thy throws, Sir Belligan," spake 
 the knight aloud : 
 
 " Better I can cast than thou the knife, thou 
 pagan proud ! " 
 
 " Boast not of thy cunning," cried King Belli- 
 gan ; 
 
 " Thy knives with magic art are dight, thou 
 foolish Christian man." 
 
 Safe he thought his body ; but the knight bade 
 
 him beware 
 His right foot and his left eye, that the heathen 
 
 cried, with care, 
 "How may I guard them both ? In this fearful 
 
 stound, 
 Save me from that Christian fell, with thy 
 
 power, Sir Mahound ! " 
 
 Wolfdietrich quickly threw the knife, and he 
 
 heaved his hand on high ; 
 He pinned the right foot on the chair, and 
 
 laughing did he cry, 
 "My skill it is but little; much I feared thy 
 
 flight, 
 So I pinned thee to the chair : now thou canst 
 
 not quit my sight." 
 
 The second knife he threw, and he hit him in 
 
 the side : 
 "Heathen, thou must die, for all thy boast and 
 
 pride." 
 Wofully spake Belligan, — " Knight without a 
 
 peer, 
 Quickly tell thy name, for much thy throws I 
 
 fear." 
 
 "I am the king of Greece, Wolfdietrich is my 
 
 name." 
 Trembling, cried the pagan, " Save me, thou 
 
 knight of fame ! 
 In the fount thou shalt baptize me, and teach 
 
 me Christian lore : 
 Save me, noble champion ! I pray thee, throw 
 
 no more." 
 
 "Thou must die, Sir Belligan; many Christians 
 hast thou shent : 
 
 Alas ! I view their bloody heads upon thy bat- 
 tlement." 
 
 The pagan bade his meiny his gods before him 
 bring: 
 
 Vainly by their might he weened to quell the 
 Grecian king. 
 
 But over them Wolfdieterich signed the holy 
 
 cross, 
 And instantly the idols false broke down to 
 
 dust and dross. 
 
 Up and spake fair Marpaly, — "He works with 
 
 magic sleight : 
 Much 1 dread the malice of that Christian 
 
 knight." 
 
 With sorrow cried Sir Belligan, "Mahoun, help 
 with thy might ! 
 
 I will give thee to thy spouse Marpaly the 
 bright." 
 
 Laughing, cried the champion, "A god full 
 strange is thine ! 
 
 Does he seek to spouse the dame ? but his mar- 
 row he shall tine. 
 
 " Guard thy heart, Sir King ; I warn thee, 
 
 guard it well ; 
 Quickly will I pierce it with this weapon fell ; 
 If I fail asunder straight thy heart to cleave, 
 This head upon the battlement, in forfeit, will 
 
 I leave." 
 
 Speedily Wolfdieterich the third knife heaved 
 
 on high : 
 Trembling stood Sir Belligan, for he felt his 
 
 death was nigh. 
 The pagan's heart asunder with cunning skill 
 
 he cleft : 
 Down upon the grass he fell, of life bereft. 
 
 WOLFDIETRICH AND THE FIENDS. 
 
 With magic art all o'er the lake a broad bridge 
 threw the dame ; 
 
 But onward as they rode, still narrower it be- 
 came : 
 
 In wonder stood the hero ; to the maiden he 
 'gan say, 
 
 " Damsel, truly tell, who has borne the bridge 
 away? " 
 
 "Little care I though thou drown," cried Dame 
 
 Marpaly. 
 "Then graithe thee," spake Wolfdieterich; 
 
 "'tis thou must plunge with me." 
 " No harm the waves can do me ; with magic 
 
 am I dight." 
 "Then speed we to the castle back," cried the 
 
 Christian knight. 
 
 Back the fearless hero turned his trusty horse ; 
 But down the bridge was broken, by the lady's 
 
 magic force. 
 In his sorrow, cried the champion, " Help, God, 
 
 in this my need ! 
 Say, how may we hither pass ? damsel, right 
 
 arede. 
 
 From the courser Marpaly suddenly would fly. 
 " Stay thee here, thou woman fell ! quickly 
 
 must thou die." 
 Piteously she wept, prayed him her life to save. 
 He tied her to his body fast, and plunged into 
 
 the wave.. 
 
212 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 In the name of God he leaped into the lake 
 
 amain ; 
 But the water suddenly was gone; on the mead 
 
 he stood again. 
 "Lady, say, how passed the waters? How 
 
 bloomed the mead so green? " 
 " Alas ! " she cried, " thy God is strong, or dead 
 
 thou sure hadst been. 
 
 " Let me pass, Wolfdieterich, for thy chivalry ! 
 Knightly deed it were not, but evil treachery, 
 If thy hand thou didst imbrue in gentle lady's 
 
 blood." 
 Straight her bonds he loosened, and she leaped 
 
 from the courser good. 
 
 Suddenly, upon the mead her garments down 
 she threw, 
 
 And showed her beauteous form to the won- 
 dering champion's view. 
 
 Her hands she clapped together, on the hero 
 did she look, 
 
 And straight, by arts of grammary, a raven's 
 form she took. 
 
 High upon a tree perched the raven black. 
 
 " The devil's fere thou art; to hell, then, speed 
 
 thee back ! 
 Had I done thy will, by the foul fiend had I 
 
 lain." 
 He grasped his courser's bridle, and away he 
 
 rode amain. 
 
 But suddenly around him a laithly fog she cast; 
 
 Fouler it grew, and thicker still, as he onward 
 passed ; 
 
 And straight beside his courser stood a cham- 
 pion fell ; 
 
 A club the black man brandished, and seemed 
 the hound of hell. 
 
 Up and spake Wolfdieterich, — " Say, thou 
 
 doughty knight, 
 Why wilt thou give me battle ? I have done 
 
 thee no despite." 
 But fiercely struck the monster on his helm a 
 
 blow of might : 
 Down he fell upon the mead, and saw nor day 
 
 nor night. 
 
 Full of shame he rose again ; his glittering 
 shield he clasped, 
 
 Run against the fiend of hell, and fast his fal- 
 chion grasped : 
 
 In the dreadful stour he took the monster's life. 
 
 Fondly he weened the fight was done, nor 
 thought of further strife. 
 
 But suddenly two other fiends, fouler than the 
 
 other, 
 Brandished on high their iron clubs, to avenge 
 
 their fallen brother. 
 Down they struck him to the ground, in deadly 
 
 swoon he fell ; 
 Gone was all his strength, and his face grew 
 
 wan and pale. 
 
 But God on high was with him : quickly he 
 
 arose, 
 Run upon the hell-hounds, and struck them 
 
 mortal blows. 
 When the two were dead, behold ! by his side 
 
 four others stood, 
 And rushed upon the Christian, thirsting for his 
 
 blood. 
 
 Hotter was the battle, bolder the champion grew ; 
 
 Quick his might o'ercame them ; to the ground 
 the fiends he threw ; 
 
 Down he felled the four, dead lay they by his 
 side ; 
 
 But, alas ! upon the plain, eight fouler he de- 
 scried. 
 
 The uncouth champions black upon the hero 
 
 rushed ; 
 With their weighty clubs of steel him to the 
 
 ground they pushed; 
 Mickle was his pain and woe ; his force was 
 
 well-nigh spent : 
 Loudly of his sorrow to the heavens did he 
 
 lament. 
 
 Again he grasped his buckler, and from the 
 
 plain arose ; 
 Again, with his good falchion, he dealt them 
 
 heavy blows, 
 And all the evil hell-hounds rathly made he 
 
 bleed ; 
 Deep were the wounds his weapon carved; 
 
 dead fell they on the mead. 
 
 But the battle was not over ; he came in great 
 
 er pain ; 
 Sixteen fouler fiends than they stood upon the 
 
 plain ; 
 And as their clubs they wielded, the champion 
 
 cried amain, 
 " When a fiend, alas ! I vanquish, two fiercer 
 
 come again." 
 
 Amongst the hell-hounds fierce he rushed, and 
 
 thought to be awroke : 
 With their iron clubs they struck him, that his 
 
 helmet seemed to smoke. 
 He feared his fatal hour was nigh ; astounded 
 
 and dismayed, 
 On the ground in crucial form he fell, and called 
 
 to Heaven for aid. 
 
 O'er him stood the foul fiends, and with their 
 
 clubs of steel 
 Struck him o'er the helmet, that in deadly 
 
 swound he fell : 
 But God his sorrow saw; to the fiends his sond 
 
 he sent : 
 From the earth they vanished, with howling 
 
 and lament. 
 
 And with them to the deep abyss they bore the 
 
 sorceress fell : 
 Loudly did she shriek, when they cast her into 
 
 hell. 
 
THE HELDENBUCH. 
 
 213 
 
 The Christian hero thanked his God ; from the 
 
 ground he rose with speed ; 
 Joyfully he sheathed his sword, and mounted 
 
 on his steed. 
 
 THE TOURNAMENT. 
 
 Count Herman spurred his courser, and gal- 
 lopped o'er the plain; 
 
 With anger burned his heart, and he hoped the 
 prize to gain : 
 
 Against the Grecian hero he ran with envious 
 force, 
 
 But he could not stand the shock, and tumbled 
 from his horse. 
 
 Firmly sat Wolfdieterich, his shield repelled 
 the spear, 
 
 From his courser to the ground leaped he with- 
 out fear; 
 
 But Sir Herman bowed full courteously to the 
 unknown knight : 
 
 " Take the gold, thou champion, for I may not 
 stand thy might." 
 
 " Nay," cried the king of Greece, " it must not, 
 
 Count, be so, 
 For first before the lady my power must I show." 
 A long and weighty spear he chose, as in the 
 
 book is told ; 
 And the spear a fathom in the ground thrust 
 
 the hero bold. 
 
 Amongst the knights resounded a loud, a joyful 
 
 cry, 
 When, withouten stirrups, on his steed he 
 
 leaped on high. 
 Count Herman on his courser mounted, full of 
 
 care ; 
 But through his shirt of mail ran the sweat of 
 
 fear. 
 
 O'er the court in full career the Grecian did 
 
 advance, 
 And above the saddle-bow he hit him with the 
 
 lance : 
 Little could the count withstand that thrust of 
 
 might and main ; 
 Fathoms eight it cast him down upon the plain. 
 
 WOLFDIETRICH'S PENANCE. 
 
 Strictly Sir Wolfdieterich kept his holy state, 
 
 But to cleanse him of his sins he begged a pen- 
 ance great : 
 
 His brethren bade him on a bier in the church 
 to lay, 
 
 There to do his penance all the night until the 
 day. 
 
 When the night was come, to the church the 
 
 hero sped : 
 Sudden all the ghosts appeared who by his 
 
 sword lay 'lead : 
 
 Many a fearful blow they struck on the cham 
 
 pion good ; 
 Ne'er such pain and woe he felt when on the 
 
 field he stood. 
 
 Sooner had he battle fought with thousands ii» 
 
 the field, 
 Striking dints with falchions keen on his glit 
 
 tering shield. 
 Half the night against the ghosts he waged the 
 
 battle fierce : 
 But the empty air he struck, when he weened 
 
 their breasts to pierce. 
 
 Little recked they for his blows : with his ter- 
 ror and his woe, 
 
 Ere half the night was past, his hair was white 
 as snow. 
 
 And when the monks to matins sped, they found 
 him pale and cold : 
 
 There the ghosts in deadly swoon had left the 
 champion bold. 
 
 III. — THE GARDEN OF ROSES. 
 
 FRIAR ILSAN TN THE GARDEN OF ROSES. 
 
 'Mongst the roses Staudenfuss trod with mickle 
 
 pride ; 
 With rage and with impatience, his foe he did 
 
 abide ; 
 Much he feared no Longobard would dare to 
 
 meet his blade : 
 But a bearded monk lay ready for the fight 
 
 arrayed. 
 
 " Brother Ilsan, raise thine eyes," spake Sir 
 
 Hildebrand, 
 " Where, 'mongst the blooming roses, our 
 
 threatening foe does stand : 
 Staudenfuss, the giant hight, born upon the 
 
 Rhine! 
 Up, and shrive him of his sins, holy brother 
 
 mine ! " 
 
 " It 's I will fight him," cried the monk ; " my 
 
 blessing shall he gain ; 
 Never 'mongst the roses shall he wage the fight 
 
 again." 
 Straight above his coat of mail his friar's cowl 
 
 he cast, 
 Hid his sword and buckler, and to the garden 
 
 passed. 
 
 Among the blooming roses leaped the grisly 
 
 monk : 
 With laughter ladies viewed his beard, and his 
 
 visage brown and shrunk ; 
 As he trod with angry step o'er the flowery 
 
 green, 
 Many a maiden laughed aloud, and many a 
 
 knight, I ween. 
 
 Up spake Lady Chrimhild, — "Father, leave 
 
 thine ire ! 
 Go and chant thy matins with thy brothers 
 
 in the choir." 
 
214 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 " Gentle lady," cried the monk, "roses must I 
 
 have, 
 To deck my dusky cowl in guise right gay and 
 
 brave." 
 
 Loudly laughed the giant, when he saw his 
 
 beard so rough : 
 " Should I laughing die to-morrow, I had not 
 
 laughed enough : 
 Has the kemp of Bern sent his fool to fight?" 
 " Giant, straight thy hide shall feel that I have 
 
 my wits aright." 
 
 Up heaved the monk his heavy fist, and he 
 struck a weighty blow, 
 
 Down among the roses he felled his laughing 
 foe. 
 
 Fiercely cried Sir Staudenfuss, " Thou art the 
 devil's priest ! 
 
 Heavy penance dost thou deal with thy wrin- 
 kled fist." 
 
 Together rushed the uncouth kemps ; each 
 
 drew his trusty blade ; 
 With heavy tread below their feet they crushed 
 
 the roses red ; 
 All the garden flowed with their purple blood ; 
 Each did strike full sorry blows with their 
 
 falchions good. 
 
 Cruel looks their eyes did cast, and fearful was 
 
 their war, 
 But the friar cut his enemy o'er the head a 
 
 bloody scar; 
 Deeply carved his trusty sword through the 
 
 helmet bright : 
 Joyful was the hoary monk, for he had won 
 
 the fight. 
 
 They parted the two champions speedily asun- 
 der : 
 
 The friar's heavy interdict lay the giant under. 
 
 Up arose Queen Chrimhild, to Sir Ilsan has she 
 sped, 
 
 On his bald head did she lay a crown of roses 
 red. 
 
 Through the garden roved he, as in the merry 
 dance ; 
 
 A kiss the lady gave him, where madly he did 
 prance. 
 
 " Hear, thou lady fair ; more roses must I 
 have ; 
 
 To my two-arffi-fifly brothers I promised chap- 
 lets brave. 
 
 '■ if ye have not kemps to fight, I must rob thy 
 
 garden fair, 
 And right sorry should I be to work thee so 
 
 much care." 
 " Fear not, the battle shalt thou wage with 
 
 champions bold and true : 
 Crowns and kisses may'st thou gain for thy 
 
 brothers fifty-two." 
 
 Up spake the queen, — "Monk Ilsan, see your 
 
 chaplets ready dight ; 
 Champions two-and-fifty stand waiting for the 
 
 fight." 
 Ilsan rose, and donned his cowl, and run against 
 
 them all ; 
 There the monk has given them many a heavy 
 
 fall. 
 
 To the ground he felled them, and gave them 
 
 his benison ; 
 Beneath the old monk's falchion lay twelve 
 
 champions of renown : 
 And full of fear and sorrow the other forty 
 
 were ; 
 Their right hand held they forth, begged him 
 
 their lives to spare. 
 
 Rathly ran the monk, to the Queen Chrimhild 
 
 he hied : 
 " Lay thy champions in the grave, and leave 
 
 thy mickle pride : 
 I have dight them for their death ; I did shrive 
 
 them and anoint them : 
 Never will they thrive or speed in the task thou 
 
 didst appoint them. 
 
 " When again thy roses blow, to the feast the 
 
 monk invite." 
 The Lady Chrimhild gave him two-and-fifly 
 
 chaplets bright. 
 " Nay, Lady Queen, remind thee ! By the holy 
 
 order mine, 
 I claim two-and-fifty kisses from your lips so 
 
 red and fine." 
 
 And when Chrimhild, the queen, gave him 
 
 kisses fifty-two, 
 With his rough and grisly beard full sore he 
 
 made her rue, 
 That from her lovely cheek 'gan flow the rosy 
 
 blood : 
 The queen was full of sorrow, but the monk it 
 
 thought him good. 
 
 Thus should unfaithful maiden be kissed, and 
 
 made to bleed, 
 And feel such pain and sorrow, for the mischief 
 
 she did breed. 
 
 FRIAR ILSAN'S RETURN TO THE CONVENT. 
 
 " Brothers mine, approach ! coronets I bring- 
 Come, your bald heads will I crown, each one 
 
 like a king." 
 He pressed a thorny chaplet on each naked 
 
 crown, 
 That o'er their rugged visages the gory flood 
 
 ran down. 
 
 They sighed that all their prayers for his death 
 
 had been in vain ; 
 Loud they roared, but silently they cursed him 
 
 in their oain. 
 
THE HELDENBUCH. 
 
 215 
 
 " Brothers we are," so spake the monk, " then 
 
 must ye have your share ; 
 For me to bear the pain alone, in sooth it were 
 
 not fair. 
 
 " See how richly ye are dight ! beauteous still 
 
 ye were ; 
 Now ye are crowned with roses, none may with 
 
 ye compare." 
 The abbot and the prior and all the convent 
 
 wept, 
 But no one, for his life, forth against him stepped. 
 
 " Te must help to bear my sins, holy brethren 
 
 all; 
 For if ye do not pray for me, dead to the ground 
 
 ye fall." 
 A few there were who would not pray for 
 
 Monk Ilsan's soul : 
 He tied their beards together, and hung them 
 
 o'er a pole. 
 
 Loud they wept, and long they begged, " Broth- 
 er, let us go ; 
 
 At vesper and at matins will we pray for you." 
 
 Ever since, where'er he went, they knelt, and 
 feared his wrath ; 
 
 Helped to bear his heavy sins, until his wel- 
 come death. 
 
 IV.— THE LITTLE GARDEN OF ROSES. 
 KING LAURIN THE DWARF. 
 
 Wittich, the mighty champion, trod the roses 
 
 to the ground, 
 Broke down the gates, and ravaged the garden 
 
 far renowned : 
 Gone was the portals' splendor, by the heroes 
 
 bold destroyed ; 
 The fragrance of the flowers was past, and all 
 
 the garden's pride. 
 
 But as upon the grass they lay withouten fear, 
 No heed they had of danger, nor weened their 
 
 foe was near : 
 Behold, where came a little kemp, in warlike 
 
 manner dight ; 
 A king he was o'er many a land, and Laurin 
 
 was he hight. 
 
 A lance with gold was wound about, the little 
 king did bear : 
 
 On the lance a silken pennon fluttered in the air ; 
 
 Thereon two hunting greyhounds lively were 
 portrayed ; 
 
 They seemed as though they chased the roe- 
 buck through the glade. 
 
 His courser bounded like a fawn, and the gold- 
 en foot-cloth gay 
 
 Glittered with gems of mound brighter than 
 the day. 
 
 Firmly in his hands he grasped a golden rein ; 
 And with rubies red his saddle gleamed, as he 
 pricked along the plain. 
 
 In guise right bold and chivalrous in the stir 
 rups rich he stood : 
 
 Not the truest blade could cut his pusens red as 
 blood : 
 
 Hardened was his hauberk in the gore of drag- 
 ons fierce, 
 
 And his golden bruny bright not the boldest 
 knight might pierce. 
 
 Around his waist a girdle he wore of magic 
 
 power; 
 The strength of twelve the strongest men it 
 
 gave him in the stour. 
 Deeds of noble chivalry and manhood wrought 
 
 the knight ; 
 Still had he gained the victory in every bloody 
 
 fight. 
 
 Cunning he was, and quaint of skill, and, when 
 his wrath arose, 
 
 The kemp must be of mickle might could stand 
 his weighty blows. 
 
 Little was King Laurin, but from many a pre- 
 cious gem 
 
 His wondrous strength and power and his bold 
 courage came. 
 
 Tall at times his stature grew, with spells of 
 
 grammary ; 
 Then to the noblest princes fellow might he 
 
 be : » 
 
 And when he rode, a noble blade bore he in his 
 
 hand ; 
 In many fights the sword was proved worth a 
 
 spacious land. 
 
 Silken was his mantle, with stones of mound 
 
 inlaid, 
 Sewed in two-and-seventy squares by many a 
 
 cunning maid. 
 His helmet, strong and trusty, was forged of the 
 
 weighty gold, 
 And when the dwarf did bear it, his courage 
 
 grew more bold. 
 
 In the gold, with many gems, a bright carbun- 
 cle lay, 
 
 That where he rode the darkest night was 
 lighter than the day. 
 
 A golden crown he bore upon his helmet bright ; 
 
 With richer gems and finer gold no mortal king 
 is dight. 
 
 Upon the crown and on the helm birds sung 
 their merry lay ; 
 
 Nightingales and larks did chant their meas- 
 ures blithe and gay ; 
 
 As if in greenwood flying, they tuned their 
 minstrelsy : 
 
 With hand of master were they wrought, and 
 with spells of grammarv. 
 
216 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 On his arm he bore a gilded buckler bright; 
 There many sparhawks, tame and wild, were 
 
 portrayed with cunning sleight, 
 And a savage leopard ranging, prowling through 
 
 the wood, 
 Right in act to seize his prey, thirsting for their 
 
 blood. 
 
 THE COURT OF LITTLE KING LAURIN. 
 
 Before the hollow mountain lay a meadow 
 
 green; 
 So fair a plain upon this world never may be 
 
 seen : 
 There with the fruit full many a tree was laden 
 
 heavily ; 
 No tongue e'er tasted sweeter, fairer no eye 
 
 might see. 
 
 All the night and all the day the birds full 
 
 sweetly sung, 
 That the forest and the plain to their measures 
 
 loudly rung ; 
 There they tuned their melody, and each one 
 
 bore his part, 
 That with their merry minstrelsy they cheered 
 
 each hero's heart. 
 
 And o'er the plain were ranging beasts both 
 wild and tame, 
 
 Playing, with merry gambols, many a lusty 
 game : 
 
 On the noble champions fondly 'gan they 
 fawn : 
 
 Each morn, beneath the linden-tree, they sport- 
 ed on the lawn. 
 
 The meadow seemed so Lovely, the flowers 
 bloomed so fair, 
 
 That he who had the plain in rule would know 
 nor woe nor care. 
 
 Up and spake the knight of Bern, — " So high 
 my heart doth rise, 
 
 So full of joy the meadow, that I hold it para- 
 dise." 
 
 Up spake hero Wolfort, — "Bless him who 
 
 brought us here ! 
 So fair a sight did ne'er before to mortal eye 
 
 appear." 
 " Enjoy the scene, young kemps," cried Hilde- 
 
 brand the proud ; 
 " Fair day should in the evening be praised 
 
 with voice aloud." 
 
 But Wittich spake a warning word, — " Hark 
 to my rede aright ! 
 
 The dwarf is quaint, and full of guile, then be- 
 ware his cunning sleight ; 
 
 Arts he knows right marvellous : if to his hol- 
 low hill 
 
 We follow, much I dread me, he will breed U3 
 dangerous ill." 
 
 " Fear not," cried King Laurin ; " doubt not 
 
 my faith and truth; 
 The meadow blithe your own shall be, and 
 
 my treasures all, forsooth." 
 Proudly cried bold Wolfort, — "Wittich, stay 
 
 thee here ; 
 Enter not the hollow hill, if his treachery thou 
 
 fear." 
 
 " Never," cried fierce Wittich ; " here will I 
 
 not stay." 
 In wrath he left his courser; without fear he 
 
 sped away : 
 Before the mountain-gate he run, there hung a 
 
 horn of gold ; 
 Quick he blew a merry strain : loud laughed 
 
 Sir Dietrich bold. 
 
 Soon toward the mountain sped the little knight, 
 
 And with him all the heroes of high renown 
 and might : 
 
 King Laurin blew upon the horn a louder note, 
 and shrill, 
 
 From all the mountains echoing, and resound- 
 ing on the hill. 
 
 Quickly ran the chamberlain where he found 
 
 the golden key, 
 And threw the spacious portals open speedily : 
 King Laurin led his guests through the golden 
 
 gate ; 
 There many dwarfs, alert and fair, their coming 
 
 did await. 
 
 When through another gate of steel the noble 
 knights had passed, 
 
 At the little king's command, were closed the 
 portals fast. 
 
 A necromancer, old and sage, dwelt in the hol- 
 low hill ; 
 
 Soon he came to Laurin, and asked his master's 
 will. 
 
 " Look upon those strangers," spake the little 
 knight ; 
 
 " Kemps they are of high emprise, and love 
 the bloody fight: 
 
 Cast upon them, master mine, for the love of 
 me, 
 
 A magic spell, that none of them may the oth- 
 ers see." 
 
 Upon the knights his magic charms cast the 
 
 sorcerer fell ; 
 None could behold his brothers, so mighty was 
 
 the spell. 
 Loudly cried Sir Wittich, " Mark my counsel 
 
 now; 
 I told ye that the little king would breed ye 
 
 cares enow. 
 
 "What think ye now, Sir Wolfort? " spake the 
 
 hero stern : 
 " I warned ye all to shun the dwarf, and speed 
 
 ye back to Bern." 
 
THE NIBEI.UNGENLIED. 
 
 217 
 
 About the cavern roved they, in mickle woe 
 
 and eare : 
 Fiercely to the king they cried, " Is this thy 
 
 promised fare? " 
 
 But up spake little Laurin : "Fear not, my no- 
 ble guests; 
 
 All my courtiers shall obey quickly your be- 
 hests." 
 
 Many a winsome dwarf was seen, graithed in 
 rich attire; 
 
 Garments bright with gold and gems bore each 
 little sire. 
 
 From the gems full mighty strength had the 
 dwarfish chivalry : 
 
 Quaintly they danced, and on their steeds they 
 rode right cunningly; 
 
 Far they cast the heavy stone, and, in their war- 
 like game, 
 
 They broke the lance, and tourneyed before 
 the knights of fame. 
 
 There many harpers tuned their lay, and played 
 with mirth and glee, 
 
 Loudly, in the royal hall, their merry min- 
 strelsy. 
 
 Before the table high appeared four learned 
 singing men, 
 
 Two short, and two of stature tall, and sung in 
 courtly strain. 
 
 Soon to the table sped the king, and bade his 
 
 meiny all 
 Wait upon his noble guests, in the royal hall : 
 " Chosen knights and brave they are," he spoke 
 
 with friendly cheer: 
 Guile was in his heart, and cunning; but his 
 
 treachery bought he dear. 
 
 Similt, the lady fair, heard of the royal feasts : 
 Of her meiny did she spier, " Who are the 
 
 stranger guests ? " • 
 
 " Noble knights of German birth," spake a 
 
 kemp of stature small ; 
 " Laurin bids ye speed to court, for well ye 
 
 know them all." 
 
 Quickly spake the lady, — "Up, my damsels 
 
 fair ! 
 Deck ye in your richest guise, for to court we 
 
 will repair." 
 
 Soon they dight them royally in glittering array; 
 Full blithe they were to speed to court with 
 Similt, the gentle may. 
 
 There came many a minstrel, tuning his lay of 
 
 mirth ; 
 Shawms and trumpets shrill they blew, the 
 
 sweetest on the earth. 
 There full many a song was sung by learned 
 
 singing men ; 
 Of war and chivalrous emprise they tuned the 
 
 noble strain. 
 
 Now to court, in bright array, all the maids are 
 
 gone, _ . p 
 
 With many a knight not two feet long ; one 
 
 leaped, the other run ; 
 Merry were they all : and before the lovely 
 
 dame, 
 Two tall, two little gleemen sung the song of 
 
 fame. 
 
 Before the queen they chanted the merry min- 
 strelsy, 
 
 And all who heard their master-notes dwelt in 
 mirth and glee. 
 
 There fiddlers quaint appeared, though small 
 their stature were, 
 
 Marching, two and two, before the lady fair. 
 
 Similt into the palace came, with her little 
 
 maidens all ; 
 Garments they wore which glittered brightly 
 
 in the hall, 
 Of fur and costly ciclatoun, and brooches of the 
 
 gold: 
 No richer guise in royal courts might mortal 
 
 man behold. 
 
 The gentle Lady Similt bore a golden crown ; 
 There full many a precious stone around the 
 
 cavern shone ; 
 But one before the others glittered gorgeously ; 
 The wight who wore that noble gem ever blithe 
 
 must be. 
 
 And now the spell was ta'en away from the 
 
 champions bold : 
 Full glad they were when openly their feres 
 
 they might behold. 
 Right noble cheer was offered to the champions 
 
 brave ; 
 In royal guise the feast was held the whole day 
 
 in the cave. 
 
 THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 
 
 The "Nibelunjienlied" is the greatest and 
 most complete of all the German popular epics. 
 The historical basis of the poem is found in 
 the fifth and sixth centuries of the Christian 
 era; and the name, Nibelungen, is said to be 
 28 
 
 derived from an ancient and powerful Burgun- 
 dian race, whose terrible downfall is the subject 
 of the work. The traditions upon which it is 
 founded are connected with the old Scandina- 
 vian sagas, particularly the " Wilkina-Saga." 
 S 
 
218 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 It belongs partly to the same cycle of adven- 
 tures, characters, and traditions as the " Hel- 
 denbuch," and springs from the same great he- 
 roic age of Germany. The present form of the 
 poem is undoubtedly the work of a single author, 
 who, with a soundness of judgment and felicity 
 of genius rarely equalled, combined the separate 
 songs, sagas, and traditions relating to Attila and 
 the Huns, and their connexions with the Bur- 
 gundian tribe, into one beautiful and harmonious 
 whole ; and this poet, according to the conjec- 
 ture of William Schlegel, Von der Hagen, and 
 others, was the Minnesinger, Heinrich von Oft- 
 erdingen. The fabulous Klingsor of Hungary 
 has also been mentioned, but his claims are 
 feebly supported. 
 
 The scene of the poem is on the Rhine and 
 in Austria and Hungary. The poem opens with 
 a description of Chrimhild, the principal heroine 
 of the piece, her three brothers, King Gtlnther, 
 King Ghernot, and " Ghiseler the Young," who 
 held their court at Worms, on the Rhine, and of 
 their principal warriors, Hagen of Tronek and 
 Dankwart his brother, Ortwin and Eckewart 
 and Ghere, andFolker of Alsace. The ominous 
 dream of Chrimhild, which she told " with 
 fear" to her mother, Dame Ute, and the inter- 
 pretation by the latter, are then related. This 
 dream, and the interpretation, which are after- 
 wards-terribly fulfilled, stamp the character of 
 a solemn and mysterious destiny upon the whole 
 poem. 
 
 Then follows the adventure of Siegfried, the 
 son of King Siegmund and Queen Siegelind, 
 of Netherland. In his youth he has visited many 
 lands, performing feats of arms and displaying 
 all gentleness and courtesy of behaviour. Hav- 
 ing thus been trained to the practice of every 
 knightly virtue, when the time arrives that he 
 shall be received into the order of chivalry, 
 his father makes a splendid festival, and his 
 mother distributes costly gifts. Having heard 
 of the matchless beauty of Chrimhild, he re- 
 solves to visit Worms to woo her ; and arrives 
 at the gate of this renowned city with great 
 pomp and splendor. As he approaches with his 
 attendants, King Gtlnther inquires of Hagen 
 who these strangers are ; whereupon the old 
 warrior relates the marvellous exploits of Sieg- 
 fried, the conquest of the Nibelungen, the pos- 
 session of the hoard, or treasure, the magic cap, 
 and the bathing in the dragon's blood, which 
 rendered him invulnerable save in a spot be- 
 tween his shoulders, where a leaf fell upon him 
 as he bathed. Siegfried is courteously received 
 by Gilnther and his knights, but his haughty lan- 
 guage rouses the ire of the champions, and Ort- 
 win and Hagen defy him. Their wrath, how- 
 ever, is soon appeased, and Siegfried passes a 
 whole year at Worms, taking part in all the rev- 
 els and joustings, and excelling all the Burgun- 
 dian champions. But he has not yet seen the 
 Lady Chrimhild, though she has stolen many a 
 glance at him from the window. At length King 
 Ludger of Saxony and King Liudgast of Den- 
 
 mark threaten King Gtlnther with war, unless he 
 will pay them tribute. Siegfried joins the Bur- 
 gundian knights, drives the Saxons out of 
 Hessia, conquers and captures King Liudgast , 
 whereupon a bloody battle follows, and, chiefly 
 through the bravery of Siegfried, the mighty 
 host of Danes and Saxons is defeated, and 
 Ludger himself surrenders. Ghernot's messen- 
 gers carry to Worms the news of the victory. 
 Chrimhild sends for one of them to her cham- 
 ber at evening, to hear from him the tidings of 
 Siegfried's warlike deeds. The victorious army, 
 returning with the captive kings, is received 
 with joyful welcome. Gtlnther liberates the 
 kings when they have sworn fealty to him, and 
 prepares a high festival, to which, on Whitsun- 
 day morning, five thousand guests or more as- 
 semble. Chrimhild and her women are busy 
 in making the most magnificent preparations 
 for the mighty revel ; and she and her mother 
 are commanded to grace it with their presence. 
 And this is the first time that Siegfried be- 
 holds Chrimhild. For twelve days the feast 
 continues, and each day the hero sees the 
 lady of his love. The kings are allowed to 
 depart unransomed, and Siegfried also proposes 
 to leave the court, but is easily persuaded by 
 Ghiseler to remain. 
 
 The fame of the beauty of Brunhild, a prin- 
 cess of matchless strength in Iceland, moves 
 King Gtlnther to seek to win her. He requests 
 Siegfried to aid him in the doubtful enterprise, 
 and promises him his sister as a reward. Sieg- 
 fried consents ; takes with him the magic cap, 
 which makes him invisible and gives him the 
 strength of twelve men ; and well it is for 
 Gtlnther that such magical aid is at hand, for 
 Brunhild is a terrible Amazon, who forces all 
 her suitors to contend with her in the games 
 of throwing the spear, leaping, and hurling the 
 stone, under penalty of losing their lives in case 
 of defeat. Chrimhild prepares them splendid 
 garments, which cost her and her maidens seven 
 weeks' hard work to get ready ; and Gtlnther, 
 Siegfried, Hagen, and Dankwart set out from 
 Worms, embarking in a ship, which Siegfried 
 pilots. On the twelfth day they reach the castle 
 of Isenstein in the country of Brunhild. It is 
 agreed that Siegfried shall appear in the char- 
 acter of vassal to Gtlnther. They land in full 
 view of a troop of fair women, among whom 
 Brunhild stands ; the castle is opened to receive 
 them, and they enter, after having given up 
 their arms, which old Hagen reluctantly con- 
 sents to do. Brunhild approaches her guests, 
 and inquires of Siegfried wherefore they have 
 come. He replies, that his sovereign lord, King 
 Gtlnther, is a suitor for her love. The condi- 
 tions are explained, and the preparations for the 
 contest speedily made. Siegfried returns to the 
 ship, and puts on the tarn-cap, which makes 
 him invisible. Brunhild arms herself, and 
 the Burgundians very naturally begin to get a 
 little frightened for their king. Old Hagen, 
 even, grows nervous, and exclaims 
 
THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 
 
 219 
 
 "And how is 't now, King Gunther? here must you tine 
 
 your life! 
 The lady you would gain, well may she be the devil's wife." 
 
 By the aid of the invisible Siegfried, Giln- 
 ther conquers Brunhild in each of the three 
 trials, and she is compelled, by her own terms, 
 to take him for her lord and master. As Brun- 
 hild, before she consents to follow Gilnther to 
 Worms, calls her relatives and vassals together, 
 Siegfried, to calm the fears of the Burgundians, 
 assembles from the Nibelungen land a thousand 
 heroes, and then Brunhild departs with Giln- 
 ther. Siegfried is sent forward to Worms to 
 announce their approach. Ute and Chrimhild 
 receive the tidings joyfully, and make great 
 preparations for their reception. Brunhild is 
 royally welcomed, and all sit down to a mag- 
 nificent feast, during which Siegfried reminds 
 the king of his promise to give him his sister 
 to wife. Gilnther willingly keeps his word, and 
 Siegfried and Chrimhild celebrate their mar- 
 riage festival together with the king, that same 
 night ; but Brunhild laments that her sister-in- 
 law should marry beneath her rank, a mere 
 vassal, and though Gunther assures her that 
 he is a powerful monarch, she refuses to be 
 satisfied. When they retire to their cham- 
 ber, she renews her entreaties to be informed 
 of the true reason of his giving his sister to 
 Siegfried. A singular kind of quarrel follows 
 this first matrimonial jar, in which the strength 
 of the Amazon is more than a match for the 
 king ; she ties his hands and feet together with 
 her girdle, hangs him on a nail in the wall, and 
 goes to sleep, leaving him to make the best he 
 can of his very anomalous situation. The next 
 day the unlucky monarch complains sorely to 
 Siegfried, saying : 
 
 "With shame and woe I sped ; 
 I have brought the evil devil, and took her to my bed." 
 
 But Siegfried proves to be a friend in need, 
 and by the aid of his tarn-cap subdues the 
 strong-armed princess, depriving her, in the 
 contest, of her ring and girdle, which he after- 
 wards presents to his wife. Fourteen days of 
 revelry having ended, the guests take their de- 
 parture, loaded with presents. 
 
 Siegfried also now bethinks him of return- 
 ing home. Arriving with Chrimhild at the cas- 
 tle of Santen, where his parents dwell, they are 
 magnificently received. Siegmund and Siege- 
 Iind are overjoyed with the beauty of their 
 daughter. Siegmund resigns the kingdom into 
 the hands of his son, who reigns in all honor 
 for the space of ten years. Meantime a son is 
 born to them, whom they name Gunther ; a 
 son is also born to Brunhild and Gilnther, who 
 receives the name of Siegfried, and is educated 
 with the greatest care. But Brunhild has not 
 yet forgotten that Siegfried is liegeman to her 
 lord, and wonders that he renders so little ser- 
 vice. At her request, Gunther invites Siegfried, 
 Chrimhild, and Siegmund to Worms. The in- 
 vitation is accepted and they are received with 
 
 courtesy at the Burgundian court. Eleven days 
 pass away in knightly pastimes, when a dispute 
 takes place between the two queens with re- 
 gard to the merits of their respective husbands; 
 Chrimhild saying that her lord excels the other 
 champions as much as the moon the stars, 
 while Brunhild places Gilnther far above him, 
 and declares that Siegfried is but his vassal. 
 The dispute waxes warm, and Chrimhild swears 
 she will enter the church before the queen, and 
 be held in higher honor ; but Brunhild ex- 
 claims : " No ! a vassal's wife shall never go 
 before a king's"; Chrimhild retorts and calls 
 her opponent Siegfried's leman, and enters the 
 minster before the weeping Brunhild. Chrim- 
 hild afterwards, being asked for proofs of the 
 accusation, shows the girdle and ring which 
 Siegfried had taken from Brunhild. The latter 
 complains to her husband, who calls Siegfried 
 to account, saying to him, " I am sore troubled ; 
 my wife, Brunhild, hath told me a tale, that 
 thou hast boasted of being the first to have her 
 love; thus saith thy wife, Chrimhild." To 
 which Siegfried replies, " If she hath spoken 
 thus, it shall be the worse for her; before all 
 thy men, I will swear by my high oath, that I 
 have never said the thing." 
 
 And now the tragical part of the story begins. 
 The death of Siegfried is plotted between Brun- 
 hild and Hagen, and Gilnther at last consents 
 to the assassination. False messengers are sent, 
 as if from King Lildger, to threaten war, and 
 Siegfried's aid is required. Hagen hypocriti- 
 cally promises Chrimhild to defend her hus- 
 band, and draws from her an account of the 
 fatal spot between his shoulders, where the 
 dragon's blood has not hardened his skin ; she 
 promises to embroider a cross over the place, 
 and Hagen joyfully departs. But another em- 
 bassy comes, announcing peace. A great hunt 
 is prepared ; Siegfried takes leave of his wife, 
 who is filled with anxiety while thinking of 
 her conversation with Hagen. So they cross 
 the Rhine; Siegfried enters a forest alone 
 with his hound ; makes great havoc with the 
 wild beasts, and among other exploits catches 
 a bear alive, who does a deal of mischief among 
 the eatables. Hagen has treacherously omitted 
 the wine, and Siegfried, thirsty with the labors 
 of the chase, while stooping to drink from a 
 spring, is stabbed by him in the back. The 
 dead body is carried to the palace, and placed 
 by the ferocious Hagen before the door of 
 Chrimhild's chamber, where she finds it as she 
 goes out to morning mass. She breaks forth in- 
 to vehement lamentations, and charges the deed 
 at once to the machinations of Brunhild and 
 the hand of Hagen. The father of Siegfried 
 and the Nibelungen champions are roused from 
 sleep, and are only hindered by Chrimhild's 
 entreaties from avenging the murder on the 
 spot. A sound of mourning is heard in all di- 
 rections ; and when the test is tried, the blood 
 flows from the wounds at the approach of Ha- 
 gen, which shows him to be the murderer 
 
220 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Siegfried is buried with great pomp, costly offer- 
 ings are made for the repose of his soul, and his 
 death is sorrowfully lamented. At the grave, 
 Chrimhild causes the coffin, all studded with 
 silver and gold and steel, to be broken open, 
 that she may once more behold her husband. 
 
 After the burial, Siegmund proposes to Chrim- 
 hild to return with him ; but by the urgent 
 prayers of Ute, Ghernot, and Ghiseler, she is 
 persuaded to remain in Burgundy, especially as 
 she has no kindred in Nibelungen-land. Sieg- 
 mund and his knights depart without taking 
 leave. Chrimhild dwells at Worms, near the 
 tomb of her husband, four years and a half, 
 without speaking a word to Gttnther and Ha- 
 gen, who at last advises the king to be recon- 
 ciled with his sister in order to obtain the 
 Nibelungen treasure ; this is accomplished, but 
 Chrimhild forgets not the crime of Hagen. 
 The treasure is brought to the Rhine, twelve 
 wagons passing twelve times to and fro, heav- 
 ily laden. She is so liberal in her gifts, that 
 Hagen's fears are roused for the safety of the 
 Burgundians, and he counsels the king to take 
 the treasure from her ; the king demurs, and 
 the grim old warrior steals it himself, in the 
 absence of the princess, and sinks it in the 
 Rhine, whereby Chrimhild's hate is still more 
 increased. For thirteen long years after Sieg- 
 fried's death, she lives faithful to his memory, 
 and ever mourning his loss. 
 
 About this time it chances that Dame Hel- 
 che, wife of Etzel, dies, and the pagan king 
 looks about him for another. His friends ad- 
 vise him to send into the Burgundian land and 
 demand the proud widow, Dame Chrimhild. 
 He has some scruples at first, since he is a 
 pagan, but Rildiger of Bechlar puts them to 
 rest and takes it upon himself to do the wooing. 
 With a retinue of five hundred men, he passes 
 through Vienna, where they are supplied with 
 magnificent dresses, and goes to Bechlar to visit 
 the wealthy Gotelind, his wife, and the young 
 margravine, his daughter, and thence through 
 Bavaria to the Rhine, where they are kindly re- 
 ceived. GOnther favors the proposal of the em- 
 bassy, but old Hagen, foreboding mischief, ad- 
 vises against it. Chrimhild, too, who is still over- 
 whelmed in sorrow, at first refuses to listen to 
 the messengers, though supported by the pray- 
 ers of her mother and her brothers; until Rildi- 
 ger hints that he will fulfil her commands, and 
 with all his men swears fealty to her. Now 
 she consents, prepares for her journey, and 
 departs with a train of a hundred maidens. 
 Eckewart goes with her, and Ghiseler and 
 Ghernot accompany her as far as the Danube, 
 but Gilnther goes only a short distance from the 
 city. On the way, they are entertained by 
 Bishop Pellegrin, the brother of Ute, and by 
 Gotelind, the wife of Riidiger, and his daughter, 
 the fair Dietelind. At Vienna, the nuptials of 
 Chrimhild and Etzel are celebrated with festiv- 
 ities that last seventeen davs, and rich gifts are 
 distributed; but still Chrimhild's eyes are filled 
 
 with tears at thinking of Siegfried. Finally 
 they pass into the land of the Huns, where 
 the noble Chrimhild is received with all honor- 
 able observance into Etzel's castle. 
 
 Thirteen years Queen Chrimhild has dwelt 
 in the land of the Huns. She has borne a son, 
 named Ortwin, but still she longs to avenge the 
 murder of Siegfried. By her entreaty, Etzel 
 invites the Burgundians to visit his court. The 
 good fiddlers Samelin and Warbelin bear the 
 message, charged by Chrimhild not to leave 
 Hagen of Tronek behind. Hagen and Rumolt 
 dissuade from the journey with all their might, 
 but to no purpose ; the invitation is accepted, 
 great preparations are made for the journey, and 
 the messengers return with rich presents. Volk- 
 er, the noble fiddler, joins the champions ; and, 
 with the anxious forebodings of those who stay 
 behind, the company set out. From this time 
 forth, the Burgundians bear the name of Nibe- 
 lungen. In twelve days they reach the Danube; 
 and there occurs the adventure with the mer- 
 maids, from whom they receive an ominous warn- 
 ing. At length, Hagen, his thousand knights, 
 and nine thousand vassals, are all ferried over 
 the river, and the boat is destroyed, that any cow- 
 ard, who should wish to run away, may perish 
 here. They continue their march, and by night 
 are attacked by Else and Gelfrat. Arriving at 
 Passau, they are hospitably entertained by Bish- 
 op Pellegrin. As they approach Rudiger's 
 marches, he meets them, and conducts them to 
 a feast, at which the margravine, his daughter, 
 is betrothed to Ghiseler. After four days, they 
 continue their journey, having received rich 
 presents, Hagen taking the shield of Rudung, 
 and Volker twelve rings for his hands. Rildi- 
 ger accompanies the departing guests, and mes- 
 sengers precede them to the land of the Huns ; 
 Chrimhild hears of their coming with joy, and 
 hopes that the hour of vengeance is at hand. 
 
 As the heroes enter Etzel's country, Dietrich 
 of Berne meets them with his men, and warns 
 them solemnly, but they will not return. Chrim- 
 hild receives the Nibelungen with dissembling 
 heart, kisses Ghiseler and takes him by the hand, 
 whereat old Hagen fastens his helmet tighter. 
 Chrimhild taxes Hagen with his crime, and he 
 hesitates not to confess it ; she instigates her men 
 to take vengeance on him, but the Huns with- 
 draw in fear from the Nibelungen heroes. At 
 evening they feast in a large and splendid hall. 
 Hagen anticipates some evil design during the 
 night, and, with Volker, undertakes to stand 
 sentinel. As the night advances, the bold fid- 
 dler, Volker, sees helmets shining, and says to 
 Hagen, "I see armed people stand before the 
 house ; I think they mean to assail us." But 
 as the Huns approach, they see the mighty 
 warders, and shrink from the conflict. In the 
 morning, the guests go to the church, and Ha- 
 gen, ever suspicious, makes them put on their 
 armor. Etzel wonders at this, but Hngen in- 
 forms him it is the custom in Burgundy to go 
 armed three days, on high festivals. The morn- 
 
THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 
 
 221 
 
 ing mass is succeeded by knightly games, in 
 which Volker stabs a rich Hun through the body 
 with his spear. An immense uproar follows, 
 and a fierce battle is on the point of breaking 
 out, but Etzel interferes and stops it. The Bur- 
 gundians and the Huns sit at the banquet in 
 arms. Chrimhild now applies to Dietrich, but 
 without success, to avenge her on Hagen ; but 
 at last, by promises, she persuades Blodelin to 
 undertake the deed. He attacks Dankwart with 
 his men, who, having vainly urged him to desist 
 from the fight, strikes off his head. Blodelin's 
 men then fall upon Dankwart's vassals, and, 
 being supported by two thousand Huns, slay 
 them all, and Dankwart fights his way alone to 
 the banqueting hall, where Etzel and many of 
 the Christian host are feasting. He tells the tale 
 to Hagen, who bids him guard the door that no 
 Hun may escape, and begins the slaughter by 
 cutting off the head of Etzel's son, Ortlieb, 
 which rolls into Chrimhild's lap. A terrible 
 and bloody fight ensues, and the Burgundians 
 throw seven thousand slain Huns out of the 
 banquet hall. Chrimhild promises great treas- 
 ures to him who shall kill Gilnther. Iring of 
 Denmark attempts it, but is struck to the ground 
 by Ghiseler, and is compelled to hasten back 
 to his friends ; and when the battle is renewed, 
 he falls by Hagen's hand, and all who assail 
 the old warrior meet with a like fate. Having 
 fought till night, the kings propose a truce to 
 Etzel; but as Chrimhild demands the surrender 
 of Hagen, and Ghiseler haughtily refuses to de- 
 sert a faithful friend, they are driven back into 
 the hall, which Chrimhild causes to be set on 
 fire. The heat of the conflagration so torments 
 the heroes, that they have to quench their thirst 
 with the blood of the slain ; but in the morning 
 six hundred brave men are still alive. The on- 
 slaught is again renewed. Rudiger looks upon 
 the scene of slaughter with sorrow and tears. In 
 wrath he slays a Hun who reproaches him with 
 doing nothing for Etzel ; Etzel and Chrimhild 
 then demand his aid as their vassal, and Chrim- 
 hild reminds him that he has already sworn 
 fealty to her in Worms. On their knees they 
 implore him ; slowly and reluctantly, and with 
 a heavy heart, he at length consents, and pro- 
 ceeds with his men to the attack. The Bur- 
 gundians fall by Rudiger's hand, until he and 
 Ghernot slay each other in the fight. Rudiger's 
 men are all killed or wounded, and many of the 
 wounded are drowned in the blood. Old Etzel 
 bewails the death of Radiger so loudly that the 
 sound is like the roar of a lion. The lamenta- 
 tion is heard by Dietrich and his men, who 
 rush to the hall and demand the body of Rudiger, 
 when the conflict is fiercely renewed by reason 
 of Volker's scoffing speech. Volker slays Die- 
 trich's nephew, Siegestab of Berne, and is him- 
 self killed by bold Hildebrand. Wolfart and 
 Ghiseler kill each other, and Hildebrand alone 
 of Dietrich's men remains. Hagen rushes upon 
 him to avenge the death of Volker, but he es- 
 capes with a wound. Dietrich sorrowfully arms 
 
 himself, reproaches Hagen and Gilnther with 
 the woe they have brought upon him, and com- 
 mands them to surrender as hostages. Hagen 
 refuses with an oath, and a battle between them 
 begins. Dietrich inflicts a deep wound on Ha- 
 gen, overpowers him, and delivers him bound 
 to Chrimhild, charging her to spare his life. 
 Then he subdues Gilnther, and gives him up in 
 like manner to the queen. She takes a ferocious 
 vengeance, by slaying them both ; but old Hil- 
 debrand, indignant at her cruelty, springs upon 
 her and stabs her to the heart ; and Dietrich 
 and Etzel with bitter tears bewail these dire 
 mischances. 
 
 The Lament (die Klage) is an addition by a 
 later hand. It contains the lamentations of Etzel, 
 Hildebrand, and Dietrich over the dead, and 
 Etzel's penitential confession of his sin in apos- 
 tatizing from the Christian faith, for which God 
 has punished him. One after another the prin- 
 cipal champions are taken up, and their deaths 
 bewailed. 
 
 This great romantic epic is a poem well cal- 
 culated to rouse the enthusiasm of a people 
 like the Germans. Nothing can exceed the 
 delight with which that old poem was studied, 
 when, within the memory of man, the new- 
 born nationality of German feeling rose to an 
 unexampled pitch, and led to an excess of ad- 
 miration for every thing that belonged to Ger- 
 man antiquity, which is, perhaps, without a par- 
 allel in modern times. This swelling enthusi- 
 asm is, at present, somewhat abated ; but the 
 poem of the Nibelungen still maintains its hold 
 upon the German mind, and is acknowledged 
 by other nations to be a most interesting and 
 remarkable monument of early Teutonic genius 
 Students of German literature must admit that 
 the unknown author of this poem shows a bold 
 hand in drawing characters, a deep and passion- 
 ate feeling, a sense of just proportion, and a 
 plastic power in moulding the rude materials 
 of the old German language into metrical forms 
 of considerable beauty and melody. The gi- 
 gantic figures of the chivalrous heroic age are 
 set before us in all their majestic proportions ; 
 their passions are delineated with a tremendous 
 strength of expression ; and their superhuman 
 deeds are told with a confidence equal to that of 
 Homer, when he chants the resistless prowess of 
 the godlike Achilles. The characters of Gilnther, 
 Siegfried, and Hagen are conceived and repre- 
 sented with admirable distinctness and power; 
 they move before us in the poem like so many 
 living forms of more than mortal strength, brave- 
 ry, and beauty. The poet is no less felicitous in 
 the delineation of his heroines. Brunhild, with 
 her Amazonian strength of will and strength 
 of arm, which nothing short of the magic aid 
 of the tarn-cap can conquer, and Chrimhild, 
 with her feminine beauty and gentleness, her 
 smiles, blushes, and tears, are represented with 
 great tact, propriety, and consistency. The din 
 of war, the terrible onset, the clash of shields, 
 and the shivering of spears are described in the 
 s2 
 
222 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 'Nibelungenlied' with the graphic force and the 
 sounding energy of verse which we so much 
 admire in the Iliad. There is, too, in the poem, 
 a minuteness of homely details, an unshrinking 
 readiness to go into the plainest and most un- 
 poetical matters, as we should now regard them, 
 which remind us often of the cooking in Achil- 
 les's tent, and the "domestic manufactures" at 
 the houses of Hector and Ulysses. When Giln- 
 ther prepares to go a-wooing the terrible Brun- 
 hild, the weaving, stitching, and sewing, the 
 silks, and satins, and furs, the gold and em- 
 broidery, that occupy the fair fingers of the 
 ladies of the household, are an amusing illustra- 
 tion of the fondness for finery, the passion for 
 gorgeous costume, which marked the characters 
 of the semi-barbarous barons who stormed to 
 and fro in the Middle Ages. The poet re- 
 mained unconsciously true also to the ancient 
 maxim, that woman was ever the direful cause 
 of war. A quarrel between the two heroines, 
 Chrimhild and Brunhild, leads first to the as- 
 sassination of the noble Siegfried. The gen- 
 tle Chrimhild cherishes henceforth in her 
 heart nothing but a hoarded and ever increasing 
 desire for revenge. The poet has ventured on 
 the bold experiment of changing her mild and 
 lovely character into one of fearful ferocity, yet 
 all the stages of the transformation are marked 
 by a clear poetic probability. She consents to 
 marry Attila, or Etzel, king of the Huns, for 
 the purpose of exacting from Hagen, and all the 
 Burgundian court, a terrible retribution for her 
 beloved and ever deplored Siegfried's murder. 
 Considering the wild passions that had their 
 run unrestrained in the Middle Ages, and the 
 poetical coloring which the creative imagin- 
 ation in all ages lavishes upon its scenes to 
 heighten their effect, we must admit that the 
 bard of the Nibelungen has traced the changes 
 in Chrimhild's character with a hand at once 
 delicate and masterly. The interest of the story 
 rises to the very end. The most enthusiastic 
 lover of battle-scenes must be satisfied with the 
 deluge of blood which is shed after the arrival 
 of the Burgundians in the land of the Huns. 
 The terrible energy, with which these extraor- 
 dinary passages are written, again reminds us 
 of the Iliad, and of the bloody revenge which 
 Achilles takes for the death of Patroclus. 
 
 The enthusiasm of the Germans for this sin- 
 gular poem was perfectly natural. They did 
 not hesitate to compare it with the Iliad, and 
 some of the more extravagant worshippers of 
 the Middle Ages ventured to place it even 
 higher than the old Grecian epic. This, how- 
 ever, is a claim which the cooler opinions of 
 the present time promptly reject. With all its 
 extraordinary merits of impersonation and de- 
 scription, its fiery utterance of passion, its elab- 
 orate arrangement and combination, its genuine 
 epic sweep of incident and language, it falls far 
 below the Iliad in variety, consistency, just pro- 
 portion, and completeness, and in melody of 
 verse. The German language of the twelfth 
 
 and thirteenth centuries is not to be compared 
 for a moment with the richness, grace, and 
 plastic beauty of the Greek, as it flowed from 
 the harmonious lips of Homer. Heinrich 
 Heine, in his amusing letters on German litera- 
 ture, translated by Mr. Haven, says : " For a 
 long time nothing else was spoken of but the 
 ' Nibelungenlied,' and the classic philologists 
 were not a little vexed when they heard this 
 epos compared with the Iliad, and when it 
 was even a contest which of the two were the 
 more excellent. The public on that occasion 
 looked precisely like a child whom some one 
 asks, ' Had you rather have a horse or a cake 
 of gingerbread ? ' 
 
 "Nevertheless, this 'Nibelungenlied' is a 
 poem of nervous energy. A Frenchman can 
 hardly form an idea of it, much less of the lan- 
 guage in which it is written. It is a language 
 of stone, and the verses are, as it were, rhyth- 
 mical stone blocks. Here and there, from out 
 the rifts, red flowers well forth like drops of 
 blood, or the lank ivy trails downward like 
 green tears. Of the giant passions that stir 
 themselves in this poem, no idea whatever can 
 be formed by a race of men so diminutive and 
 gentle as our own. Picture to yourselves a 
 serene summer night; the stars pallid as silver, 
 yet large as suns, stepping forth into the blue 
 heavens ; and all the gothic domes of Europe 
 giving themselves a rendezvous upon some 
 illimitable plain. Lo ! the Strasburg Minster 
 advances with calm and measured step ; the 
 Dome of Cologne, the Campanile of Florence, 
 the Cathedral of Rouen, and many others, fol- 
 lowing in her train, and graciously paying their 
 court to Notre-Dame-de-Paris. True, their step 
 is somewhat helpless, some among them limp 
 a little by the way, and oftentimes one cannot 
 but smile at their wavering; this smile, how- 
 ever, soon ceases when we see their stormy 
 passions kindling, and how they strive to mur- 
 der one another. Notre-Dame-de-Paris raises, 
 in desperation, both her stony arms to heaven, 
 suddenly grasps a sword, and strikes from her 
 body the head of the mightiest of all the domes. 
 But no ! even then you can form to yourself no 
 idea of the leading characters of the ' Nibelun- 
 genlied ' ; no tower is so high, and no stone so 
 hard, as the wrathful Hagen and the revengeful 
 Chrimhild." 
 
 In the preceding analysis it has been men- 
 tioned that Heinrich von Ofterdingen is sup- 
 posed by many to be the author of the " Nibe- 
 lungenlied " in its present form. A brief notice 
 of his life is, therefore, here subjoined. He was 
 a native of Eisenach, and his life falls in the 
 twelfth and thirteenth centuries. He is said to 
 have passed a part of his youth in Austria, at 
 the court of Leopold the Seventh. He held a 
 distinguished rank as a Minnesinger, and at the 
 court of Hermann, landgrave of Thuringia, sang 
 
THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 
 
 223 
 
 the praises of his emperor in the famous contest 
 at the Wartburg, with Wolfram von Eschenbach 
 for his opponent. Besides the " Nibelungen- 
 lied " nothing remains of his poetry except 
 some passages of the " War of the Wartburg." 
 A part of the "Heldenbuch," however, the 
 " King Laurin," is, with some confidence, at- 
 tributed to him. In modern times, Novalis has 
 made him the hero of the beautiful romance 
 which bears his name. 
 
 FROM THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 
 
 THE NIBELUNGEN. 
 
 In ancient song and story marvels high are told 
 Of knights of high emprise and adventures 
 
 manifold ; 
 Of joy and merry feasting, of lamenting, woe, 
 
 and fear, 
 Of champions' bloody battles, many marvels 
 
 shall ye hear. 
 
 A noble maid, and fair, grew up in Burgundy ; 
 In all the land about fairer none might be : 
 She became a queen full high ; Chrimhild was 
 
 she hight ; 
 But for her matchless beauty fell many a blade 
 
 of might. 
 
 For love and for delight was framed that lady 
 
 gay ; 
 
 Many a champion bold sighed for the gentle 
 
 may : 
 Full beauteous was her form, beauteous without 
 
 compare ; 
 The virgin's virtues might adorn many a lady 
 
 fair. 
 
 Three kings of might and power had the maid- 
 en in their care, — 
 
 King Gllnther and King Ghernot (champions 
 bold they were), 
 
 And Ghiseler the young, a chosen, peerless 
 blade : 
 
 The lady was their sister, and much they loved 
 the maid. 
 
 These lords were mild and gentle, born of the 
 
 noblest blood ; 
 Unmatched for power and strength were the 
 
 heroes good : 
 Their realm was Burgundy, a realm of mickle 
 
 might ; 
 Since then, in the land of Etzel, dauntless did 
 
 they fight. 
 
 At Worms, upon the Rhine, dwelt they with 
 
 their meiny bold ; 
 Many champions served them, of countries 
 
 manifold, 
 With praise and honor nobly, even to their 
 
 latest day, 
 When, by the hate of two noble dames, dead 
 
 on the ground they lay. 
 
 Bold were the kings, and noble, as I before 
 
 have said ; 
 Of virtues high and matchless, and served by 
 
 many a blade ; 
 By the best of all the champions whose deeds 
 
 were ever sung ; 
 Of trust and truth withouten fail ; hardy, bold, 
 
 and strong. 
 
 There was Hagen of Tronek, and Dankwart, 
 
 Hagen's brother 
 (For swiftness was he famed), with heroes 
 
 many other ; 
 Ortwin of Metz, with Eckewart and Ghere, 
 
 two margraves they ; 
 And Folker of Alsace ; no braver was in his day. 
 
 Rumolt was caterer to the king ; a chosen 
 
 knight was he ; 
 Sir Sindold and Sir Hunold bore them full 
 
 manfully ; 
 In court and in the presence they served the 
 
 princes three, 
 With many other knights ; bolder none might be. 
 
 Dankwart was the marshal ; his nephew Orte- 
 
 win 
 Was sewer to the king ; much honor did he 
 
 win : 
 Sindold held the cup the royal prince before : 
 Chamberlain was Hunold: braver knights ne"ei 
 
 hauberk bore 
 
 Of the court's gay splendor, of all the cham- 
 pions free, 
 
 Of their high and knightly worth, and of the 
 chivalry, 
 
 Which still they held in honor to their latesl 
 day, 
 
 No minstrel, in his song, could rightly sing 01 
 say. 
 
 One night the Queen Chrimhild dreamed her, 
 
 as she lay, 
 How she had trained and nourished a falcon 
 
 wild and gay, 
 When suddenly two eagles fierce the gentle 
 
 hawk have slain : 
 Never, in this world, felt she such bitter pain. 
 
 To her mother, Dame Ute, she told her dream 
 
 with fear : 
 Full mournfully she answered to what the 
 
 maid did spier : 
 " The falcon whom you nourished, a noble 
 
 knight is he ; 
 God take him to his ward ! thou must lose him 
 
 suddenly." 
 
 "What speak you of the knight? dearest moth- 
 er, say : 
 
 Without the love of champion, to my dying day r 
 
 Ever thus fair will I remain, nor take a wedded 
 fere, 
 
 To gain such pain and sorrow, ihmgh ihe 
 knight were without peer." 
 
224 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 " Speak thou not too rashly," her mother spake 
 
 again ; 
 "If ever in this world thou heartfelt joy wilt 
 
 gain, 
 Maiden must thou be no more ; Ieman must 
 
 thou have : 
 God will grant thee for thy mate some gentle 
 
 knight, and brave." 
 
 " O, leave thy words, lady mother, nor speak 
 
 of wedded mate ! 
 Full many a gentle maiden has found the truth 
 
 too late ; 
 Still has their fondest love ended with woe and 
 
 pain : 
 Virgin will I ever be, nor the love of leman 
 
 gain." 
 
 In virtues high and noble that gentle maiden 
 
 dwelt 
 Full many a night and day, nor love for Ieman 
 
 felt; 
 To never a knight or champion would she 
 
 plight her truth, 
 Till she was gained for wedded fere by a right 
 
 noble youth. 
 
 That youth he was the falcon she in her dream 
 
 beheld, 
 Who by the two fierce eagles dead to the 
 
 ground was felled : 
 But since right dreadful vengeance she took 
 
 upon his foen ; 
 For the death of that bold hero died full many 
 
 a mother's son. 
 
 CHRIMHILB. 
 
 And now the beauteous lady, like the rosy 
 morn, 
 
 Dispersed the misty clouds ; and he, who long 
 had borne 
 
 In his heart the maiden, banished pain and 
 care, 
 
 As now before his eyes stood the glorious maid- 
 en fair. 
 
 From her broidered garment glittered many a 
 
 gem, 
 And upon her lovely cheek the rosy red did 
 
 gleam : 
 Whoever in his glowing soul had imaged lady 
 
 bright 
 Confessed that fairer maiden never stood before 
 
 his sight. 
 
 And as the moon, at night, stands high the stars 
 among, 
 
 And moves the murky clouds above, with lustre 
 bright and strong ; 
 
 So stood before her maidens the maid without 
 compare : 
 
 Higher swelled the courage of many a cham- 
 pion there. 
 
 And full of love and beauty stood the child of 
 
 Siegelind, 
 As if upon the parchment by master's hand 
 
 designed : 
 He gained the prize of beauty from all the 
 
 knightly train ; 
 They swore that lady never a lovelier mate 
 
 could gain. 
 
 SIEGFRIED AT THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 In gorgeous guise the hero did to the fountain 
 
 ride : 
 Down unto his spurs his sword hung by his 
 
 side ; 
 His weighty spear was broad, of mighty length, 
 
 and strong ; 
 A horn, of the gold so red, o'er the champion's 
 
 shoulder hung. 
 
 Of fairer hunting garments ne'er heard I say 
 
 before : 
 A coat of the black velvet the noble hero 
 
 wore ; 
 His hat was of the sable, full richly was it 
 
 dight; 
 Ho, with what gorgeous belts was hung his 
 
 quiver bright ! 
 
 A fleece of the panther wild about the shafts 
 was rolled ; 
 
 A bow of weight and strength bore the hunts- 
 man bold : 
 
 No hero on this middle earth, but Sir Siegfried, 
 I avow, 
 
 Without some engine quaint, could draw the 
 mighty bow. 
 
 His garment fair was made of the savage lynx's 
 hide ; 
 
 With gold the fur was sprinkled richly on ev- 
 ery side ; 
 
 There many a golden leaf glittered right gor- 
 geously, 
 
 And shone with brightest splendor round the 
 huntsman bold and free. 
 
 And by his side hung Balmung, that sword of 
 mickle might; 
 
 When in the field Sir Siegfried struck on the 
 helmets bright, 
 
 Not the truest metal the noble blade with- 
 stood : 
 
 Thus right gloriously rode the huntsman good. 
 
 If right I shall arede the champion's hunting 
 guise, 
 
 Well was stored his quiver with shafts of won- 
 drous size ; 
 
 More than a span in breadth were the heads ol 
 might and main : 
 
 Whom with those arrows sharp he pierced 
 quickly was he slain. 
 
THE NIBELUNGENLIED. 
 
 22c 
 
 HAGEN AT THE DANUBE. 
 
 Hagen of Tronek rode before the noble host, 
 Guiding the Niblung knights, their leader and 
 
 their boast : 
 Now from his horse the champion leaped upon 
 
 the ground; 
 Full soon unto an oak the courser has he bound. 
 
 The ferryman he sought by the river far and 
 
 wide : 
 He heard the water bullering closely by his 
 
 side : 
 In a fountain fair, sage women he espied, 
 Their lovely bodies bathing all in the cooling 
 
 tide. 
 
 And when he saw the mermaids, he sped him 
 
 silently ; 
 But soon they heard his footsteps, and quickly 
 
 did they hie, 
 Glad and joyful in their hearts, that they 'scaped 
 
 the hero's arm : 
 From the ground he took their garments, did 
 
 them none other harm. 
 
 Up and spake a mermaid, Hildburg was she 
 
 bight: 
 " Noble hero Hagen, your fate will I rede aright, 
 At King Etzel's court what adventures ye shall 
 
 have, 
 If back thou give our garments, thou champion 
 
 bold and brave." 
 
 Like birds they flew before him upon the wa- 
 tery flood, 
 
 And as they flew, the mermaid's form thought 
 him so fair and good, 
 
 That he believed full well what of his fate she 
 spoke ; 
 
 But for the hero's boldness she thought to be 
 awroke. 
 
 " Well may ye ride," she said, " to the rich 
 
 King Etzel's court; 
 I pledge my head in troth, that in more royal 
 
 sort 
 Heroes never were received in countries far 
 
 and near, 
 Nor with greater honors ; then hie ye without 
 
 fear." 
 
 Glad of their speech was Hagen, right joyous 
 
 in his heart : 
 He gave them back their garments, and sped 
 
 him to depart : 
 But when their bodies they had dight in that 
 
 full wondrous guise, 
 Rightly the journey to the Huns told the women 
 
 wise. 
 
 Then spake the other mermaid, Sighlind was 
 
 her name : 
 "I will warn thee, son of Aldrian, Hagen, thou 
 
 knight of fame ; 
 
 29 
 
 For the garments fair, my sister loudly did she lie- 
 Foully must ye all be shent, if to the Huns ye 
 hie. 
 
 " Turn thee back, Sir Hagen, back unto the 
 Rhine, 
 
 Nor ride ye to the Huns with those bold feres 
 of thine ; 
 
 Ye are trained unto your death into King Et- 
 zel's land : 
 
 All who ride to Hungary their death may they 
 not withstand." 
 
 Up and spake Sir Hagen, — "Foully dost thou 
 lie : 
 
 How might it come to pass, when to the Huns 
 we hie, 
 
 That I, and all our champions bold, should to 
 the death be dight? " 
 
 The Niblung knights' adventures they told un- 
 to the knight. 
 
 Lady Hildburg spoke: — "Turn ye back to 
 
 Burgundy : 
 None will return from Etzel, of all your knights 
 
 so free ; 
 None but the chaplain of the king; your cruel 
 
 fate to tell, 
 Back to Lady Brunhild comes he safe and well.' 
 
 Fiercely spake Sir Hagen to that prophetic 
 maid, — 
 
 " Never to King Gtlnther your tidings shall be 
 said, 
 
 How he and all his champions must die at Et- 
 zel's court. 
 
 How may we pass the Danube ? ladies sage, 
 report." 
 
 "If yet thou wilt not turn back to Burgundy, 
 Speed ye up the river's edge, where thou a 
 
 house wilt see ; 
 There dwells a ferryman bold ; no other may'st 
 
 thou find: 
 But speak him fair and courteously, and bear 
 
 my saw in mind. 
 
 " He will not bring you over, for savage is his 
 
 mood, 
 If angrily ye call him, with wrathful words, 
 
 and lewd : 
 Give him the gold and silver, if he guides you 
 
 o'er the flood : 
 Ghelfrat of Bavaria serves the champion good. 
 
 " If he will not pass the river, call o'er the flood 
 
 aloud, 
 That your name isAmelrich: he was a hero 
 
 proud, 
 Who for wrath and enmity left Bavaria's land : 
 Soon will he ferry over from the further strand." 
 
 Hagen then dissped him from „the mermaids 
 wise : 
 
 The champion said no more, but bowed in cour- 
 teous guise : 
 
226 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 He hied him down the river, and on the further 
 
 side 
 The house of that proud ferryman quickly has 
 
 he spied. 
 
 Loud and oft Sir Hagen shouted o'er the flood : 
 "Now fetch me over speedily," so spake the 
 
 hero good : 
 "A bracelet of the rich red gold will I give 
 
 thee to thy meed : 
 To cross the swelling Danube full mickle have 
 
 I need." 
 
 Rich and right proud of mood was that ferryman 
 
 bold; 
 Full seldom would he serve for silver or for 
 
 gold: 
 His servants and his hinds haughty of mind they 
 
 were. 
 Alone the knight of Tronek stood in wrath and 
 
 care. 
 
 With wondrous force he shouted, that, with the 
 
 dreadful sound, 
 Up and down the river did the waves and rocks 
 
 rebound : 
 " Fetch ye over Sir Amelrich, soon and speedily, 
 Who left Bavaria's land for wrath and enmity." 
 
 A weighty bracelet on his sword the hero held 
 
 full soon, 
 That to the sun the gold so red fair and brightly 
 
 shone : 
 He bade him bring him over to the noble Ghel- 
 
 frat's land : 
 Speedily the ferryman took the rudder in his 
 
 hand. 
 
 O'er the swelling Danube rowed he speedily ; 
 
 But when his uncle Amelrich in the boat he 
 did not see, 
 
 Fearful grew his wrath, to Hagen loud he 
 spake, — 
 
 " Leave the boat, thou champion, or thy bold- 
 ness will I wreak." 
 
 Up he heaved the rudder, broad, and of mickle 
 
 weight, 
 And on the hero Hagen he struck with main 
 
 and might; 
 In the ship he felled him down upon his knee : 
 Never such fierce ferryman did the knight of 
 
 Tronek see. 
 
 He seized a sturdy oar, right wrathful was his 
 mood ; 
 
 Upon the glittering helmet he struck the cham- 
 pion good, 
 
 That o'er his head he broke the oar with all his 
 might : 
 
 But for that blow the ferryman soon to the 
 death was dight. 
 
 Up started hero Hagen, unsheathed his trusty 
 
 blade, 
 Grasped it strongly in his hand, and off he 
 
 struck his head . 
 
 Loudly did he shout, as he threw it on the 
 
 ground : 
 Glad were the knights of Burgundy when they 
 
 heard his voice resound. 
 
 HAGEN AND VOLKER THE FIDDLER. 
 
 'T was then the hero Hagen across his lap he 
 
 laid, 
 Glittering to the sun, a broad and weighty blade 
 In the hilt a jasper stone, greener than the grass 
 Well knew the Lady Chrimhild that Siegfried's 
 
 sword it was. 
 
 When she beheld sword Balmung, woe and 
 
 sorrow did she feel : 
 The hilt was of the precious gold, the blade 
 
 of shining steel : 
 It minded her of all her woes : Chrimhild to 
 
 weep began : 
 Well, I ween, Sir Hagen in her scorn the sword 
 
 had drawn. 
 
 Volker, knight of courage bold, by his side sat he 
 A sharp and mighty fiddlestick held the hero 
 
 free ; 
 Much like a glittering sword it was; sharp, and 
 
 broad, and long : 
 Fierce, without all fear, sat there the champions 
 
 strong. 
 
 Before the palace door Volker sat him on a 
 
 stone ; 
 Bolder and more knight-like fiddler ne'er shone 
 
 the sun upon : 
 Sweetly from his strings resounded many a lay : 
 And many thanks the heroes to the knight of 
 
 fame did say. 
 
 At first his tones resounded loudly the hall 
 around ; 
 
 The champion's strength and art was heard in 
 every sound : 
 
 But sweeter lays, and softer, the hero now began, 
 
 That gently closed his eyes full many a way- 
 tired man. 
 
 DEATH OF GUNTHER, HAGEN, AND CHRIMHILD 
 
 " Then I '11 bring it to an end," spake the noble 
 
 Siegfried's wife. 
 Grimly she bade her meiny take King Gilnther's 
 
 life. 
 Off they struck his head ; she grasped it by the 
 
 hair : 
 To the woful kemp of Tronek the bloody head 
 
 she bare. 
 
 When the sorrowing hero his master's head did 
 
 see, 
 Thus to Lady Chrimhild spake he wrathfully : 
 " Thou hast brought it to an end, and quenched 
 
 thy bloody thirst ; 
 All thy savage murders I prophesied at first. 
 
HALB SUTER. 
 
 227 
 
 " The noble king of Burgundy lies weltering in 
 
 his blood, 
 With Ghiseler and Volker, Dankwart and 
 
 Ghernot good. 
 Where was sunk the Niblung treasure knows 
 
 none but God and I : 
 Never, thou fiend-like woman, that treasure 
 
 shalt thou nigh." 
 
 "Foully hast thou spoken," thus she spake 
 
 with eager word ; 
 "But still I hold in my right hand Balmung, 
 
 that noble sword, 
 That bore my Siegfried dear, when by your 
 
 treacherous deed 
 Basely he was murdered ; nor shall you the 
 
 better speed." 
 
 From out the sheath she drew that blade so 
 
 good and true ; 
 She meant the noble champion with his life the 
 
 deed should rue : 
 Up she heaved the falchion, and off she struck 
 
 his head. 
 Loudly mourned King Etzel, when he saw the 
 
 hero dead. 
 
 He wept and mourned aloud : " O, woe ! by 
 
 woman's hand 
 Lies low the boldest champion, the noblest in 
 
 the land, 
 Who ever shield and trusty sword to the bloody 
 
 combat bore ! 
 Though he was my fiercest foe, I shall mourn 
 
 him evermore." 
 
 Up and spake old Hildebrand, — "Thus she 
 
 shall not speed ; 
 She has dared to strike the champion dead, and 
 
 it 's I will 'quite the deed : 
 
 Full oft he wrought me wrong, oft I felt his 
 
 direful wrath ; 
 But bloody vengeance will I have for the noble 
 
 hero's death." 
 
 Wrathfully Sir Hildebrand to Queen Chrimhild 
 
 he hied : 
 Grimly he struck his falchion all through the 
 
 lady's side : 
 In sooth she stood aghast, when she viewed 
 
 the hero's blade : 
 What might her cries avail her? On the ground 
 
 the queen fell dead. 
 
 There bled full many a champion, slaughtered 
 
 on that day ; 
 Among them Lady Chrimhild, cut in pieces 
 
 lay. 
 Dietrich and King Etzel began to weep and 
 
 mourn 
 For their kemps and for their kindred who 
 
 there their lives had lorn. 
 
 Men of strength and honor weltering lay that 
 morrow : 
 
 All the knights and vassals had mickle pain 
 and sorrow. 
 
 King Etzel's merry feast was done, but with 
 mourning did it end : 
 
 Thus evermore does Love with pain and sor- 
 row send. 
 
 Whr.t sithence there befell I cannot sing or 
 
 eay,— 
 
 Heathens bold and Christians full sorely wept 
 that day, 
 
 With many a swain and lady, and many maid- 
 ens young, — 
 
 Here ends the tale adventurous, hight the Ni 
 blung song. 
 
 THIRD PERIOD.-CENTURIES XIV., XV. 
 
 HALB SUTER. 
 
 Halb Suter was a native of Lucerne. Noth- 
 ing further is known of his life. The song of 
 " The Battle of Sempach " was composed, prob- 
 ably, not far from the date of the event, 1386. 
 It was preserved in Tschudi's " Chronicle," 
 from which it has been several times repub- 
 lished. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH. 
 
 'T was when among our linden-trees 
 The bees had housed in swarms 
 
 (And gray-haired peasants say that these 
 Betoken foreign arms), — 
 
 Then looked we down to Willisow, 
 
 The land was all in flame ; 
 We knew the Archduke Leopold 
 
 With all his army came. 
 
 The Austrian nobles made their vow, 
 So hot their heart and bold, 
 
 "On Switzer carles we '11 trample now, 
 And slay both young and old." 
 
 With clarion loud, and banner proud, 
 
 From Ztlrich on the lake, 
 In martial pomp and fair array, 
 
 Their onward march they make. 
 
228 GERMAN 
 
 POETR"*. 
 
 "Now list, ye lowland nobles all, — 
 
 Then heart and pulse throbbed more and 
 
 Ye seek the mountain strand, 
 
 more 
 
 Nor wot ye what shall be your lot 
 
 With courage firm and high, 
 
 In such a dangerous land. 
 
 And down the good Confederates bore 
 
 
 On the Austrian chivalry. 
 
 "I rede ye, shrive ye of your sins, 
 
 
 Before ye farther go ; 
 
 The Austrian Lion 3 'gan to growl, 
 
 A skirmish in Helvetian hills 
 
 And toss his mane and tail ; 
 
 May send your souls to woe." 
 
 And ball, and shaft, and crossbow bolt 
 
 
 Went whistling forth like hail. 
 
 " But where now shall we find a priest 
 
 
 Our shrift that he may hear? " 
 
 Lance, pike, and halbert mingled there, 
 
 " The Switzer priest 1 has ta'en the field, 
 
 The game was nothing sweet ; 
 
 He deals a penance drear. 
 
 The boughs of many a stately tree 
 
 
 Lay shivered at their feet. 
 
 " Right heavily upon your head 
 
 
 He '11 lay his hand of steel; 
 
 The Austrian men-at-arms stood fast, 
 
 And with his trusty partisan 
 
 So close their spears they laid; 
 
 Your absolution deal." 
 
 It chafed the gallant Winkelreid, 
 
 
 Who to his comrades said, — 
 
 'T was on a Monday morning then, 
 
 
 The corn was steeped in dew, 
 
 " I have a virtuous wife at home, 
 
 And merry maids had sickles ta'en, 
 
 A wife and infant son ; 
 
 When the host to Sempach drew. 
 
 I leave them to my country's care, — 
 
 
 This field shall soon be won. 
 
 The stalwart men of fair Lucerne 
 
 
 Together have they joined ; 
 
 "These nobles lay their spears right thick, 
 
 The pith and core of manhood stern, 
 
 And keep full firm array; 
 
 Was none cast looks behind. 
 
 Yet shall my charge their order break, 
 
 
 And make my brethren way." 
 
 It was the lord of Hare-castle, 
 
 
 And to the Duke he said, 
 
 He rushed against the Austrian band, 
 
 " Yon little band of brethren true 
 
 In desperate career, 
 
 Will meet us undismayed." 
 
 And with his body, breast, and hand, 
 
 
 Bore down each hostile spear. 
 
 " O Hare-castle, thou heart of hare ! " 
 
 
 Fierce Oxenstern replied. 
 
 Four lances splintered on his crest, 
 
 " Shalt see, then, how the game will fare," 
 
 Six shivered in his side ; 
 
 The taunted knight replied. 
 
 Still on the serried files he pressed, — 
 
 
 He broke their ranks, and died. 
 
 There was lacing then of helmets bright, 
 
 
 And closing ranks amain; 
 
 This patriot's self-devoted deed 
 
 The peaks they hewed from their boot- 
 
 First tamed the Lion's mood, 
 
 points 
 
 And the four forest cantons freed 
 
 Might well-nigh load a wain. 2 
 
 From thraldom by his blood. 
 
 And thus they to each other said, 
 
 Right where his charge had made a lane, 
 
 " Yon handful down to hew 
 
 His valiant comrades burst, 
 
 Will be no boastful tale to tell, 
 
 With sword, and axe, and partisan, 
 
 The peasants are so few." 
 
 And hack, and stab, and thrust. 
 
 The gallant Swiss Confederates there 
 
 The daunted Lion 'gan to whine, 
 
 They prayed to God aloud, 
 
 And granted ground amain ; 
 
 And he displayed his rainbow fair 
 
 The Mountain Bull 4 he bent his brows, 
 
 Against a swarthy cloud. 
 
 And gored his sides again. 
 Then lost was banner, spear, and shield, 
 
 1 All the Swiss clergy who were ahle to bear arms fought 
 
 in this patriotic war. 
 
 At Sempach, in the flight; 
 
 2 This seems to allude to the preposterous fashion, dur- 
 
 The cloister vaults at Konigsfield 
 
 ing the Middle Ages, of wearing boots with the points or 
 
 Hold many an Austrian knight. 
 
 peaks turned upwards, and so long, that in some cases they 
 were fastened to the knees of the wearer with small chains. 
 
 
 
 When they alighted to fight upon foot, it would seem that 
 
 3 A pun on the Archduke's name, Leopold. 
 
 the Austrian gentlemen found it necessary to cut off these 
 
 4 A pun on the urus, or wild-bull, which gives name to 
 
 peaks, that they might move with the necessary activity. 
 
 the canton of Uri. 
 
BONER 
 
 229 
 
 It was the Archduke Leopold, 
 
 So lordly would he ride, 
 But he came against the Switzer churls, 
 
 And they slew him in his pride. 
 
 The heifer said unto the bull, 
 
 "And shall I not complain? 
 There came a foreign nobleman 
 
 To milk me on the plain. 
 
 " One thrust of thine outrageous horn 
 Has galled the knight so sore, 
 
 That to the churchyard he is borne, 
 To range our glens no more." 
 
 An Austrian noble left the stour, 
 
 And fast the flight 'gan take ; 
 And he arrived in luckless hour 
 
 At Sempach on the lake. 
 
 He and his squire a fisher called 
 (His name was Hans von Rot), 
 
 " For love, or meed, or charity, 
 Receive us in thy boat ! " 
 
 Their anxious call the fisher heard, 
 
 And, glad the meed to win, 
 His shallop to the shore he steered, 
 
 And took the fliers in. 
 
 And while against the tide and wind 
 
 Hans stoutly rowed his way, 
 The noble to his follower signed 
 
 He should the boatman slay. 
 
 The fisher's back was to them turned, 
 
 The squire his dagger drew, 
 Hans saw his shadow in the lake, 
 
 The boat he overthrew. 
 
 He whelmed the boat, and, as they strove, 
 He stunned them with his oar : 
 
 " Now drink ye deep, my gentle Sirs, 
 You '11 ne'er stab boatman more. 
 
 " Two gilded fishes in the lake 
 
 This morning have I caught; 
 Their silver scales may much avail, 
 
 Their carrion flesh is naught." 
 
 It was a messenger of woe 
 
 Has sought the Austrian land: 
 
 "Ah, gracious lady! evil news! 
 My lord lies on the strand. 
 
 "At Sempach, on the battle-field, 
 His bloody corpse lies there." 
 
 "Ah, gracious God ! " the lady cried, 
 " What tidings of despair ! " 
 
 Now would you know the minstrel wight 
 
 Who sings of strife so stern ? 
 Albert the Souter is he hight, 
 
 A burgher of Lucerne. 
 
 A merry man was he, I wot, 
 The night he made the lay, 
 
 Returning from the bloody spot, 
 Where God had judged the day. 
 
 ULRICH BONER. 
 
 Ulrich Boner appears to have been a 
 preaching monk in the first part of the four- 
 teenth century, and is hence called a Knight of 
 God. He was born at Berne, in Switzerland, 
 and enjoyed the patronage of Johann von Rink- 
 enberg, a knight and a Minnesinger, to whom 
 he dedicated his collection of fables, called the 
 "Edelstein." This work early attained a wide 
 circulation, and has been successively repub- 
 lished by Bodmer (Zurich, 1757-58), and by 
 Benecke (Berlin, 1816-18). The last is the 
 most valuable edition. 
 
 THE FROG AND THE STEER. 
 
 OF HIM THAT STRIVETH AFTER MORE HONOR THAN HE 
 SHOULD. 
 
 A frog with frogling by his side 
 
 Came hopping through the plain, one tide: 
 
 There he an ox at grass did spy ; 
 
 Much angered was the frog thereby ; 
 
 He said : " Lord God, what was my sin, 
 
 Thou madest me so small and thin ? 
 
 Likewise I have no handsome feature, 
 
 And all dishonored is my nature, 
 
 To other creatures far and near, 
 
 For instance, this same grazing steer." 
 
 The frog would fain with bullock cope, 
 
 'Gan brisk outblow himself in hope. 
 
 Then spake his frogling: "Father o' me, 
 
 It boots not, let thy blowing be ; 
 
 Thy nature hath forbid this battle, 
 
 Thou canst not vie with the black-cattle. 
 
 Nathless let be the frog would not, 
 
 Such prideful notion had he got ; 
 
 Again to blow right sore 'gan he, 
 
 And said: "Like ox could I but be 
 
 In size, within this world there were 
 
 No frog so glad, to thee I swear." 
 
 The son spake : " Father, me is woe 
 
 Thou shouldst torment thy body so ; 
 
 I fear thou art to lose thy life ; 
 
 Come, follow me, and leave this strife : 
 
 Good father, take advice of me, 
 
 And let thy boastful blowing be." 
 
 Frog said : " Thou need'st not beck and nod 
 
 I will not do 't, so help me God ! 
 
 Big as this ox is, I must turn, 
 
 Mine honor now it doth concern." 
 
 He blew himself, and burst in twain : 
 
 Such of that blowing was his gain. 
 
 The like hath oft been seen of such 
 Who grasp at honor overmuch ; 
 They must with none at all be doing, 
 But sink full soon and come to ruin. 
 T 
 
230 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 He, that, with wind of pride accursed, 
 Much puffs himself, will surely burst; 
 He men miswishes and misjudges, 
 Inferiors scorns, superiors grudges, 
 Of all his equals is a hater, 
 Much grieved he is at any better : 
 Wherefore it were a sentence wise, 
 Were his whole body set with eyes, 
 Who envy hath, to see so well 
 What lucky hap each man befell, 
 That so he filled were with fury, 
 And burst asunder in a hurry ; 
 And so full soon betid him this 
 Which to the frog bedded is. 
 
 VEIT WEBER. 
 
 Veit Weber lived in the latter half of the 
 ,fifteenth century. He belonged to Freyburg, in 
 the Brisgau, and is known as the author of five 
 battle-songs, preserved in Diebold Schilling's 
 "Chronicle of the Burgundian Wars"; the 
 best of them all is the ballad on the battle of 
 Murten (Morat). Nothing further is known of 
 his life, except that he alludes to himself in his 
 poems, as being " well known at Fryburg in 
 Brisgowe," and as one " who passed his life in 
 song," because he could not help it, and says 
 that he was present in the fight of Murten. 
 
 The battle of Murten (Morat), one of the 
 most remarkable in the Burgundian wars, took 
 place on the 10th of June, 1476. Charles the 
 Bold, duke of Burgundy, after the battle of 
 Granson, assaulted Murten with an army of 
 40,000 men. This town was fortified with walls, 
 towers, and a double trench. On one side lay 
 a wooded and hilly country ; on the other, a lake 
 of considerable depth, which, having formerly 
 been wider, was now bordered, here and there, 
 by deep morasses. Towards Wifflisburg stretch- 
 ed a broad harvest field. The town itself was 
 surrounded on all sides, except towards the lake, 
 and a communication with the confederates was 
 opened in the night, by means of a small boat. 
 The storm was begun by Count Romont ; the 
 Burgundians, having thrown down a part of the 
 wall, rushed forward with a shout of victory ; 
 they were vigorously repulsed, and the gunners 
 who served the heavy artillery were shot from 
 the city. The loss of seven hundred men, in 
 the first onset, disheartened the besiegers, and 
 the breach in the wall was repaired at night. 
 The Swiss soon after were succoured by their 
 confederates, and by Rene, the duke of Lor- 
 raine. The confederates attacked the army 
 of the duke, though much inferior to him in 
 numbers ; the garrison of Murten joined in the 
 assault, and the victory was complete. The 
 field of battle was covered with the dead. Sev- 
 eral thousand cuirassiers and Lombards, in de- 
 spair, attempted to wade through the lake, 
 which was covered far out with reeds. The 
 marshv bottom sank under the weight of men 
 
 and horses, and many perished; others were 
 shot; and one cuirassier alone saved his life 
 Between the Burgundian camp and Wifflisburg 
 fifteen thousand lay dead. Some of the sur- 
 vivors hid themselves until night in the forest; 
 many of the camp followers took refuge in the 
 ovens of the neighbouring villages. To explain 
 this curious fact, it should be mentioned that the 
 ovens in Switzerland are sometimes built in the 
 open air, outside the houses, and large enough to 
 hold several persons. The duke himself escaped 
 with a few horsemen, by riding hard, chiefly at 
 night, until he reached the Lake cf Geneva. 
 The camp was found abundantly supplied with 
 provisions. Splendid armor, gorgeous tents, 
 costly dresses and trappings, the military chest, 
 and the superbly furnished quarters of Charles, 
 fell into the hands of the Swiss. 
 
 For a graphic description of this battle, see 
 Johann von Milller's " Geschichte Schweizer- 
 ischer Eidgenossenschaft," Part V., ch. 1. 
 
 The following ballad is translated from the 
 modernized text, which is found in the Ger- 
 man collections. In some passages, however, 
 the expressions of the old German original of 
 Veit Weber, on account of their more direct 
 and descriptive character, have been restored 
 
 THE BATTLE OF MURTEN. 
 
 The tidings flew from land to land, 
 
 At Murten lies Burgund ; 
 And all make haste, for fatherland, 
 
 To battle with Burgund. 
 
 In the field before a woodland green, 
 Shouted the squire and knight; 
 
 Loud shouted Rene of Lorraine, 
 " We '11 forward to the fight ! " 
 
 The leaders held but short debate; 
 
 Too long it still appeared; — 
 " Ah, God ! when ends the long debate? 
 
 Are they perchance afeard ? 
 
 " Not idle stands in heaven high 
 
 The sun in his tent of blue ; 
 We laggards let the hours go by ! 
 
 When shall we hack and hew?" 
 
 Fearfully roared Carl's cannonade ; 
 
 We cared not what befell ; 
 We were not in the heat dismayed, 
 
 If this or that man fell. 
 
 Lightens in circles wide the sword, 
 Draws back the mighty spear; 
 
 Thirsted for blood the good broadsword, 
 Blood drank the mighty spear. 
 
 Short time the foemen bore the fray, 
 
 Soldier and champion fled, 
 And the broad field of battle lay 
 
 Knee-deep with spears o'erspread. 
 
 Some in the forest, some the brake, 
 To hide from the sunlight sought; 
 
 Many sprang headlong into the lake, 
 Although they thirsted not. 
 
ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 2:n 
 
 Up to the chin they waded in ; 
 
 Like ducks swam here and there ; 
 As they a flock of ducks had been, 
 
 We shot them in the mere. 
 
 After them on the lake we sail, 
 With oars we smote them dead, 
 
 And piteously we heard them wail ; 
 The green lake turned to red. 
 
 Up on the trees clomb many high, 
 We shot them there like crows ; 
 
 Their feathers helped them not to fly, 
 No wind to waft them blows. 
 
 The battle raged two leagues around, 
 
 And many foemen lay 
 All hacked and hewed upon the ground, 
 
 When sunset closed the day ; 
 And they who yet alive were found 
 
 Thanks to the night did pay. 
 
 A camp like any market-place 
 Fell to the Switzer's hand ; 
 
 Carl made the beggars rich apace 
 In needy Switzerland. 
 
 The game of chess is a kingly play ; — 
 'T is a Leaguer now that tries ; 
 
 He took from the king his pawns away> 
 His flank unguarded lies. 
 
 His castles were of little use, 
 His knights were in a strait ; 
 
 Turn him whatever way he choose, 
 There threatens him checkmate. 
 
 Veit Weber had his hand on sword, 
 
 Who did this rhyme indite : 
 Till evening mowed he with the sword ; 
 
 He sang the stour at night. 
 
 He swung the bow, he swung the sword, 
 
 Fiddler and fighter true, 
 Champion of lady and of lord, 
 
 Dancer and prelate too. 
 
 Amen. 
 
 ANONYMOUS POEMS OF UNCERTAIN DATE. 
 
 SONG- OF HILDEBRAND. 
 
 " It 's I will speed me far away," cried Master 
 
 Hildebrand ; 
 "Who will be my trusty guide to Bern, in the 
 
 Lombard land ? 
 I have not passed the weary road since many a 
 
 day, I ween ; 
 For more than two-and- thirty years Dame Utta 
 
 have I not seen." 
 
 Up and spake Duke Amelung, — "If thou wilt 
 
 ride to Bern, 
 Who will meet thee on the heath ? A youth 
 
 right brave and stern : 
 Who will meet thee on the march ? * Alebrand 
 
 the young : 
 Though with twelve of the boldest knights thou 
 
 pass, thou must fight that hero strong." 
 
 " And if he break a lance with me in his high 
 
 and fiery mood, 
 I will hew asunder his buckler green, that fast 
 
 shall stream his blood; 
 Asunder his hauberk will I hew with a slanting 
 
 blow of might : 
 I ween for a year to his mother he will plain 
 
 him of the fight." 
 
 "Nay," cried Dietrich, lord of Bern, "battle 
 
 shalt thou not wage 
 Against the youthful Alebrand, for in sooth I 
 
 love the page : 
 
 i Borders, frontier. 
 
 I rede thee, knight, to do my will, and ask him 
 
 courteously 
 To let thee pass along in peace, for the love of 
 
 me." 
 
 Whei? he rode through the garden of roses, right 
 
 on the march of Bern, 
 He came in pain and heavy woe with a hero 
 
 young and stern : 
 Against him rushed, with couchant lance, a 
 
 hero brave and bold : 
 " What seek'st thou in my father's land ? Say 
 
 on, thou champion old. 
 
 " A bruny 2 clear and bright thou bear'st, like 
 
 sons of mighty kings ; 
 I ween thou deem'st to strike me blind with 
 
 thy hauberk's glittering rings. 
 Bide at home in quiet, I rede thee, man of age; 
 Sit thee down by thy good fire-side." — Loud 
 
 laughed the hero sage. 
 
 "And why should I in quiet be, and sit by the 
 
 chimney-side ? 
 I have pledged me, night and day, to wandei 
 
 far and wide ; 
 To wander o'er the world, and fight, until my 
 
 latest day : 
 I tell thee, young and boasting knight, for that 
 
 my beard grows gray." 
 
 "It 's I will pull thy beard of gray, I tell thee, 
 
 ancient man, 
 That all adown thy furrowed cheeks the purple 
 
 blood shall run : 
 
 2 Cuirass. 
 
2J2 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Thy hauberk and thy buckler green yield with- 
 out further strife ; 
 
 My willing captive must thou be, if thou wilt 
 keep thy life." 
 
 "My hauberk and my buckler green renown 
 
 and bread have gained, 
 And well I trust in Christ on high in the stour 
 
 my life to defend." 
 They left their speech, and rapidly drew out 
 
 their falchions bright, 
 And what the heroes bold desired they had in 
 
 the bloody fight. 
 
 I know not how Sir Alebrand dealt a heavy 
 
 slanting blow, 
 That the ancient knight astounded at his heart 
 
 with pain and woe, 
 And hastily he started back seven fathoms far, 
 
 I ween, — 
 " Say, did not a woman teach thee, young 
 
 knight, that dint so keen ? " 
 
 " Foul shame it were, if women taught me to 
 
 wield the brand : 
 Many a gallant knight and squire dwell in my 
 
 father's land ; 
 Many earls and knights of high renown in the 
 
 court of my father dwell, 
 And what I have not learnt as yet they can 
 
 teach me right and well." 
 
 " He who will scour old kettles, black and foul 
 
 his hands will be : 
 Even so, young kemp, from the champion old 
 
 will soon betide to thee ; 
 And quickly shalt thou shrive thee upon the 
 
 blooming heath, 
 Or else, thou youthful hero, thou must graithe 
 
 thee for thy death." 
 
 He caught him by the middle, where the young 
 
 man weakest was, 
 And heavily he cast him behind him, on the 
 
 grass : 
 "Now say to me, thou champion young, thy 
 
 confessor will I be ; 
 If thou art of the Wolfing race, thou shalt gain 
 
 thy life from me." 
 
 " Thou speak'st to me of savage wolves that 
 
 roam the woods about ; 
 Of noble Grecian blood I came, of high-born 
 
 champions stout ; 
 My mother is Lady Utta, a duchess of main and 
 
 might ; 
 And Hildebrand, the ancient kemp, my dearest 
 
 father hight." 
 
 "If Utta be thy mother, who rules o'er many a 
 land, 
 
 I am thy dearest father, the ancient Hilde- 
 brand." 
 
 Soon has he doffed his helmet green ; on his 
 cheek he kissed the swain : 
 
 ''Praised be God ! we are sound and safe, nor 
 ever will battle again ' 
 
 "Father, dearest father mine, the wounds I 
 dealt to thee, 
 
 Gladly would I bear them thrice on my head, 
 right joyfully." 
 
 " O, bide in quiet, my gentle son ! my wounds 
 will soon be well ; 
 
 But, thanked be God in heaven ! we now to- 
 gether will dwell." 
 
 The fight began at the hour of none, they fought 
 
 till the vesper-tide : 3 
 Up rose the youthful Alebrand, and into Bern 
 
 they ride : 
 What bears he on his helmet ? A little cross 
 
 of gold ; 
 And what on his right hand bears he ? His 
 
 dearest father old. 
 
 He led him into his mother's hall, set him 
 
 highest at the board ; 
 When he gave him meat and drink, his mother 
 
 cried aloud, with angry word, 
 " O son, my son, so dear to me ! 't is too much 
 
 honor to place 
 So high a captive champion, the highest at the 
 
 deas." 
 
 "Rest in quiet, my mother dear; let him sit at 
 the table head : 
 
 Upon the blooming heath so green he had well- 
 nigh struck me dead. 
 
 O, hearken, lady mother mine ! captive shall 
 he not be ; 
 
 It is my father, Old Hildebrand, that kemp so 
 dear to thee." 
 
 It was the Lady Utta, her heart was blithe and 
 
 glad; 
 Out she poured the purple wine, and drank to 
 
 the ancient blade. 
 What bore in his mouth Sir Hildebrand ? A 
 
 ring of the gold it was, 
 And for his lady, Dame Utta, he has dropped it 
 
 in the glass. 
 
 THE NOBLE MORINGER. 
 
 O, will you hear a knightly tale of old Bohe- 
 mian day ? 
 
 It was the noble Moringer in wedlock bed he 
 lay; 
 
 He liaised 1 and kissed his dearest dame, that 
 was as sweet as May, 
 
 And said, " Now, lady of my heart, attend the 
 words I say. 
 
 " 'T is I have vowed a pilgrimage unto a distant 
 
 shrine, 
 And I must seek Saint Thomas' land, and leave 
 
 the land that 's mine ; 
 
 3 The hour of none is three o'clock in the afternoon ; 
 vesper-tide at six. 
 ' Embraced. 
 
ANONYMOUS POEMS 
 
 233 
 
 Here shalt thou dwell the while in state, so 
 thou wilt pledge thy fay, 
 
 That thou for my return wilt wait seven twelve- 
 months and a day." 
 
 Then out and spoke that lady bright, sore 
 
 troubled in her cheer, 
 "Now tell me true, thou noble knight, what 
 
 order tak'st thou here ? 
 And who shall lead thy vassal band, and hold 
 
 thy lordly sway, 
 And be thy lady's guardian true, when thou art 
 
 far away ? " 
 
 Out spoke the noble Moringer, " Of that have 
 
 thou no care, 
 There 's many a valiant gentleman of me holds 
 
 living fair : 
 The trustiest shall rule my land, my vassals, and 
 
 my state, 
 And be a guardian tried and true to thee, my 
 
 lovely mate. 
 
 "As Christian man, I need must keep the vow 
 
 which I have plight: 
 When I am far in foreign land, remember thy 
 
 true knight ; 
 And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve, for vain 
 
 were sorrow now, 
 But grant rhy Moringer his leave, since God 
 
 hath heard his vow.' 
 
 It was the noble Moringer from bed he made 
 
 him boune, 
 And met him there his chamberlain, with ewer 
 
 and with gown : 
 He flung the mantle on his back, 't was furred 
 
 with miniver, 
 He dipped his hand in water cold, and bathed 
 
 his forehead fair. 
 
 " Now hear," he said, " Sir Chamberlain, true 
 
 vassal art thou mine, 
 And such the trust that I repose in that proved 
 
 worth of thine, 
 For seven years shalt thou rule my towers, and 
 
 lead my vassal train, 
 And pledge thee for my lady's faith till I return 
 
 again." 
 
 The chamberlain was blunt and true, and stur- 
 dily said he, 
 
 " Abide, my lord, and rule your own, and take 
 this rede from me, — 
 
 That woman's faith 's a brittle trust. — Seven 
 twelve-months didst thou say ? 
 
 I '11 pledge me for no lady's truth beyond the 
 seventh fair day." 
 
 The noble baron turned him round, his heart 
 
 was full of care, 
 His gallant esquire stood him nigh, he was 
 
 Marstetten's heir, 
 To whom he spoke right anxiously, " Thou 
 
 trusty squire to me, 
 Wilt thou receive this weighty trust when I 
 
 am o'er the sea ? 
 30 
 
 " To watch and ward my castle strong, and to 
 protect my land, 
 
 And to the hunting or the host to lead my vas- 
 sal band ; 
 
 And pledge thee for my lady's faith, till seven 
 long years are gone, 
 
 And guard her as Our Lady dear was guarded 
 by Saint John ? " 
 
 Marstetten's heir was kind and true, but fiery, 
 hot, and young, 
 
 And readily he answer made with too presump- 
 tuous tongue : 
 
 " My noble lord, cast care away, and on your 
 journev wend, 
 
 And trust this charge to me until your pilgrim- 
 age have end. 
 
 " Rely upon my plighted faith, which shall be 
 truly tried, 
 
 To guard your lands, and ward your towers, 
 and with your vassals ride ; 
 
 And for your lovely lady's faith, so virtuous 
 and so dear, 
 
 I '11 gage mv head it knows no change, be ab- 
 sent thirty year." 
 
 The noble Moringer took cheer when thus he 
 heard him speak, 
 
 And doubt forsook his troubled brow, and sor- 
 row left his cheek ; 
 
 A long adieu he bids to all, — hoists topsails 
 and away, 
 
 And wanders in Saint Thomas' land seven 
 twelve-months and a day. 
 
 It was the noble Moringer within an orchard 
 
 slept, 
 When on the baron's slumbering sense a boding 
 
 vision crept, 
 And whispered in his ear a voice, " 'T is time, 
 
 Sir Knight, to wake ; 
 Thy lady and thy heritage another master take. 
 
 " Thy tower another banner knows, thy steeds 
 
 another rein, 
 And stoop them to another's will thy gallant 
 
 vassal train ; 
 And she, the lady of thy love, so faithful once 
 
 and fair, 
 This night within thy father's hall she weds 
 
 Marstetten's heir." 
 
 It is the noble Moringer starts up and tears his 
 
 beard : 
 " O, would that I had ne'er been born ! what 
 
 tidings have I heard ! 
 To lose my lordship and my lands the less 
 
 would be mv care, 
 But, God ! that e'er a squire untrue should wed 
 
 my lady fair ! 
 
 " O good Saint Thomas, hear ! " he prayed, " mv 
 
 patron saint art thou ! 
 A traitor robs me of my land, even while I pay 
 
 my vow ; 
 
 t2 
 
234 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 My wife he brings to infamy that was so pure 
 
 of name, 
 And I am far in foreign land, and must endure 
 
 the shame." 
 
 It was the good Saint Thomas then who heard 
 
 his pilgrim's prayer, 
 And sent a sleep so deep and dead that it o'er- 
 
 powered his care ; 
 He waked in fair Bohemian land, outstretched 
 
 beside a rill, 
 High on the right a castle stood, low on the left 
 
 a mill. 
 
 The Moringer he started up as one from spell 
 
 unbound, 
 And dizzy with surprise and joy gazed wildly 
 
 all around : 
 " I know my father's ancient towers, the mill, 
 
 the stream I know ; 
 Now blessed be my patron saint who cheered 
 
 his pilgrim's woe ! " 
 
 He leant upon his pilgrim's staff, and to the 
 
 mill he drew ; 
 So altered was his goodly form that none their 
 
 master knew : 
 The baron to the miller said, " Good friend, for 
 
 charity, 
 Tell a poor palmer, in your land what tidings 
 
 may there be ? " 
 
 The miller answered him again, " He knew of 
 little news, 
 
 Save that the lady of the land did a new bride- 
 groom choose : 
 
 Her husband died in distant land, such is the 
 constant word ; 
 
 His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a 
 worthy lord. 
 
 " Of him I held the little mill which wins me 
 
 living free ; 
 God rest the baron in his grave, he still was 
 
 kind to me ! 
 And when Saint Martin's tide comes round, 
 
 and millers take their toll, 
 The priest that prays for Moringer shall have 
 
 both cope and stole." 
 
 It was the noble Moringer to climb the hill 
 
 began, 
 And stood before the bolted gate a woe and 
 
 weary man : 
 "Now help ine, every saint in heaven that can 
 
 compassion take, 
 To gain the entrance of my hall this woful 
 
 match to break ! " 
 
 His very knock it sounded sad, his call was sad 
 and slow, 
 
 For heart and head, and voice and hand, were 
 heavy all with woe ; 
 
 And to the warder thus he spoke : " Friend, to 
 thy lady say, 
 
 A. pilgrim from Saint Thomas' land craves har- 
 bour for a day. 
 
 " I 've wandered many a weary step, my 
 strength is well-nigh done, 
 
 And if she turn me from her gate, I '11 see no 
 morrow's sun ; 
 
 I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, a pil- 
 grim's bed and dole, 
 
 And for the sake of Moringer's, her once loved 
 husband's soul." 
 
 It was the stalwart warder then he came his 
 dame before : 
 
 "A pilgrim, worn and travel-toiled, stands at 
 the castle-door, 
 
 And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, for 
 harbour and for dole, 
 
 And for the sake of Moringer, thy noble hus- 
 band's soul." 
 
 The lady's gentle heart was moved : " Do up 
 the gate," she said, 
 
 "And bid the wanderer welcome be to banquet 
 and to bed ; 
 
 And since he names my husband's name, so 
 that he lists to stay, 
 
 These towers shall be his harbourage a twelve- 
 month and a day." 
 
 It was the stalwart warder then undid the por- 
 tal broad, 
 
 It was the noble Moringer that o'er the thresh- 
 old strode : 
 
 " And have thou thanks, kind Heaven," he said, 
 " though from a man of sin, 
 
 That the true lord stands here once more his 
 castle-gate within ! " 
 
 Then up the halls paced Moringer, his step was 
 
 sad and slow ; 
 It sat full heavy on his heart, none seemed their 
 
 lord to know: 
 He set him on a lowly bench, oppressed with 
 
 woe and wrong ; 
 Short space he sat, but ne'er to him seemed 
 
 little space so long. 
 
 Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and come 
 was evening hour, 
 
 The time was nigh when new-made brides re- 
 tire to nuptial bower : 
 
 "Our castle's wont," a bridesman said, " hath 
 been both firm and long, 
 
 No guest to harbour in our halls till he shall 
 chant a song." 
 
 Then spoke the youthful bridegroom, there as 
 
 he sat by the bride : 
 "My merry minstrel folk," quoth he, "lay 
 
 shalm and harp aside ; 
 Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay, the castle's 
 
 rule to hold, 
 And well his guerdon will I pay with garment 
 
 and with gold." 
 
 "Chill flows the lay of frozen age," 'twas thus 
 
 the pilgrim sung, 
 " Nor golden meed, nor garment gay, unlocks 
 
 his heavy tongue : 
 
ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 235 
 
 Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at board 
 
 as rich as thine, 
 And by my side as fair a bride with all her 
 
 charms was mine. 
 
 " But time traced furrows on my face, and 1 
 
 grew silver-haired, 
 For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, she 
 
 left this brow and beard ; 
 Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread life's 
 
 latest stage, 
 And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay of 
 
 frozen age." 
 
 It was the noble lady there this woful lay that 
 
 hears, 
 And for the aged pilgrim's grief her eye was 
 
 dimmed with tears ; 
 She bade her gallant cupbearer a golden beaker 
 
 take, 
 And bear it to the palmer poor to quaff it for 
 
 her sake. 
 
 It was the noble Moringer that dropped amid 
 
 the wine 
 A bridal ring of burning gold so costly and so 
 
 fine : 
 Now listen, gentles, to my song, it tells you but 
 
 the sooth, 
 'T was with that very ring of gold he pledged 
 
 his bridal truth. 
 
 Then to the cupbearer he said, " Do me one 
 
 kindly deed, 
 And should my better days return, full rich 
 
 shall be thy meed ; 
 Bear back the golden cup again to yonder bride 
 
 so gay, 
 And crave her, of her courtesy, to pledge the 
 
 palmer gray." 
 
 The cupbearer was courtly bred, nor was the 
 
 boon denied, 
 The golden cup he took again, and bore it to 
 
 the bride : 
 "Lady," he said, "your reverend guest sends 
 
 this, and bids me pray, 
 That, in thy noble courtesy, thou pledge the 
 
 palmer gray." 
 
 The ring hath caught the lady's eye, she views 
 
 it close and near; 
 Then might you hear her shriek aloud, " The 
 
 Moringer is here ! " 
 Then might you see her start from seat, while 
 
 tears in torrents fell ; 
 But whether 't was for joy or woe, the ladies 
 
 best can tell. 
 
 But loud she uttered thanks to Heaven, and 
 
 every saintly power, 
 That had returned the Moringer before the 
 
 midnight hour ; 
 And loud she uttered vow on vow, that never 
 
 was there bride 
 That had like her preserved her troth, or been 
 
 so sorely tried. 
 
 "Yes, here I claim the praise," she said, "to 
 
 constant matrons due, 
 Who keep the troth that they have plight so 
 
 steadfastly and true ; 
 For count the term howe'er you will, so that 
 
 you count aright, 
 Seven twelvemonths and a day are out when 
 
 bells toll twelve to-night." 
 
 It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion 
 
 there he drew, 
 He kneeled before the Moringer, and down his 
 
 weapon threw : 
 "My oath and knightly faith are broke," these 
 
 were the words he said, 
 "Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, and 
 
 take thy vassal's head." 
 
 The noble Moringer he smiled, and then aloud 
 
 did say, 
 " He gathers wisdom that hath roamed seven 
 
 twelvemonths and a day : 
 My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame 
 
 speaks her sweet and fair ; 
 I give her for the bride you lose, and name her 
 
 for my heir. 
 
 " The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, 
 
 the old bridegroom the old, 
 Whose faith was kept till term and tide so 
 
 punctually were told : 
 But blessings on the warder kind that oped my 
 
 castle-gate, 
 For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day 
 
 too late." 
 
 THE LAY OF THE YOUNG COUNT. 
 
 I stood on a high mountain, 
 
 And looked on the Rhine so wide ; 
 A little skiff came swimming, 
 A little skiff came swimming, 
 Wherein three knights did ride. 
 
 And of these knights, the youngest 
 
 He was the count his heir; 
 
 He promised he would marry me, 
 
 He promised he would marry me, 
 
 Although so young he were. 
 
 He took from off his finger 
 
 A ring of gold so red : 
 " Thou fairest, finest, take it, 
 My own heart's dearest, take it, 
 
 And wear it when I 'm dead." 
 
 " What shall I do with the ringlet, 
 If I dare not wear it before ? " 
 
 " Say only thou hast found it, 
 
 Say only thou hast found it, 
 In the grass before the door " 
 
236 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 "Nay, why should I be lying? 
 
 It would not behoove me well ; 
 The young count he is my husband, 
 The young count he is my husband, 
 
 Much rather I would tell." 
 
 " Wert thou but richer, maiden, 
 
 Hadst thou but a little gear, 
 In sooth I then would take thee, 
 In sooth I then would take thee, 
 
 For then we equals were." 
 
 " And though I have not riches, 
 
 Yet of honor I have some, 
 That honor I will keep it, 
 That honor I will keep it, 
 
 Until my equal come." 
 
 " But if there come no equal, 
 What then wilt thou begin ? " 
 
 " Then I will seek a cloister, 
 
 Then I will seek a cloister, 
 To live as a nun therein." 
 
 'Twas after three months' time had passed, 
 
 The count dreamed heavily ; 
 As if his own heart's dearest, 
 As if his own heart's dearest, 
 
 In a cloister he did see. 
 
 "Arise, my groom, and hasten.. 
 
 Saddle mine and saddle thy steed; 
 We '11 ride o'er hill and valley, 
 We '11 ride o'er hill and valley ; 
 The maiden is worth all speed." 
 
 And when they came to the cloister, 
 They gently knocked at the door : 
 " Come out, thou fairest, thou fine, 
 Come out, thou heart's dearest mine, 
 Come forth to thy lover once more! " 
 
 " But wherefore should I hasten 
 
 To thee before the door ? 
 My hair is clipped and veiled, 
 My hair is clipped and veiled, 
 
 Thou 'It have me never more." 
 
 The count with fright is silent, 
 
 Sits down upon a stone ; 
 The bitter tears he 's weeping, 
 The bitter tears he 's weeping, 
 
 Till life and joy are gone. 
 
 With her snow-white hands the maiden 
 
 She digs the count his grave; 
 From her dark-brown eyes so lovely, 
 From her dark-brown eyes so lovely, 
 
 The holy water she gave. 
 
 Thus io all young lnds 'twill happen, 
 
 Who for riches covet sore ; 
 Fair wives they all are wishing, 
 Fair wives they all are wishing, 
 
 But for gold and silver more. 
 
 SONG OF THE THREE TAILORS. 
 
 Once on a time three tailors there were, 
 
 O dear, O dear, O dear ! 
 Once on a time three tailors there were, 
 And a snail, in their fright, they mistook for a 
 bear. 
 
 O dear, O dear, O dear! 
 
 And of him they had such a terrible sense, 
 They hid themselves close behind a fence. 
 
 "Do you go first," the first one he said ; 
 
 The next one he spake, "I 'm too much afraid." 
 
 The third he fain would speak also, 
 And said, " He '11 eat us all up, I know." 
 
 And when now together they all came out, 
 They seized their weapons all about. 
 
 And as now they marched to the strife so sad, 
 They all began to feel rather bad. 
 
 But when on the foe they rushed outright, 
 Then each one grew choke-full of fight. 
 
 " Come out here, come out, you devil's brute ! 
 If you want to have a good stitch in your suit." 
 
 The snail he stuck out his ears from within ; 
 The tailors they trembled, — " 'T is a dreadful 
 thing ! " 
 
 And as the snail his shell did move, 
 
 The tailors threw down their weapons forsooth 
 
 And when the snail crept out of his shell, 
 The tailors they all ran away pell-mell. 
 
 THE WANDERING LOVER. 
 
 My love he is journeying far away, 
 
 But I cannot tell why I 'm so sad all the day; 
 
 Perhaps he is dead, and gone to his rest, 
 
 And that is the reason my heart 's so oppressed 
 
 When I with my love to the church did repair, 
 False tongues at the door awaited us there; 
 The one it said this, and the other said that, 
 And this is the reason my eyes are so wet. 
 
 The thistles and thorns, they hurt very sore, 
 But false, false tongues, they hurt far more ; 
 And no fire on earth ever burns so hot 
 As the secret love of which none doth wot. 
 
 My heart's dearest treasure, there 's one thing 
 
 I crave, 
 That thou wilt stand by, when I 'm laid in the 
 
 grave, 
 When in the cold grave my body they lay, 
 Because I have loved thee so truly for aye ! 
 
ANONYMOUS POEMS. 
 
 2.J7 
 
 THE CASTLE IN AUSTRIA. 
 
 " O father, dearest father mine ! 
 
 
 My death thou shalt not avenge, 
 
 
 'T would bring to my soul but heavy pains 
 
 There lies a castle in Austria, 
 
 Let me die in innocence. 
 
 Right goodly to behold, 
 
 
 Walled up with marble stones so fair, 
 
 " It is not for this life of mine, 
 
 With silver and with red gold. 
 
 Nor for my body proud ; 
 
 
 'T is but for my dear mother's sake, 
 
 Therein lies captive a young boy, 
 
 At home she weeps aloud." 
 
 For life and death he lies bound, 
 
 
 Full forty fathoms under the earth, 
 
 Not yet three days had passed away, 
 
 'Midst vipers and snakes around. 
 
 When an angel from heaven came down 
 
 
 " Take ye the boy from the scaffold away, 
 
 His father came from Rosenberg, 
 
 Else the city shall sink under ground •' 
 
 Before the tower he went : 
 
 
 " My son, my dearest son, how hard 
 
 And not six months had passed away, 
 
 Is thy imprisonment ! '' 
 
 Ere his death was avenged amain; 
 
 
 And upwards of three hundred men 
 
 " O father, dearest father mine, 
 
 For the boy's life were slain. 
 
 So hardly I am bound, 
 
 
 Full forty fathoms under the earth, 
 
 Who is it that hath made this lay, 
 
 'Midst vipers and snakes around ! " 
 
 Hath sung it, and so on ? 
 
 
 That, in Vienna in Austria, 
 
 His father went before the lord : 
 
 Three maidens fair have done. 
 
 " Let loose thy captive to me ! 
 
 
 I have at home three casks of gold, 
 And these for the boy I '11 gi'e." 
 
 4 
 
 
 
 THE DEAD BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 " Three casks of gold, they help you not, 
 
 
 
 That boy, and he must die ! 
 
 There went a boy so stilly, 
 
 He wears round his neck a golden chain ; 
 
 To the window small went he : 
 
 Therein doth his ruin lie." 
 
 "Art thou within, my fair sweetheart? 
 
 
 Rise up and open to me." 
 
 " And if he thus wear a golden chain, 
 
 
 He hath not stolen it; nay ! 
 
 " We well may speak together, 
 
 A maiden good gave it to him ; 
 
 But I may not open to thee ; 
 
 For true love, did she say." 
 
 For I have plighted my faith to one, 
 
 
 And want no other but he " 
 
 They led the boy forth from the tower, 
 
 
 And the sacrament took he : 
 
 " The one to whom thou 'rt plighted, 
 
 " Help thou, rich Christ, from heaven high, 
 
 Fair sweetheart, I am he ; 
 
 It 's come to an end with me ! " 
 
 Reach me thy snow-white little hand. 
 
 
 And then perhaps thou 'It see." 
 
 They led him to the scaffold place, 
 
 
 Up the ladder he must go : 
 
 " But nay ! thou smellest of the earth ; 
 
 " headsman, dearest headsman, do 
 
 And thou art Death, I ween ! " 
 
 But a short respite allow ! " 
 
 " Why should I not smell of the earth, 
 
 
 When I have lain therein ? 
 
 " A short respite I must not grant ; 
 
 
 Thou wouldst escape and fly : 
 
 " Wake up thy father and mother, 
 
 Reach me a silken handkerchief 
 
 Wake up thy friends so dear ; 
 
 Around his eyes to tie." 
 
 The chaplet green shalt thou ever wear, 
 
 
 Till thou in heaven appear." 
 
 " O do not, do not bind mine eyes ! 
 I must look on the world so fine ; 
 
 
 
 I see it to-day, then never more, 
 
 
 With these weeping eyes of mine." 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 His father near the scaffold stood, 
 
 Sweet nightingale ! thyself prepare, 
 
 And his heart, it almost rends : 
 
 The morning breaks, and thou must be 
 
 " O son, O thou my dearest son, 
 
 My faithful messenger to her, 
 
 Thy death I will avenge ! " 
 
 My best beloved, who waits for thee. 
 
238 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 She in her garden for thee stays, 
 
 And many an anxious thought will spring, 
 And many a sigh her breast will raise, 
 
 Till thou good tidings from me bring. 
 
 So speed thee up, nor longer stay ; 
 
 Go forth with gay and frolic song; 
 Bear to her heart my greetings, — say 
 
 That I myself will come ere long. 
 
 And she will greet thee many a time, 
 
 " Welcome, dear nightingale ! " will say; 
 
 And she will ope her heart to thee, 
 And all its wounds of love display. 
 
 Sore pierced by love's shafts is she ; 
 
 Thou, then, the more her grief assail ; 
 Bid her from every care be free : 
 
 Quick ! haste away, my nightingale ! 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 If I a small bird were, 
 And little wings might bear, 
 
 I 'd fly to thee : 
 But vain those wishes are : 
 
 Here, then, my rest shall be. 
 
 When far from thee I bide, 
 In dreams still at thy side 
 
 I 've talked with thee ; 
 And when I woke, I sighed, 
 
 Myself alone to see. 
 
 No hour of wakeful night 
 
 But teems with thoughts of light, - 
 
 Sweet thoughts of thee, — 
 As when, in hours more bright, 
 
 Thou gav'st thy heart to me. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Sweet nightingale ! I hear thee sing, — 
 Thy music makes my heart upspring : 
 O, quickly come, sweet bird, to me, 
 And teach me to rejoice like thee ! 
 
 Sweet nightingale ! to the cool wave 
 I see thee haste, thy limbs to lave, 
 And quaff" it with thy little bill, 
 As 't were the daintiest beverage still. 
 
 Sweet bird ! where'er thy dwelling be, 
 Upon the linden's lofty tree, 
 Beside thy beauteous partner, there, 
 O, greet a thousand times my fair ! 
 
 THE FAITHLESS ONE. 
 
 Last evening by my fair I sat, 
 
 And now on this we talked, now that; 
 
 Freely she sat by me, and said 
 
 She loved with love unlimited. 
 
 Last evening, when from her I parted, 
 In dearest friendship, faithful-hearted, 
 Her sacred vow she plighted me, 
 In joy or sorrow, mine to be. 
 
 Last eve, at leaving her, she clung 
 Close to my side, and on me hung ; 
 And far along she went with me, 
 And, O, how kind and dear was she ! 
 
 To-day, wh°n to her side I came, 
 How cool, how altered, that proud dame ! 
 All was reversed ; and back I turned, 
 By her, who was mv true love, spurned. 
 
 THE HEMLOCK TREE. 
 
 O hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! how faith- 
 ful are thy branches ! 
 Green not alone in summer time, 
 But in the winter's frost and rime ! 
 O hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! how faithful 
 are thy branches ! 
 
 O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how faithless is 
 thy bosom ! 
 To love me in prosperity, 
 And leave me in adversity ! 
 O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how faithless is 
 thy bosom ! 
 
 The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for 
 
 thine example ! 
 
 So long as summer laughs she sings, 
 
 But in the autumn spreads her wings. 
 
 The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for 
 
 thine example ! 
 
 The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mir- 
 ror of thy falsehood ! 
 It flows so long as falls the rain, 
 In drought its springs soon dry again. 
 The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mir- 
 ror of thy falsehood ! 
 
 SILENT LOVE 
 
 Who love would seek, 
 Let him love evermore 
 
 And seldom speak : 
 For in love's domain 
 Silence must reign ; 
 
 Or it brings the heart 
 
 Smart 
 
 And pain. 
 
LUTHER. — KNAUST. 
 
 239 
 
 FOURTH PERIOD.-CENTURY XVI. 
 
 
 MARTIN LUTHER. 
 
 Martin Luther was born Nov. 10, 1483, 
 at Eisleben. At the age of fourteen, he was 
 placed at school in Magdeburg, whence he af- 
 lerwards went to Eisenach. In 1501, he en- 
 tered the University of Erfurt. He was destined 
 at first for the law, but circumstances afterwards 
 led him to embrace the monastic life. His 
 great distinction, of course, lies in the extraor- 
 dinary influence he has exercised upon the re- 
 ligious state of the world ; but this subject does 
 not come within the range of the present work. 
 His poetical talent was shown in the depart- 
 ment of sacred poetry. He purified and adapted 
 old German poems to the service of the temple, 
 translated Latin hymns, and was the author of 
 about forty pieces in German, all distinguish- 
 ed for their vigor, and highly esteemed down 
 to the present day. He died on the 18th of 
 February, 1546, at Eisleben, and was buried 
 in the castle church of Wittenberg. A collec- 
 tion of eight of Luther's hymns was first pub- 
 lished at Wittenberg in 1524; another, the fol- 
 lowing year, containing forty. A new edition 
 was published at Berlin in 1817- 18. 
 
 PSALM. 
 
 A safe stronghold our God is still, 
 
 A trusty shield and weapon ; 
 He '11 help us clear from all the ill 
 That hath us now o'ertaken. 
 The ancient Prince of Hell 
 Hath risen with purpose fell ; 
 Strong mail of craft and power 
 He weareth in this hour : 
 On earth is not his fellow. 
 
 With force of arms we nothing can ; 
 
 Full soon were we down-ridden, 
 But for us fights the proper Man, 
 Whom God himself hath bidden. 
 Ask ye, Who is this same ? 
 Christ Jesus is his name, 
 The Lord Zebaoth's Son : 
 He, and no other one, 
 Shall conquer in the battle. 
 
 And were this world all devils o'er 
 
 And watching to devour us, 
 We lay it not to heart so sore, 
 Not they can overpower us. 
 And let the Prince of 111 
 Look grim as e'er he will, 
 He harms us not a whit ■ 
 For why ? His doom is writ, 
 A word shall quickly slay him. 
 
 God's word, for all their craft and force, 
 
 One moment will not linger, 
 But, spite of Hell, shall have its course : 
 'T is written by his finger. 
 
 And though they take our life, 
 Goods, honor, children, wife, 
 Yet is their profit small : 
 These things shall vanish all, 
 The City of God remaineth. 
 
 HEINRICH KNAUST. 
 
 Knaust was born in 1541, and died in 157''' 
 Three of his poems may be found in Erlach, I., 
 71. The following quaint specimen will suffice. 
 
 DIGNITY OF THE CLERKS. 
 
 Paper doth make a rustle, 
 And it can rustle well ; 
 
 To find it is no puzzle, 
 Sith aye it rustle will. 
 
 In every place 'twill rustle, 
 Where'er 's a little bit ; 
 
 So, too, the scholars rustle, 
 Withouten all deceit. 
 
 Of tag and rag they make 
 The noble writer's stuff; 
 
 One might with laughter shake, 
 I tell you true enough. 
 
 Old tatters, cleanly washen, 
 Thereto they do prepare ; 
 
 Lift many from the ashen, 
 That erst sore want did bear. 
 
 The pen behind the ear, 
 All pointed sharp to write, 
 
 Doth hidden anger stir : 
 
 Foremost the clerk doth sit. 
 
 Before all other wights, 
 Sith him a clerk they call, 
 
 The princes he delights, — 
 They love him most of all. 
 
 The jlerk full well they name 
 A treasure of much cost ; — 
 
 Though he 's begrudged the same, 
 Nathless he keeps the post. 
 
 Before the clerk must bend 
 Oft many a warrior grim, 
 
 And to the corner wend, 
 Although it please not him. 
 
240 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 FIFTH PEMOD.-CENTURY XVII. 
 
 SIMON DACH. 
 
 This poet was born in 1605, and died in 
 1659. He was Professor of Poetry at Konigs- 
 berg. His poems are lyrical, consisting of pop- 
 ular and sacred songs; and breathing the sim- 
 ple, devout spirit of a quiet scholar. Ten of his 
 poems are given in Erlach, III. Those which 
 follow are favorable specimens of his manner. 
 The first is from the Low German, and, though 
 apparently written in a tone of great tenderness, 
 is, in fact, a satire upon the lady of his love, 
 who proved untrue to him. In after-life he 
 could not forgive himself for having taken this 
 poetical revenge. The song seemed to haunt 
 him even on his death-bed, and, after a violent 
 spasm of pain, he exclaimed, "Ah! that was 
 for the song of' Anke von Tharaw.' " 
 
 ANNIE OF THARAW. 
 
 Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, 
 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. 
 
 Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, 
 Thou, O my soul, my flesh and my blood ! 
 
 Then come the wild weather, come sleet or 
 
 come snow, 
 We will stand by each other, however it blow. 
 
 Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, 
 Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. 
 
 As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so 
 
 tall, 
 The more the hail beats, and the more the rains 
 
 fall, 
 
 So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and 
 strong, 
 
 Through crosses, through sorrows, through man- 
 ifold wrong. 
 
 Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone 
 In a desolate land where the sun is. scarce 
 known, 
 
 Through forests I '11 follow, and where the sea 
 
 flows, 
 Through ice, and through iron, through armies 
 
 of foes. 
 
 Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, 
 
 The threads of our two lives are woven in one. 
 
 Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, 
 Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. 
 
 How in the turmoil of life can love stand, 
 Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, 
 and one hand ? 
 
 Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and 
 
 strife ; 
 Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. 
 
 Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love, 
 
 Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. 
 
 Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen ; 
 I am king of the household, — thou art its 
 queen. 
 
 It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, 
 That makes of us twain but one soul in one 
 breast. 
 
 This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell ; 
 While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. 
 
 BLESSED ARE THE DEAD. 
 
 O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended ! 
 Who, through death, have unto God ascended ! 
 Ye have arisen 
 From the cares which keep us still in prison. 
 
 We are still as in a dungeon living, 
 
 Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving : 
 
 Our undertakings 
 
 Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings. 
 
 Ye, meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping, 
 Quiet, and set free from all our weeping; 
 No cross nor trial 
 Hinders your enjoyments with denial. 
 
 Christ has wiped away your tears for ever; 
 Ye have that for which we still endeavour. 
 To you are chanted 
 Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted. 
 
 Ah ! who would not, then, depart with gladness, 
 To inherit heaven for earthly sadness ? 
 Who here would languish 
 Longer in bewailing and in anguish ? 
 
 Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind 
 
 us ! 
 Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us ! 
 With thee, the Anointed, 
 Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed. 
 
SANCTA CLARA. 
 
 241 
 
 ABRAHAM A SANCTA CLARA. 
 
 Abraham a Sancta Clara, whose real 
 name was Ulrich Megerle, was born at Kra- 
 henheimsteiten, Swabia, in 1642. In 1662 he 
 joined the barefooted friars of the order of 
 Saint Augustine, and applied himself to the 
 study of philosophy and theology in a monas- 
 tery at Vienna. He began his career as a 
 preacher in the convent of Taxa, in Bavaria, 
 and soon afterward was called to preach at 
 the imperial court of Vienna, where he con- 
 tinued until his death, in 1709. 
 
 Abraham a Sancta Clara is the most gro- 
 tesque and eccentric of all the popular preach- 
 ers that Germany has produced. In one of 
 his discourses he exclaims : "By permission of 
 the Almighty, I knock at the door of hell, and 
 ask this or that one the reason of his condem- 
 nation. 'Holla! thou who art boiling in red 
 hot iron, like a pea in a hot kettle, what was 
 the cause of thy condemnation ? ' ' I,' said he, 
 'was given to wild lusts, but resolved to leave 
 off my wicked life, and repent, but was sud- 
 denly cut off, so that procrastination caused my 
 eternal death.' 
 
 "The same answer I received from a hun- 
 dred thousand wretched sinners. O, how true 
 is it, as the poet says : 
 
 " ' The raven eras oft closes the pass 
 Unto our souls' salvation ; 
 The fatal to-morroio produceth sorrow 
 And final condemnation ! ' 
 
 "And even, silly souls, if you are not cut 
 off by sudden death, but have time to repent 
 given you on your death-bed, still such late 
 repentance seldom availeth much in the sight 
 of God ; as Saint Augustine saith, 'The repent- 
 ance of a sick man, I fear, is generally sickly ; 
 that of a dying man generally dies away. For 
 when thou canst sin no longer, it is not that 
 thou desertest sin, but that sin deserts thee.' 
 
 " God, in the Old Testament, has admitted all 
 kinds of beasts as acceptable offerings ; but he 
 excludeth the swan alone, though the swan 
 with its white vesture agreeth well with the 
 livery of the angels, because this feathered 
 creature is the image of a sinner who puts off 
 repentance till death ; for the swan is silent 
 through his whole life, and doth not sing till 
 his life is at its close." 
 
 Passages of great beauty occur likewise in 
 these discourses, and at times the reader is re- 
 minded of Jeremy Taylor. For example, when 
 he says : " I seem to see in fancy holy Bacho- 
 mius in the wilderness, where he chose him a 
 dwelling among hollow clefts of rocks, which 
 abode consisted in naught but four crooked 
 posts, with a transparent covering of dried 
 boughs. And he, when wearied with singing 
 psalms, resorting to labor, lest the Old Serpent 
 should catch him unemployed, and weaving 
 rude coverings of thatch, sits by a rock, where- 
 from flow forth silver veins of water, which 
 make a pleasing murmur in their crystal de- 
 31 
 
 scent, while around him on the green boughs 
 play the birds of the forest, who, with their 
 natural cadences, and the clear-sounding flutes 
 of their throats, joining pleno choro, transform 
 the wood into a concert ; and the agile deer, 
 the bleating hares, the chirping insects, are his 
 constant companions, unharmed and unharm- 
 ing, all which furnishes him with solace and 
 contentment. But it seemeth to me that our 
 devout hermit delighteth himself more espe- 
 cially in the echo which sends him back his loud 
 sighs and petitions ; as when the holy anchorite 
 cries, 'O merciful Christ!' the echo, that un- 
 embodied thief, steals away the words, and re- 
 turns them back to him. But is he too sorely 
 tempted, and doth he exclaim, in holy impa- 
 tience, ' O thou accursed devil ! ' the echo lays 
 aside its devout language, and sounds back to 
 him, 'Thou accursed devil ! ' In a word, as a 
 man treats Echo, so does Echo treat him. 
 
 "Now God is just like this voice of the 
 woods. For it is an unquestioned truth, that, 
 as we demean ourselves toward God, so he 
 demeaneth himself toward us." 
 
 See "The Knickerbocker," Vol. X., where 
 other extracts may be found. The following 
 verses, it hardly need be said, are not quoted 
 for their beauty, but for their oddity. They 
 are from "Judas, the Arch-Rogue." 
 
 SAINT ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE FISHES. 
 
 Saint Anthony at church 
 
 Was left in the lurch, 
 
 So he went to the ditches 
 
 And preached to the fishes. 
 They wriggled their tails, 
 In the sun glanced their scales. 
 
 The carps, with their spawn, 
 
 Are all thither drawn ; 
 
 Have opened their jaws, 
 
 Eager for each clause. 
 No sermon beside 
 Had the carps so edified. 
 
 Sharp-snouted pikes, 
 
 Who keep fighting like tikes, 
 
 Now swam up harmonious 
 
 To hear Saint Antonius. 
 No sermon beside 
 Had the pikes so edified. 
 
 And that very odd fish, 
 
 Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish, — 
 
 The stock-fish, I mean, — 
 
 At the sermon was seen. 
 No sermon beside 
 Had the cods so edified. 
 
 Good eels and sturgeon, 
 
 Which aldermen gorge on, 
 
 Went out of their way 
 
 To hear preaching that day. 
 No sermon beside 
 Had the eels so edified. 
 U 
 
242 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Crabs and turtles also, 
 
 The sermon now ended, 
 
 Who always move slow, 
 
 Each turned and descended ; 
 
 Made haste from the bottom, 
 
 The pikes went on stealing, 
 
 As if the devil had got 'em. 
 
 The eels went on eeling. 
 
 No sermon beside 
 
 Much delighted were they, 
 
 Had the crabs so edified. 
 
 But preferred the old way. 
 
 Fish great and fish small, 
 
 The crabs are backsliders, 
 
 Lords, lackeys, and all, 
 
 The stock-fish thick-siders, 
 
 Each looked at the preacher 
 
 The carps are sharp-set, 
 
 Like a reasonable creature. 
 
 All the sermon forget. 
 
 At God's word, 
 
 Much delighted were they, 
 
 They Anthony heard. 
 
 But preferred the old way. 
 
 SIXTH PERIOD.-FROM 1700 TO 1770. 
 
 JOHANN JACOB BODMER. 
 
 J. J. Bodmer was born July 19th, 1698, at 
 Greifensee, near Zurich, where his father was 
 a preacher. At the Gymnasium in Zurich, he 
 studied poetry and the languages. In 1725, 
 he was appointed Professor of Helvetian His- 
 tory, and, ten years later, became a member of 
 the great council in Zurich. He died January 
 2d, 1783. He had ability and great literary 
 activity, but not much poetical genius. He 
 promoted a taste for English literature, and for 
 the study of the Middle Ages. The literary 
 principles of Gottsched, who favored the French 
 taste, found in him a vigorous opponent. His 
 principal work is the "Noachide," in hexame- 
 ter verse (Zurich, 1752). He edited a collec- 
 tion of the Minnesingers, translations of ancient 
 English, and selections of Swabian ballads. 
 He also translated Milton's "Paradise Lost." 
 Several of the Greek poets he rendered into 
 German hexameters. The following short ex- 
 tract is the close of the eighth book of the 
 " Noachide." 
 
 THE DELUGE. 
 
 Now on the shoreless sea, intermixed with the 
 
 corses of sinners, 
 Floated the bodies of saints, by the side of the 
 
 beasts of the forest. 
 All that the food-bearing earth had enabled to 
 
 live on its surface 
 Death from one zone to another pursued with 
 
 all-conquering fury. 
 O, how the face of the country was changed, 
 
 how deformed the creation ! 
 Where but recently Spring in his garment of 
 
 flowers was straying, 
 Listening the nightingale's song from the dew- 
 
 sprent bower of roses, 
 Hidden he wears the dank prisoner's dress, 
 
 which the flood overcast him. 
 
 Sulphurous vapors ascend from the deep ; and 
 
 volcanic eruptions 
 Scatter the ores of the mine with poisonous 
 
 hisses to heaven. 
 
 FREDERIC HAGEDORN. 
 
 Frederic Hagedorn was born at Hamburg 
 in 1708. He studied first at the Hamburg 
 Gymnasium, and afterwards went to the Uni- 
 versity of Jena, where he devoted himself to 
 the law. The death of his father recalled him 
 before the completion of his studies. In 1729, 
 he accompanied Baron Soehlenthal, the Danish 
 minister, to England, as his secretary. He re- 
 mained there about two years, in which time 
 he made himself master of the English lan- 
 guage, and acquired much knowledge of Eng- 
 lish literature. His earliest remaining poem 
 is a paraphrase of Pope's "Universal Prayer." 
 In 1733, he received the appointment of Sec- 
 retary to the English Factory at Hamburg, with 
 a yearly salary of a hundred pounds. He con- 
 tinued in this situation, giving certain stated 
 hours to the duties of his office, and the rest of 
 his time to reading and composition, until his 
 death, which took place suddenly in 1754. 
 His manner of life was not unlike that of 
 Charles Lamb. His character was amiable, and 
 he was much respected. As a poet, he imitated 
 English and French models. His principal 
 works are songs, poetical narratives, epistles, 
 and fables. They were published at Hamburg 
 in 1729, again in 1800, and finally in 1825, in 
 five volumes. 
 
 THE MERRY SOAP-BOILER. 
 
 A steady and a skilful toiler, 
 John got his bread as a soap-boiler, 
 
HAGEDORN. — HALLER. 
 
 243 
 
 Earned all he wished, his heart was light, 
 
 He worked and sang from morn till night. 
 
 E'en during meals his notes were heard, 
 
 And to his beer were oft preferred; 
 
 At breakfast, and at supper, too, 
 
 His throat had double work to do ; 
 
 He oftener sang than said his prayers, 
 
 And dropped asleep while humming airs : 
 
 Until his every next-door neighbour 
 
 Had learned the tunes that cheered his labor, 
 
 And every passer-by could tell 
 
 Where merry John was wont to dwell. 
 
 At reading he was rather slack, 
 
 Studied at most the almanac, 
 
 To know when holidays were nigh, 
 
 And put his little savings by ; 
 
 But sang the more on vacant days, 
 
 To waste the less his means and ways. 
 
 'T is always well to live and learn. 
 
 The owner of the soap-concern — . 
 
 A fat and wealthy burgomaster, 
 
 Who drank his hock, and smoked his knaster, 
 
 At marketing was always apter 
 
 Than any prelate in the chapter, 
 
 And thought a pheasant in sour krout 
 
 Superior to a turkey-poult ; 
 
 But woke at times before daybreak 
 
 With heart-burn, gout, or liver-ache — 
 
 Oft heard our sky-lark of the garret 
 
 Sing to his slumber, but to mar it. 
 
 He sent for John, one day, and said : 
 " What 's your year's income from your 
 trade ? " 
 
 " Master, I never thought of counting 
 
 To what my earnings are amounting 
 
 At the year's end : if every Monday 
 
 I 've paid my meat and drink for Sunday, 
 
 And something in the box unspent 
 
 Remains for fuel, clothes, and rent, 
 
 I 've husbanded the needful scot, 
 
 And feel quite easy with my lot. 
 
 The maker of the almanac 
 
 Must, like your worship, know no lack, 
 
 Else a red-letter earnless day 
 
 Would oftener be struck away." 
 
 " John, you 've been long a faithful fellow, 
 Though always merry, seldom mellow. 
 Take this rouleau of fifty dollars, 
 My purses glibly slip their collars ; 
 But before breakfast let this singing 
 No longer in my ears be ringing: 
 When once your eyes and lips unclose, 
 I must forego my morning doze." 
 
 John blushes, bows, and stammers thanks, 
 
 And steals away on bended shanks, 
 
 Hiding and hugging his new treasure, 
 
 As had it been a stolen seizure. 
 
 At home he bolts his chamber-door. 
 
 Views, counts, and weighs his tinkling store, 
 
 Nor trusts it to the savings-box 
 
 Till he has screwed on double locks. 
 
 His dog and he play tricks no more, 
 
 They 're rival watchmen of the door. 
 
 Small wish has he to sing a word, 
 
 Lest thieves should climb his stair unheard. 
 
 At length he finds, the more he saves, 
 
 The more he frets, the more he craves ; 
 
 That his old freedom was a blessing 
 
 111 sold for all he 's now possessing. 
 
 One day, he to his master went 
 And carried back his hoard unspent. 
 " Master," says he, " I 've heard of old, 
 Unblest is he who watches gold. 
 Take back your present, and restore 
 The cheerfulness I knew before. 
 I '11 take a room not quite so near, 
 Out of your worship's reach of ear, 
 Sing at my pleasure, laugh at sorrow, 
 Enjoy to-day, nor dread to-morrow, 
 Be still the steady, honest toiler, 
 The merry John, the old soap-boiler." 
 
 ALBRECHT VON HALLER. 
 
 Albrecht von Haller was born in 1708. 
 He showed a taste for letters and poetry at a 
 very early age. In his fifteenth year he went 
 to the University of Tubingen, and afterwards 
 to Leyden and Basle. He took his medical 
 degree in 1727, soon after which he visited 
 England. He returned to Berne in 1730, in 
 tending to establish himself in his profession in 
 his native place. In 1732, he made a journey 
 through the Alps, after which he published his 
 first poem. In 1736, he was made Professor 
 of Medicine at Gottingen ; in 1749, he was 
 ennobled by the emperor ; in 1753, returned 
 to Berne, and died in 1777. He was distin- 
 guished in many departments of knowledge ; 
 poet, anatomist, physiologist, botanist, &c. His 
 poetical works were published at Berne, in 
 1732; the twelfth edition appeared in 1828. 
 His scientific works were numerous, and won 
 for him the highest reputation as a student and 
 discoverer. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM DORIS. 
 
 The light of day is almost gone, 
 The purple in the west that shone 
 
 Is fading to a grayer hue : 
 The moon uplifts her silver horns, 
 The cool night strews her slumber-corns, 
 
 And slakes the thirsty earth with dew. 
 
 Come, Doris, to these beeches come, 
 Let us the quiet dimness roam, 
 
 Where nothing stirs but you and I . 
 Save when the west wind's gentle breath 
 Is heard the wavering boughs beneath, 
 
 Which strive to beckon silently. 
 
iU 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 How the green night of leafy trees 
 Invites to dreams of careless ease, 
 
 And cradles the contented soul ; 
 Recalls the ambitious range of thought 
 To fasten on some homely cot, 
 
 And make a life of love its whole ! 
 
 Speak, Doris, feels thy conscious heart 
 The throbbing of Do gentle smart, 
 
 Dearer than plans of palaced pride ? 
 Gaze not thine eyes with softer glance, 
 Glides not thy blood in swifter darice, 
 
 Bounds not thy bosom, — by my side ? 
 
 Thought questions thought with restless task ; 
 I know thy soul begins to ask, 
 
 What means this ail, what troubles me? 
 O, cast thy vain reserve away, 
 Let me its real name betray ! 
 
 Far more than that I feel for thee. 
 
 Thou startlest, and thy virtue frowns, 
 And the chaste blush my charge disowns, 
 
 And lends thy cheek an angrier glow ; 
 With mingled feelings thrills thy frame, 
 Thy love is stifled by thy shame, 
 
 Not by thy heart, my Doris, no ! 
 
 Ah ! lift those fringed lids again, 
 Accept, accept the proffered chain, 
 
 Which love and fate prepare to bind : 
 Why wilt thou longer strive to fly ? 
 Be overtaken, — I am nigh. 
 
 To doubt is not to be unkind. 
 
 CHRISTIAN FURCHTEGOTT GELLERT. 
 
 Christian Furchtegott Gellert was born 
 at Haynichen, in Saxony, in 1715. His father 
 was a poor clergyman with thirteen children. 
 He was sent first to the " Prince's School,'' at 
 Meissen, and in 1734 entered the University 
 at Leipsic, where he studied theology. His 
 timidity was so great that he renounced preach- 
 ing, after one unsuccessful effort, and became 
 successively private teacher, and Professor Ex- 
 traordinary of Philosophy. He took part in 
 the Bremish " Beitrage," and, for a time, edited 
 a periodical work, called "Materials to form 
 the Heart and Understanding," in which his 
 earliest compositions were first published. He 
 wrote a novel, "The Swedish Countess," sev- 
 eral dramatic pieces, odes, tales, a collec- 
 tion of fables, and a variety of miscellanies. 
 He died in 1769. His character was gentle 
 and amiable, and strongly marked by a pious 
 resignation to the will of Providence. His in- 
 fluence was extraordinary. Several editions of 
 his works have been published ; the last in 
 Leipsic, 1840. 
 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 Dorinda's youthful spouse, 
 
 Whom as herself she loved, and better, too, — 
 " Better? " — methinks I hear some caviller say, 
 With scornful smile ; but let him smile away ! 
 
 A true thing is not therefore the less true, 
 Let laughing cavillers do what they may. 
 Suffice it, death snatched from Dorinda's arms — 
 Too early snatched, in al 1 his glowing charms — 
 The best of husbands ssnd the best of men ; 
 And I can find no words, — in vain my pen, 
 Though dipped in briny tears, would fain por- 
 tray, 
 
 In lively colors, all the young wife felt, 
 
 As o'er his couch in agony she knelt, 
 And clasped the hand, and kissed the cheek, of 
 
 clay. 
 The priest, whose business 't was to soothe her, 
 
 came ; 
 All friendship came, — in vain ; 
 The more they soothed, the more Dorinda cried. 
 They had to drag her from the dead one's side. 
 A ceaseless wringing of the hands 
 Was all she did ; one piteous " Alas ! " 
 The only sound that from her lips did pass : 
 Full four-and-twenty hours thus she lay. 
 Meanwhile, a neighbour o'er the way 
 Had happened in, well skilled in carving wood. 
 He saw Dorinda's melancholy mood, 
 And, partly at her own request, 
 Partly to show his reverence for the blest, 
 And save his memory from untimely end, 
 Resolved to carve in wood an image of his friend. 
 Success the artist's cunning hand attended ; 
 With most amazing speed the work was ended; 
 
 And there stood Stephen, large as life. 
 A masterpiece soon makes its way to light ; 
 The folk ran up and screamed, so soon as Ste- 
 phen met their sight, 
 "Ah, Heavens ! Ah, there he is ! Yes, yes, 'tis 
 he ! 
 
 happy artist ! happy wife ! 
 
 Look at the laughing features ! Only see 
 The open mouth, that seems as if 'twould speak ! 
 
 1 never saw before, in all my life, 
 
 Such nature, — no, I vow, there could not be 
 A truer likeness; so he looked to me, 
 When he stood godfather last week." 
 
 They brought the wooden spouse, 
 That now alone the widow's heart could cheer, 
 
 Up to the second story of the house, 
 Where he and she had slept one blessed year. 
 There in her chamber, having turned the key, 
 
 She shut herself with him, and sought relief 
 
 And comfort in the midst of bitter grief, 
 And held herself as bound, if she would be 
 For ever worth}' of his memory, 
 To weep away the remnant of her life. 
 What more could one desire of a wife ? 
 
 So sat Dorinda many weeks, heart-broken, 
 And had not, my informant said, 
 
 In all that time, to living creature spoken, 
 Except her house-dog and her serving-maid. 
 
 And this, after so many weeks of woe, 
 
GELLERT. — KLEIST. 
 
 245 
 
 Was the first day that she had dared to glance 
 Out of her window : and to-day, hy chance, 
 
 Just as she looked, a stranger stood below. 
 Up in a twinkling came the hou=e-maid running, 
 And said, with look of sweetest, half-hid cunning, 
 " Madam, a gentleman would speak with you, 
 A lovely gentleman as one wou'd wish to view, 
 Almost as lovely as your blessed one ; 
 He has some business with you must be done, — 
 Business, he said, he could not trust with me." 
 "Must just make up some story, then," said she, 
 
 "I cannot leave, one moment, my dear man; 
 
 In short, go down and do the best you can ; 
 Tell him I 'm sick with sorrow ; for, ah me ! 
 
 It were no wonder " 
 
 "Madam, 't will not do ; 
 He has already had a glimpse of you, 
 Up at your window, as he stood below ; 
 
 You must come down ; now do, I pray. 
 
 The stranger will not thus be sent away. 
 He 's something weighty to impart, I know. 
 I should think, madam, you might go." 
 A moment the young widow stands perplexed, 
 Fluttering 'twixt memory and hope ; the next, 
 Embracing, with a sudden glow, 
 The image that so long had soothed her woe, 
 She lets the stranger in. Who can it be ? 
 A suitor ? Ask the maid ; already she 
 Is listening at the key-hole ; but her ear 
 Only Dorinda's plaintive tone can hear. 
 The afternoon slips by. What can it mean ? 
 The stranger goes not yet, has not been seen 
 To leave the house. Perhaps he makes request — 
 Unheard-of boldness ! — to remain, a guest? 
 Dorinda comes at length, and, sooth to say, 
 alone. — 
 
 Where is the image, her dear, sad delight? — 
 "Maid," she begins, "say, what shall now be 
 done ? 
 
 The gentleman will be my guest to-night. 
 Go, instantly, and boil the pot of fish." 
 "Yes, madam, yes, with pleasure, — as you wish." 
 Dorinda goes back to her room again. 
 
 The maid ransacks the house to find a stick 
 Of wood to make a fire beneath the pot, — in vain. 
 
 She cannot find a single one ; then quick 
 She calls Dorinda out, in agony. 
 "Ah, madam, hear the solemn truth," says she : 
 " There 's not a stick offish-wood in the house. 
 
 Suppose I take that image down and split it ? 
 That 
 
 Is good, hard wood, and to our purpose pat." 
 "The image? No, indeed! — But — well — 
 
 yes, do ! 
 What need you have been making all this 
 
 touse ? " 
 "But, ma'am, the image is too much for me; 
 I cannot lift it all alone, you see ; — 
 'T would go out of the window easily." 
 " A lucky thought ! and that will split it for 
 you, too. 
 
 The gentleman in future lives with me; 
 
 I may no longer nurse this misery." 
 Up went the sash, and out the blessed Stephen 
 flew. 
 
 EWALD CHRISTIAN VON KLEIST. 
 
 Ewald Christian von Kt.eist was born in 
 1715, at Zeblin, in Pomerania. He studied at 
 the Jesuit College in Cron, then at the Gymna- 
 sium in Dantzic, and in 1731 commenced the 
 study of law at the University of Konigsberg. 
 Through the influence of some relations in Den- 
 mark, he became a Danish officer in 1736. He 
 afterwards entered the service of Frederic the 
 Great. In 1743, he fought a duel, and became 
 acquainted with Gleim. He subsequently rose 
 to the rank of Major. He was present in several 
 battles, and lost his leg in the engagement at 
 Kunersdorf, which caused his death twelve 
 days afterwards. His naturally thoughtful tem- 
 perament, acted upon by an unfortunate attach- 
 ment, and a dislike of his profession, gave a 
 melancholy character to his poems. His works 
 are chiefly songs, odes, elegies, and the poem 
 entitled " Spring," which is the most important 
 of his productions. He also composed idyls, and 
 an epic in three cantos. His works have been 
 several times published ; the latest edition is 
 that of Berlin, 2 vols., 1839. Wolfgang Men- 
 zel remarks of him, that he " became the Ger- 
 man Thomson, whose ' Seasons ' he imitated 
 in the poem of ' Spring,' which has become 
 so celebrated. He was much distinguished by 
 refined sentiments and beautiful imagery; but 
 he shared the faults of this species of poetry, 
 which knew not how to express a fine sentiment 
 directly, but could only do so through the me- 
 dium and in the mirror of reflection, and which, 
 without intending it, perhaps, played the co- 
 quette a little with its charms." 
 
 SIGHS FOR REST. 
 
 O silver brook, my leisure's early soother, 
 When wilt thou murmur lullabies again ? 
 
 When shall I trace thy sliding smooth and 
 smoother, 
 While kingfishers along thy reeds complain? 
 
 Afar from thee, with care and toil oppressed, 
 
 Thy image still can calm my troubled breast. 
 
 O ye fair groves, and odorous violet valleys, 
 Girt with a garland blue of hills around; 
 
 Thou quiet lake, where, when Aurora sallies, 
 Her golden tresses seem to sweep the ground : 
 
 Soft mossy turf, on which I wont to stray, 
 
 For me no longer bloom thy flowerets gay. 
 
 Thou, who, behind the linden's fragrant boughs, 
 Wouldst lurk to hear me blow the mellow 
 flute, 
 
 Speak, Echo, shall I never know repose ? 
 Must every muse I wooed henceforth be mute ? 
 
 How oft, while, pleased, in the thick shade I lay, 
 
 Doris I named, and Doris thou wouldst say ! 
 
 Far now are fled the pleasures once so dear, 
 Thy welcome words no longer meet my calls, 
 
 No sympathetic tone assails the ear, 
 
 Death from a thousand mouths of iron bawls : 
 o2 
 
246 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 There brook and meadow harmless joys bestow, 
 Here grows but danger, and here flows but woe. 
 
 As when the chilly winds of March arise, 
 
 And whirl the howling dust in eddies swift, 
 The sunbeams wither in the dimmer skies, 
 O'er the young ears the sand and pebbles 
 drift : 
 So the war rages, and the furious forces 
 The air with smoke bespread, the field with 
 corses. 
 
 The vineyard bleeds, and trampled is the corn, 
 Orchards but heat the kettles of the camp. 
 
 Her youthful friend the bride beholds, forlorn, 
 Crushed like a flower beneath the horse's 
 tramp : 
 
 Vain is her shower of tears that bathes the dead, 
 
 As dews on roses plucked, and soon to fade. 
 
 There flies a child ; his aid the father lends, 
 But writhing falls, by random bullets battered ; 
 
 With his last breath the boy to God commends, 
 Nor knows that both by the same blow were 
 shattered : 
 
 So Boreas, when he stirs his mighty wings, 
 
 The blooming hop, and its supportance, flings. 
 
 As when a lake, which gushing rains invade, 
 Breaks down its dams, and fields are over- 
 flowed: 
 So floods of fire across the region spread, 
 
 And standing corn by crackling flames is 
 mowed ; 
 Bellowing the cattle fly ; the forests burn, 
 And their own ashes the old stems inurn. 
 
 What art and skill have built with cost and toil 
 Corinthian sculptures all in vain attire : 
 
 The pride of cities falls, a fiery spoil, 
 
 And many a marble fane and gilded spire, 
 
 Whose haughty head the clouds of heaven sur- 
 round, 
 
 Tumbles in ruin ; quakes the solid ground. 
 
 The people pale rush out to quench the fire, 
 And tread a pavement formed of corses 
 strewn ; 
 Who from his burning house escapes entire 
 Falls in the streets, by splitting bombs o'er- 
 thrown : 
 For water, blood of men the palace fills, 
 Which hisses on the floor as it distils. 
 
 Though sets the sun, the ruddy skies are bright; 
 
 All night is day, where conflagrations glare ; 
 Heaven borrows from below a purpler light, 
 
 And roofs of copper cataract from the air: 
 Balls hiss, flames roar, artillery thunders loud, 
 And moon and stars their pallid lustre shroud. 
 
 As when their way a host of comets bend 
 Back into chaos from the ethe-r's top, 
 
 So with their tails of fire the bombs ascend, 
 And thronging, bursting, thundering, tearing, 
 drop : 
 
 The earth with piecemeal carcasses is sown ; 
 Limbs, bowels, brains, in wild disorder strewn. 
 
 The treacherous ground is often undermined, 
 And cloudward hurls a long incumbent 
 weight, 
 
 Forts built on r »;ks their frail foundation find, 
 And call the echoes to proclaim their fate : 
 
 Vale, field, and hill receive the mingled scath, 
 
 As Hecla scatters in her day of wrath. 
 
 Like the fond lover, whose too dazzling flame 
 Forbids him to discern, ye 're mocked by 
 fate. 
 
 If fortune give me neither wealth nor fame, 
 At least I do not grudge them to the great. 
 
 A heart at ease, a home where friends resort, 
 
 I would not change for tinsel, or for court. 
 
 Thou best of carpets, spread thee at my feet ! 
 Meadow, brook, reeds, beside you let me 
 dwell ! 
 Gold is but sand, not worth these murmurs 
 sweet ; 
 These branchy shades all palace-roofs excel. 
 When of your hills my wandering visions dream, 
 The world 's as little to me as tliey seem. 
 
 JOHANN WILHELM LUDWIG GLEIM. 
 
 This poet was born in 1719, at Ermsleben, 
 in the principality of Halberstadt. In 1738, he 
 went to the University of Halle, to study law. 
 In 1740, he left the University, went to Pots- 
 dam, where he became a private tutor, and 
 afterwards was appointed Secretary to Prince 
 William of Schwedt. Here he formed an inti- 
 mate friendship with Kleist. After various 
 changes of fortune, Gleim was appointed Secre- 
 tary of the Cathedral Chapter of Halberstadt, and 
 afterwards Canon of the Walbeck institution. 
 He died in 1803. His poetical genius was not 
 remarkable ; but he loved letters and science, 
 and lived on terms of cordial friendship witli 
 the principal authors of his age. His " War- 
 songs of a Grenadier " are, perhaps, his best 
 poetical productions. He wrote, besides, Ana- 
 creontic, erotic, Petrarchian songs ; songs after 
 the Minnesingers, epistles, fables, and a didactic- 
 religious poem, called "Halladat, or the Red 
 Book." His works were published by Kort-e, 
 Halberstadt, 1811 —13, who also wrote his life. 
 
 WAR-SONG. 
 
 We met, a hundred of us met, 
 
 At curfew, in the field ; 
 We talked of heaven and Jesus Christ, 
 
 And all devoutly kneeled : 
 
 When, lo ! we saw, all of us saw, 
 
 The star-lit sky unclose, 
 And heard the far-high thunders roll 
 
 Like seas where storm-wind blows. 
 
GLEIM. — K LOP STOCK. 
 
 247 
 
 We listened, in amazement lost, 
 
 As still as stones for dread, 
 And heard the war proclaimed above, 
 
 And sins of nations read. 
 
 The sound was like a solemn psalm 
 
 That holy Christians sing; 
 And by-and-by the noise was ceased 
 
 Of all the angelic ring : 
 
 Yet still, beyond the cloven sky, 
 
 We saw the sheet of fire; 
 There came a voice, as from a throne, 
 
 To all the heavenly choir, 
 
 Which spake : " Though many men must fall, 
 
 I will that these prevail ; 
 To me the poor man's cause is dear." 
 
 Then slowly sank a scale. 
 
 The hand that poised was lost in clouds, 
 
 One shell did weighty seem : 
 But sceptres, scutcheons, mitres, gold 
 
 Flew up, and kicked the beam. 
 
 THE INVITATION. 
 
 I have a cottage by the hill ; 
 
 It stands upon a meadow green; 
 Behind it flows a murmuring rill, 
 
 Cool-rooted moss and flowers between. 
 
 Beside the cottage stands a tree, 
 
 That flings its shadow o'er the eaves ; 
 
 And scarce the sunshine visits me, 
 
 Save when a light wind rifts the leaves. 
 
 A nightingale sings on a spray 
 
 Through the sweet summer time night-long, 
 And evening travellers, on their way, 
 
 Linger to hear her plaintive song. 
 
 Thou maiden with the yellow hair, 
 The winds of life are sharp and chill ; 
 
 Wilt thou not seek a shelter there, 
 In yon lone cottage by the hill ? 
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 My native land, on thy sweet shore 
 Lighter heaves the breast ; 
 
 Could I visit thee once more, 
 How I should be blest ! 
 
 Heart go anxious and so pained, 
 
 Fitting is thy woe ; 
 My native land, what have I gained 
 
 By wandering from thee so ? 
 
 Fresher green bedecks thy fields, 
 
 Fairer blue thy skies ; 
 Sweeter shade thy forest yields, 
 
 Thy dews have brighter dies. 
 
 Thy sabbath-bells a sweeter note 
 
 Echo far and near ; 
 Thy nightingale's melodious throat 
 
 Sweeter thrills the ear. 
 
 Softer flow thy lavish streams 
 Through the meadow's bloom ; 
 
 Ah ! how bright the wanderer's dreams 
 'Neath thy linden's gloom ! 
 
 Fair thy sun that flings around 
 
 Genial light and heat. — 
 To my father's household gate 
 
 Let me bend my feet; 
 There, forgetting all the past, 
 I will rest in peace at last ! 
 
 FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK. 
 
 This celebrated poet was born at Quedlin- 
 burg, in 1724. His childhood was spent at 
 Friedeberg, but he was subsequently placed at 
 the Gymnasium of Quedlinburg. At the age 
 of sixteen, he went to Schulpforte, where he 
 studied the ancient languages, and acquired 
 that classical taste, which afterwards exercised 
 so remarkable an influence on his writings. 
 Even at this early period he had conceived the 
 project of writing an epic poem. In 1745, he 
 went to Jena, to study theology, and there 
 composed the first canto of the " Messiah." In 
 1746, he removed to Leipsic, where he became 
 acquainted with the circle of writers who pub- 
 lished the " Bremische Beitrage," in which 
 work the first three cantos of the " Messiah " 
 appeared, in 1748, and excited unbounded admi- 
 ration. This same year, he became acquainted 
 with Frederica Schmidt, in Langensalza, whom 
 he celebrated under the name of Fanny. To 
 dissipate the chagrin arising from a disappointed 
 attachment for this lady, he visited Zurich, on 
 the invitation of Bodmer, in 1750 ; and in the 
 following year he was summoned to Copenha- 
 gen, through the influence of Bernstorf, and 
 received a small pension to give him leisure 
 for the completion of his poem. On his way 
 thither, he became acquainted with Margaretha 
 or Meta Moller, a warm and enthusiastic ad- 
 mirer of his poems, and a person of much spirit 
 and talent. An attachment sprang up between 
 them, and they were married in 1754. She 
 died in 1758. In 1764, he wrote his " Her- 
 manns Schlacht" (Battle of Arminius), and 
 soon after engaged in his investigations into the 
 German language. After the downfall of the 
 minister, Bernstorf, in 1771, Klopstock returned 
 to Hamburg in the character of Danish Secre- 
 tary of Legation, and in 1775 became a coun- 
 cillor of the margraviate of Baden. He fin- 
 ished his "Messiah" in Hamburg. In 1792, 
 he married a second wife, Johanna von Wind- 
 ham. He died in 1803. 
 
 In private he was social and amiable, fond of 
 
243 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 children and of skating. As an epic poet, his 
 "Messiah" gave him an immense reputation; 
 he has been pronounced the first lyric Doet of 
 modern times, and some even rank him higher 
 than Pindar. He shows a genuine classic taste, 
 and a deep feeling of the spirit of antiquity. 
 The principal measures of the ancients he re- 
 produced in the German with remarkable skill 
 and felicity. His elegies are composed in the 
 ancient elegiac distich. His tragedies and dra- 
 mas had but little success. 
 
 Menzel has given a Very good summary of 
 his character.* " Klopstock, the German Ho- 
 mer, stands before all the German Horaces, 
 Anacreons, Pindars, Theocrituses, and iEsops. 
 It was, in truth, he, who, by the powerful influ- 
 ence of his 'Messiah' and his 'Odes,' gave 
 the antique taste its supremacy, not, however, 
 in defiance, but operating rather in favor, of the 
 German and Christian manner. Religion and 
 native land were with him the highest themes ; 
 but as to form, he regarded the ancient Greek 
 as the most perfect, and thought to unite the 
 most beautiful substance with the most beautiful 
 form, by exalting Christianity and Germanism 
 in Grecian fashion, — an extraordinary error, 
 certainly, but perfectly natural to the extraor- 
 dinary character manifested in the progress of 
 his age. The English, it is true, did not fail to 
 produce an effect on Klopstock, for his ' Mes- 
 siah ' is only a pendant to Milton's ' Paradise 
 Lost ' ; but Klopstock was by no means, on 
 this account, a mere imitator of the English ; 
 on the contrary, his merit in regard to German 
 poetry is as peculiar as it is great. He sup- 
 planted the hitherto prevailing French alexan- 
 drines and doggerels by the Greek hexameter, 
 and the other metres, the Sapphic, Alcaic, and 
 iambic, of the ancients. By this means, not 
 only the French fustian and senseless rhyming 
 were set aside, and the poet was compelled to 
 think more of the meaning and substance than 
 of the rhyme, but the German language also 
 was remoulded by the attention paid to rhyth- 
 mical harmony, and attained a flexibility which 
 would have been serviceable to the poets, even 
 if they afterwards threw aside the Greek form, 
 as a mere study and exercise. Moreover, Klop- 
 stock, although he wanted to be a Greek in 
 form, still always meant to be only a German 
 in spirit ; and it was he who introduced the 
 patriotic enthusiasm, and that worship of every 
 thing German, which have never disappeared 
 since, in spite of all new foreign fashions, but, 
 on the contrary, have broken out against what 
 is foreign, often to the extreme of injustice and 
 absurdity. Strangely as it sounds, when he, 
 the son of the French age of perukes, calls 
 himself a bard in Alcaic verses, and thus blends 
 together three wholly heterogeneous ages, — 
 the modern, the antique, and the old German, 
 — still, this was the beginning of that proud 
 
 * Menzel's German Literature, translated by C. C. Fel- 
 ton. Vol. II., pp. 3r0-373. 
 
 revival of German poetry, which finally ven- 
 tured to cast off the foreign fetters, and to drop 
 that humble demeanour which had been custom- 
 ary since the peace of Westphalia. It was, 
 indeed, needful that one should again come, 
 who might freely smite his breast, and cry, ' I 
 am a German ! ' Finally, his poetry, as well 
 as his patriotism, had its root in that sublime 
 moral and religious faith which his 'Messiah' 
 celebrates ; and he it was, who, along with 
 Gellert, lent to modern German poetry that 
 dignified, earnest, and pious character, which it 
 has never lost again, in spite of all the extrava- 
 gances of fancy and wit, and which foreign 
 nations have constantly admired most in us, or 
 looked upon with distant respect. When we 
 call to mind the influence of the frivolous old 
 French philosophy, and the scoffing of Voltaire, 
 we begin to comprehend what a mighty dam 
 Klopstock set up against that foreign influence 
 in German poetry. 
 
 " His patriotism, therefore, and his elevated 
 religious character, have, still more than the 
 improvements he introduced into the German 
 language, conferred upon him that reverential 
 respect which he will always maintain. They 
 have had the effect of securing to him for ever 
 the admiration of those who could hardly read 
 him through ; which furnishes matter for Les- 
 sing's ridicule. It is true that Klopstock lose* 
 every thing, if he is closely examined and 
 judged by single parts. We must look upon 
 him at a certain distance, and as a whole. 
 When we undertake to read him, he appears 
 pedantic and tedious ; but when we have once 
 read him, and then recall his image to memory, 
 he becomes great and majestic. Then his two 
 ideas, country and religion, shine forth in their 
 simplicity, and make upon us the impression of 
 sublimity. We think we see a gigantic spirit 
 of Ossian, striking a wondrous harp, high among 
 the clouds. If we approach him more nearly, 
 he dissolves into a thin and wide-spread mass 
 of vapor. But that first impression has wrought 
 a powerful effect upon our souls, and attuned 
 us to lofty thoughts. Although too metaphysi- 
 cal and cold, he has still given us, in the high- 
 est ideas of his poetry, two great truths, — the 
 one, that our un-Germanized poetry, long alien- 
 ated from its native soil, must take root there 
 again, and there only can grow up to a noble 
 tree ; the other, that, as all poetry must have 
 its source in religion, so, too, it must find there 
 its highest aim." 
 
 Klopstock's works were published at Leipsic, 
 in twelve quarto volumes, 1798- 1817; again, 
 in 8vo., 1823 ; and again in 1829. 
 
 ODE TO GOD. 
 
 Thou Jehovah 
 Art named, but I am dust of dust! 
 Dust, yet eternal ! for the immortal soul 
 Thou gav'st me, gav'st thou for eternity, 
 
KLOPSTOCK. 
 
 249 
 
 Breath'dst into her, to form thy image, 
 Sublime desires for peace and bliss, 
 
 A thronging host ! But one, more beautiful 
 
 Than all the rest, is as the queen of all, — 
 Of thee the last, divinest image, 
 The fairest, most attractive, — Love ! 
 
 Thou feelest it, though as the Eternal One: 
 
 It feel, rejoicing, the high angels, whom 
 
 Thou mad'st celestial, — thy last image, 
 The fairest and divinest, — Love ! 
 
 Deep within Adam's heart thou plantedst it : 
 
 In his idea of perfection made, 
 
 For him create, to him thou broughtest 
 The mother of the human race. 
 
 Deep also in my heart thou plantedst it: 
 
 In my idea of perfection made, 
 
 For me create, from me thou leadest 
 Her whom my heart entirely loves. 
 
 Towards her my soul is all outshed in tears, — 
 
 My full soul weeps, to stream itself away 
 
 Wholly in tears ! From me thou leadest 
 Her whom I love, O God ! from me, — 
 
 For so thy destiny, invisibly, 
 
 Ever in darkness works, — far, far away 
 
 From my fond arms in vain extended, — 
 But not away from my sad heart ! 
 
 And yet thou knovvest why thou didst con- 
 ceive, 
 
 And to reality creating call, 
 
 Souls so susceptible of feeling, 
 And for each other fitted so. 
 
 Thou know'st, Creator ! But thy destiny 
 
 Those souls, thus born as for each other, parts : 
 High destiny, impenetrable, — 
 How dark, yet how adorable ! 
 
 But life, when with eternity compared, 
 
 Is like the swift breath by the dying breathed, 
 The last breath, wherewith flees the spirit 
 That aye to endless life aspired. 
 
 What once was labyrinth in glory melts 
 
 Away, — and destiny is then no more. 
 
 Ah, then, with rapturous rebeholding, 
 Thou givest soul to soul again ! 
 
 Thought of the soul, and of eternity, 
 
 Worthy and meet to soothe the saddest pain : 
 My soul conceives it in its' greatness ; 
 But, O, I feel too much the life 
 
 That here I live ! Like immortality, 
 
 What seemed a breath fearfully wide extends ! 
 I see, I see my bosom's anguish 
 In boundless darkness magnified. 
 
 God ! let this life pass like a fleeting breath ! 
 
 Ah, no ! — But her who seems designed for me 
 Give, — easy for thee to accord me, — 
 Give to my trembling, tearful heart ! 
 
 (The pleasing awe that thrills me, meeting her ! 
 
 The suppressed stammer of the undying soul, 
 That has no words to say its feelings, 
 And, save by tears, is wholly mute ! ) 
 
 Give her unto my arms, which, innocent, 
 
 In childhood, oft I raised to thee in heaven, 
 When, with the fervor of devotion, 
 I prayed of thee eternal peace ! 
 
 With the same effort dost thou grant and take 
 
 ^Vom the poor worm, whose hours are centuries, 
 32 
 
 His brief felicity, — the worm, man, 
 Who blooms his season, droops and dies ! 
 By her beloved, I beautiful and blest 
 Will Virtue call, and on her heavenly form 
 With fixed eye will gaze, and only 
 Own that for peace and happiness 
 Which she prescribes for me. But, Holier One, 
 Thee too, who dwell'st afar in higher state 
 Than human virtue, — thee I '11 honor, 
 Only by God observed, more pure. 
 By her beloved, will I more zealously, 
 Rejoicing, meet before thee, and pour forth 
 My fuller heart, Eternal Father, 
 In hallelujahs ferventer. 
 Then, when with me she thine exalted praise 
 Weeps up to heaven in prayer, with eyes that 
 swim 
 In ecstacy, shall I already 
 With her that higher life enjoy. 
 The song of the Messiah, in her arms 
 Quaffing enjoyment pure, I noblier may 
 Sing to the good, who love as deeply, 
 And, being Christians, feel as we! 
 
 THE LAKE OF ZURICH. 
 
 Fair is the majesty of all thy works 
 
 On the green earth, O Mother Nature, fair ' 
 
 But fairer the glad face 
 
 Enraptured with their view. 
 Come from the vine-banks of the glittering 
 
 lake, — 
 Or, hast thou climbed the smiling skies anew, 
 
 Come on the roseate tip 
 
 Of evening's breezy wing, 
 And teach my song with glee of youth to glow, 
 Sweet Joy, like thee, — with glee of shouting 
 youths, 
 
 Or feeling Fanny's laugh. 
 
 Behind us far already Uto lay, — 
 
 At whose foot Zurich in the quiet vale 
 
 Feeds her free sons : behind, 
 
 Receding vine-clad hills. 
 Unclouded beamed the top of silver Alps ; 
 And warmer beat the heart of gazing youths, 
 
 And warmer to their fair 
 
 Companions spoke its glow. 
 And Haller's Doris sang, the pride of song; 
 And Hirzel's Daphne, dear to Kleist and Gleim ; 
 
 And we youths sang, and felt 
 
 As each were — Hagedorn. 
 
 Soon the green meadow took us to the cool 
 And shadowy forest, which becrowns the isle. 
 
 Then cam'st thou, Joy, thou cam'st 
 
 Down in full tide to us ; 
 Yes, Goddess Joy, thyself! We felt, we claspea, 
 Best sister of Humanity, thyself; 
 
 With thy dear Innocence 
 
 Accompanied, thyself! 
 
 Sweet thy inspiring breath, O cheerful Spring, 
 When the meads cradle thee, and thy soft airs 
 
250 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Into the hearts of youths 
 And hearts of virgins glide ! 
 Thou makest Feeling conqueror. Ah ! through 
 
 thee, 
 Fuller, more tremulous heaves each blooming 
 breast ; 
 With lips spell-freed by thee 
 Young Love unfaltering pleads. 
 
 Fair gleams the wine, when to the social change 
 Of thought, or heart-felt pleasure, it invites ; 
 
 And the Socratic cup, 
 
 With dewy roses bound, 
 Sheds through the bosom bliss, and wakes re- 
 solves, 
 Such as the drunkard knows not, proud resolves, 
 
 Emboldening to despise 
 
 Whate'er the sage disowns. 
 
 Delightful thrills against the panting heart 
 Fame's silver voice, — and immortality 
 
 Is a great thought, well worth 
 
 The toil of noble men. 
 By dint of song to live through after-times, — 
 Often to be with rapture's thanking tone 
 
 By name invoked aloud, 
 
 From the mute grave invoked, — 
 To form the pliant heart of sons unborn, — 
 To plant thee, Love, thee, holy Virtue, there, — 
 
 Gold-heaper, is well worth 
 
 The toil of noble men. 
 
 But sweeter, fairer, more delightful 't is 
 
 On a friend's arm to know one's self a friend ! 
 
 Nor is the hour so spent 
 
 Unworthy heaven above. 
 
 Full of affection, in the airy shades 
 
 Of the dim forest, and with downcast look 
 
 Fixed on the silver wave, 
 
 I breathed this pious wish : 
 " O, were ye here, who love me though afar, 
 Whom, singly scattered in our country's lap, 
 
 In lucky, hallowed hour, 
 
 My seeking bosom found ; 
 Here would we build us huts of friendship, here 
 Together dwell for ever ! " — The dim wood 
 
 A shadowy Tempe seemed ; 
 
 Elysium all the vale. 
 
 TO YOUNG. 
 
 Die, aged prophet ! Lo, thy crown of palms 
 Has long been springing, and the tear of joy 
 
 Quivers on angel-lids 
 
 Astart to welcome thee ! 
 Why linger? Hast thou not already built 
 Above the clouds thy lasting monument ? 
 
 Over thy " Night Thoughts," too, 
 
 The pale freethinkers watch, 
 And feel there 's prophecy amid the song, 
 When of the dead-awakening trump it speaks, 
 
 Of coming final doom, 
 
 And the wise will of Heaven. 
 
 Die ! Thou hast taught me that the name of 
 
 death 
 Is to the just a glorious sound of joy ! 
 
 But be my teacher still, 
 
 Become my genius there ! 
 
 MY RECOVERY. 
 
 Recovery, daughter of Creation, too, 
 Though not for immortality designed, 
 
 The Lord of life and death 
 
 Sent thee from heaven to me ! 
 Had I not heard thy gentle tread approach, 
 Not heard the whisper of thy welcome voice, 
 
 Death had with iron foot 
 
 My chilly forehead pressed. 
 'T is true, I then had wandered where the earths 
 Roll around suns ; had strayed along the path 
 
 Where the maned comet soars 
 
 Beyond the armed eye ; 
 And with the rapturous, eager greet had hailed 
 The inmates of those earths and of those suns ; 
 
 Had hailed the countless host 
 
 That throng the comet's disc; 
 Had asked the novice questions, and obtained 
 Such answers as a sage vouchsafes to youth ; 
 
 Had learned in hours far more 
 
 Than ages here unfold ! 
 But I had then not ended here below 
 What, in the enterprising bloom of life, 
 
 Fate with no light behest 
 
 Required me to begin. 
 Recovery, daughter of Creation, too, 
 Though not for immortality designed, 
 
 The Lord of life and death 
 
 Sent thee from heaven to me ! 
 
 THE CHOIRS. 
 
 Dear dream, which I must ne'er behold fulfilled, 
 Thou beamy form, more fair than orient day, 
 
 Float back, and hover yet 
 
 Before my swimming sight ! 
 
 Do they wear crowns in vain, that they forbear 
 To realize the heavenly portraiture ? 
 Shall marble hearse them all, 
 Ere the bright change be wrought ? 
 
 Hail, chosen ruler of a freer world ! 
 
 For thee shall bloom the never fading song, 
 
 Who bidd'st it be, — to thee 
 
 Religion's honors rise. 
 
 Yes ! could the grave allow, of thee I 'd sing: 
 For once would Inspiration string the lyre, — 
 
 The streaming tide of joy, 
 
 My pledge for loftier verse. 
 
 Great is thy deed, my wish. He has not known 
 What 't is to melt in bliss, who never felt 
 
 Devotion's raptures rise 
 
 On sacred Music's wing : 
 
RAMLER. 
 
 251 
 
 Ne'er sweetly trembled, when adoring choirs 
 Mingle their hallowed songs of solemn praise; 
 
 And, at each awful pause, 
 
 The unseen choirs above. 
 
 Long float around my forehead, blissful dream ! 
 I hear a Christian people hymn their God, 
 
 Arid thousands kneel at once, 
 
 Jehovah, Lord, to thee ! 
 
 The people sing their Saviour, sing the Son ; 
 Their simple song according with the heart, 
 
 Yet lofty, such as lifts 
 
 The aspiring soul from earth. 
 
 On the raised eyelash, on the burning cheek, 
 The young tear quivers ; for they view the goal, 
 
 Where shines the golden crown, 
 
 Where angels wave the palm. 
 
 Hush ! the clear song wells forth. Now flows 
 
 along 
 Music, as if poured artless from the breast ; 
 
 For so the master willed 
 
 To lead its channelled course. 
 
 Deep, strong, it seizes on the swelling heart, 
 Scorning what knows not to call down the tear, 
 
 Or shroud the soul in gloom, 
 
 Or steep in holy awe. 
 
 Borne on the deep, slow sounds, a holy awe 
 Descends. Alternate voices sweep the dome, 
 Then blend their choral force, — 
 The theme, Impending Doom, 1 
 
 Or the triumphal Hail to him who rose, 
 While all the host of heaven o'er Sion's hill 
 
 Hovered, and, praising, saw 
 
 Ascend the Lord of Life. 
 
 One voice alone, one harp alone, begins ; 
 But soon joins in the ever fuller choir. 
 
 The people quake. They feel 
 
 A glow of heavenly fire. 
 
 Joy ! joy ! they scarce support it. Rolls aloud 
 The organ's thunder, — now more loud and 
 more, — 
 
 And to the shout of all 
 
 The temple trembles too. 
 
 Enough ! I sink ! The wave of people bows 
 Before the altar, — bows the front to earth ; 
 
 They taste the hallowed cup, 
 
 Devoutly, deeply, still. 
 
 One day, when rest my bones beside a fane, 
 Where thus assembled worshippers adore, 
 
 The conscious grave shall heave, 
 
 Its flowerets sweeter bloom ; 
 
 1 The words in Italics are passages from an Easier-hymn 
 of Luther's, very popular in Germany. 
 
 And on the morn that from the rock He sprang, 
 When panting Praise pursues his radiant way, 
 I '11 hear, — He rose again 
 Shall vibrate through the tomb. 
 
 CARL WILHELM RAMLER. 
 
 Carl Wilhelm Ramler was born at Col- 
 berg, in Pomerania, in 1725. His education 
 commenced at the Orphan School in Stettin, 
 whence, in 1740, he removed to Halle. In 
 1746, he became a preceptor in Berlin, where 
 he formed the acquaintance of Kleist, Sulzer, 
 and Lessing. In 1748, he was appointed Pro- 
 fessor of Logic and Elegant Literature in the 
 Berlin Academy for Cadets. He employed 
 himself in various literary undertakings, in ad- 
 dition to the duties of his professorship. In 
 1787, he became one of the managers of the 
 national theatre, and received a pension and a 
 seat in the Academy. He resigned his professor- 
 ship in 1790, and the directorship of the thea- 
 tre in 1796. He died in 1798. 
 
 Of his writings, his odes in the manner of 
 Horace acquired the most popularity ; indeed, he 
 is considered, next to Klopstock, the author of 
 the best odes of the time. His works were 
 published at Berlin, in 1800 and 1801. The 
 character of his productions is, however, cold 
 correctness, and he was too much of an imita- 
 tor, to retain a strong hold upon the minds of 
 his countrymen. 
 
 ODE TO WINTER. 
 
 Storms ride the air, and veil the sky in clouds, 
 And chase the thundering streams athwart the 
 
 land : 
 Bare stand the woods ; the social linden's leaves 
 Far o'er the valleys whirl. 
 
 The vine, — a withered stalk ! But why bewail 
 The godlike vine ? Friends, come and quaff 
 
 its blood ! 
 Let Autumn with his emptied horn retire ; 
 Bid fir-crowned Winter hail ! 
 
 He decks the flood with adamantine shield, 
 Which laughs to scorn the shafts of day. Amazed, 
 The tenants of the wood new blossoms view : 
 Strange lilies strew the ground. 
 
 No more in tottering gondolas the brides 
 Tremble ; on gliding cars they boldly scud : 
 Hid in her fur-clad neck, the favorite's hand 
 Asks an unneeded warmth. 
 
 No more, like fishes, plunge the bathing boys; 
 On steel-winged shoes they skim the hardened 
 
 wave : 
 The spouse of Venus in the glittering blade 
 The lightning's swiftness hid. 
 
252 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 V Winter ! call thy coldest east- wind; drive 
 The lingering warriors from Bohemia back ; 
 With them my Kleist : for him Lycoris stays, 
 And his friend's tawny wine. 
 
 ODE TO CONCORD. 
 
 Not always to the heaven's harmonious spheres, 
 O Concord, listen, — wander earth again ! 
 
 Beneath thy plastic step, 
 
 The peopled cities climb. 
 The chain, the. scourge, the axe beside thee bears 
 Deaf Nemesis, — to avenge the wedlock's stain, 
 
 The pillage of the cot, 
 
 The spilth of brother's blood. 
 From the warm ashes of their plundered homes, 
 On thee, with clasped hands, with pleading 
 tongue, 
 
 The lonely grandsire calls, 
 
 The widowed mother calls, 
 And she, — the flower of virgins now no more, — 
 Doomed aye to shed the unavailing tear, 
 
 And nurse, with downcast eye, 
 
 Some ruffian's orphan brat. 
 Bind with thy cords of silk the armed hands 
 Of hateful kings; reach out thy golden cup, 
 
 Whose sweet nepenthe heals 
 
 The feverish throb of wrath ; 
 And hither lead Hope, crowned with budding 
 
 blooms, 
 And callous-handed Labor, singing loud, 
 
 And Plenty, scattering gifts 
 
 To dancing choirs of glee. 
 The war-steed's hoof-mark hide with greening 
 
 ears ; 
 Twine round the elm once more the trampled 
 vine ; 
 
 And from the grass-grown street 
 
 The rugged ruin shove. 
 So shall, new nurseries of sons unborn, 
 More towns arise, — and, Concord, rear to thee, 
 
 Taught by the milder arts, 
 
 The marble fanes of thank. 
 
 GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING. 
 
 This great poet, and still greater critic, was 
 born in 1729, at Kamenz, a town in Upper Lu- 
 satia. He was sent in his twelfth year to the 
 " Prince's School " at Meissen, where he de- 
 voted himself to the ancient languages and 
 the mathematics with ardor and success. In 
 1746, he entered the University of Leipsic, but 
 was satisfied with none of the teachers except 
 Ernesti. Instead of studying theology, he oc- 
 cupied himself with the fine arts and the thea- 
 tre. Here he wrote his Anacreontics. In 1750, 
 he went to Berlin, and contributed to some of 
 the periodicals. He afterwards studied at Wit- 
 tenberg; but in 1753 returned to Berlin, and 
 formed a connection with Mendelssohn and Ni- 
 colai. He also wrote in Voss's" Gazette." Here 
 he became the founder of German scientific 
 
 criticism. In 1755, he wrote the tragedy of 
 " Sarah Sampson," the first German tragf dy of 
 common life. In the same year he set out on 
 a tour, as travelling companion to a Leipsic 
 merchant, Mr. Winkler, but returned to Leipsic 
 on account of the breaking out of the Seven 
 Years' War. He assisted in editing the " Li- 
 brary of Belles Lettres," was a contributor to 
 the " Literary Epistles," and began the " Emilia 
 Galotti " about this period. In 1760, he became 
 a member of the Royal Academy of Sciences 
 at Berlin, then secretary of General Tauen- 
 zien in Breslau, and wrote "Minna von Barn- 
 helm " and " Laocoon," — the latter appearing in 
 1765. In 1767, he accepted an invitation from 
 the proprietors of the theatre in Hamburg, and 
 removed to that city, where he wrote the " Dra- 
 maturgic." In 1770, he was appointed libra- 
 rian at WolfenbUttel; while in this situation, he 
 published some works that involved him in a 
 vehement theological controversy. In 1775, 
 he travelled in Italy ; and in 1779, he pub- 
 lished his "Nathan the Wise," the most cele- 
 brated of his dramatic works, in which he set 
 the example of the finished iambic pentameter, 
 afterwards used by Goethe and Schiller. He 
 died in Brunswick, in 1781. His numerous 
 works embrace almost every department of let- ■ 
 ters. They were published at Berlin, 1771 
 — 94, in thirty parts; again, 1825-28, in thirty- 
 two parts ; and, finally, at Leipsic, 1838 — 40, 
 in thirteen volumes, octavo. 
 
 The following passages are from the sketch 
 of Lessing's character by Wolfgang Menzel,* 
 and, though in some parts, perhaps, too highly 
 colored, show the estimation in which he is still 
 held in Germany. 
 
 " When we consider Lessing as a poet, we 
 must not forget that he had first to work himself 
 free from the Gallomania, Graecomania, and 
 Anglomania, by criticism, and that he was oc- 
 cupied with a hundred other things besides po- 
 etry. Hence his earlier poetical studies and 
 essays, as well as his occasional poetical trifles, 
 on which he himself set but little value, are 
 to be broadly distinguished from the classical 
 works of his full poetical maturity; that is, from 
 'Minna von Barnhelm,' 'Emilia Galotti,' and 
 ' Nathan,' — each of which would alone be suffi- 
 cient to rank him with the greatest poets of all 
 ages. The spirit and form of these works are 
 alike important. 
 
 " Honor stands forth as the inmost principle 
 of the poetry of Lessing. We can understand 
 why the poets and critics, whose principle, on 
 the contrary, had been hitherto the utter ab- 
 sence of honor, overlook this circumstance, and 
 have contrived fairly to forget it, in their eulo- 
 gies of Lessing. So much the more reason for 
 me to return to it. 
 
 " I say, still further, that honor was the prin- 
 ciple of Lessing's whole life. He composed in 
 the same spirit that he lived. He had to con- 
 
 * German Literature, Vol. II., p. 399. 
 
LESSING. 
 
 253 
 
 tend with obstacles his whole life long ; but he 
 never bowed down his head. He struggled, 
 not for posts of honor, but for his own indepen- 
 dence. He might, with his extraordinary abil- 
 ity, have rioted in the favor of the great, like 
 Goethe ; but he scorned and hated this favor, as 
 unworthy a free man. His long continuance 
 in private life, his services, as secretary of the 
 brave General Tauenzien, during the Seven 
 Years' War, and afterwards as librarian at Wolf- 
 enhiittel, proved that he did not aspire to high 
 places. He declared that he would resign the 
 latter situation at once, when the censorship 
 undertook to impose restraints upon his liberal 
 opinions. He ridiculed Gellert, Klopstock, and 
 all who bowed their laurelled brows before 
 heads encircled with golden crowns ; and he 
 himself shunned all contact with the great, ani- 
 mated by that stainless spirit of pride, to which 
 the Noli me tangere is an inborn principle." 
 
 " Such was Lessing himself, and such we find 
 him in his Major Tellheim, in Odmardo Ga- 
 lotti, and in Nathan. Humanity and wisdom 
 were never so intimately connected with the 
 romantic essence of manly honor; and no mod- 
 ern poet — I repeat it, no one — has known 
 how to represent this grace of manliness so well 
 as Lessing. 
 
 "And what charming daughters has this aus- 
 tere father ! What enchantment is there in 
 Minna, Emilia, Recha ! Who, except Shak- 
 speare, has understood the nature of woman, in 
 its sweet softness, noble simplicity, laughing 
 vivacity, and sacred purity, like Lessing? We 
 are amazed at the lovely miracles of fiction, and 
 would fain converse with these so natural crea- 
 tions, as if they were standing before us. 
 
 " Lessing was the first of our modern poets 
 who reconciled the ideals of poetry with real 
 life, — who dared to bring upon the stage he- 
 roes in modern costume, heroes of to-day. Up 
 to this time, we knew only the manly virtues 
 of the ancient Romans from the French come- 
 dy. Lessing showed, by his Tellheim, and 
 Odoardo, that, even in the present prosaic 
 world, a hero, a man of honor, may still exist. 
 
 " By this modern costume, by the naturalness 
 of his dramatic characters, and by the prose 
 which he brought into the field against the old 
 French alexandrine as well as the Greek hex- 
 ameter, he exerted a great influence on the sub- 
 sequent age, and became the creator of the 
 proper modern German poetry, which under- 
 took to picture life as it now is, while hitherto 
 nothing but what was ancient and foreign had 
 been imitated. 
 
 " The Anglomaniacs, who also came forward, 
 as friends of the natural style, with pictures 
 of the present and of common life, — Nicolai, 
 Milller von Itzehoe, and others, — were later 
 than Lessing, and followed the impulse which 
 he first gave. Then came Goethe and Schil- 
 ler, whose first prose dramas — ' GStz,' ' Cla- 
 vigo,' ' The Robbers,' l Cabal and Love ' — 
 everywhere betray the influence of Lessing's 
 
 school, and, without his example, would never 
 have existed. 
 
 " Lessing was also the first, who, in hia 
 ' Emilia Galotti,' delineated a modern prince. 
 Before that time we knew nothing but stiff 
 stage kings, with crown and sceptre ; or infa- 
 mous court poems, in which the orgies of Ver- 
 sailles were celebrated under the form of pasto- 
 ral poetry. Lessing surprised the world at 
 once with a picture of courts that was as new 
 as it was true. Who can deny that he produced 
 a powerful effect? Lessing's simple picture of 
 courts had a much greater influence on the 
 political opinions of the Germans than the later 
 revolutionary philosophers of France. Schiller 
 proceeded after this manner ; and, though Iff- 
 land's princes figured as very excellent charac- 
 ters, he made up for it by representing their 
 ministers as so much the worse. The immoral- 
 ity of the courts became a stock article of the 
 stage throughout Germany, and the courts, still 
 secure, took it* all very easily. 
 
 " Lessing's ' Nathan ' forms, in its subject- 
 matter, the luminous point of the liberal culture 
 which had become prevalent in the eighteenth 
 century. The neglect which his Jewish friend, 
 the amiable Mendelssohn, still at times experi- 
 enced, suggested to him the idea of this master- 
 piece, in which the profoundest understanding 
 is united with the noblest sentiments. This 
 immortal poem, of the mildest, nay, I might say, 
 of the sweetest wisdom, is likewise of great 
 importance to German literature by its form , 
 for it is the parent of the numberless iambic 
 tragedies which were brought into fashion by 
 Schiller and Goethe, first after Lessing. 
 
 "But no poet has again attained the early 
 charm of the German iambus, with which, in 
 Lessing's ' Nathan,' it takes a%deep and won- 
 derful hold of the affections, gently winning its 
 way to the heart. Goethe cultivated only the 
 melody and outward splendor, — Schiller, only 
 the overpowering vigor of this verse ; and both 
 of them, as well as their innumerable imitators, 
 departed widely from the delightful naturalness 
 and unpretending simplicity which it assumed 
 under the management of Lessing. The dra- 
 matic iambus has become too lyric; in Lessing, 
 it was nearer prose, and mnch more dramatic." 
 
 EXTRACT FROM NATHAN THE WISE. 
 
 SITTAH, SALADIN, AND NATHAN. 
 
 [Scene. — An Audience Room in the Sultan's Palace.] 
 
 saladin (giving directions at the door). 
 Here, introduce the Jew, whene'er he comes, — 
 He seems in no great haste. 
 
 SITTAH. 
 
 May be, at first, 
 
 He was not in the way. 
 
 'SALADIV. 
 
 Ah, sister, sister ! 
 
254 GERMAN 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 SITTAH. 
 
 SITTAH. 
 
 You seem as if a combat were impending. 
 
 Trust not yourself too little. 
 
 
 I answer for you, if you have the will. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Such men as you would willingly persuade us 
 
 W<k weapons that I have not learned to 
 
 It was their swords, their swords alone, that 
 
 wield. — 
 
 raised them. 
 
 Must I disguise myself? I use precautions ? 
 
 The lion 's apt to be ashamed of hunting 
 
 I lay a snare ? When, where gained I that 
 
 In fellowship of the fox; — 't is of his fellow, 
 
 knowledge ? 
 
 Not of the cunning, that he is ashamed. 
 
 And this, for what? To fish for money, — 
 
 
 money, — 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 For money from a Jew. And to such arts 
 
 You women would so gladly level man 
 
 Must Saladin descend, at last, to come at 
 
 Down to yourselves ! — Go, I have got my lesson. 
 
 The least of little things ? 
 
 
 
 SITTAH. 
 
 SITTAH. 
 
 What ! must I go ? 
 
 Each little thing, 
 
 
 Despised too much, finds methods of revenge. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 
 Had you the thought of staying i 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 
 'T is but too true. And if this Jew should prove 
 
 SITTAH. 
 
 The fair, good man, as once the dervis painted — 
 
 In your immediate presence not, indeed ; 
 
 
 But in the by-room. 
 
 SITTAH. 
 
 
 Then difficulties cease. A snare concerns 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 The avaricious, cautious, fearful Jew ; 
 
 You could like to listen. 
 
 And not the good, wise man : for he is ours 
 
 Not that, my sister, if I may insist. 
 
 Without a snare. Then the delight of hearing 
 
 Away ! the curtain rustles, — he is, come. 
 
 How such a man speaks out; with what stern 
 
 Beware of staying, — I '11 be on the watch. — 
 
 strength 
 
 [While Sittah retires through one door, Nathan enters 
 
 He tears the net, or with what prudent foresight 
 
 at another, and Saladin seats himself. 
 
 He one by one undoes the tangled meshes ! 
 
 Draw nearer, Jew ; yet nearer ; here, quite by 
 me, 
 
 That will be all to boot. 
 
 
 Without all fear. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 
 That I shall joy in. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 SITTAH. 
 
 Remain that for thy foes ! 
 
 What, then, should trouble thee? For if he be 
 
 
 One of the many only, a mere Jew, 
 
 You will not blush, to such a one to seem 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Your name is Nathan ? 
 
 A man as he thinks all mankind to be. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 One that to him should bear a better aspect 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Would seem a fool, — a dupe. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 
 Nathan the Wise? 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 
 So that I must 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Act badly, lest the bad think badly of me? 
 
 No. 
 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 SITTAH. 
 
 Yes; if you call it acting badly, brother, 
 
 If not thou, the people calls thee so. 
 
 To use a thing after its kind. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 
 May be, the people. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 
 There 's nothing, 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 That woman's wit invents, it can 't embellish. 
 
 Fancy not that I 
 
 
 Think of the people's voice contemptuously, 
 
 SITTAH. 
 
 I have been wishing much to know the man 
 
 Embellish? — 
 
 Whom it has named the Wise. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 But their fine-wrought filagree 
 
 And if it named 
 
 In my rude hand would break. It is for those 
 
 Him so in scorn ? If wise meant only prudent; 
 
 That can contrive them to employ such weapons : 
 
 And prudent, one who knows his interest well ? 
 
 They ask a practised wrist. But chance what 
 
 
 may, 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Well as I can 
 
 Who knows his real interest, thou must mean. 
 
LESSING. 
 
 255 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Then were the interested the most prudent ; 
 Then wise and prudent were the same. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 I hear 
 
 You proving what your speeches contradict. 
 
 Tou know man's real interests, which the peo- 
 ple 
 
 Knows not, — at least, have studied how to 
 know them. 
 
 That alone makes the sage. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Which each imagines 
 Himself to be. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Of modesty enough ! 
 
 Ever to meet it, where one seeks to hear 
 
 Dry truth, is vexing. Let us to the purpose; — 
 
 But, Jew, sincere and open 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 I will serve thee 
 
 So as to merit, Prince, thy further notice. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Serve me ? — how ? 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Thou shalt have the best I bring, 
 
 Shalt have them cheap. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 What speak you of? — your wares ? 
 My sister shall be called to bargain with you 
 For them (so much for the sly listener) ; — I 
 Have nothing to transact now with the mer- 
 chant. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Doubtless, then, you would learn what, on my 
 
 journey, 
 I noticed of the motions of the foe, 
 Who stirs anew. If unreserved I may 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Neither was that the object of my sending : 
 I know what I have need to know already. 
 In short, I willed your presence 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Sultan, order. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 To gain instruction quite on other points. 
 Since you are a man so wise, — tell me, which 
 
 law, 
 Which faith, appears to you the better ? 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Sultan, 
 
 I am a Jew. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 And I a Mussulman : 
 
 The Christian stands between us. Of these 
 
 three 
 Religions only one can be the true. 
 
 A man like you remains not just where birth 
 Has chanced to cast him, or, if he remains there, 
 Does it from insight, choice, from grounds of 
 
 preference. 
 Share, then, with me your insight, — let me hear 
 The grounds of preference, which I have wanted 
 The leisure to examine, — learn the choice 
 These grounds have motived, that it may be 
 
 mine. 
 In confidence I ask it. How you startle, 
 And weigh me with your eye ! It may well be 
 I 'm the first sultan to whom this caprice, 
 Methinks not quite unworthy of a sultan, 
 Has yet occurred. Am I not? Speak, then, — 
 
 speak. 
 Or do you, to collect yourself, desire 
 Some moments of delay ? I give them you. — 
 (Whether she 's listening' — I must know of her 
 If I 've done right. — ) Reflect, — I '11 soon 
 
 return . 
 
 [Saladin steps into the room to which Sittah had retired. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Strange ! How is this ? What wills the sultan 
 
 of me ? 
 I came prepared with cash, — he asks truth. 
 
 Truth ? 
 As if truth, too, were cash, — a coin disused, 
 That goes by weight, — indeed, 'tis some such 
 
 thing ; — 
 But a new coin, known by the stamp at once, 
 To be flung down and told upon the counter, 
 It is not that. Like gold in bags tied up, 
 So truth lies hoarded in the wise man's head, 
 To be brought out. — Which, now, in this 
 
 transaction, 
 Which of us plays the Jew ? He asks for truth, — 
 Is truth what he requires, his aim, his end? 
 That this is but the glue to lime a snare 
 Ought not to be suspected, — 't were too little. 
 Yet what is found too little for the great? 
 In fact, through hedge and pale to stalk at once 
 Into one's field beseems not, — friends look 
 
 round, 
 Seek for the path, ask leave to pass the gate. — 
 I must be cautious. Yet to damp him back, 
 And be the stubborn Jew, is not the thing; 
 And wholly to throw off" the Jew, still less. 
 For, if no Jew, he might with right inquire, 
 Why not a Mussulman? — Yes, — that may 
 
 serve me. 
 Not children only can be quieted 
 With stories. — Ha ! he comes ; — well, let him 
 
 come. 
 
 saladin (returning). 
 So there the field is clear. — I 'm not too quick ? 
 Thou hast bethought thyself as much as need 
 
 is? — 
 Speak, no one hears. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Might the whole world but hear us ! 
 
 saladin. 
 Is Nathan of his cause so confident ' 
 
256 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Yes, that I call the sage, — to veil no truth ; 
 For truth to hazard all things, life and goods. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Ay, when 't is necessary, and when useful. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Henceforth I hope I shall with reason bear 
 One of my titles, — " Betterer of the world 
 And of the law." 
 
 In truth, a noble title. 
 
 But, Sultan, ere I quite unfold myself, 
 
 Allow me to relate a tale. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Why not ? 
 
 I always was a friend of tales well told. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Well told, — that 's not precisely my affair. 
 
 Again so proudly modest? — Come, begin. 
 
 In days of yore, there dwelt in East a man 
 Who from a valued hand received a ring 
 Of endless worth : the stone of it an opal, 
 That shot an ever changing tint : moreover, 
 It had the hidden virtue him to render 
 Of God and man beloved, who, in this view, 
 And this persuasion, wore it. Was it strange 
 The Eastern man ne'er drew it off his finger, 
 And studiously provided to secure it 
 For ever to his house ? Thus he bequeathed it, 
 First, to the most beloved of his sons, — 
 Ordained that he again should leave the ring 
 To the most dear among his children, — and, 
 That without heeding birth, the favorite son, 
 In virtue of the ring alone, should always 
 Remain the lord o' th' house. — You hear me, 
 Sultan ? 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 I understand thee, — on. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 From son to son, 
 
 At length this ring descended to a father 
 
 Who had three sons alike obedient to him ; 
 
 Whom, therefore, he could not but love alike. 
 
 At times seemed this, now that, at times the third 
 
 (Accordingly as each apart received 
 
 The overflowings of his heart), most worthy 
 
 To heir the ring, which, with good-natured 
 
 weakness, 
 He privately to each in turn had promised. 
 This went on for a while. But death approached, 
 And the good father grew embarrassed. So 
 To disappoint two sons, who trust his promise, 
 He could not bear. What 's to be done ? He 
 
 sends 
 In secret to a jeweller, of whom, 
 Upon the model of the real ring, 
 
 He might bespeak two others, and commanded 
 To spare nor cost nor pains to make them like, 
 Quite like the true one. This the artist managed. 
 The rings were brought, and e'en the father's eye 
 Could not distinguish which had been the model. 
 Quite overjoyed, he summons all his sons, 
 Takes leave of each apart, on each bestows 
 His blessing and his ring, and dies. — Thou 
 hear'st me ? 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 I hear, I hear. Come, finish with thy tale ; — 
 Is it soon ended ? 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 It is ended, Sultan ; 
 
 For all that follows may be guessed of course. 
 Scarce is the father dead, each with his ring 
 Appears, and claims to be the lord o' th' house. 
 Comes question, strife, complaint, — all to no 
 
 end ; 
 For the true ring could no more be distinguished 
 Than now can — the true faith. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 How, how ? — is that 
 
 To be the answer to my query ? 
 
 No, 
 
 But it may serve as my apology ; 
 
 If I can 't venture to decide between 
 
 Rings which the father got expressly made, 
 
 That they might not be known from one another 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 The rings, — do n't trifle with me ; I must think 
 That the religions which I named can be 
 Distinguished, e'en to raiment, drink, and food. 
 
 And only not as to their grounds of proof. 
 
 Are not all built alike on history, 
 
 Traditional, or written ? History 
 
 Must be received on trust, — is it not so? 
 
 In whom now are we likeliest to put trust ? 
 
 In our own people surely, in those men 
 
 Whose blood we are, in them who from our 
 
 childhood 
 Have given us proofs of love, who ne'er de- 
 ceived us, 
 Unless 't were wholesomer to be deceived. 
 How can I less believe in my forefathers 
 Than thou in thine? How can I ask of thee 
 To own that thy forefathers falsified, 
 In order to yield mine the praise of truth ? 
 The like of Christians. 
 
 By the living God ! 
 
 The man is in the right, — I must be silent. 
 
 Now let us to our rings return once. more. 
 As said, the sons complained. Each to the judge 
 Swore from his father's hand immediately 
 To have received the ring, as was the case , 
 
L E S S I N G. 
 
 257 
 
 After lie had long obtained the father's prom- 
 ise 
 One day to have the ring, as also was. 
 The father, each asserted, could to him 
 Not have been false : rather than so suspect 
 Of such a father, willing as he might be 
 With charity to judge his brethren, he 
 Of treacherous forgery was bold to accuse them. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Well, and the judge, — I 'm eager now to hear 
 What thou wilt make him say. Go on, go on. 
 
 The judge said, " If ye summon not the father 
 Before my seat, I cannot give a sentence. 
 Am I to guess enigmas? Or expect ye 
 That the true ring should here unseal its lips ? 
 But hold, — you tell me that the real ring 
 Enjoys the hidden power to make the wearer 
 Of God and man beloved : let that decide. 
 Which of you do two brothers love the best? 
 You 're silent. Do these love-exciting rings 
 Act inward only, not without ? Does each 
 Love but himself? Ye 're all deceived deceiv- 
 ers, — 
 None of your rings is true. The real ring, 
 Perhaps, is gone. To hide or to supply 
 Its loss, your father ordered three for one." 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 O, charming, charming ! 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 "And," the judge continued, 
 " If you will take advice, in lieu of sentence, 
 This is my counsel to you, — to take up 
 The matter where it stands. If each of you 
 Has had a ring presented by his father, 
 Let each believe his own the real ring. 
 T is possible the father chose no longer 
 To tolerate the one ring's tyranny ; 
 And certainly, as he much loved you all, 
 And loved you all alike, it could not please 
 
 him, 
 By favoring one, to be of two the oppressor. 
 Let each feel honored by this free affection 
 Unwarped of prejudice ; let each endeavour 
 To vie with both his brothers in displaying 
 The virtue of his ring ; assist its might 
 With gentleness, benevolence, forbearance, 
 With inward resignation to the Godhead ; 
 And if the virtues of the ring continue 
 To show themselves among your children's 
 
 children, 
 After a thousand thousand years, appear 
 Before this judgment-seat, — a greater one 
 Than I shall sit upon it, and decide." — 
 So spake the modest judge. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 God ! 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Saladin, 
 
 Feel'st tbou thyself this wiser, promised man ? 
 33 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 I, dust, — I, nothing, — God ? 
 
 [Precipitates himself upon Nathan and takes hold of 
 his hand, which he does not quit, the remainder of 
 the scene. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 What moves thee, Sultan ? 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Nathan, my dearest Nathan, 't is not yet 
 The judge's thousand thousand years are past, — 
 His judgment-seat 's not mine. Go, go, but 
 love me. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Has Saladin, then, nothing else to order? 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 No. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Nothing ? 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Nothing in the least, — and wherefore ? 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 I could have wished an opportunity 
 To lay a prayer before you. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Is there need 
 
 Of opportunity for that ? Speak freely. 
 
 I have come from a long jou.rney, from collecting 
 Debts, and I 've almost of hard cash too much; — 
 The times look perilous, — I know not where 
 To lodge it safely; — I was thinking thou — 
 For coming wars require large sums — couldst 
 use it. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Nathan, I ask not if thou saw'st Al-Hafi, — 
 I '11 not examine if some shrewd suspicion 
 Spurs thee to make this offer of thyself. 
 
 Suspicion ? — 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 I deserve this offer. Pardon ! 
 
 For what avails concealment? I acknowledge 
 
 I was about 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 To ask the same of me ? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Then 'tis well we 're both accommodated. 
 That I can 't send thee all I have of treasure 
 Arises from the templar ; — thou must know 
 
 him ; — 
 I have a weighty deht to pay to him. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 A templar? How? thou dost not with thy gold 
 Support my direst foes ? 
 
 v2 
 
258 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 I speak of him 
 Whose life the sultan- 
 
 What art thou recalling ? 
 
 I had forgot the youth. Whence is he ? know'st 
 thou ? 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Hast thou not heard, then, how thy clemency 
 To him has fallen on me ? He, at the risk 
 Of his new-spared existence, from the flames 
 Rescued my daughter. 
 
 SALADIN. 
 
 Ha ! Has he done that ? 
 
 He looked like one that would. My brother, 
 
 too, 
 Whom he 's so like, had done it. Is he here still? 
 Bring him to me. I have so often talked 
 To Sittah of this brother, whom she knew not, 
 That I must let her see his counterfeit. 
 Go, fetch him. How a single worthy action, 
 Though but of whim or passion born, gives rise 
 To other blessings ! Fetch him. 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 In an instant. 
 
 The rest remains as settled. 
 
 O, I wish 
 
 I had let my sister listen ! Well, I '11 to her. 
 
 How shall I make her privy to all this ? 
 
 SALOMON GESSNER. 
 
 Salomon Gessner was born at Zurich in 
 1730. Conrad Gessner, a voluminous writer 
 in the sixteenth century, was one of his ances- 
 tors. The father of the poet was a bookseller, 
 and a member of the Great Council. He was 
 placed under the instruction of Bodmer, but 
 with little benefit. At length, being appren- 
 ticed by his father to a bookseller in Berlin, he 
 became acquainted with Gleim, Kleist, Lessing, 
 and Ramler. At the expiration of ten years, 
 he returned to Zurich, and became a partner in 
 the firm, as a bookseller. His "Idyls" first 
 appeared in 1756, and gave him at once a high 
 reputation. His " Death of Abel " was published 
 in 1758 ; and, in 1762, an epic poem, under the 
 title of "The First Navigator." He showed 
 also a talent for drawing and painting, and the 
 last of his works was the " Letters on Land- 
 scape Painting." He died in 1788. His works 
 abound in delicate and beautiful descriptions 
 of natural scenery, but are deficient in vigor 
 and action. Their predominant character is 
 sentimentality. The most successful among 
 them was " The Death of Abel." The latest 
 edition of his works is that of Leipsic, 2 vols., 
 1841. 
 
 A SCENE FROM THE DELUGE. 
 I. 
 Now beneath the flood of might 
 
 Shrouded the marble turrets are, 
 And 'gainst each insular mountain height 
 The black, big waves are billowing far; 
 And, lo ! before the surging death, 
 Isle after isle still vanisheth ! 
 
 Remains one lonely speck above 
 
 The fury of the climbing flood : 
 A grisly crowd still vainly strove 
 
 To win that safer altitude ; 
 And the cries of despair still rang on the air, 
 As the rushing wave pursued in its pride, 
 And dashed them from its slippery side ! 
 
 O, is not yonder shore less steep, 
 Ye happier few ? escape the deep ! 
 Upon its crest the crowd assembles, — 
 Lo ! the peopled mountain trembles ! 
 The rushing waters exalt it on high ; — 
 
 Shaken and shivered from brow to base, 
 It slides amain, unwieldily, 
 Into the universal sea ; 
 And instantly the echoing sky 
 
 Howls to the howl of the hapless race 
 That burden the hill, or under it die ! 
 
 Yonder, the torrent of waters, behold ! 
 Into the chaos of ocean hath rolled 
 The virtuous son, with his sire so old ! 
 He, strengthened with duty, and proud of his 
 strength, 
 Sought from that desolate island, now sunken, 
 To conquer the perilous billows at length, — 
 But their very last sob the mad waters have 
 drunken ! 
 
 To the deluge's dire, unatonable tomb 
 
 Yon mother abandons the children she tried, 
 
 In vain, to preserve ; and the watery gloom 
 Swells over the dead, as they float side by side : 
 And she hath plunged after ! — how madly sho 
 died! 
 
 From forth the waters waste and wild 
 The loftiest summit sternly smiled ; 
 And that but to the sky disclosed 
 
 Its rugged top, and that sad pair, 
 Who, to this hour of wrath exposed, 
 
 Stood in the howling storm-blast there. 
 Semin, the noble, young, and free, 
 
 To whom this world's most lovely one 
 Had vowed her heart's idolatry, — 
 His own beloved Zemira, — set 
 On this dark mountain's coronet; — 
 
 And they were mid the flood alone ! 
 
 Broke on them the wild waters; — alJ 
 The heaven was thunder, and a pall ; 
 
 Below, the ocean's roar ; 
 Around, deep darkness, save the flash 
 Of lightning on the waves, that dash 
 
 Without a bed, or shore 
 
GESSNER. 
 
 259 
 
 And every cloud from the lowering sky 
 Threatened destruction fierce and nigh ; 
 And every surge rolled drearily, 
 With carcasses borne on ooze and foam, 
 Yawning, as to its moving tomb 
 It looked for further prey to come. 
 
 Zemira to her fluttering breast 
 
 Folded her lover ; and their hearts 
 Throbbed on each other, unrepressed, 
 
 Blending as in one bosom, — while 
 The raindrops on her faded cheek 
 
 With her tears mingled, but not a smile ;- 
 In horror, nothing now can speak, — 
 
 Such horror nothing now imparts ! 
 
 " There is no hope of safety, — none, 
 My Semin, — my beloved one ! 
 O, woe ! O, desolation ! Death 
 Sways all, — above, around, beneath: 
 Near and more near he climbs, — and, O, 
 Which of the waves besieging so 
 Will whelm us ? Take me to thy cold 
 And shuddering arms' beloved fold ! 
 My God ! look ! what a wave comes on ! 
 
 It glitters in the lightning dim, — 
 It passes over us ! " — 
 
 'T is gone, — 
 
 And senseless sinks the maid on him. 
 
 Semin embraced the fainting maid, — 
 
 Words faltered on his quivering lips, 
 And he was mute, — and all was shade, 
 
 And all around him in eclipse. 
 Was it one desolate, hideous spot ? 
 A wreck of worlds ? — He saw it not ! 
 He saw but her, beloved so well, 
 
 So death-like on his bosom lay, 
 Felt the cold pang that o'er him fell, 
 
 Heard but his beating heart. Away, 
 Grasp of hard Agony's iron hand ! 
 
 Off from his heart thine icy touch ! 
 Off from his lips thy colorless band ! 
 
 Off from his soul thy wintry clutch ! 
 
 Love conquers Death, — and he hath kissed 
 
 Her bleached cheeks, by the cold rain 
 bleached ; 
 He hath folded her to his bosom; and, list ! 
 
 His tender words her heart have reached : 
 She hath awakened, and she looks 
 
 Upon her lover tenderly, 
 Whose tenderness the Flood rebukes,' 
 
 As on destroying goeth he. 
 
 "O God of Judgment!" she cried aloud, 
 
 " Refuge or pity is there none ? 
 Waves rave, and thunder rends the cloud, 
 
 And the winds howl, — ' Be vengeance done ! ' 
 Our years have innocently sped, — 
 
 My Semin, thou wert ever good : 
 Woe 's me ! my joy and pride have fled ! 
 
 All but my love is now subdued ! 
 And thou, to me who gavest life, 
 Torn from my side, I saw thy strife 
 
 With the wild surges, and thy head 
 
 Heave evermore above the water, 
 Thine arms exalted and outspread, 
 
 For the last time, to bless thy daughter ! 
 The earth is now a lonely isle ! 
 
 Yet 't were a paradise to me, 
 Wert, Semin, thou with me the while, — 
 
 O, let me die embracing thee ! 
 Is there no pity, God above ! 
 For innocence and blameless love ? 
 But what shall innocence plead before thee ? 
 Great God ! thus dying, I adore thee ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 Still his beloved the youth sustains, 
 
 As she in the storm-blast shivers : — 
 " 'T is done ! no hope of life remains ! 
 
 No mortal howls among the rivers ! 
 Zemira ! the next moment is 
 
 Our last, — gaunt Death ascends ! Lo ! he 
 Doth clasp our thighs, and the abyss 
 
 Yearns to embrace us eagerly ! 
 
 " We will not mourn a common lot, — 
 Life, what art thou, when joyfullest, 
 Wisest, noblest, greatest, best, — 
 Life longest, and that most delightest? 
 
 A dewdrop, by the dawn begot, 
 
 That on the rock to-day is brightest, 
 
 To-morrow doth it fade away, 
 
 Or fall into the ocean's spray. 
 
 " Courage ! beyond this little life 
 
 Eternity and bliss are rife. 
 
 Let us not tremble, then, my love, 
 
 To cross the narrow sea, — but thus 
 Embrace each other ; and above 
 
 The swelling surge that pants for us 
 Our souls shall hover happily, 
 Triumphant, and at liberty ! 
 
 "Ay, let us join our hands in prayer 
 To Him whose wrath hath ravaged here : 
 His holy doom shall mortal man 
 Presume to judge, and weigh, and scan ? 
 He who breathed life into our dust 
 May to the just or the unjust 
 Send death ; but happy, happy they 
 Who 've trodden Wisdom's pleasant way! 
 
 " Not life we ask, O Lord ! Do thou 
 Convey us to thy judgment-seat ! 
 
 A sacred faith inspires me now, — 
 
 Death shall not end, but shall complete. 
 
 Peal out, ye thunders ; crush and scathe ! 
 
 Howl, desolation, ruin, wrath ! 
 
 Entomb us, waters ! — Evermore 
 
 Praised be the Just One ! We adore ! 
 
 Our mouths shall praise him, as we sink, 
 
 And the last thought our souls shall think ! ' 
 
 v. 
 Her soul was brave, — her soul was glad, — 
 Her aspect was no longer sad, — ■ 
 Amid the tempest and the storm, 
 She raised her hands, — she raised her fonr 
 
260 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 She felt the great and mighty hope, 
 
 And she was strong with Death to cope : — 
 
 " Praise, O my mouth, the Lord Most High ! 
 
 My eyes, weep tears of ecstasy, 
 
 Until ye 're sealed by death, — then ye 
 
 Shall gaze on heaven's felicity ! 
 
 Beloved, but late from us bereaved, 
 
 We come to you, for whom we grieved : 
 
 Anon, and we again shall meet 
 
 Before God's throne and judgment-seat. 
 
 The just assembled I behold : 
 
 Lo ! Mercy's courts for them unfold ! — 
 
 Howl, desolation ! Thunder, peal ! 
 
 Ye are but voices to reveal 
 
 The justice of the Lord Most High : 
 
 Break on us, waves ! Hail ! Death is nigh 
 
 And nearer yet he comes, and raves 
 
 Upon the blackness of the waves ! 
 
 O Semin ! now he grasps my throat ! — 
 
 Semin ! embrace me, — leave me not ! 
 
 The billow lifts me, — help ! — I float ! " 
 
 "I do embrace thee ! " the youth replied, — 
 " Zemira ! I embrace thee ! — Death ! 
 
 Thee also I embrace ! " he cried, — 
 
 " I welcome thee with my parting breath ! — 
 
 Lo ! we are here ! All lauded be 
 
 The Just One everlastingly ! " 
 
 They spake, — while them the monstrous del- 
 uge spray 
 Swept, in each other's arms, away, — away ! 
 
 JOHANN GEORG JACOBI. 
 
 Johann Georg Jacobi was born at Dtls- 
 seldorf in 1740. In 1758, he went to the 
 University of Gottingen to study theology, and 
 afterwards continued his studies at Helmstadt. 
 He was made Professor of Philosophy in Halle, 
 where he published a periodical called " The 
 Iris." He formed a close intimacy with Gleim, 
 and became, in 1769, a canon in Halberstadt. 
 In 1784, he was appointed by Joseph the Sec- 
 ond to a Professorship of Belles Lettres in the 
 University of Freyburg, in the Brisgau. He 
 died in 1814. His works are marked by two 
 different manners. His earlier productions — 
 the Anacreontic songs, and epistles to Gleim 
 — are modelled after the French poets; his 
 later works are more vigorous and earnest. He 
 excelled in the epistle and the song; but was 
 less successful in comedy. An edition of his 
 works was published at Zurich, in seven vol- 
 umes, 1807-13, and a new edition in 1826, in 
 four volumes. 
 
 " Jacobi is one of the few German writers 
 who have formed their taste on French models. 
 He has imitated, in his verses, the easy, playful 
 
 style of the poets of that nation ; and has, in 
 particular, avowed his admiration of Chapelle, 
 Chaulieu, and Gresset. Their works were the 
 sources from whence he derived the soft and 
 tender tone of his compositions, and the easy 
 flow and charming euphony of his numbers. 
 In his descriptions of the innocent and cheerful 
 pleasures of life, he ha? closely followed Gleim; 
 and, indeed, he owes a great portion of his art 
 to that poet's society and instruction. His ma- 
 imer efforts display a more manly character, 
 and not unfrequently unite with his natural 
 simplicity and grace much richness of imagina- 
 tion and profundity of thought. His dramatic 
 pieces bear the lowest, and his lyrical effusions 
 the highest rank among his compositions." * 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Tell me, where 's the violet fled, 
 
 Late so gayly blowing ; 
 Springing 'neath fair Flora's tread, 
 
 Choicest sweets bestowing ? — 
 Swain, the vernal scene is o'er, 
 And the violet blooms no more ! 
 
 Say, where hides the blushing rose, 
 Pride of fragrant morning ; 
 
 Garland meet for beauty's brows ; 
 Hill and dale adorning ? — 
 
 Gentle maid, the summer 's fled, 
 
 And the hapless rose is dead ! 
 
 Bear me, then, to yonder rill, 
 
 Late so freely flowing, 
 Watering many a daffodil 
 
 On its margin glowing. — 
 Sun and wind exhaust its store ; 
 Yonder rivulet glides no more ! 
 
 Lead me to the bowery shade, 
 Late with roses flaunting; 
 
 Loved resort of youth and maid, 
 Amorous ditties chanting. — 
 
 Hail and storm with fury shower ; 
 
 Leafless mourns the rifled bower ! 
 
 Say, where bides the village maid, 
 
 Late yon cot adorning? 
 Oft I 've met her in the glade, 
 
 Fair and fresh as morning. — 
 Swain, how short is beauty's bloom ! 
 Seek her in her grassy tomb ! 
 
 Whither roves the tuneful swain, 
 
 Who, of rural pleasures, 
 Rose and violet, rill and plain, 
 
 Sung in deftest measures ? — 
 Maiden, swift life's vision flies, 
 Death has closed the poet's eyes ! 
 
 * Specimens of the German Lyric Poets (London, 1823) 
 p. 47. 
 
WIELAND. 
 
 261 
 
 SEVENTH PERIOD.-FROM 1770 TO 1844. 
 
 CHRISTOPH MARTIN WIELAND. 
 
 This illustrious writer was born on the 5th 
 of September, 1733, at Oberholzheim, near 
 Biberach, where his father was a Protestant 
 clergyman. His poetical genius displayed itself 
 very early ; he composed German and Latin 
 verses in his twelfth year. In 1747, he was 
 sent to school in Klosterberg, near Magdeburg, 
 where he studied not only the ancient classics, 
 but the principal authors of England and 
 France. After leaving Klosterberg, he passed 
 a year and a half in Erfurt, preparing for the 
 University. In 1750, he returned to his native 
 place, and the same year entered the University 
 of Tubingen, to study law ; but his attention 
 was chiefly occupied with literature, and, in 
 1751, he wrote his "Ten Moral Letters," ad- 
 dressed to Sophia von Gattermann, with whom 
 he had some time before fallen in love, and a 
 didactic poem called "Anti-Ovid." He also 
 wrote an epic poem on the subject of Arminius, 
 which procured him an invitation from Bodmer 
 to visit Zilrich, and reside with him as his lit- 
 erary companion. He lived at Bodmer's house 
 until 1754, occupied with the study of Greek, 
 and of the leading German authors, who had 
 given a new impulse to the national literature. 
 He also wrote much and hastily during this 
 period. He left Bodmer's house in 1754, and 
 became a tutor, and in 1760 returned to Biber- 
 ach. Here he studied the French philosophers, 
 and translated twenty-eight of Shakspeare's 
 plays. Here, also, he became acquainted with 
 Count Stadion, whose taste, talents, and ac- 
 quirements exerted a marked influence upon 
 his character. The spirit of his writings 
 changed from the somewhat mvstical and re- 
 ligious tendency, which had hitherto character- 
 ized them, to a voluptuous, not to say licentious 
 tone. He wrote, at this period, the " Don 
 Sylvio di Rosalva, or the Victory of Nature 
 over Fanaticism." In 1766, he published "Aga- 
 thon," and, in 1768, the didactic poem of" Mu- 
 sarion." In 1769, he was appointed professor 
 in Erfurt, and while holding this place wrote 
 many works. In 1772, he was invited by the 
 widowed Duchess Amalie of Weimar to su- 
 perintend the education of her sons. Here he 
 had leisure to continue his iiterary and poet- 
 ical labors, turned his attention to dramatic 
 poetry, and wrote " The Choice of Hercules," 
 and the " Alcestis." He also took charge of 
 the " German Mercury." Goethe and Herder 
 came to Weimar soon after, and, in conjunction 
 with them, Wieland labored with great success, 
 more than twenty years. His principal poetic 
 work, the romantic epic of" Oberon," appeared 
 in 1780. Besides his original works, only a 
 
 part of which have been enumerated, he pre- 
 pared translations of Horace and Lucian, and 
 of Cicero's Letters. He lived for a time on 
 an estate near Weimar, called Osmanstadt, 
 which the profits of his literary works had ena- 
 bled him to purchase ; but he sold it in 1803, for 
 economical reasons, and returned to Weimar. 
 He died on the 20th of January, 1813. 
 
 Notwithstanding the objections that have been 
 justly urged against many of his writings, the 
 personal character of Wieland was free from 
 moral blemish. In private he was amiable, 
 upright, friendly, and hospitable. He was a 
 great master of style, both in prose and poetry ; 
 his fancy was lively, his invention prolific, and 
 his manner graceful. His works are very vo- 
 luminous. They were published at Leipsic, by 
 Goschen, in 1794 — 1802, in thirty-six parts, 
 with six supplementary volumes, a very ele- 
 gant edition in quarto; again in 1818, in forty- 
 nine volumes ; again in 1825, in fifty-three 
 volumes. A selection of his letters appeared 
 in 1815, in two volumes. His life was written 
 by Gruber, in two parts, 1815 ; republished in 
 1827, in four parts. His "Oberon" is well 
 known to the English public through Mr. Sothe- 
 by's translation. 
 
 As the moral censures to which his works 
 have been subjected are mentioned in the pre- 
 ceding notice, it is but just to subjoin a part of 
 Wolfgang Menzel's hjgh-wrought eulogy, al- 
 though it is marked by the partiality of a warm 
 admirer.* 
 
 "It was Wieland who transplanted the lively 
 Athenian spirit to the German forests and the 
 Gothic cities, but not without a dash of the 
 lighter and more trifling genius of the French. 
 Wieland united in his own character the Gal- 
 lomania and the Graecomania. He was edu- 
 cated in the first, and did not devote himself to 
 the second until a later period ; but he per- 
 ceived at once the partial and wrong direction 
 which Klopstock and Voss had taken, and led 
 the Germans back from their demure formality 
 to the agreeable movement of the Graeco-Gallic 
 graces. German poetry, although in the time 
 of the Minnesingers moving with a cheerful 
 and easy grace, had been disguised by the Mas- 
 tersingers in starched and buckram drapery, and, 
 after the Thirty Years' War, in full-bottomed 
 wigs and hoop petticoats, and then was utterly 
 at a loss what to do with her hands, and played 
 the simpleton with her fan. If mighty geniuses, 
 like Klopstock and Lessing, threw this trum- 
 pery aside, and broke away from the minuet, 
 daring to take their own course, yet vigor had 
 to be satisfied in them before others could re- 
 
 * German Literature, Vol. II., pp. 379-395. 
 
262 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 turn to gracefulness ; and the principal tendency 
 of their efforts aspired after what was higher, 
 in order to occupy themselves chiefly with that. 
 To prepare a suitable reception for this grace- 
 fulness again, there needed a mind of peculiar 
 genius, in whom this tendency alone manifested 
 itself. 
 
 " Wieland — the cheerful, amiable, delicate 
 Wieland — a genius overflowing, inexhaustible 
 in agreeableness, ease, raillery, and wit — made 
 his appearance. One must know the whole 
 stiff, distorted, ceremonious, and sentimental 
 age which preceded him, to be able to appre- 
 ciate justly the free and soaring flight of this 
 genius, and to excuse, as it deserves, what we, 
 judging from the higher point of view of the 
 present age, to which he has raised us on his 
 own shoulders, might, perhaps, find reason to 
 except to in his writings. 
 
 " Wieland first restored to German poetry 
 the unrestrained spirit, the free look of the 
 child of the world, the natural grace, the love 
 and desire of cheerful pleasantry, and the pow- 
 er of supplying it. Daring, humorous, and im- 
 posing, he cut off the pig-tails of the cockneys, 
 disrobed the blushing beauty of the odious hoop 
 petticoats, and taught the Germans, not to play 
 with lambkins naked in the ideal and idyllic 
 world, in the narrow spirit of the earlier pas- 
 toral poets, but to find nature again of them- 
 selves in the world as it is, by throwing off 
 their unnatural habits, and to move their unfet- 
 tered limbs in an easy and confident harmony. 
 
 " His whole being was penetrated with that 
 spirit of agreeableness, joyousness, freedom, and 
 confidence ; free, delicate, and witty, easy, 
 nimble, and inexhaustible in pleasantry, as a 
 natural and healthy condition of life always 
 requires, and as is still more required by the 
 antagonism of a harsh and severe age. There- 
 fore he detected, with unfailing skill, whatever 
 of attractive grace distinguishes our forefathers 
 and other nations, and easily acquired the diffi- 
 cult art of refining his own mind thereby, of 
 breathing it into his own poetry, and of explain- 
 ing to the Germans in what it ought to be imi- 
 tated. But it was this grace, almost exclusively, 
 which he placed before every thing else, in his 
 extensive study of the ancient and foreign poe- 
 try, as the thing that most particularly claimed 
 his attention, and was to him of the most im- 
 portance. In this he stands alone. 
 
 " Wieland's genius was most powerfully 
 drawn towards Greece. There he found all 
 the ideals of his grace ; there he drank the 
 pure draught of life and of nature. But few 
 minds have been at home in that abode of the 
 beautiful, each in a different way from the 
 others. A mode of life like the Greek is too 
 great to be wholly comprehended by a single 
 mind. Only an existence conceived and nur- 
 tured in that very life could entitle one to 
 make this claim. But we stand afar from that 
 world, and it is given only to here and there a 
 traveller to discover it again, and merely as a 
 
 transient pilgrim in a strange land. Wieland 
 made the harmony and grace, with which the 
 whole life of the Greeks was pervaded, a part 
 of his own mind. Had any modern European 
 whatever, before Wieland, recognized and ap- 
 propriated to himself the Grecian grace ? Be- 
 fore this, the excellent form of man, the natural 
 beauty of his figure, had been covered with 
 helm and harness ; afterwards, with perukes, 
 and frisures, and endless waistcoats, and ruffles, 
 and hoop petticoats. In this matter, Wieland did 
 for poetry what Winckelmann did for plastic 
 art. He taught us to recognize and embody 
 natural beauty again, after the model of the 
 Greeks ; but it can hardly be affirmed, al- 
 though he has undeniably seized upon one of 
 the most prominent aspects of the Greek char- 
 acter, that he has entirely penetrated the depth 
 of Grecian genius, or that he has sounded the 
 depth of the romantic spirit. The plastic 
 beauty of Greek architecture and statuary, the 
 gladness and harmony of the Greek enjoyment 
 of life, the mirror-clear smoothness of the 
 Greek philosophy, reached to him their full, 
 overhanging blossoms over the high walls of 
 time, but nothing more. His Greek novels, 
 therefore, correspond to the Greek genius only 
 in a certain sense, and are, in other respects, 
 the productions of Wieland and his age, in 
 which they are naturalized. French taste, too, 
 has its part and lot therein. 
 
 " His feelings inclined to the French with 
 just the same original want that was experi- 
 enced by Frederic the Great, and others of his 
 time, — only that the one satisfied it as a philoso- 
 pher and king, the other as a poet. In that 
 knowledge of the world, in the capacity for 
 the safe and clear-headed management of affairs, 
 and of every relation of life, which is, at the 
 same time, the source of all their art, the French 
 had very long surpassed us Germans. After 
 Voltaire, however, their best writers had shown 
 such a spirit of routine, that, in fact, there was 
 but little difference between them and the most 
 witty authors of the later period of antiquity, par- 
 ticularly Lucian. Now, when we find, in truth, 
 that Wieland, in his romantic poems, took for 
 models, not only Ariosto, but also Voltaire and 
 Parny ; in his novels, not only Lucian and 
 Cervantes, but also Crebillon, Diderot, and 
 Cazotte, — we cannot help admiring the uner- 
 ring tact and skill, with which, amidst all his 
 levity, he could set aside the real obscenity 
 and the moral poison of those French authors, 
 whose genius was as great as their corruption, 
 and added to the antique Grace, and the Grace 
 of France, the third and youngest of all, the 
 German Grace, a pleasing and simple one, 
 coquetting, it is true, but still coquetting with 
 her innocence. The manner in which Wieland 
 tempered down French frivolity does far more 
 honor to his taste than his adoption of it merits 
 reproach. He has often been severely cen- 
 sured, and has been called the seducer of our 
 pure and moral nation ; and, in particular, the 
 
WIELAND. 
 
 26c 
 
 new-fangled, old-German Nazarenes, and the 
 Bighsrs, have for a long time wanted to damn 
 
 him utterly But, so far from seducing 
 
 an uncorrupted generation, Wieland has done 
 much more to lead back a generation, already 
 perverted by the Gallomania, to decency and 
 moderation, to lively and intellectual social en- 
 joyments ; and the later sentimental, and, in 
 part, the romantic poets, under the mask of 
 transcendently sublime sentiments, were the 
 first to spread abroad the poison of a morbid 
 voluptuousness, which was wholly foreign to 
 the sound-hearted Wieland. In general, laugh- 
 ing pleasure is not dangerous, — only the seri- 
 ous, musing, weeping, and praying is so, — the 
 voluptuousness found in the writings of Goethe, 
 Heinse, Frederic Schlegel, and the like. The 
 senses, guarded by the understanding, are frank 
 and smiling graces, cheerful companions ; it is 
 only when they put on the disguise of sublime 
 and noble sentiments, and under this mask 
 reign over the affections, that they become foul 
 poisons that kill in secret." 
 
 EXTRACT FROM OBERON. 
 
 Now through the outward court swift speeds 
 the knight ; 
 Within the second from his steed descends; 
 Along the third his pace majestic bends: 
 Where'er he enters, dazzled by his sight, 
 
 The guards make way, — his gait, his dress, 
 
 his air, 
 A nuptial guest of highest rank declare. 
 Now he advances towards an ebon gate, 
 Where with drawn swords twelve Moors gigan- 
 tic wait, 
 And piecemeal hack the wretch who steps 
 unbidden there. 
 
 But the bold gesture and imperial mien 
 Of Huon, as he opes the lofty door, 
 Drive back the swords that crossed his path 
 before, 
 And at his entrance flamed with lightning sheen. 
 At once, with rushing noise, the valves unfold: 
 High throbs the bosom of our hero bold, 
 When, locked behind him, harsh the portals 
 
 bray : 
 Through gardens decked with columns leads 
 the way, 
 Where towered a gate incased with plates of 
 massy gold. 
 
 There a large forecourt held a various race 
 Of slaves, a hapless race, sad harem slaves, 
 Who die of thirst 'mid joy 's o'erflowing waves ! 
 
 And when a man, whom emir honors grace, 
 Swells in his state before their hollow eye, 
 Breathless they bend, with looks that seem 
 to die, 
 
 Beneath the weight of servitude oppressed ; 
 
 Bow down, with folded arms across the breast, 
 Nor dare look up to mark the pomp that glit- 
 ters by. 
 
 Already cymbals, drums, and fifes resound ; 
 
 With song and string the festive palace clangs ; 
 
 The sultan's head already heaving hangs, 
 While vinous vapors float his brain around : 
 
 Already mirth in freer current flows, 
 
 And the gay bridegroom, wild with rapture, 
 glows. 
 Then, as the bride, in horror turned away, 
 Casts on the ground her looks that never stray, 
 
 Huon along the hall with noble freedom goes. 
 
 Now to the table he advances nigh, 
 And with uplifted brow in wild amaze 
 The admiring guests upon the stranger gaze : 
 Fair Rezia, tranced, with fascinated eye 
 
 Still views her dream, and ever downward 
 
 bends : 
 The sultan, busy with the bowl, suspends 
 All other thoughts: Prince Babekan alone, 
 Warned by no vision, towards the guest un- 
 known, 
 All fearless of his fate, his length of neck 
 extends. 
 
 Soon as Sir Huon's scornful eyes retrace 
 The man of yesterday, that he, the same 
 Who lately dared the Christian God defame, 
 
 Sits at the left, high-plumed in bridal grace, 
 And bows the neck as conscious of his guilt: 
 Swift as the light he grasps the sabre's hilt ; 
 
 Off at the instant flies the heathen's head ; 
 
 And, o'er the caliph and the banquet shed, 
 Up spirts his boiling blood, by dreadful ven- 
 geance spilt ! 
 
 As the dread visage of Medusa fell, 
 
 Swift flashing on the sight, with instant view 
 Deprives of life the wild-revolted crew ; 
 While reeks the tower with blood, while tu- 
 mults swell, 
 And murderous frenzy, fierce and fiercer 
 
 grown, 
 Glares in each eye, and maddens every tone, — 
 At once, when Perseus shakes the viper hair, 
 Each dagger stiffens as it hangs in air, 
 
 And every murderer stands transformed to 
 living stone ! 
 
 Thus, at the view of this audacious feat, 
 
 The jocund blood that warmed each merry 
 
 guest 
 Suspends its frozen course in every breast : 
 Like ghosts, in heaps, all-shivering from their 
 seat 
 They start, and grasp their swords, and mark 
 
 their prey ; 
 But, shrunk by fear, their vigor dies away: 
 Each in its sheath their swords remain at rest: 
 With powerless fury in his look expressed, 
 Mute sunk the caliph back, and stared in 
 wild dismay. 
 
 The uproar which confounds the nuptial hall 
 Forces the dreamer from her golden trance : 
 Round her she gazes with astonished glance, 
 
 While yells of frantic vage her soul appal! : 
 
264 
 
 GERMAN POETRY 
 
 But, as she turns her face towards Huon's side, 
 
 How throbs his bosom, when he sees his 
 
 bride ! — 
 
 " 'T is she, — 't is she herself! " he wildly calls : 
 
 Down drops the bloody steel ; the turban falls ; 
 
 And Rezia knows her knight, as float his 
 
 ringlets wide. 
 
 " 'T is he !" she wild exclaims : yet virgin shame 
 
 Stops in her rosy mouth the imperfect sound : 
 
 How throbs her heart, what thrillings strange 
 
 confound, 
 
 When, with impatient speed, the stranger came, 
 
 And, love-emboldened, with presumptuous 
 
 arms 
 Clasped, in the sight of all, her angel charms '. 
 And, O, how fiery red, how deadly pale 
 Her cheek, as love and maiden fear assail, 
 The while he kissed her lip that glowed with 
 sweet alarms ! 
 
 Twice had his lip already kissed the maid : — 
 "Where shall the bridal ring, O, where be 
 
 found? " 
 Lo ! by good fortune, as he gazes round, 
 
 The elfin ring shines suddenly displayed, 
 Won from the giant of the iron tower : 
 Now, all-unconscious of its magic power, 
 
 This ring, so seeming base, the impatient knight 
 
 Slips on her finger, pledge of nuptial rite: — 
 " With this, O bride beloved ! I wed thee 
 from this hour ! " 
 
 Then, for the third time, at these words, again 
 The bridegroom kissed the soft reluctant fair : 
 The sultan storms and stamps in wild de- 
 spair : — 
 "Thou sufferest, then, — inexpiable stain ! — 
 This Christian dog to shame thy nuptial 
 
 day? — 
 Seize, seize him, slaves! — ye die, the least 
 delay ! 
 Haste ! drop by drop, from every throbbing vein, 
 By lengthened agonies his life-blood drain, — 
 Thus shall the pangs of hell his monstrous 
 guilt repay ! " 
 
 At once, in flames, before Sir Huon's eyes, 
 A thousand weapons glitter at the word ; 
 And, ere our hero snatches up his sword, 
 
 On every side the death-storms fiercely rise : 
 On every side he turns his brandished blade: 
 By love and anguish wild, at once the maid 
 
 Around him wreathes her arm, his shield her 
 breast, 
 
 Seizes his sword, by her alone repressed: — 
 " Back ! daring slaves ! " she cries, " I, I the 
 hero aid ! 
 
 'Back! — to that breast, — here, here the pas- 
 sage lies ! — 
 No other way than through the midst of 
 
 mine ! " — 
 And she, who lately seemed Love's bride di- 
 vine, 
 Now flames a Gorgon with Medusa's eyes ! 
 
 And ever, as the emirs near inclose, 
 She dares with fearless breast their swords 
 oppose : — 
 " Spare him, my father ! spare him ! and, O thou, 
 Destined by fate to claim my nuptial vow, 
 Spare him ! — in both your lives the blood of 
 Rezia flows ! " 
 
 The sultan's frenzy rages uncontrolled : 
 
 Fierce on Sir Huon storm the murderous 
 train ; 
 
 Yet still his glittering falchion flames in vain, 
 While Rezia's gentle hand retains its hold : 
 
 Her agonizing shrieks his bosom rend. 
 
 And what remains the princess to defend ? 
 What but the horn can rescue her from death ? — 
 Soft through the ivory flows his gentle breath, 
 
 And from its spiry folds sweet fairy tones 
 ascend. 
 
 Soon as its magic sounds, the powerless steel 
 Falls without struggle from the lifted hand : 
 In rash vertigo turned, the emir band 
 
 Wind arm in arm, and spin the giddy reel : 
 Throughout the hall tumultuous echoes ring, 
 All, old and young, each heel has Hermes' 
 wing : 
 
 No choice is left them by the fairy tone : 
 
 Pleased and astonished, Rezia stands alone 
 By Huon's side unmoved, while all around 
 them spring. 
 
 The whole divan, one swimming circle, glides 
 Swift without stop : the old bashaws click 
 
 time : 
 As if on polished ice, in trance sublime, 
 
 The iman hoar with some spruce courtier slides : 
 Nor rank nor age from capering refrain : 
 Nor can the king his royal foot restrain ; 
 
 He, too, must reel amid the frolic row, 
 
 Grasp the grand vizier by his beard of snow, 
 And teach the aged man once more to bound 
 amain. 
 
 The dancing melodies, ne'er heard before, 
 From every crowded antechamber round, 
 First draw the eunuchs forth with airy bound ; 
 
 The women next, and slaves that guard the door. 
 Alike the merry madness seizes all. 
 The harem's captives, at the magic call, 
 
 Trip gaily to the tune, and whirl the dance : 
 
 In party-colored shirts the gardeners prance, 
 Rush 'mid the youthful nymphs, and mingle 
 in the ball. 
 
 Entranced, with fearful joy, while doubt alarms, 
 Fair Rezia stands almost deprived of breath : — 
 " What wonder ! at the time when instant 
 death 
 Hangs o'er us, that a dance the god disarms ! 
 A dance thus rescues from extreme distress ! " 
 " Some friendly genius deigns our union 
 bless," 
 Sir Huon says. Meanwhile amid the throng 
 With eager step darts Sherasmin along, 
 
 And towards them Fatma hastes unnoticed 
 through the press. 
 
WIELAND. 
 
 265 
 
 "Haste ! " Sherasmin exclaims; " not now the 
 hour 
 To pry with curious leisure on the dance, — 
 All is prepared, — the steeds impatient 
 prance, — 
 While raves the castle, while unbarred the 
 tower, 
 And every gate wide open, why delay? 
 By luck I met Dame Fatma on the way, 
 Close-packed, like beast of burden, for the 
 
 flight." 
 "Peace! 't is not yet the time," replies the 
 knight ; 
 "A dreadful task impends, — for that must 
 Huon stay." 
 
 Pale Rezia shudders at the dreadful sound, 
 And looks with longing eye, that seems to 
 
 say, 
 " Why, on the brink of ruin, why delay ? 
 O, hasten ! let our footsteps fly the ground, 
 Ere bursts the transient charm that binds 
 
 their brain, 
 And rage and vengeance repossess the train !" 
 Huon, who reads the language of her eyes, 
 With looks of answering love alone replies, 
 Clasps to his heart her hand, nor dares the 
 deed explain. 
 
 And now the fairy tones to soft repose 
 
 Melt in the air : each head swims giddy round, 
 And every limb o'ertired forgets to bound ; 
 Wet every thread, and every pore o'erflows. 
 The breath half-stopped scarce heaves with 
 
 struggling pain ; 
 The drowsy blood slow creeps through every 
 vein ; 
 Involuntary joy, like torture, thrills : 
 The king, as from a bath, in streams distils, 
 And pants upon his couch, amid the exhaust- 
 ed train. 
 
 Stiff", without motion, scarce with sense endued, 
 Down, one by one, the o'erwearied dancers 
 
 fall, 
 Where swelling bolsters heave around the 
 wall : 
 Emirs, and lowly slaves, in contrast rude, 
 Mix with the harem goddesses, as chance 
 Tangles the mazes of the frantic dance : 
 At once together by a whirlwind blown, 
 On the same bed, in ill-paired union thrown, 
 The groom and favorite lie confused in 
 breathless trance. 
 
 Sir Huon, mindful of the favoring hour, 
 While rests in peaceful silence all around, 
 Pursues his task, by plighted promise bound : 
 
 Leaves his fair angel in the old man's power, 
 Gives him the ivory horn, and cautions well 
 By timely use the danger to repel ; 
 
 Then boldly hastens forward to the place 
 
 Where gasps the sultan wearied with the race, 
 And, heaving with his breath, the billowy 
 pillows swell. 
 
 34 
 
 In awful silence, with expanded wing, 
 Soft-breathing expectation stilly broods ; 
 And though, by fits, thick drowsiness intrudes, 
 
 The languid dancers that surround the king 
 Strive to unbolt their slumber-closing eye, 
 To view the stranger as he passes by ; 
 
 Who, after such a deed, with hand unarmed, 
 
 And courteous posture, ventures, unalarmed, 
 To front the lightning glance of injured ma- 
 jesty. 
 
 Low on his knee Sir Huon humbly bends : 
 With cool, heroic look, and gentle tone 
 Begins: — "Imperial Charles, before whose 
 throne 
 I bow, his faithful vassal hither sends, 
 
 To hail thee, Asia's lord ! with greeting fair, 
 And beg (forgive what duty bids declare ! 
 For, as my arm, my tongue obeys his laws), — 
 And beg, — great Sir ! — four grinders from your 
 jaws, 
 And from your reverend beard a lock of sil- 
 ver hair ! " 
 
 He speaks it, and is silent, — and stands still, 
 In expectation of the sultan's word. 
 Soon as the caliph had the message heard, — 
 
 But words, alas ! are wanting to my will ; 
 I cannot paint, while pride and rage conspire, 
 How every feature writhes with maniac ire, 
 
 How from his throne he darts, how fiercely stares, 
 
 How from his eye incessant lightning glares, 
 While every bursting vein high boils with 
 living fire. 
 
 He stares, would curse, but fury uncontrolled 
 In his blue lip breaks short the imperfect 
 
 sound : — 
 " Tear out his heart ! to dust the villain 
 pound ! 
 Hack, hack him limb by limb, a thousand fold ! 
 With searching awls explore each secret vein ! 
 Crack joint by joint, each tortured sinew 
 strain ! 
 Roast him, — to all the winds his ashes cast! 
 Him, and his Emperor Charles, whom light- 
 nings blast ! 
 Teeth? beard? — beneath this roof? — tome? 
 — it burns my brain ! 
 
 " Who is this Charles, who thus presumptuous 
 dares 
 Against us swell himself? Why comes he not, 
 Since thus he longs, in person, on the spot, 
 
 To take my grinders, and my silver hairs?" 
 "Ah, ah ! " exclaims a hoary-headed khan, 
 " Whate'er he be, no doubt, that mighty man 
 
 Is not with overweight of brains oppressed ! 
 
 He should, at least, who makes the mad request. 
 In front of myriads march, then execute the 
 plan." 
 
 " Caliph of Bagdad," says the tranquil knight, 
 With noble pride, " let all be silent here ! 
 Mark me, — the emperor's awful task severe, 
 
 And the bold promise that I dared to plight, 
 W 
 
266 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Long on my soul, ere now, have heavy sat- 
 Yet bitter, Monarch, is the force of Fate ! 
 What power on earth her sovereignty with- 
 stands ? 
 Whate'er to do or suffer Fate commands, 
 
 Must be performed, and borne, with patient 
 mind sedate. 
 
 " Here stand I, like thyself, a mortal man, 
 Alone, in proud defiance of thy train, 
 At risk of life my honor to maintain : 
 
 Yet honor bids propose another plan, — 
 Abjure thy faith, from Mahomet recede, 
 With pious lip profess the Christian creed; 
 
 Erect the cross in all these Eastern lands : 
 
 So wilt thou more perform than Charles de- 
 mands ; 
 Charles shall remain content, and thou from 
 trouble freed. 
 
 " Yes, on myself the terms I undertake ; 
 
 No rash offence shall wound imperial pride ; 
 
 And he who dares these holy terms deride 
 Shall in my blood at will his vengeance slake. 
 
 Thus young, thus lonely, as thou seest me 
 here, 
 
 Thy own experience, Caliph, makes it clear 
 That some unseen protector guides my way : 
 He can the rage of all thy host allay. 
 
 Choose, then, the better part, and bow to 
 truth thine ear." 
 
 Like a commissioned angel of the skies, 
 In awful beauty and commanding mien, 
 While Huon stands, by wondering mortals 
 seen, 
 And, though destruction flames before his eyes, 
 Speaks his high mandate with unshaken 
 
 mind; 
 Rezia, from far, towards him alone inclined, 
 Her beauteous neck in graceful guise extends, 
 Towards him her cheek by love illumined bends, 
 Yet fearful how at last these wonders will 
 unwind. 
 
 Scarce had our knight the last proposal made, 
 Than the old caliph, hell within his breast, 
 Raves, shrieks, and stamps the ground, like 
 one possessed 
 On each swollen feature frenzy stood displayed. 
 Not less enraged, around their fiery king 
 Up from their seats at once the pagans spring, 
 And foam, and threat, and horrid vengeance 
 
 swear ; 
 Swords, lances, daggers, clatter in the air; 
 All press on Mahom's foe, and closely round 
 enring. 
 
 On as they rush, the intrepid knight in haste 
 Wrenches a pole from one that near him 
 
 stood ; 
 And armed as witli a mace, in fearless mood, 
 
 Where'er he swings it, spreads destructive waste ; 
 Thus, ever fighting, presses near the wall : 
 A golden bowl, that graced the banquet-hall, 
 
 Serves him at once for weapon and for shield. 
 Already to his might the foremost yield, 
 
 And stretched before his feet the gasping 
 heathens fall ! 
 
 Brave Sherasmin, the guardian of the fair, 
 Who thinks he views, amid the press afar, 
 His former lord victorious in the war, 
 
 Glows at the scene with wild, triumphant air: 
 But roused by Rezia's agonizing cries, 
 The fond delusion of the dreamer flies; 
 
 He sees the youth close girt by heathen foes, — 
 
 Sets to his lip the horn, and loudly blows, 
 As one by Heaven ordained to bid the dead 
 arise. 
 
 Loud rings the castle with rebellowing shocks ; 
 Night, tenfold midnight, swallows up the day; 
 Ghosts to and fro like gleams of lightning 
 play; 
 
 The stony basis of the turret rocks; 
 
 Clap after clap, and peals on peals resound : 
 
 Terrors unknown the heathen race confound ; 
 
 Sight, hearing lost, they stagger, drunk with 
 
 fear; 
 Drops from each nerveless hand the sword and 
 spear, 
 And stifFupon the spot all lie in groups around. 
 
 With miracle on miracle oppressed, 
 
 The caliph struggles with the pangs of death ; 
 His arm hangs loose, deep drawn his heavy 
 breath, 
 Scarce beats his pulse, it flutters, sinks to rest. 
 At once the storm i* hushed that roared so 
 
 loud ; 
 While, sweetly breathing o'er the prostrate 
 crowd, 
 A lily vapor sheds around perfume, 
 And, like an angel image on a tomb, 
 
 The fairy spright appears, arrayed in silver 
 cloud ! 
 
 GOTTLIEB CONRAD PFEFFEL. 
 
 This distinguished author was born in 1736, 
 at Colmar, in Alsatia. In his fifteenth year, he 
 commenced the study of law in Halle, but his 
 studies were interrupted by a disease in the 
 eyes, which terminated, in 1757, in total blind- 
 ness. He married in 1759, and the next year 
 published his first poetical attempts. In 1763, 
 he became a court councillor of Darmstadt. In 
 1773, he established a school in Colmar, which 
 continued until it was overthrown by the French 
 Revolution. In 1803, he was made President 
 of the Protestant Consistory at Colmar. He 
 died the 1st of May, 1809. 
 
 As a poet, be was distinguished in fable and 
 poetical narrative. He wrote also epistles, di- 
 dactic poems, ballads, lyrical poems, and pieces 
 for the stage. His poetical works were pub- 
 
PFEFFEL. — CLAUDIUS. 
 
 267 
 
 Iished at Tubingen and Stuttgart, in ten parts, 
 1803-10. A selection from his fables and po- 
 etical narratives was published by Hauff, Stutt- 
 gart and Tubingen, in two volumes, 1840. 
 
 THE TOBACCO-PIPE. 
 
 " Old man, God bless you ! does your pipe 
 taste sweetly ? 
 A beauty, by my soul ! 
 A red clay flower-pot, rimmed with gold so 
 neatly ! 
 What ask you for the bowl ? " 
 
 ' O Sir, that bowl for worlds I would not part 
 with ; 
 A brave man gave it me, 
 Who won it — now what think you? — of a 
 bashaw, 
 At Belgrade's victory. 
 
 " There, Sir, ah ! there was booty worth the 
 showing, — 
 
 Long life to Prince Eugene ! 
 Like after-grass you might have seen us mowing 
 
 The Turkish ranks down clean." 
 
 "Another time I '11 hear your story: 
 
 Come, old man, be no fool ; 
 Take these two ducats, — gold for glory, — 
 
 And let me have the bowl ! " 
 
 "I 'm a poor churl, as you may say, Sir; 
 
 My pension 's all I 'm worth : 
 Yet I 'd not give that bowl away, Sir, 
 
 For all the gold on earth. 
 
 " Just hear now ! Once, as we hussars, all 
 merry, 
 
 Hard on the foe's rear pressed, 
 A blundering rascal of a janizary 
 
 Shot through our captain's breast. 
 
 " At once across my horse I hove him, — 
 The same would he have done, — 
 
 And from the smoke and tumult drove him 
 Safe to a nobleman. 
 
 " I nursed him ; and, before his end, bequeathing 
 
 His money and this bowl 
 To me, he pressed my hand, just ceased his 
 breathing, 
 
 And so he died, brave soul ! 
 
 " The money thou must give mine host, — so 
 thought I, — 
 
 Three plunderings suffered he: 
 And, in remembrance of my old friend, brought I 
 
 The pipe away with me. 
 
 " Henceforth in all campaigns with me I bore it, 
 
 In flight or in pursuit; 
 It was a holy thing, Sir, and I wore it 
 
 Safe-sheltered in my boot. 
 
 " This very limb, I lost it by a shot, Sir, 
 
 Under the walls of Prague : 
 First at my precious pipe, be sure, I caught, Sir, 
 
 And then picked up my leg." 
 
 " You move me even to tears, old Sire : 
 What was the brave man's name? 
 
 Tell me, that I, too, may admire 
 And venerate his fame." 
 
 "They called him only the brave Walter; 
 
 His farm lay near the Rhine." 
 " God bless your old eyes ! 't was my father, 
 
 And that same farm is mine. 
 
 " Come, friend, you 've seen some stormy 
 weather; 
 
 With me is now your bed ; 
 We 'II drink of Walter's grapes together, 
 
 And eat of Walter's bread." 
 
 "Now — done ! I march in, then, to-morrow: 
 
 You 're his true heir, I see ; 
 And when I die, your thanks, kind master, 
 
 The Turkish pipe shall be." 
 
 MATTHIAS CLAUDIUS. 
 
 This amiable man and agreeable writer was 
 born in 1740, at Reinfeldt in Holstein, near 
 Lubeck. He lived for some time in Wands- 
 beck. In 1776, he was appointed to a public 
 office in Darmstadt, but returned to Wandsbeck 
 the next year. He was a frequent contributor 
 to the " Wandsbeck Messenger." He died in 
 1818. A collection of his works, completed in 
 1812, was published under the title of " Asmus 
 omnia sua secum portans, or the Collective 
 Works of the Wandsbeck Messenger." A new 
 edition in four volumes was published at Ham- 
 burg in 1838. 
 
 The most prominent characteristic of Claudi- 
 us, as a writer, is a certain simplicity and hearty 
 good-humor. He wrote excellent popular songs, 
 simple ballads, fables, epigrams, tales, and dia- 
 logues. 
 
 Menzel * remarks of him : " Claudius formed 
 the transition from pedantry to the naive poe- 
 try. The celebrated ' Wandsbeck Messenger ' 
 makes, when we read it now-a-days, a singular 
 and more touching than agreeable impression. 
 Not that its beauties are not always beautiful, 
 its vigorous common sense always sensible ; but 
 the form, the language, belong to an age long 
 since departed. It appears to us as if we saw 
 one of our great-grandfathers, with the lofty 
 nightcap, jump up from an easy chair, and skip 
 through a wedding dance. The fun is sincerely 
 meant, but somewhat ungainly. Had not the 
 inborn good-nature, and tameness and timidity 
 
 * German Literature, Vol. III., pp. 60, 61. 
 
263 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 schooled by the pressure of his private affairs, 
 laid too many vestraints upon the poet's satire, 
 it would certainly, with his great talents, have 
 grown up to something distinguished. But Clau- 
 dius did not belong to the more fortunate class 
 of poets, who, like Lessing, Wieland, Herder, 
 Thilmmel, Rabner, and Lichtenberg, raised 
 themselves above the common wants of a petty 
 and dependent existence, partly by a better po- 
 sition in civic life, partly by the force of their 
 own genius, or, at least, by their good-humor; 
 he belonged rather to those who, like Voss, 
 Burger, Moritz, Stilling, Schubart, Seume, 
 could not free themselves, their whole life long, 
 from the feeling of narrow circumstances, and 
 the pressure of want; who, with all their long- 
 ing for freedom, with all their defiance of fate, 
 still bore upon their brow, ineffaceably im- 
 pressed, the Cain-mark of low life and vulgar 
 awkwardness." 
 
 RHINE- WINE. 
 
 With laurel wreathe the glass's vintage mellow, 
 
 And drink it gaily dry ! 
 Through farthest Europe, know, my worthy 
 fellow, 
 
 For such in vain ye '11 try. 
 
 Nor Hungary nor Poland e'er could boast it; 
 
 And as for Gallia's vine, 
 Saint Veit, the Ritter, if he choose, may toast 
 
 il , — 
 We, Germans, love the Rhine. 
 
 Our fatherland we thank for such a blessing, 
 
 And many more beside; 
 And many more, though little show possessing, 
 
 Well worth our love and pride. 
 
 Not everywhere the vine bedecks our border, 
 
 As well the mountains show, 
 That harbour in their bosoms foul disorder ; 
 
 Not worth their room below. 
 
 Thuringia's hills, for instance, are aspiring 
 
 To rear a juice like wine ;. 
 But that is all ; nor mirth nor song inspiring, 
 
 It breathes not of the vine. 
 
 And other hills, with buried treasures glowing, 
 
 For wir 3 are far too cold ; 
 Though iron ores and cobalt there are growing, 
 
 And chance some paltry gold. 
 
 The Rhine, — the Rhine, — there grow the gay 
 plantations ! i 
 
 O, hallowed be the Rhine ! 
 Upon his banks are brewed the rich potations 
 
 Of this consoling wine. 
 
 Drink to the Rhine ! and every coming morrow 
 
 Be mirth and music thine ! 
 And when we meet a child of care and sorrow, 
 
 We '11 send him to th« Rhine. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 A SONG TO BE SVNG BEHIND THE STOVE. 
 
 Old Winter is the man for me, — 
 Stout-hearted, sound, and steady ; 
 
 Steel nerves and bones of brass hath he; 
 Come snow, come blow, he 's ready. 
 
 If ever man was well, 'tis he; 
 
 He keeps no fire in his chamber, 
 And yet from cold and cough is free 
 
 In bitterest December. 
 
 He dresses him out-doors at morn, 
 Nor needs he first to warm him , 
 
 Toothache and rheumatis' he '11 scorn, 
 And colic don't alarm him. 
 
 In summer, when the woodland rings, 
 He asks, " What mean these noises? " 
 
 Warm sounds he hates, and all warm things 
 Most heartily despises. 
 
 But when the fox's bark is loud; 
 
 When the bright hearth is snapping; 
 When children round the chimney crowd, 
 
 All shivering and clapping; 
 
 When stone and bone with frost do break, 
 And pond and lake are cracking, — 
 
 Then you may see his old sides shake, 
 Such glee his frame is racking. 
 
 Near the north pole, upon the strand, 
 
 He has an icy tower; 
 Likewise in lovely Switzerland 
 
 He keeps a summer bower. 
 
 So up and down, — now here, — now there,— 
 
 His regiments manoeuvre ; 
 When he goes by, we stand and stare, 
 
 And cannot choose but shiver. 
 
 THE HEN 
 
 Was once a hen of wit not small 
 
 (In fact, 't was most amazing), 
 And apt at laying eggs withal, 
 Who, when she 'd done, would scream and 
 bawl, 
 
 As if the house were blazing. 
 A turkey-cock, of age mature, 
 
 Felt thereat indignation ; 
 'T was quite improper, he was sure, 
 He would no more the thing endure; 
 
 So, after cogitation, 
 He to the lady straight repaired, 
 And thus his business he declared : 
 
 " Madam, pray what 's the matter, 
 That always, when you 've laid an egg, 
 
 You make so great a clatter ? 
 I wish you 'd do the thing in quiet ; 
 Do be advised by me, and try it ! " 
 " Advised by you ? " the lady cried, 
 And tossed her head with proper pride, 
 
HERDER. 
 
 269 
 
 
 " And what do you know, now I pray, 
 Of the fashions of the present day, 
 You creature ignorant and low ? 
 However, if you want to know, 
 This is the reason why I do it : 
 I lay my egg, and then review it ! " 
 
 NIGHT-SONG. 
 
 The moon is up, in splendor, 
 And golden stars attend her; 
 
 The heavens are calm and bright; 
 Trees cast a deepening shadow, 
 And slowly off the meadow 
 
 A mist is rising, silver-white. 
 
 Night's curtains now are closing 
 Round half a world, reposing 
 
 In calm and holy trust ; 
 All seems one vast, still chamber, 
 Where weary hearts remember 
 
 No more the sorrows of the dust. 
 
 JOHANN GOTTFRIED VON HERDER. 
 
 This accomplished man, and distinguished 
 author, was born, August 25th, 1744, at Moh- 
 rungen, in East Prussia, where his father was 
 a sort of usher in a school, and in circumstances 
 of great poverty. He was employed as a copy- 
 ist by Mr. Trescho, the clergyman of the place, 
 who discovered his talents, and gave him les- 
 sons with his own children in Latin and Greek. 
 A Russian surgeon, who lived in the clergy- 
 man's house, being pleased with young Herder's 
 manners, took him to Konigsberg and Peters- 
 burg, in order to educate him as a surgeon ; but 
 he soon applied himself to theology and phi- 
 losophy, and obtained an appointment as teacher 
 in Frederic's College. At this time he became 
 acquainted with Kant, and made great acquire- 
 ments in theology, philosophy, philology, nat- 
 ural and civil history, and politics. In 1765, 
 he was appointed teacher in the Cathedral 
 School at Riga, where he wrote the " Frag- 
 ments," and the " Kritische Walder " ; in 1767, 
 became a preacher, in connection with the 
 school, and the same year was offered the su- 
 perintendence of Saint Peter's School, in Pe- 
 tersburg, which he declined. In 1768, he ac- 
 cepted the offer of travelling tutor to the prince 
 of Holstein-Eutin, but, on account of a weak- 
 ness of the eyes, he proceeded only as far as 
 Strasburg, where he became acquainted with 
 Goethe. In 1770, he was appointed Court 
 Preacher and Consistorial Councillor in Bifcke- 
 burg. His distinguished reputation as a theo- 
 logian procured for him the offer of a profes- 
 sorship at Gottingen, in 1775 ; but, before he 
 had assumed the office, he received the appoint- 
 ment of Court Preacher, General Superintend- 
 ent, and Upper Consistorial Councillor at Wei- 
 
 mar. He arrived at Weimar in 1776, and> 
 became at once a prominent and honored mem- 
 ber of the splendid literary circle which sur- 
 rounded the grand-duke's court. In 1801, he 
 was made President of the High Consistory, 
 and ennobled. He died in 1803. 
 
 Herder's character was pure and elevated ; 
 his genius was great and comprehensive. As 
 a theologian, poet, and philosopher, he stood 
 among the foremost men of his age. 
 
 " He looked upon all individuals and na- 
 tions," says Menzel,* speaking of his great prin- 
 ciple, the law of evolution and progress, " only 
 as the matter, and all institutions and careers 
 of life as the form under which that evolution 
 is reduced to reality. By this principle, he 
 united them all into one spirit and one life. 
 His ' Ideas towards the Philosophy of the His- 
 tory of the Human Race ' show us his genius 
 on the broadest scale, and embrace all his views 
 and all his tendencies, according to a regular 
 order. But the execution could not satisfy this 
 plan. No form would have been adequate to 
 it. He felt this well ; he indicated by the title 
 the fragmentary character of the work, and left 
 it to the right judgment of contemporaries and 
 posterity to recognize all his remaining writings 
 as additions to or fragments of this work contin- 
 ued. 
 
 " He began his great picture of the progress 
 of the world with the representation of the 
 physical world as a scene of progress and 
 change. We cannot but acknowledge that he 
 produced a highly poetical effect thereby upon 
 his age, and that he contributed no less towards 
 the enriching of science, or at least the im- 
 provement of its methods. A great living pic- 
 ture of nature, which would have been intelli- 
 gible and familiar even to the uninitiated, had 
 hitherto been wanting among the Germans 
 The most comprehensive view of the whole, 
 the evolution of beauty in the single parts, 
 here unite to produce the most brilliant effect. 
 While others have coldly constructed for us the 
 whole frame of nature as a mechanical piece of 
 wheel-work, he breathed into it an organic life, 
 and awakened. a warm feeling of love for its 
 beauty in every breast. While others had 
 counted off at their fingers' ends the single 
 phenomena of nature, numbered and classified 
 one after another, he caused them all to appear 
 as members of one organism, and elevated each 
 by placing it in its natural position. The stone 
 did not appear wrapped in the cotton of the 
 mineralogical cabinet, but in the living bosom 
 of the earth, where it had grown ; the plant 
 was not seen withered in the herbarium, but 
 fresh on the mead, by the hill-side, still grow- 
 ing from its moistened root, with the smell of 
 earth upon it ; the animal, not stuffed or in a 
 cage, but in the freedom of the forest and the 
 field, of the air and the water ; the eye, not set 
 in a ring, but beaming from a beautiful counte- 
 
 * German Literature, Vol. II., pp. 423-423. 
 w2 
 
270 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 nance ; man, not in the solitude of the study, but 
 like Adam among the creatures of the first days 
 of creation, like Cassar among men, like Christ 
 •n heaven. 
 
 " The moral world appeared to him elevated 
 above nature, but only as the flower is elevated 
 above its stalk, and is pervaded by the same 
 'ife. The same principle of natural growth 
 and evolution, but only at a higher stage, ap- 
 peared to him to reign over this higher sphere 
 of creation also, and he uttered the great 
 thought, — that the life of the individual man 
 and the life of the whole human race are sub- 
 jected to the same laws of evolution. He 
 placed a reason of mankind by the side of the 
 reason of the man : the former guided by an 
 everlasting Providence in the life of nations ; 
 the latter imparted to man as a divine inherit- 
 ance, and only an efflux of a supreme and uni- 
 versal reason. Both, acting upon each other, 
 struggle to attain the highest goal of the im- 
 provement of the human race, and the em- 
 bellishment of human life. To that end, all 
 the powers of mankind put forth their blos- 
 soms. Guided by this lofty view, Herder 
 searched the depths of the human soul, fol- 
 lowed out all the bearings of private life, of 
 manners, of education, of states, of religions, of 
 sciences and arts ; the history of institutions, 
 of nations, and of the whole human race ; and 
 showed the same tendency, the one identical 
 principle of life, extending through them all. 
 Every individual object was considered by him 
 only as a member of the whole. His numer- 
 ous fragmentary writings were always more 
 occupied with pointing out the connection than 
 the separation of the single phenomena of the 
 life of man. 
 
 " Among the writings in which he takes that 
 which is of universal interest to man, without 
 regard to particular nations, for the subject of 
 his consideration, next to the ' Ideas,' the ' Meta- 
 criticism' is chiefly distinguished for philoso- 
 phy, and ' Calliope ' for aesthetics. His works 
 on the Bible, on politics, on education and 
 manners, upon which his numerous essays and 
 fragments are employed, are circumscribed 
 within narrower circles of discussion. In the 
 '■ Adrastea,' he has felt himself impelled to de- 
 vote a special attention to modern history, since 
 le, too, is a child of the present age. All these 
 works are distinguished both by the truth and 
 clearness with which the subjects are brought 
 at once before us, and particularly by the fact 
 that they are never solitary efforts, never leave 
 •in unsatisfied feeling behind, but always refer 
 to a great and harmonious view of the world, 
 and make us see the whole in single parts, just 
 as they, when united, form, at length, the 
 whole. 
 
 " Herder's sublime genius, however, did not 
 limit itsslf to tracing out the development of 
 the powers of the soul as they lie in individual 
 men, to the complete formation of the flower, 
 to which these individuals may bring them. 
 
 He discovered, on the contrary, that a still higher 
 development will be attained in the variety of 
 natures, both of nations and of individuals. In 
 this, he thought, consisted the highest and last 
 form to which the course of human progress 
 was subjected ; and therefore the just appre- 
 ciation of this was the crowning glory of his 
 system. In nationality, Herder recognized the 
 cradle of a still higher culture than could pos- 
 sibly be attained by men themselves ; but the 
 cradle of the highest culture was, he thought, 
 the variety of human nature. As he placed 
 the moral world of mankind above nature, so 
 he placed the civilized and polished above 
 the rude nation, and the man of genius above 
 the ordinary man. This highest view, how- 
 ever, stood in the most intimate connection with 
 his entire system ; and he unfolded the spirit 
 of nations only for its important bearing upon 
 the spirit of mankind and the world, and the 
 spirit of great geniuses only with relation to all 
 of them together. 
 
 " To this last view we are indebted for his 
 noblest works, and for the noblest part of all 
 of them. With a warmth of feeling, such as 
 is possible only in Germany, and which his 
 example has made a conscious will and a law 
 to the Germans, he penetrated the peculiar 
 character, both of the Germans and of every 
 foreign nation, and of their men of genius, and 
 showed how the most fragrant flowers of all 
 nobleness and beauty have blossomed among 
 them. Out of all these flowers he wreathes a 
 sacred garland for the genius of humanity, and 
 deserves himself to be reverenced as its worthi- 
 est priest. Far from all the vanity of attribut- 
 ing special honor to the German nation, he 
 secured to it, unconsciously, the greatest ; for, 
 by his own great example, he showed that the 
 German spirit was capable of receiving the 
 broadest and most comprehensive culture. As 
 in various parts of his ' Ideas ' and other works 
 he has represented the spirit of nations under 
 the forms it has assumed in their history and 
 institutions, always with reference to their 
 progress towards the noble and the beautiful, 
 towards humanity, generally ; it seemed, also, 
 to his correct judgment, an object worthy of 
 special regard, to conjure up this spirit in the 
 poetry of nations. Hence he collected the 
 ' Voices of the Nations,' one of his noblest 
 works, where he brought together the most 
 beautiful and characteristic popular songs, from 
 all quarters of the world, into a great song-book 
 of mankind. The lofty spirit of this collection, 
 and, again, the rich variety and marvellous 
 beauty of the parts, did not fail of their effett. 
 After this, a higher importance was attributed 
 to poetry, by and for itself, and its relation to 
 popular life ; or rather, it has been recognized 
 in poetry and unfolded from it. Since then, 
 an animated intercourse between living minds 
 and the dead has been extended over the whole 
 earth. We have explored all nations, all ages, 
 and brought up f he hidden treasures which 
 
HERDER. 
 
 Herder had marked with fire. From the far 
 India, Persia, Arabia; from the Finnic and 
 Sclavonian North; from Scandinavia, Scotland, 
 England ; from Spain ; even from the New 
 World, the gold of poetry, under Herder's 
 guidance, has been piled up in an ever increas- 
 ing hoard in German literature." 
 
 Many editions of his separate works have ap- 
 peared. The most recent edition of his collec- 
 tive works is that which was published at Stutt- 
 gart and Tubingen, in sixty parts, 1827-30. 
 His life was written by his wife, in two parts, 
 Tubingen, 1820 ; afterwards by DSring, Wei- 
 mar, 1823. 
 
 VOICE OF A SON. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 
 
 Cruel, ye Fates, was my lot, unpermitted to 
 .gaze on the daylight 
 But for a few short years, soon to descend to 
 the shades ! 
 Was I, then, born but in vain ? nor allowed to 
 requite to my mother 
 All that she bore at my birth, all she bestow- 
 ed on my growth ? 
 Orphan of father betimes, on her I was thrown 
 for supportance, 
 Doubling the toil of her hand, doubling the 
 cares of her soul. 
 Yet was she never employed to prepare me the 
 torches of Hymen, 
 Saw from the promising sprout no compen- 
 sation of fruit. 
 Mother, thy grief is the bitterest pang I have 
 suffered from Fortune, 
 That I have lived not enough aught of thy 
 love to repay. 
 i 
 
 ESTHONIAN BRIDAL SONG. 
 
 Deck thyself, maiden, 
 
 With the hood of thy mother ; 
 
 Put on the ribands 
 
 Which thy mother once wore : 
 
 On thy head the band of duty, 
 
 On thy forehead the band of care. 
 
 Sit in the seat of thy mother, 
 
 And walk in thy mother's footsteps. 
 
 And weep not, weep not, maiden : 
 
 If thou weepest in thy bridal attire, 
 
 Thou wilt weep all thy life. 
 
 CHANCE. 
 
 FROM THE ORIENTAL ANTHOLOGY. 
 
 Rare luck makes not a rule. One day it pleased 
 The Persian king to place a precious ring 
 On a tall staff, and offer it a prize 
 To any archer who should hit it there. 
 The better marksmen soon assembled round : 
 They shot with skill, yet no one touched the 
 ring. 
 
 A boy, who sat upon the palace-roof, 
 
 Let fly his arrow, and it hit the mark. 
 
 On him the monarch then bestowed the prize. 
 
 The lad threw bow and arrows on the fire : 
 
 " That all my glory may remain to me, 
 
 This my first shot," he said, " shall be my last.' 
 
 TO A DRAGON-FLY. 
 
 Flutter, flutter gently by, 
 Little motley dragon-fly, 
 
 On thy four transparent wings ' 
 Hover, hover o'er the rill, 
 And when weary sit thee still 
 
 Where the water-lily springs ! 
 
 More than half thy little life, 
 Free from passion, free from strife, 
 
 Underneath the wave was sweet; 
 Cool and calm content to dwell, 
 Shrouded by thy pliant shell, i 
 
 In a dank and dim retreat. 
 
 Now the nymph transformed may roam, 
 A sylph in her aerial home, 
 
 Where'er the zephyrs shall invite; 
 Love is now thy curious care, 
 Love that dwells in sunny air, 
 
 But thy very love is flight. 
 
 Heedless of thy coming doom, 
 O'er thy birthplace and thy tomb 
 
 Flutter, little mortal, still.! 
 Though beside thy gladdest hour 
 Fate's destroying mandates lower, 
 
 Length of life but lengthens ill. 
 
 Confide thy offspring to the stream, 
 That, when new summer suns shall gleam, 
 
 They, too, may quit their watery cell ; 
 Then die ! — I see each weary limb 
 Declines to fly, declines to swim : 
 
 Thou lovely short-lived sylph, farewell ! 
 
 THE ORGAN. 
 
 O, tell me, who contrived this wondrous frame, 
 Full of the voices of all living things, — 
 This temple, which, by God's own breath in- 
 spired, 
 So boldly blends the heart-appalling groan 
 Of wailing Misereres with the soft 
 Tones of the plaintive flute, and cymbal's clang, 
 And roar of jubilee, and hautboy's scream, 
 With martial clarion's blast, and with the call 
 Of the loud-sounding trump of victory? 
 
 From lightest shepherd's reed the strain as- 
 cends 
 To tymbal's thunder and the awakening trump 
 Of judgment ! Graves are opening ! Hark ! the 
 
 dead 
 Are stirring ! 
 
272 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Rejoiced, for she had found what every heart . 
 Seeks with strong yearning in the hour of 
 
 nmvpr 
 
 How the tones hang hovering now 
 On all creation's mighty outspread wings, 
 Expectant, and the breezes murmur ! Hark ! 
 Jehovah comes! He comes! His thunder speaks! 
 
 In the soft-breathing, animated tone 
 Of human words speaks the All-merciful, 
 At length : the trembling heart responds to him ; 
 Till, now, all voices and all souls at once 
 Ascend to heaven, upon the clouds repose, — 
 One Hallelujah ! — Bow, bow down in prayer ! 
 
 Apollo tuned the light guitar; the son 
 Of Maia strung the lyre ; mighty Pan 
 Hollowed the flute. Who was this mightiest 
 
 Pan, 
 That blent the breath of all creation here ? 
 
 Cecilia, noblest of the Roman maids, 
 Disdained the music of the feeble strings, 
 Praying within her heart, " O, that I might 
 But hear the song of praise, the which, of old, 
 Those holy three ! sang in the glowing flames, — 
 The song of the creation!" 
 
 Then there came 
 An angel who had oft appeared to her 
 In prayer, and touched her ear. Entranced, she 
 
 heard 
 Creation's song. Stars, sun, and moon, and all 
 Heaven's host, and light and darkness, day and 
 
 night, 
 The rolling' seasons, wind and frost and storm, 
 And dew and rain, hoar-frost and ice and snow, 
 Mountain and valley in their spring attire, 
 And fountains, streams, and seas, and rock and 
 
 wood, 
 And all the birds of heaven and tribes of earth, 
 And every thing that hath breath, praised the 
 
 Lord, 
 The holy and the merciful. 
 
 She sank 
 In adoration : " Now, O angel, might I 
 But hear an echo of this song ! " 
 
 With speed 
 He sought the artist whom Bezaieel's 
 Devoted soul inspired : in his hand 
 He placed the measure and the number. Soon 
 Uprose an edifice of harmonies. 
 The Gloria of angels rang. With one 
 According voice, great Christendom intoned 
 Her lofty Credo, blessed bond of souls. 
 And when, at holy sacrament, the chant, 
 " He comes ! Blessed be he who cometh ! " rang, 
 The spirits of the saints came down from heaven, 
 And took the offering in devotion. Earth 
 And heaven became a choir. The reprobate 
 Shook, at the temple's door, and seemed to hear 
 The trump whose clang proclaimed the day of 
 wrath. 
 
 With all the Christian hearts Cecilia 
 
 * Shadrach, Meshach. and Abednego. 
 
 Union 
 
 prayer, — . 
 
 of spirits, — Christian unity. 
 
 " How shall I name," said she, " this many- 
 armed 
 River which seizes us and bears us on 
 To the wide sea of the eternities? " 
 " Call it," the angel said, " what thou didst 
 
 wish : 
 Call it the Organ of the mighty sou), 
 Which sleeps in all, which stirs all nations' 
 
 hearts, 
 Which yearns to intone the everlasting song 
 Of universal nature, and to find 
 In richest labyrinth of hearts and sounds 
 Devotion's richest, fullest harmony." 
 
 A LEGENDARY BALLAD. 
 
 Among green, pleasant meadows, 
 
 All in a grove so wild, 
 Was set a marble image 
 
 Of the Virgin and her child. 
 
 There, oft, on summer evenings, 
 
 A lovely boy would rove, 
 To play beside the image 
 
 That sanctified the grove. 
 
 Oft sat his mother by him, 
 
 Among the shadows dim, 
 And told how the Lord Jesus 
 
 Was once a child like him. 
 
 "And now from highest heaven 
 He doth look down each day, 
 
 And sees whate'er thou doest, 
 And hears what thou dost say." 
 
 Thus spake the tender mother : 
 
 And on an evening bright, 
 When the red, round sun descended, 
 
 'Mid clouds of crimson light, 
 
 Again the boy was playing, 
 
 And earnestly said he, 
 " O beautiful Lord Jesus, 
 
 Come down and play with me ! 
 
 " I '11 find thee flowers the fairest, 
 And weave for thee a crown ; 
 
 I will get thee ripe, red strawberries, 
 If thou wilt but come down. 
 
 " O holy, holy Mother, 
 
 Put him down from off thy knee ' 
 For in these silent meadows 
 
 There are none to play with me.' 
 
 Thus spake the boy so lovely : 
 The while his mother heard, 
 
 And on his prayer she pondered, 
 But spake to him no word. 
 
KNEBEL. 
 
 273 
 
 That selfsame night she dreamed 
 
 A lovely dream of joy, 
 She thought she saw young Jesus 
 
 There, playing with the boy. 
 
 " And for the fruits and flowers 
 Which thou hast brought to me, 
 
 Rich blessings shall be given 
 A thousand fold to thee. 
 
 "For in the fields of heaven 
 
 Thou shalt roam with me at will, 
 
 And of bright fruits celestial 
 
 Thou shalt have, dear child, thy fill. 
 
 Thus tenderly and kindly 
 The fair child Jesus spoke, 
 
 And, full of careful musings, 
 The anxious mother woke. 
 
 And thus it was accomplished, 
 In a short month and a day, 
 
 That lovely boy, so gentle, 
 Upon his deathbed lay. 
 
 And thus he spoke in dying 
 
 " O mother dear, I see 
 The beautiful child Jesus 
 
 A coming down to me ! 
 
 " And in his hand he beareth 
 
 Bright flowers as white as snow, 
 
 And red and juicy strawberries, — 
 Dear mother, let me go ! " 
 
 He died, and that fond mother 
 Her tears could not restrain ; 
 
 But she knew he was with Jesus, 
 And she did not weep again. 
 
 CARL LUDWIG VON KNEBEL. 
 
 This poet was born in 1744, at Wallerstein, 
 in Franken. He was educated in Anspach, by 
 Uz, and afterwards became an officer in Pots- 
 dam. In 1774, he was appointed tutor to the 
 Prince Constantine in Weimar, and there lived 
 in the society of Goethe, Herder, and Wieland. 
 He removed afterwards to Ilmenau, and finally 
 to Jena. His death took place in 1834, at the 
 age of ninety years. He was a distinguished 
 lyric poet, and an excellent translator. His 
 poems were published anonymously in 1815, at 
 Leipsic. His translation of the Elegies of Pro- 
 pertius appeared in 1798, and that of Lucretius, 
 in 1821. His " Remains and Correspondence" 
 were published by Varnhagen von Ense and 
 Theodore Mundt, at Leipsic, in 1835, and re- 
 published in 1840. 
 
 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Darker than the day, 
 Clearer than the night, 
 Shines the mellow moonlight. 
 35 
 
 From the rocky heights 
 Shapes in shimmer clad 
 Mistily are mounting. 
 
 Pearls of silver dew, 
 Soft-distilling, drop 
 On the silent meadows. 
 
 Might of sweetest song 
 With the gloomy woods 
 Philomela mingleth. 
 
 Far in ether wide 
 Yawns the dread abyss 
 Of deep worlds uncounted. 
 
 Neither eye nor ear, 
 Seeking, findeth here 
 The end of mazy thinking. 
 
 Evermore the wheel 
 Of unmeasured Time 
 Turns round all existence; 
 
 And it bears away 
 
 Swift, how swift ! the prey 
 
 Of fleet-flitting mortals. 
 
 Where soft breezes blow, 
 Where thou seest the row 
 Of smooth-shining beeches ; 
 
 Driven from the flood 
 Of the thronging Time, 
 Lina's hut receives me. 
 
 Brighter than aloft 
 
 In night's shimmering star, 
 
 Peace with her is shining. 
 
 And the vale so sweet, 
 And the sweet moonlight, 
 Where she dwells, is sweeter. 
 
 ADRASTEA. 
 
 Ween ye that law and right and the rule of 
 life are uncertain, — 
 Wild as the wandering wind, loose as the 
 drift of the sand ? 
 Fools ! look round and perceive an Order and 
 measure in all things ! 
 Look at the herb as it grows, look at the life 
 of the brute : 
 Every thing lives by a law, a central balance 
 sustains all ; 
 Water, and fire, and air, wavy and wild 
 though they be, 
 Own an inherent power that binds their rage ; 
 and without it 
 Earth would burst every bond, ocean would 
 yawn into hell. 
 Life and breath, -what are they? the system of 
 laws that sustains thee 
 Ceases : and, mortal, say whither thy being 
 hath fled ! 
 
274 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 What thou art in thyself is a type of the com- 
 mon creation ; 
 For, in the universe, life, order, existence, are 
 one. 
 Look to the world of mind ; hath soul no law 
 that controls it ? 
 Elements many in one build up the temple of 
 thought ; 
 And when the building is just, the feeling of 
 truth is the offspring : 
 Truth, how great is thy might, e'en in the 
 breast of the child ! 
 Constant swayeth within us a living balance 
 that weighs all, 
 Truth and order and right, measures and 
 ponders and feels. 
 Passions arouse the breast ; the tongue, swift- 
 seized by the impulse, 
 Wisely (if wisdom there be) follows the law 
 of the soul : 
 Thus, too, ruleth a law, a sure law, deep in the 
 bosom, 
 Blessing us when we obey, punishing when 
 we offend. 
 
 Far by the sacred stream where goddess Ganga' 
 is worshipped, 
 Dwells a race of mankind purer in heart and 
 in life : 
 From the stars of the welkin they trace their 
 birth ; and the ancient 
 Earth more ancient than they knoweth no 
 people that lives. 
 Simple and sweet is their food : they eat no 
 flesh of the living, 
 And from the blood of the brute shrinks the 
 pure spirit away ; 
 For in the shape of another it sees itself met- 
 amorphosed, 
 And, in the kindred of form, owneth a nature 
 the same. 
 Children of happier climes, of suns and moons 
 that benignly 
 Shine, hath dew from above watered your 
 sensitive souls ? 
 Say, what power of the gods hath joined your 
 spirits in wedlock 
 To the delicate flowers, gentle and lovely as 
 they ? 
 Under blossoming groves, and sweet and preg- 
 nant with ambra, 
 Gaugeth the spirit divine purer the measure 
 of right ? 
 Pure is the being of God they teach, his nature 
 is goodness : 
 Passions and stormy wrath stir not the bosom 
 of Brahm. 
 But by the fate of the wicked the wicked are 
 punished ; unfading 
 Sorrow and anguish of soul follow the doers 
 of sin ; 
 In their bosom is hell, the sleepless voice of 
 accusing 
 Speaks ; and gnaweth a worm, never, O, 
 never to die ! 
 
 GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGER. 
 
 This poet was born in 1748, at Wolmers- 
 wende, near Halberstadt, where his father was 
 preacher. The development of his powers was 
 slow and not very promising at first, though he 
 began early to make verses on the model of 
 the hymn-books. At the age often he went to 
 Aschersleben to reside with his grandfather, 
 who undertook his support; thence he was sent 
 to school in Halle, and, in 1764, began the 
 study of theology in the University there ; but, 
 in 1768, he removed to Gottingen for the pur- 
 pose of studying law. The irregularities of his 
 conduct were such that his grandfather with- 
 drew his support ; but he received assistance 
 from several distinguished young men, with 
 whom he lived on terms of intimacy, and in 
 conjunction with whom he studied the ancient 
 classics, the literature of France, Italy, Spain, 
 and England, giving particular attention to 
 Shakspeare and the old English ballads. In 
 1772, he received a small judicial office in Al- 
 tengleichen, near Gottingen, and devoted him- 
 self assiduously to the cultivation of poetry. 
 He maintained a close connection with the 
 Gottingen circle of poets, and attracted much 
 attention by his writings. In 1774, he married, 
 but his marriage proved unhappy. His wife died 
 a few years after, and he married her sister, for 
 whom he had long cherished a violent passion. 
 This second wife was his celebrated Molly; 
 she died within a year of her marriage, in 1786. 
 In 1789, he was appointed Professor Extraor- 
 dinary in Gottingen. In 1790, he was married 
 a third time, to a young lady in Swabia, who had 
 publicly offered him her hand in a poem. This 
 marriage also proved unhappy, and he was di- 
 vorced two years after. His misery was increas- 
 ed by pecuniary embarrassments, from which he 
 had never been free ; and he died, in 1794, in 
 circumstances of great wretchedness. 
 
 Biirger is a poet of fiery and original genius. 
 His ballads are among the noblest in the German 
 language. His great aim was to make poetry 
 popular, and his success in this respect was 
 brilliant. Schiller, however, criticised him with 
 a severity, which is now admitted to have been 
 unjust. He is chiefly known as a writer of bal- 
 lads, of which his " Ellenore " is the best. This 
 remarkable composition has been rendered fa- 
 miliar to English readers by the translations of 
 Taylor and Scott. Others also have tried their 
 hands upon it. 
 
 Menzel * says of him : " It was Burger, pre- 
 eminently, who cultivated the reviving taste 
 for ballads, introduced by Stolberg; but he 
 stuck fast, at the same time, in the honest 
 old gentleman's nightcap, and even partly 
 in the Grsecomania. He was not born for so 
 vigorous an opposition as Schubart ; and the 
 more refined development of the legendary po 
 
 * German Literature Yol. III. pp 133, 139. 
 
BURGER. 
 
 275 
 
 etry he had to leave to the school of Tieck and 
 Schlegel. He is an interesting phenomenon on 
 the boundary line between the heterogeneous 
 parties which marked the progress of romanti- 
 cism. His poetical forms are distinguished by 
 a beautiful rhythm. Some of his ballads, par- 
 ticularly ' Ellenore, are sure of immortality. 
 He has excited a universal sympathy, inasmuch 
 as he became a victim to poetry. It was a part 
 of the false poetical enthusiasm of his age to 
 sacrifice common sense for a few verses. A 
 maiden made proposals of marriage to poor 
 Burger by a poem ; enchanted with this, he 
 fancied the marriage of a poet and poetess must 
 be a paradise on earth ; and he was — deceived." 
 BQrger's works were published at Gottingen 
 in 1794; again in 1829-34; again in 1835; 
 and, finally, in 1841. A sketch of his life was 
 published by Altholf, Gottingen, 1798. 
 
 ELLENORE. 
 
 At break of day from frightful dreams 
 
 Upstarted Ellenore : 
 " My William, art thou slayn," she sayde, 
 
 " Or dost thou love no more ? " 
 
 He went abroade with Richard's host 
 
 The paynim foes to quell; 
 But he no word to her had writt, 
 
 An he were sick or well. 
 
 With blore of trump and thump of drum 
 
 His fellow-soldyers come, 
 Their helms bedeckt with oaken boughs, 
 
 They seeke their long'd-for home. 
 
 And evrv road and evry lane 
 
 Was full of old and young, 
 To gaze at the rejoycing band, 
 
 To haile with gladsom toung. 
 
 " Thank God ! " their wives and children 
 sayde, 
 
 " Welcome ! " the brides did saye ; 
 But greet or kiss gave Ellenore 
 
 To none upon that daye. 
 
 And when the soldyers all were bye, 
 
 She tore her raven hair, 
 And cast herself upon the growne, 
 
 In furious despair. 
 
 Her mother ran and lyfte her up, 
 
 And clasped in her arm : 
 " Mv child, my child, what dost thou ail? 
 
 God shield thy life from harm ! " 
 
 " O mother, mother ! William 's gone< 
 
 What 's all besvde to me ? 
 There is no mercie, sure, above ! 
 
 All, all were spar'd but he ! " 
 
 "Kneele downe, thy paternoster saye, 
 'T will calm thy troubled spright : 
 
 The Lord is wise, the Lord is good ; 
 What he hath done is right." 
 
 " O mother, mother ! saye not so; 
 
 Most cruel is my fate : 
 I prayde, and prayde ; but watte avaylde ' 
 
 'T is now, alas ! too late." 
 
 " Our Heavenly Father, if we praye, 
 
 Will help a suffring child: 
 Go, take the holy sacrament; 
 
 So shal thy grief grow mild." 
 
 " O mother, what I feele within 
 
 No sacrament can staye ; 
 No sacrament can teche the dead 
 
 To bear the sight of daye." 
 
 " May-be, among the heathen folk 
 Thy William false doth prove, 
 
 And put away his faith and troth, 
 And take another love. 
 
 "Then wherefor sorrowe for his loss? 
 
 Thy moans are all in vain : 
 But when his soul and body parte, 
 
 His falsehode brings him pain." 
 
 " O mother, mother ! gone is gone : 
 
 My hope is all forlorn ; 
 The grave my only safeguard is : 
 
 O, had I ne'er been born ! 
 
 " Go out, go out, my lamp of life, 
 
 In grizely darkness die ! 
 There is no mercie, sure, above ! 
 
 For ever let me lie ! " 
 
 " Almighty God ! O, do not judge 
 
 My poor unhappy child ! 
 She knows not what her lips pronounce, 
 
 Her anguish makes her wild. 
 
 " My girl, forget thine earthly woe, 
 And think on God and bliss; 
 
 For so, at least, shal not thy soul 
 Its heavenly bridegroom miss." 
 
 " O mother, mother ! what is bliss, 
 
 And what the fiendis cell? 
 With him 't is heaven anywhere ; 
 
 Without my William, hell. 
 
 " Go out, go out, my lamp of life, 
 
 In endless darkness die ! 
 Without him I must loathe the eartl 
 
 Without him scorne the skie." 
 
 And so despair did rave and rage 
 
 Athwarte her boiling veins; 
 Against the providence of God 
 
 She hurlde her impious strains. 
 
 She bet her breast, and wrung her hands, 
 
 And rollde her tearless eye, 
 From rise of morn, til the pale stars 
 
 Again orespred the skye. 
 
276 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 When, harke ! abroade she herde the tramp 
 
 Of nimble-hoofed steed ; 
 She herde a knight with clank alighte, 
 
 And climbe the stair in speed. 
 
 And soon she herde a tinkling hand, 
 
 That twirled at the pin ; 
 And thro her door, that opend not, 
 
 These words were breathed in : — 
 
 " What ho ! what ho ! thy door undo : 
 
 Art watching or asleepe? 
 My love, dost yet remember me? 
 
 And dost thou laugh or weepe ? " 
 
 "Ah ! William here so late at night? 
 
 O, I have wachte and wak'd ! 
 Whense art thou come ? For thy return 
 
 My heart has sorely ak'd." 
 
 " At midnight only we may ride ; 
 
 I come ore land and see : 
 I mounted late, but soone I go ; 
 
 Aryse, and come with mee." 
 
 " O William, enter first my bowre, 
 
 And give me one embrace : 
 The blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss ; 
 
 Awayte a little space." 
 
 "Tbo blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss, 
 
 I may not harbour here ; 
 My spurs are sett, my courser pawes, 
 
 My hour of flight is nere. 
 
 " All as thou lyest upon thy couch, 
 
 Aryse, and mount behinde; 
 To-night we 'le ride a thousand miles, 
 
 The bridal bed to finde." 
 
 " How ? ride to-night a thousand miles ? 
 
 Thy love thou dost bemock : 
 Eleven is the stroke that still 
 
 Rings on within the clock." 
 
 " Looke up ; the moon is bright, and we 
 
 Outstride the earthly men : 
 I 'le take thee to the bridal bed, 
 
 And night shal end but then." 
 
 " And where is, then, thy house, and home, 
 
 And bridal bed so meet?" 
 " 'T is narrow, silent, chilly, low, 
 
 Six planks, one shrouding sheet." 
 
 " And is there any room for me, 
 Wherein that I may creepe ? " 
 
 " There 's room enough for thee and me, 
 Wherein that we may sleepe. 
 
 " All as thou lyest upon thy couch, 
 
 Aryse, no longer stop; 
 The wedding-guests thy coming wayte, 
 
 The chamber-door is ope." 
 
 All in her sarke, as there she lay, 
 
 Upon his horse she sprung; 
 And with her lily hands so pale 
 
 About her William clung. 
 
 And hurry-skurry off they go, 
 
 Unheeding wet or dry ; 
 And horse and rider snort and blow, 
 
 And sparkling pebbles fly. 
 
 How swift the flood, the mead, the wood, 
 
 Aright, aleft, are gone ! 
 The bridges thunder as they pass, 
 
 But earthly sowne is none. 
 
 Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede ; 
 
 Splash, splash, across the see : 
 " Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace; 
 
 Dost feare to ride with mee ? 
 
 "The moon is bright, and blue the night; 
 
 Dost quake the blast to stem ? 
 Dost shudder, mayd, to seeke the dead ? " 
 
 " No, no, but what of them ? " 
 
 How glumly sownes yon dirgy song ! 
 
 Night-ravens flappe the wing : 
 What knell doth slowly tolle ding dong? 
 
 The psalms of death who sing? 
 
 Forth creepes a swarthy funeral train, 
 
 A corse is on the biere ; 
 Like croke of todes from lonely moores, 
 
 The chauntings meete the eere. 
 
 " Go, beare her corse, when midnight 's past, 
 With song, and tear, and wail ; 
 
 I 've gott my wife, I take her home, 
 My hour of wedlock hail ! 
 
 " Leade forth, O dark, the chaunting quire, 
 
 To swelle our spousal-song : 
 Come, preest, and reade the blessing soone ; 
 
 For our dark bed we long." 
 
 The bier is gon, the dirges hush ; 
 
 His bidding all obaye, 
 And headlong rush thro briar and bush, 
 
 Beside his speedy waye. 
 
 Halloo! halloo! how swift they go, 
 
 Unheeding wet or dry ! 
 And horse and rider snort and blow, 
 
 And sparkling pebbles fly. 
 
 How swift the hill, how swift the dale, 
 
 Aright, aleft, are gon ! 
 By hedge and tree, by thorp and town, 
 
 They gallop, gallop on. 
 
 Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede ; 
 
 Splash, splash, across the see : 
 " Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace ; 
 
 Dost feare to ride with mee? 
 
BURGER. 
 
 277 
 
 " Look up, look up ! an airy crew 
 
 In roundel daunces reele : 
 The moon is bright, and blue the night, 
 
 Mayst dimly see them wheele. 
 
 " Come to, come to, ye ghostly crew, 
 
 Come to, and follow me, 
 And daunce for us the wedding daunce, 
 
 When we in bed shal be." 
 
 And brush, brush, brush, the ghostly crew 
 Came wheeling ore their heads, 
 
 All rustling like the witherd leaves 
 That wide the whirlwind spreads. 
 
 Halloo ! halloo ! away they go,- 
 
 Unheeding wet or dry; 
 And horse and rider snort and blow, 
 
 And sparkling pebbles fly. 
 
 And all that in the moonshyne lay 
 
 Behind them fled afar ; 
 And backward scudded overhead , 
 
 The skie and every star. 
 
 Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede ; 
 
 Splash, splash, across the see : 
 "Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace; 
 
 Dost feare to ride with mee ? 
 
 " I weene the cock prepares to crowe ; 
 
 The sand will soone be run : 
 I snuffe the early morning air; 
 
 Downe, downe ! our work is done 
 
 " The dead, the dead can ride apace : 
 
 Our wed-bed here is fit : 
 Our race is ridde, our journey ore, 
 
 Our endless union knit." 
 
 And, lo ! an yron-grated gate 
 
 Soon biggens to their view : 
 He crackde his whyppe ; the locks, the 
 bolts, 
 
 Cling, clang ! assunder flew. 
 
 They passe, and 't was on graves they 
 trodde : 
 
 " 'T is hither we are bound " : 
 And many a tombstone ghastly white 
 
 Lay in the moonshyne round. 
 
 And when he from his steed alytte, 
 
 His armure, black as cinder, 
 Did moulder, moulder all awaye, 
 
 As were it made of tinder. 
 
 His head became a naked skull ; 
 
 Nor hair nor eyne had he : 
 His body grew a skeleton, 
 
 Whilome so blithe of ble. 
 
 And at his dry and boney heel 
 
 No spur was left to bee : 
 And in his witherd hand you might 
 
 The scythe and hour-glass see. 
 
 And, lo ! his steed did thin to smoke, 
 And charnel-fires outbreathe ; 
 
 And pal'd, and bleachde, then vanishde 
 quite 
 The mayd from underneathe. 
 
 And hollow howlings hung in air, 
 And shrekes from vaults arose : 
 
 Then knewe the mayd she might no more 
 Her living eyes unclose. 
 
 But onward to the judgment-seat, 
 Thro mist and moonlight dreare, 
 
 The ghostly crew their flight persewe, 
 And hollowe in her eare : 
 
 " Be patient ; tho thyne herte should breke, 
 Arrayne not Heaven's decree : 
 
 Thou novve art of thy bodie reft, 
 Thy soul forgiven bee ! " 
 
 THE BRAVE MAN. 
 
 High sounds the song of the valiant man, 
 Like clang of bells and organ-tone. 
 
 Him, whose high soul brave thoughts control, 
 Not gold rewards, but song alone. 
 
 Thank Heaven for song and praise, that I can 
 
 Thus sing and praise the valiant man ! 
 
 The thaw-wind came from southern sea, 
 
 Heavy and damp, through Italy, 
 And the clouds before it away did flee, 
 
 Like frighted herds, when the wolf they gee. 
 It sweeps the fields, through the forest breaks, 
 And the ice bursts away on streams and lakes. 
 
 On mountain-top dissolved the snow ; 
 
 The falls with a thousand waters dashed ; 
 A lake did o'erflow the meadow low, 
 
 And the mighty river swelled and splashed. 
 Along their channel the waves rolled high, 
 And heavily rolled the ice-cakes by. 
 
 On heavy piers and arches strong, 
 Below and above of massive stone, 
 
 A bridge stretched wide across the tide, 
 And midway stood a house thereon. 
 
 There dwelt the tollman, with child and wife; 
 
 O tollman ! tollman ! flee, for thy life ! 
 
 And it groaned and droned, and around the house 
 Howled storm and wind with a dismal sound ; 
 
 And the tollman aloof sprang forth on the roof, 
 And gazed on the tumult around : 
 
 " O merciful Heaven ! thy mercy show ! 
 
 Lost, lost, and forlorn ! who shall rescue me 
 now? " 
 
 Thump ! thump ! the heavy ice-cakes rolled, 
 And piled on either shore they lay ; 
 
 From either shore the wild waves tore 
 The arches with their piers away. 
 
 The trembling tollman, with wife and child, 
 
 He howled still louder than storm-winds wild. 
 
278 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Thump ! thump ! the heavy ice-cakes rolled, 
 And piled at either end they lay; 
 
 All rent and dashed, the stone piers crashed, 
 As one by one they shot away. 
 
 To the middle approaches the overthrow ! 
 
 O merciful Heaven ! thy mercy show ! 
 
 High on the distant bank there stands 
 A crowd of peasants great and small; 
 
 Each shrieking stands, and wrings his hands, 
 But there 's none to save among them all. 
 
 The trembling tollman, with wife and child, 
 
 For rescue howls through the storm-winds wild. 
 
 When soundest thou, song of the valiant man, 
 Like clang of bells and organ-tone ? 
 
 Say on, say on, my noble song ! 
 
 How namest thou him, the valiant one? 
 
 To the middle approaches the overthrow ! 
 
 O brave man ! brave man ! show thyself now ! 
 
 Swift galloped a count forth from the crowd, 
 On a gallant steed, a count full bold. 
 
 In his hand so free what holdeth he ? 
 It is a purse stuffed full of gold. 
 
 "Two hundred pistoles to him who shall save 
 
 Those poor folks from death and a watery grave!" 
 
 Who is the brave man ? Is it the count ? 
 
 Say on, my noble song, say on ! 
 By Him who can save ! the count was brave, 
 
 And yet do I know a braver one. 
 O brave man ! brave man ! say, where art thou ? 
 Fearfully the ruin approaches now ! 
 
 And ever higher swelled the flood, 
 And ever louder roared the blast, 
 
 And ever deeper sank the heart of the keep- 
 er; — 
 Preserver ! preserver ! speed thee fast ! 
 
 And as pier after pier gave way in the "swell, 
 
 Loud cracked and dashed the arch as it fell. 
 
 "Halloo ! halloo ! to the rescue speed ! " 
 Aloft the count his purse doth wave ; 
 
 And each one hears, and each one fears ; 
 From thousands none steps forth to save. 
 
 In vain doth the tollman, with wife and child, 
 
 For rescue howl through the storm-winds wild. 
 
 See, stout and strong, a peasant man, 
 
 With staff in hand, comes wandering by ; 
 
 A kirtle of gray his limbs array ; 
 In form and feature, stern and high. 
 
 He listened, the words of the count to hear, 
 
 And gazed on the danger that threatened near. 
 
 And boldly, in Heaven's name, into 
 The nearest fishing-boat sprang he ; 
 
 Through the whirlwind wide, and the dashing 
 tide, 
 The preserver reaches them happily. 
 
 But, alas ! the boat is too small, too small, 
 
 At onc< to receive and preserve them all ! 
 
 And thrice he forced his little boat 
 
 Through whirlwind, storm, and dashing wave ; 
 And thrice came he full happily, 
 
 Till there was no one left to save. 
 And hardly the last in safety lay, 
 When the last of the ruins rolled away. 
 
 Who is, who is the valiant man ' 
 
 Say on, my noble song, say on ! 
 The peasant, I know, staked his life on the 
 throw, 
 
 But for the sake of gold 't was done. 
 Had the count not promised the gold to him, 
 The peasant had risked neither life nor limb. 
 
 "Here," said the count, "my valiant friend, 
 Here is thy guerdon, take the whole ! " 
 
 Say, was not this high-mindedness ? 
 
 By Heaven ! the count hath a noble soul ! 
 
 But higher and holier, sooth to say, 
 
 Beat the peasant's heart in his kirtle gray. 
 
 " My life cannot be bought and sold : 
 
 Though poor, I 'm not by want oppressed : 
 
 But the tollman old stands in need of thy gold; 
 He has lost whatever he possessed." 
 
 Thus cried he, with heartv, honest tone, 
 
 And, turning away, went forth alone. 
 
 High soundest thou, song of the valiant man, 
 Like clang of bells and organ-tone. 
 
 Him, whose high soul brave thoughts control, 
 Not gold rewards, but song alone. 
 
 Thank Heaven for song and praise, that I can 
 
 Thus sing and praise the valiant man ! 
 
 CHRISTIAN GRAF ZU STOLBERG. 
 
 This poet was born on the 15th of October, 
 1748, at Hamburg. He studied at Gottingen, 
 and was afterwards made a gentleman of the 
 bed-chamber at the Danish court. In 1777, he 
 was appointed Amtmann, or bailiff, at Tremsbilt- 
 tel, in Holstein ; in 1800, Danish chamberlain. 
 He then retired to his estate, called Windebye, 
 near Eckernfdrde. He died in 1821. He wrote 
 poems, ballads, tragedies with choruses, hymns, 
 idyls, and translations from the Greek. 
 
 TO MY BROTHER. 
 
 Up ! take thou eagle's wings, and fly, 
 
 My song, and, with thee, fly 
 
 My jubilant good-morrow, 
 
 To him who is to me 
 What never mortal was to mortal. 
 
 Red gleams already wake, 
 
 Announcing the glad day 
 Which called thee, dear one, into life ! 
 See, how he pranketh in autumnal pomp ! 
 Proud, and in solemnizing act, he comes, 
 Clipped with the dancing hours, and greeted by 
 
CHR. STOLBERG. — HOLTY. 279 
 
 The sun, the moon, and timeous star ! 
 
 Within the cup of jubilee ? 
 
 Haste, O fraternal kiss, 
 
 Ah ! wherefore are we now apart, — 
 
 That hoverest on mv panting lip '. 
 
 To-dav apart? 
 
 Swift glide on the first beam — 
 
 As for the dew the summer field, 
 
 As full of fire, as quick to animate — 
 
 As pants the sun for ocean's lap, 
 
 To him who is to me 
 
 As strives the vine for shady elm, 
 
 What never mortal was to mortal. 
 
 O, so strive I, so pant I after thee ! 
 
 
 Thou — thou who art to me 
 
 Pillow thee gently on his lips ; 
 
 What never mortal was to mortal ! 
 
 Scare not the morning dream, 
 
 
 That moistlv clasps the slumbering one 
 
 Return, thou day of joy, 
 
 With winding ivy wreaths ; 
 
 With blessing big, thy steps 
 
 There let thv honev trickle, and my form 
 
 Trickling with milk, 
 
 Hover before his conscious soul, 
 
 With honey, 
 
 Languishing with the sickness of desire, — 
 
 And witli the blood of the vine ! 
 
 O, for my presence languishing ! — 
 
 Coma ever witli autumnal pomp 
 
 Then suddenly wake him with the throbbing 
 
 Thy temples garlanded ! 
 
 wing 
 
 Ah ! so draws nigh at hand to us 
 
 Of Love, and call it loud 
 
 Our autumn too ! 
 
 In burning words to him : — 
 
 
 That he may be to me 
 
 So it may come, our temples be 
 
 What never mortal was to mortal. 
 
 With pomp autumnal garlanded; 
 
 
 And with fruits, — ! with fruits, 
 
 My brother '. in my eve 
 
 Ay, laden with imperishable wealth ! 
 
 Trembleth the tear of joy ; 
 
 Nor find us then, fair day, 
 
 Than friend, than brother more, 
 
 As on this day, apart '. 
 
 That thou — that thou art e'en, 
 
 
 Mv heart's most trusted one ! 
 
 O, the fulfilling ! the fulfilling ! 
 
 Say, ever dawned a thought to thee or me, 
 
 Fulfilling of the most intense desire ! 
 
 Whereof the veil thou might'st not lift, 
 
 Clearly mine eve pervades 
 
 Or I might not partake ? 
 
 The future far; it sees 
 
 As, through the power miraculous 
 
 What golden days the path of life conclude ! 
 
 Of holv Nature, hidden, deep, 
 
 
 The chord of lute, untouched, the singer's tones 
 
 Winter at last arrives ; 
 
 Doth warble tremblingly ; 
 
 Age friendlv and benign 
 
 O Mother Nature ! thus 
 
 Takes us both by the hand, and leads us — ■ 
 
 Our twin souls she attuned 
 
 O joy ! unseparated then ! 
 
 To ever sounding harmony ! 
 
 Best father ! and, thou, 
 
 Sounding, when the fierv blood 
 
 Who borest and who suckledst me, 
 
 Burns in the bosom juvenile ; 
 
 Best mother ! — 
 
 Sounding, when down the pallid cheeks 
 
 Thither, where 'mong the trees of life, 
 
 The tears of softened feeling flow. 
 
 Where in celestial bowers, 
 
 
 Under your fig-tree, bowed with fruit, 
 
 Ah ! thou who art to me 
 
 And warranting repose, 
 
 What never mortal was to mortal i 
 
 Under your pine, inviting shady joy, 
 
 Inspired and guided by the Muses, . 
 
 Unchanging blooms 
 
 Associates dear, to whom thou saidst, 
 
 Eternal spring ! 
 
 " Thou art my sister, 
 
 
 And thou mv bride ! 
 
 
 (Oft, in the silent night, ye visit us, 
 
 
 Ye Muses ! — thou mv brother visitest; 
 
 LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH 
 
 And thou, in solitary hall, 
 
 HOLTY. 
 
 Intoxicatest me with joy, 
 
 
 Thv wooer, Goddess dear ! — ) 
 
 
 
 Ha ! I know them too ! 
 
 The poet Holty was born December 21st, 
 
 Sister and bride ! 
 
 1748, at Mariensee, in Hanover, where his fath- 
 
 Guided b}' them, 
 
 er was a preacher. His early education was su- 
 
 Soar I to thee, 
 
 perintended by his father. He gave precocious 
 
 O'er land, and o'er sea, to thee, to thee ' 
 
 indications of a love of learning, but his health 
 
 Pours, gushes out to thee 
 
 was feeble from his childhood up. He was sent 
 
 My overflowing heart. 
 
 to school in Celle, and in 1766 entered the 
 
 
 University of Gdttingen as a student of theolo- 
 
 Brother ! to us the lovely lot 
 
 gy. He occupied himself much with poetry, 
 
 Is fallen, our heritage is fair ! 
 
 and assisted in forming the Poetical Society. 
 
 But, ah ! why trickles now the tear 
 
 He died September 1st, 1776. He was a poet 
 
280 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 of a sentimental and melancholy cast, but, at 
 the same time, fond of wit. He wrote odes, 
 songs, ballads, and idyls. His works were 
 published by Stolberg and Voss, at Hamburg, 
 1783 ; by Voss in 1804 and 1814. A new edi- 
 tion appeared at Konigsberg in 1833. 
 
 DEATH OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 She is no more, who bade the May-month hail; 
 
 Alas ! no more ! 
 The songstress who enlivened all the vale, — 
 
 Her songs are o'er; 
 She, whose sweet tones, in golden evening hours, 
 
 Rang through my breast, 
 When, by the brook that murmured 'mong the 
 flowers, 
 
 I lay at rest. 
 
 How richly gurgled from her deep, full throat 
 
 The silvery lay, 
 Till in her caves sweet Echo caught the note, 
 
 Far, far away ! 
 Then was the hour when village pipe and song 
 
 Sent up their sound, 
 And dancing maidens lightly tripped along 
 
 The moonlit ground. 
 
 A youth lay listening on the green hill-side, 
 
 Far down the grove, 
 While on his rapt face hung a youthful bride 
 
 In speechless love. 
 Their hands were locked oft as thy silvery strain 
 
 Rang through the vale ; 
 They heeded not the merry, dancing train, 
 
 Sweet nightingale ! 
 
 They listened thee till village bells from far 
 
 Chimed on the ear, 
 And, like a golden fleece, the evening star 
 
 Beamed bright and clear. 
 Then, in the cool and fanning breeze of May, 
 
 Homeward they stole, 
 Full of sweet thoughts, breathed, by thy tender 
 lay, 
 
 Through the deep soul. 
 
 HARVEST SONG. 
 
 Sickles sound ; 
 On the ground 
 Fast the ripe ears fall ; 
 Every maiden's bonnet 
 Has blue blossoms on it ; 
 Joy is over all. 
 
 Sickles ring, 
 Maidens sing 
 To the sickle's sound ; 
 Till the moon is beaming, 
 And the stubble gleaming, 
 Harvest songs go round. 
 
 All are springing, 
 
 All are singing. 
 
 Every lisping thing. 
 
 Man and master meet ; 
 
 From one dish they eat ; 
 
 Each is now a king. 
 
 Hans and Michael 
 Whet the sickle, 
 Piping merrily. 
 Now they mow ; each maiden 
 Soon with sheaves is laden, 
 Busy as a bee 
 
 Now the blisses, 
 And the kisses ! 
 Now the wit doth flow 
 Till the beer is out ; 
 Then, with song and shout, 
 Home they go, yo ho ! 
 
 WINTER SONG. 
 
 Summer joys are o'er ; 
 
 Flowerets bloom no more ; 
 Wintry winds are sweeping: 
 Through the snow-drifts peeping, 
 
 Cheerful evergreen 
 
 Rarely now is seen. 
 
 Now no plumed throng 
 Charms the woods with song; 
 
 Ice-bound trees are glittering ; 
 
 Merry snow-birds, twittering, 
 Fondly strive to cheer 
 Scenes so cold and drear. 
 
 Winter, still I see 
 Many charms in thee ; 
 Love thy chilly greeting, 
 Snow-storms fiercely beating, 
 And the dear delights 
 Of the long, long nights. 
 
 ELEGY AT THE GRAVE OF MY FATHER 
 
 Blest are they who slumber in the Lord ; 
 
 Thou, too, my father, thou art blest ; 
 Angels came to crown thee ; at their word, 
 
 Thou hast gone to share the heavenly rest. 
 
 Roaming through the boundless, starry sky, 
 What is now to thee this earthly clod ? 
 
 At a glance ten thousand suns sweep by, 
 While thou gazest on the face of God. 
 
 In thy sight the eternal record lies; 
 
 Thou dost drink from life's immortal wells 
 Midnight's mazy mist before thee flies, 
 
 And in heavenly day thy spirit dwells. 
 
 Yet, beneath thy dazzling victor's-crown, 
 Thou dost send a father's look to me ; 
 
 At Jehovah's throne thou fallest down, 
 And Jehovah, hearing, answereth thee 
 
GOETHE. 
 
 a81 
 
 Father, O, when life's last drops are wasting, — 
 Those dear drops which God's ov/n urn hath 
 given,— 
 
 When my soul the pangs of death is tasting, 
 To my dying bed come down from heaven ! 
 
 Let thy cooling palm wave freshly o'er me, 
 Sinking to the dark and silent tomb ; 
 
 Let the awful vales be bright before me, 
 Where the flowers of resurrection bloom. 
 
 Then with thine my soul shall soar through 
 heaven, 
 
 With the same unfading glory blest ; 
 For a home one star to us be given, — 
 
 In the Father's bosom we shall rest. 
 
 Then bloom on, gay tufts of scented roses ; 
 
 O'er his grave your sweetest fragrance shed ! 
 And, while here his sacred dust reposes, 
 
 Silence, reign around his lowly bed ! 
 
 COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 Happy the man who has the town escaped ! 
 To him the whistling trees, the murmuring 
 brooks, 
 
 The shining pebbles, preach 
 
 Virtue's and wisdom's lore. 
 
 The whispering grove a holy temple is 
 To him, where God draws nigher to his soul ; 
 Each verdant sod a shrine, 
 Whereby he kneels to Heaven. 
 
 The nightingale on him sings slumber down, — 
 The nightingale rewakes him, fluting sweet, 
 When shines the lovely red 
 Of morning through the trees. 
 
 Then he admires thee in the plain, O God ! — 
 In the ascending pomp of dawning day, — 
 Thee in thy glorious sun, — 
 The worm, — the budding branch. 
 
 Where coolness gushes, in the waving grass, 
 Or o'er the flowers streams the fountain, rests : 
 
 Inhales the breath of prime, 
 
 The gentle airs of eve. 
 
 His straw-decked thatch, where doves bask in 
 
 the sun, 
 And play and hop, invites to sweeter rest 
 
 Than golden halls of state 
 
 Or beds of down afford. 
 
 To him the plumy people sporting chirp, 
 Chatter, and whistle, on his basket perch, 
 And from his quiet hand 
 Pick crumbs, or peas, or grains. 
 
 Oft wanders he alone, and thinks on death ; 
 
 And in the village churchyard by the graves 
 Sits, and beholds the cross, — 
 Death's waving garland there, — 
 36 
 
 The stone beneath the elders, where a text 
 Of Scripture teaches joyfully to die, — 
 
 And with his scythe stands Death, — 
 
 An angel, too, with palms. 
 
 Happy the man who thus hath 'scaped the town ! 
 
 Him did an angel bless when he was born, — 
 The cradle of the boy 
 With flowers celestial strewed. 
 
 JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 
 
 This world-renowned and versatile author, 
 the greatest name in German literature, was 
 born at Frankfort on the Mayn, the 28th of 
 August, 1749. His father was a man of vari- 
 ous culture, and held the rank of Imperial 
 Councillor. He spared no pains to unfold the 
 abilities of his son, which, it was soon apparent, 
 were of a distinguished order. His house was 
 filled with pictures and engravings, which early 
 developed young Goethe's powers of observing 
 and discriminating works of art. When the 
 Seven Years' War broke out, the Count de 
 Thorane, the lieutenant du roi of the French 
 army in Germany, was quartered in Goethe's 
 house. The count's taste for pictures, and his 
 conversations with the artists of Frankfort, in 
 which young Goethe was allowed to partici- 
 pate, exercised a strong influence on his taste 
 and character. He seized this opportunity also 
 of learning the French language. In 1765, he 
 went to Leipsic and entered the University, 
 where Gottsched was still living ; but Ernesti 
 and Gellert chiefly occupied his attention. He 
 followed no regular course of studies during 
 his residence in Leipsic, but devoted himself 
 principally to poetry and art ; he constantly 
 practised drawing, and even attempted engrav- 
 ing. In 1768, he returned to Frankfort, with 
 his health much impaired. He was affection- 
 ately nursed by a lady named Von Klettenberg, 
 under whose influence he was led to study 
 the science of chemistry and the mystico- 
 alchemical works, the effect of which is seen in 
 the "Faust." In 1770, he went to the Univer- 
 sity of Strasburg to study law, according to 
 the wish of his father, but his favorite pursuits 
 were chemistry and anatomy. Here he became 
 acquainted with Herder, whose views in poetry 
 and taste in art had a marked influence upon 
 his life. Here, too, he wrote a treatise on 
 Gothic architecture. In 1771, he took his de- 
 gree as Doctor of Laws, and wrote a disserta- 
 tion on a legal subject. Soon after, he returned 
 home, and in 1773 published his " Gotz von 
 Berlichingen," which instantly and strongly 
 excited the public attention ; the " Sorrows of 
 Werther " appeared in the following year. In 
 1776, he was invited to Weimar by the young 
 duke, Karl August, a circumstance that fixed 
 his career and destiny. He received the rank of 
 Councillor of Legation, then of Privy Council- 
 x2 
 
282 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 lor, and in 1782 he was made President of the 
 Chamber and ennobled. In 1786, he made a 
 journey to Italy and Sicily, in which he spent 
 two years, and after his return was appointed 
 Prime Minister of Weimar. He accompanied 
 the duke of Weimar during the campaign of 
 1792. He received many orders; among the 
 rest, that of Alexander-Newski, from the Em- 
 peror of Russia, and the Grand Cross of the 
 Legion of Honor, from the Emperor Napoleon. 
 He died on the 22d of March, 1832. 
 
 His works embrace almost every department 
 of literature and many of the sciences. They 
 have exercised an immense influence, not only 
 in Germany, but over the whole civilized world. 
 For half a century he stood at the head of the 
 literature of Germany, though not without the 
 vigorous opposition of an able and resolute 
 party. To discuss his various merits and defects, 
 however, would require more space than can 
 be given to them here. His countrymen are 
 fond of calling him vielseitig, or many-sided. 
 The following portraits, drawn by different ar- 
 tists, may be considered as side-views, taken 
 from different points. 
 
 GOETHE IN 1776. BY GLEIM. 
 
 " Shortly after Goethe had written his ' Wer- 
 ther,' I came to Weimar, and wished to know 
 him. I had brought with me the last Gottin- 
 gen 'Musen-Almanach,' as a literary novelty, 
 and read here and there a piece to the com- 
 pany in which I was passing the evening. 
 While I was reading, a young man, booted and 
 spurred, in a short green shooting-jacket thrown 
 open, had come in and mingled with my audi- 
 ence. I had scarcely remarked his entrance. 
 He sat down opposite to me, and listened very 
 attentively. 1 scarcely knew what there was 
 about him that struck me particularly, except a 
 pair of brilliant black Italian eyes. But it was 
 decreed that I should know more of him. 
 
 " During a short pause, in which some gen- 
 tlemen and ladies were discussing the merits 
 of the pieces I had read, lauding some and 
 censuring others, the gallant young sportsman 
 (for such I took him to be) arose from his chair, 
 and, bowing with a most courteous and ingra- 
 tiating air to me, offered to relieve me from 
 time to time in reading aloud, lest I should be 
 tired. I could do no less than accept so polite 
 an offer, and immediately handed him the book. 
 But, O Apollo and all ye Muses, — not forget- 
 ting the Graces, — what was I then to hear! At 
 first, indeed, things went on smoothly enough. 
 ' Die Zephyr'n lauschten, 
 Die B'iche rauschten, 
 Die Sonne 
 
 Verbreitet ihre Licht mit Wonne.' 
 The somewhat more solid, substantial fare of 
 Voss, Leopold Stolberg, and Burger, too, were 
 delivered in such a manner that no one had 
 any reason to complain. 
 
 " All at once, howevor, it was as if some 
 
 wild and wanton devil had taken possession cf 
 the young reader, and I thought I saw the Wild 
 Huntsman bodily before me. He read poen^ 
 that had no existence in the Almanach ; he 
 broke out into all possible modes and dialects. 
 Hexameters, iambics, doggerel verses, one after 
 another, or blended in strange confusion, came 
 tumbling out in torrents. 
 
 "What wild and humorous fantasies did he 
 not combine that evening ! Amidst them, came 
 such noble, magnificent thoughts, thrown in, 
 detached, and flitting, that the authors to whom 
 he ascribed them must have thanked God on 
 their knees, if they had fallen upon their desks. 
 
 " As soon as the joke was discovered, a uni- 
 versal merriment spread through the room. He 
 put every body present out of countenance in 
 one way or another. Even my Maecenasship, 
 which I had always regarded it as a sort of 
 duty to exercise towards young authors, poets, 
 and artists, had its turn. Though he praised it 
 highly on the one side, he did not forget to 
 insinuate, on the other, that I claimed a sort of 
 property in the individuals to whom I had 
 afforded support and countenance. In a little 
 fable composed extempore in doggerel verses, he 
 likened me, wittily enough, to a worthy and 
 most enduring turkey-hen, that sits on a great 
 heap of eggs of her own and other people's, 
 and hatches them with infinite patience ; but 
 to whom it sometimes happens to have a chalk 
 egg put under her instead of a real one; a trick 
 at which she takes no offence. 
 
 " ' That is either Goethe or the devil,' cried 
 I to Wieland, who sat opposite to me at the 
 table. ' Both,' replied he ; ' he has the devil 
 in him again to-day ; and then he is like a 
 wanton colt that flings out before and behind, 
 and you do well not to go too near him.' " * 
 
 INTERVIEW WITH GOETHE. BY HAUFF. 
 
 "The clock at length struck, and we de- 
 parted. The residence of the poet is beautiful. 
 A tasteful walk, decorated with statues, leads 
 to the dwelling. We were silently conducted, 
 by a servant, to the parlour, the style of which 
 is neat, chaste, and elegant. My young com- 
 panion gazed at the paintings, sculptured walls, 
 and furniture, in admiration of wonder. Such 
 a ' poet's room ' was quite unlike the narrow 
 one of his fancy. His exalted preconceived 
 ideas of the poet were now greatly heightened 
 by the grandeur that surrounded him ; and his 
 trepidation at the impending interview began 
 to betray itself by the mantling of the color in 
 his handsome countenance, by the beatings of 
 his heart, by the frequency of his glances at the 
 door. 
 
 " I had here a little time to reflect upon the 
 character and fortunes of Goethe. How insig- 
 nificant is the splendor of birth, compared with 
 
 * Characteristics of Goethe, by Sarah Austin (3 vols. 
 London, 1833). Vol. II., pp. 25-29. 
 
GOETHE. 
 
 283 
 
 the wealth of an eminently gifted mind! This 
 son of an obscure citizen of Frankfort has 
 reached the utmost point, that, in the ordinary 
 nature of things, lies open to the attainment of 
 man. Goethe has broken his own path ; a path 
 in which none had preceded, none have fol- 
 lowed him. He has shown that what man will 
 he can. 
 
 "The door opened, — it was Goethe. A 
 stately, beautiful old man ! Eyes clear and 
 youthful ; forehead capacious, majestic ; the 
 mouth cheerful, fine, and noble. He was at- 
 tired in a fine suit of black ; on his breast was 
 a brilliant star. But he allowed us little- time 
 for a survey. We were welcomed with the 
 greatest sincerity and affability of manner, and 
 invited to seats. 
 
 " O, had I but been introduced as some 
 learned Iroquois, or one of the chivalrous spir- 
 its from Mississippi ! Could I but have inform- 
 ed him of the extent of his fame beyond the 
 Ohio, — of the opinions of the planters of Lou- 
 isiana of himself and his ' Wilhelm Meister' ! 
 Then I might have been a colloquial partaker 
 in this interview ; but, alas ! my fortunate com- 
 panion, who was an American, had the con- 
 versation all to himself. 
 
 " How false are often our notions of the 
 manner in which we should deport ourselves 
 with, and the kind of entertainment we shall 
 receive from, renowned men ! If the object of 
 our reverence has attained notoriety as a wit, 
 we expect to meet a sort of electrifying machine 
 in constant, sparkling operation. Is he a dra- 
 matist, we fancy we shall hear a talking trage- 
 dy. If a writer of romances, we feel that we 
 are approaching something novel. But a man 
 like Goethe, who ' rides in every saddle,' how 
 interesting, how instructive, how momentous 
 must be the interview, and what an effort does 
 it not require, on our part, to sustain it ! 
 
 " So thought the American before this visit 
 to Goethe. His mind now flew in confusion, 
 first, through the four chambers of his brain, 
 then down to the two apartments of his heart, 
 without being able to shape an idea, which he 
 dared to utter. Then how much was he re- 
 lieved, when the poet addressed him as Hans 
 addressed Kutz in the ' Kneipe ' ! He inquired 
 about the weather in America. The counte- 
 nance of my companion began to light up, the 
 sluices of his eloquence were soon opened, 
 and he talked about the Canadian mists, about 
 the spring storms of New York, and praised the 
 umbrellas which are manufactured in Franklin 
 street, Philadelphia. 
 
 " It soon appeared as if I were not in the 
 company of Goethe, but with my old associates 
 of the hotel, — such was the frankness and fa- 
 miliarity of the conversation. 
 
 "The time passing agreeably, we found that 
 our stay was prolonged far beyond the time we 
 nad purposed to tarry, and we took our leave 
 under the most bland and cordial civilities. 
 
 "In silent astonishment, my transatlantic com- 
 
 panion followed me to the public house. The 
 excitement of the animated interview still col- 
 ored his features, and he seemed highly gratified 
 with the visit. Arriving at our room, he threw 
 himself heroically upon two chairs and ordered 
 a bottle of champagne. The cork shot joyfully 
 against the ceiling ; two glasses were filled ; 
 and the health of the great poet was drunk 
 with 'three times three.' "* 
 
 GOETHE AND BETTINE. 
 "The house lies opposite the fountain ; how 
 deafening did the water sound to me ! I as- 
 cended the simple staircase ; in the wall stand 
 statues which command silence : at least, I 
 could not be loud in this sacred hall. All is 
 friendly, but solemn. In the rooms, simplicity 
 is at home. Ah, how inviting ! ' Fear not,' said 
 the modest walls, l ke will come, and will be — 
 and more he will not wish to be — as thou art' ; 
 — and then the door opened, and there he 
 stood, solemnly grave, and looked with fixed 
 eyes upon me. I stretched my hands towards 
 him, I believe. I soon lost all consciousness. 
 Goethe caught me quickly to his heart. ' Poor 
 child, have I frightened you? ' These were the 
 first words with which his voice penetrated to 
 my heart. He led me into his room, and placed 
 me on the sofa opposite to him. There we 
 were, both mute ; at last he broke the silence : 
 'You have doubtless read in the papers, that 
 we suffered, a few days ago, a great loss, by the 
 death of the Duchess Amalia? ' — ' Ah,' said I, 
 'I do n't read the papers.' — 'Indeed! I had 
 believed that every thing which happens in 
 Weimar would have interested you.' — ' No, 
 nothing interests me but you alone ; and I am 
 far too impatient to pore over newspapers.' — - 
 'You are a kind child.' — A long pause, — I, 
 fixed to that tiresome sofa in such anxiety. You 
 know how impossible it is for me to sit still, in 
 such a well bred manner. Ah, mother, is it 
 possible so far to forget one's self? I suddenly 
 said, ' Can't stay here upon the sofa,' and sprang 
 up. ' Well,' said he, ' make yourself at home.' 
 Then I flew to his neck, — he drew me on his 
 knee, and locked me to his heart. Still, quite 
 still it was, — every thing vanished. I had not 
 slept for so long, — years had passed in sighing 
 after him. I fell asleep on his breast ; and 
 when I awoke, I began a new life, t 
 
 GOETHE AS A PATRIOT. BY BORNE. 
 " Goethe might have rendered himself as 
 strong as Hercules in freeing his country from 
 the filth it contains, but he merely procured for 
 himself the golden apples of the Hesperides, of 
 which he retained possession ; and, satisfied 
 with that, he placed himself at the feet of 
 Omphale, where he remained stationary. How 
 
 * Hauff. Memoiren des Satan, Chap. XVI. Worka 
 (4 vnls. Stuttgart, 1840), Vol. II., p. 234. 
 
 f Goethe's Correspondence with a Child (2 vols. Lowell, 
 1841). Vol. I., pp. 10, 11. 
 
284 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 completely opposite was the course pursued by 
 the great poets and orators of Italy, France, and 
 England ! Dante, a warrior, statesman, and 
 diplomatist, beloved and hated, protected and 
 persecuted, by mighty princes, remained withal 
 unaffected by either, and sang and fought in 
 the cause of justice. Alfieri was a nobleman, 
 haughty and rich ; and yet he panted up the hill 
 of Parnassus, to proclaim from its summit uni- 
 versal freedom. Montesquieu was a servant of 
 the state ; and yet he sent forth his ' Persian 
 Letters,' in which he mocked at courts, and 
 his ' Spirit of the Laws,' wherein he exposed 
 the defects of the French government. Voltaire 
 was a courtier; but he only courted the great in 
 smooth words, and never sacrificed his princi- 
 ples to them. He wore, it is true, a well pow- 
 dered wig, and was fond of lace ruffles, silk 
 coats and stockings ; but when he heard the 
 cry of the persecuted, he did not hesitate to 
 wade through the mud to their rescue, and 
 with his own ennobled hands snatch from the 
 scaffold the unjustly condemned victim. Rous- 
 seau was a poor, sickly beggar, and needed 
 aid; but he was not seduced by tender care; 
 neither could friendship, even from the great, 
 produce a change in his principles. He con- 
 tinued proud and free, and died in poverty. 
 Milton, whilst engaged in the composition of 
 his divine poetry, forgot not, though in poverty, 
 the necessities of his fellow-citizens, but labored 
 for liberty and right. Such men were also 
 Swift, Byron, &c. ; and such are, at the present 
 moment, Moore, Campbell, and others. But 
 how has Goethe exhibited himself to his coun- 
 trymen and to the world ? As the citizen of a 
 free city, he merely recollected that he was the 
 grandson of a mayor, who, at the coronation of 
 the emperor of Germany, was allowed to hold ■ 
 the temporary office of Chamberlain. As the 
 child of honest and respectable parents, he was 
 delighted when once a dirty boy in the street 
 called him a bastard, and wandered forth in 
 imagination (the imagination of a future poet) 
 the son of some prince, questioning himself as 
 to which he might perchance belong. Thus 
 he was, and thus he remained. Not once has 
 he ever advanced a poor, solitary word in his 
 country's cause, — he, who, from the lofty height 
 which he had attained, might have spoken out 
 what none other but himself could dare to pro- 
 nounce. Some few years since, he petitioned 
 'their high and highest Mightinesses ' of the 
 German Confederation to grant his writings 
 their all-powerful protection against piracy; but 
 he did not remember to include in his prayer 
 an extension of the same privilege to his liter- 
 ary contemporaries. Ere I would have allow- 
 ed my fingers to pen thus a prayer for my indi- 
 vidual right, and that only, I would have per- 
 mitted them to be lamed and maimed by the 
 ruler's edge, like a school-boy ! " * 
 
 * Haas. 
 381, 3=2. 
 
 Gleanings from Germany (London, 1S39). pp. 
 
 GOETHE'S OWN VIEW OF THIS SUBJECT. 
 
 " I should like to know what is the mean- 
 ing of those phrases: — 'Love your country,' 
 ' Be an active patriot,' and so forth. If a poet 
 has employed himself during a long life in com- 
 bating pernicious prejudices, overcoming narrow 
 views, elevating the intellect, and purifying the 
 taste of the country, what could he possibly do 
 better than this ? How could he be more patri- 
 otic ? To make such impertinent and unthank- 
 ful demands upon a poet is as if I should de- 
 mand of the head of a regiment to become a 
 ringleader in all political novelties, and neglect 
 thereby his soldiers and their discipline. The 
 head of a regiment ought to have no other 
 fatherland than his regiment; and his best way 
 to become a patriot is, to have no concern with 
 politics, but in so far as they affect the discharge 
 of his duties, and to direct his whole energies 
 to the training and conversation of his troops, 
 to the end, that, when his fatherland really re- 
 quires their service, they may be able to acquit 
 themselves like men. 
 
 " I hate all intermeddling with subjects that 
 one does not understand, as I hate sin itself; 
 and, of all intermeddling bunglers, political 
 bunglers are to me the most odious, for their 
 handiwork involves thousands and millions in 
 destruction. 
 
 " You know well it is not my custom to con- 
 cern myself much about what people say or 
 write of me ; but I have heard, and I know 
 very well, that, though I have worked like a 
 slave all my life long (so sauer ich es mir auch 
 mein Lebelang habe werden lassen), there are 
 nevertheless certain people who consider all 
 that I have done as worse than nothing, for no 
 other reason than because I have uniformly re- 
 fused to mix myself up with party politics. To 
 please these gentlemen, I must have become a 
 member of a Jacobin club, and a preacher of 
 murder and bloodshed ! But enough of this 
 sorry theme, lest I should lose my reason in 
 attempting to reason against that which is alto- 
 gether unreasonable." * 
 
 MENZEL'S VIEW OF GOETHE. 
 
 " Goethe had all Lessing's subtilty, and a 
 much richer imagination, but without his man- 
 liness ; and all the softness, sensibility, and uni- 
 versal resignation of Herder, but without his 
 faith. In relation to the beautiful treatment of 
 every subject he chose to handle, he was in- 
 disputably the greatest of our poets; but he felt 
 no enthusiasm for any thing but himself, and all 
 the subjects he treated were emplo3'ed merely 
 to portray and to flatter himself. As in his 
 study at Weimar he managed, by an artful dis- 
 position of the light, to appear, on the first salu- 
 tation of a visiter, under the most favorable pic- 
 torial light and shade, so all his works were 
 merely the same kind of artificial means of illu- 
 
 * Eckermann. Gesprache mit Goethe. 2 vols. Leipzig. 
 1836. 8vo. — Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. XVIII. 
 
GOETHE. 
 
 285 
 
 minaling himself. For the world he had no 
 sympathy, except so far as it served him for the 
 same end. Of the cathedral at Cologne he 
 desired to have a little ' show chapel ' in his 
 garden ; all he cared for was the fashion ; but 
 the august and solemn spirit which dwelt in 
 the cathedral passed with him for nothing. He 
 not only had no feeling for the exigencies of the 
 country, but they were absolutely odious to 
 him. He not only berhymed Napoleon, because 
 Napoleon flattered him, but shut himself up 
 during the great war of liberation, and prose- 
 cuted the study of Chinese, out of disgust for 
 an age which acknowledged something more 
 important than himself. This man appeared to 
 his contemporaries to be the greatest of men, 
 because he could not flatter himself without 
 speaking from the heart, as it were, of an innu- 
 merable multitude of other selfish creatures ; 
 because he smoothed over all the inclinations, 
 which the boasted aristocracy of the refined, in 
 his deeply degraded nation, at that time shared 
 with him. Lessing had frightened the weak- 
 lings ; they had wondered at him, but had 
 turned away in disgust. Goethe was their dar- 
 ling, because he persuaded them that their 
 weakness was beautiful."* 
 
 The following is a part of the powerful and 
 elaborate, but hostile, analysis of Goethe's char- 
 acter and influence, in the same writer's " Ger- 
 man Literature." 
 
 " The entire phenomenon of Goethe, the sum 
 and substance of all his qualities and manifes- 
 tations, is a reflex, a closely compressed and 
 variously colored image of his age. But this 
 was an age of national degeneracy; of political 
 imbecility and disgrace ; of a malicious unbelief; 
 of a coquettish and sensual cant ; of a deep de- 
 moralization ; of a passion for pleasure, smooth- 
 ed over by an appearance of taste, under the 
 mask of refined manners; of contempt for every 
 public interest, and an anxious care for self. 
 All these sad phenomena of the times, which oc- 
 casioned the downfall of the German empire, and 
 brought about the triumph of France over our 
 despised and neglected country, Goethe has not 
 resisted like a hero, or bewailed like a prophet. 
 He has merely given back their images, and 
 poetically embellished them ; nay, not merely 
 applauded them indirectly, but in express terms. 
 
 " We recognize in Goethe the exact opposite 
 of Lessing. As Lessing emancipated the Ger- 
 man mind from foreign influence, Goethe sub- 
 jected it to this influence by toying with every 
 people under the sun ; and as Lessing opposed 
 the sentimental style with all the force and 
 gracefulness of his manly spirit, so Goethe ad- 
 hered to that effeminate enervation of the age, 
 and led the affections to its snares by the sweet- 
 ness of his strains. To all the luxurious, soft, 
 effeminate vices that have made their way into 
 German literature by the sentimental spirit, 
 and to all the false, perverted, and foppish 
 
 * Menzel. Geschichte der Deutschen (Stuttgart und 
 Tubingen, 1337). pp. 1054, 1055. 
 
 mannerisms that have been introduced by aping 
 foreigners, Goethe lent the most powerful aid, 
 and elevated imbecility and unnaturalness to a 
 law. The only good which he had with this 
 bad tendency, and that by which he attained so 
 great power, was his form, — his talent of lan- 
 guage, of representation, of dress. 
 
 " When we pierce through the many-colored 
 cloud of the Goethean form, we perceive ego- 
 tism to be the inmost essence of his poetry, as 
 of his whole life ; not, however, the egotism of 
 the hero and the heaven-storming Titan, but 
 only that of the Sybarite and the actor, the ego- 
 tism of the passion for pleasure and the vanity 
 of art. Goethe referred every thing to himself, 
 made himself the centre of the world; exclud- 
 ed from his neighbourhood, and from contact 
 with himself, every thing that did not minister 
 to his desires ; and really exercised a magic 
 sway over weak souls by his talent : but he did 
 not make use of his power and his high rank 
 to elevate, improve, and emancipate men, or to 
 announce and support any great idea whatever, 
 or to fight in the battles which his contempora- 
 ries were waging, for right, freedom, honor, and 
 country. By no means. He only carried the 
 world away with him, like the stage princess, — 
 to enjoy it, to play his part before it, to get ad- 
 miration and pay. If he but found applause, 
 he cared nothing for the sufferings of his coun- 
 try ; nay, he took occasion to utter his venom- 
 ous hate against the free and mighty movements 
 of the times, the moment he was disagreeably 
 affected and disturbed by them. The prevail- 
 ing feebleness of his age, the aping of foreign 
 manners, which had become the fashion even 
 before him, as well as the sentimental tone of 
 the day, made it easy for him to turn his own 
 weaknesses to good account; and, when he had 
 at length gained sufficient fame and applause 
 by his really extraordinary talent, he gave him- 
 self up, like an adored stage-princess, to all his 
 pleasures and petty caprices. He not only 
 ceased to put the least disguise upon his ego- 
 tism, but made it a matter of pride, and imposed 
 upon his slavish readers by the unabashed dis- 
 play of his thousand vanities. 
 
 " But Goethe's age is past, never to return. 
 A wakeful life has succeeded to the place of 
 the soft slumbers which conjured up his varie- 
 gated dreams before him. Goethe's profound- 
 est doctrine, which he laid down in ' Wilhelm 
 Meister's Apprenticeship,' was, 'Seriousness 
 surprises us.' Yes ; it must surprise those, who, 
 taken up with sports and dreams, have paid no 
 heed to the realities about them. Against this se- 
 riousness Goethe turned to a chrysalis, and wove 
 the insect web around him, and buried himself 
 among his ten thousand bawbles ; and his disci- 
 ples have encircled him with a laurel grove like 
 a wall. But he is now dead ; his pleasure-garden 
 is as desolate as Versailles, and the spirit of the 
 age, passing earnestly by, bestows scarcely a 
 transient look upon the ostentatious sepulchre." 
 
286 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 JEAN PAUL'S VIEW OF GOETHE. 
 " On the second day, I threw away my fool- 
 ish prejudices in favor of great authors. They 
 are like other people. Here, every one knows 
 that they are like the earth, that looks from a 
 distance, from heaven, like a shining moon, but, 
 when the foot is upon it, it is found to be made 
 of boue de Paris (Paris mud). An opinion con- 
 cerning Herder, Wieland, or Goethe, is as much 
 contested as any other. Who would believe 
 that the three watch-towers of our literature 
 avoid and dislike each other ? I will never 
 again bend myself anxiously before any great 
 man, only before the virtuous. Under this im- 
 pression, I went timidly to meet Goethe. Ev- 
 ery one had described him as cold to every thing 
 upon the earth. Madame von Kalb said, ' He 
 no longer admires any thing, not even himself. 
 Every word is ice. Curiosities, merely, warm 
 the fibres of his heart.' Therefore I asked 
 Knebel to petrify or incrust me by some min- 
 eral spring, that I might present myself to him 
 like a statue or a fossil. Madame von Kalb ad- 
 vised me, above all things, to be cold and self- 
 possessed, and I went without warmth, merely 
 from curiosity. His house, palace rather, pleased 
 me; it is the only one in Weimar in the Italian 
 style, — with such steps! a Pantheon full of 
 pictures and statues. Fresh anxiety oppressed 
 my breast. At last the god entered, cold, one- 
 syllabled, without accent. ' The French are 
 drawing towards Paris,' said Knebel. ' Hm ! ' 
 said the god. His face is massive and animated, 
 his eye a ball of light. But, at last, the conver- 
 sation led from the campaign to art, publica- 
 tions, &c, and Goethe was himself. His con- 
 versation is not so rich and flowing as Herder's, 
 but sharp-toned, penetrating, and calm. At 
 last he read, that is, played for us, an unpub- 
 lished poem, in which his heart impelled the 
 flame through the outer crust of ice, so that he 
 pressed the hand of the enthusiastic Jean Paul. 
 (It was my face, not my voice ; for I said not a 
 word.) He did it again when we took leave, 
 and pressed me to call again. By Heaven ! we 
 will love each other ! He considers his poetic 
 course as closed. His reading is like deep- 
 toned thunder, blended with soft-whispering 
 rain-drops. There is nothing like it." * 
 
 MADAM CATALANI AND GOETHE. 
 
 " Her want of literary attainments, joined 
 to her vivacity in conversation, sometimes pro- 
 duced ludicrous scenes. When at the court of 
 Weimar, she was placed, at a dinner-party, by 
 the side of Goethe, as a mark of respect to her 
 on the part of her royal host. The lady knew 
 nothing of Goethe, but, being struck by his 
 majestic appearance, and the great attention of 
 which he was the object, she inquired of the 
 
 * Life of Jean Paul Frederic Richter (2 vols. Boston, 
 1842). Vol. I, pp. 329, 330. 
 
 gentleman on the other side what was his 
 name. ' The celebrated Goethe, Madam,' was 
 the answer. ' Pray, on what instrument does 
 he play ? ' was the next question. ' He is no per- 
 former, Madam, — he is the renowned author of 
 " Werther." ' — ' O, yes, yes, I remember,' said 
 Catalani ; and turning to the venerable poet, 
 she addressed him, — ' Ah, Sir, what an admirer 
 I am of " Werther ! " ' 
 
 " A low bow was the acknowledgment for 
 so flattering a compliment. 'I never,' contin- 
 ued the lively lady, — 'I never read any thing 
 half so laughable in all my life. What a cap- 
 ital farce it is, Sir ! ' — 'Madam,' said the poet, 
 looking aghast, — " The Sorrows of Werther " a 
 farce ? ' — ' O, yes ; never was any thing so ex- 
 quisitely ridiculous ! ' rejoined Catalani heartily, 
 as she enjoyed the remembrance. And it turned 
 out that she had been talking all the while of a 
 ridiculous parody of' Werther,' which had been 
 performed at one of the minor theatres of Paris, 
 and in which the sentimentality of Goethe's 
 tale had been unmercifully ridiculed. The poet 
 did not get over his mortification the whole 
 evening ; and the fair singer's credit at the 
 court of Weimar was sadly impaired by this dis- 
 play of her ignorance of the illustrious Goethe 
 and 'The Sorrows of Werther.' "* 
 
 HEINE'S VIEW OF GOETHE. 
 "In some future articles I shall speak of the 
 new poets who flourished under the imperial 
 reign of Goethe. They resemble a young for- 
 est, whose trees first show their own magnitude, 
 after the oak of a hundred years, whose branch- 
 es had towered above and overshadowed them, 
 has fallen. There was not wanting, as already 
 stated, an opposition that strove with embit- 
 tered zeal against Goethe, this majestic tree. 
 Men of the most warring opinions united them- 
 selves for the contest. The adherents of the 
 old faith, the orthodox, were vexed that in the 
 trunk of the vast tree no niche with its holy 
 image was to be found ; nay, that even the 
 naked Dryads of paganism were permitted there 
 to play their witchery ; and gladly, with con- 
 secrated axe, would they have imitated the 
 holy Boniface, and levelled the enchanted oak 
 with the ground. The partisans of the new 
 faith, the apostles of liberalism, were vexed, 
 on the other hand, that this tree could not 
 serve as the tree of liberty, or, at any rate, as 
 a barricade. In fact, the tree was too high, no 
 one could plant the red cap upon its summit, 
 or dance the Carmagnole beneath its branches. 
 The many, however, venerated this tree, for 
 the very reason that it reared itself with such 
 independent grandeur, and so graciously filled 
 the world with its odor, while its branches, 
 streaming magnificently toward heaven, made 
 it appear as if stars were only the golden fruit 
 of Us wondrous limbs. 
 
 * Hogarth. Memoirs of the Musical Drama. 
 
GOETHE. 
 
 287 
 
 " In truth, that accordance of personal ap- 
 pearance with genius, which we ever desire to 
 see in distinguished men, was found in perfec- 
 tion in Goethe. His outward appearance was 
 just as imposing as the word that lives in his 
 writings. Even his form was symmetrica], ex- 
 pressive of joy, nobly proportioned, and one 
 might study the Grecian art upon it as well as 
 upon an antique. 
 
 " His eyes were calm as those of a god. It 
 is the peculiar characteristic of the gods, that 
 their gaze is ever steady, and their eyes roll 
 not to and fro in uncertainty. Therefore, when 
 Agni, Varuna, Tama, and Indra assume the 
 form of Nala, at the marriage of Damayantis, 
 she discovers her beloved by the twinkle of his 
 eye ; for, as I have said, the eyes of the gods 
 are ever motionless. The eyes of Napoleon 
 had this peculiarity; therefore I am persuaded 
 that he was a god. The eye of Goethe re- 
 mained, in his latest age, just as divine as in 
 his youth. Time, indeed, had covered his head 
 with snow, but could never bow it. To the 
 last he bore it proud and lofty ; and when he 
 spoke he became still more majestic, and when 
 he stretched forth his hand it was as if his fin- 
 ger were to prescribe to the stars their courses 
 in the heavens. Around his mouth some pro- 
 fess to have seen a trait of egotism, but even 
 this is peculiar to the immortal gods, and espe- 
 cially to the Father of the gods, the mighty Ju- 
 piter, to whom Goethe has already been com- 
 pared. Verily, when I visited him in Weimar, 
 and stood in his presence, I involuntarily turned 
 my eyes one side, to see if the eagle, with the 
 thunderbolts in his beak, were not attendant 
 upon him. I was just on the point of address- 
 ing him in Greek; but, when I perceived that 
 he spoke German, I told him, in that language, 
 ' That the plums, upon the road between Jena 
 and Weimar, had an excellent relish.' Many 
 a long winter night had I thought with mvself, 
 how much that was loft) 7 and profound I should 
 say to Goethe, if ever I should see him ; and, 
 when at last I saw him, I told him that the 
 Saxon plums were excellent! — And Goethe 
 smiled. He smiled with those very lips with 
 which he once had kissed the beauteous Leda, 
 Europa, Danae, Semele, and so many other 
 princesses or common nymphs."* 
 
 NIEBUHR'S VIEW OF GOETHE. 
 
 " Our fathers, before we, now advanced in 
 years, were born, recognized in ' Gotz,' and 
 the other poems of a young man who was of 
 the same age as Valerius in his first consulship 
 (twentv-three), the poet who would rise far 
 above all our nation possessed, and who could 
 never be excelled. This acknowledgment 
 
 * Heine. Letters Auxiliary to the History of Modern 
 Polite Literature in Germany. Translated by G. W. Haven 
 (Boston, 1336). pp. 56-53, 31, 32. 
 
 Goethe has been enjoying fo> more than half a 
 century ; the third generation of mature men 
 already look up to him as the first man of the 
 nation, without a second and a rival, and the 
 children hear his name as the Greeks did that 
 of Horner. He has lived to see our literature, 
 especially on his account, recognized and hon- 
 ored in foreign countries: but he has outlived 
 its time of poetry and youth, and has been left 
 solitary." * 
 
 CARLYLE'S VIEW OF GOETHE. 
 " But, as was once written, ' Though our 
 clock strikes when there is a change from hour 
 to hour, no hammer in the horologe of Time 
 peals through the universe to proclaim that 
 there is a change from era to era.' The true 
 beginning is oftenest unnoticed, and unnotice- 
 able. Thus do men go wrong in their reckon- 
 ing; and grope hither and thither, not knowing 
 where they are, in what course their history 
 runs. Within this last century, for instance, 
 with its wild doings and destroyings, what hope, 
 grounded in miscalculation, ending in disap- 
 pointment ! How many world-famous victories 
 were gained and lost, dynasties founded and 
 subverted, revolutions accomplished, constitu 
 tions sworn to ; and ever the ' new era ' was 
 come, was coming, yet still it came not, but the 
 time continued sick ! Alas ! all these were but 
 spasmodic convulsions of the death-sick time ; 
 the crisis of cure and regeneration to the time 
 was not there indicated. The real new era was 
 when a Wise Man came into the world, with 
 clearness of vision and greatness of soul to ac- 
 complish this old high enterprise, amid these 
 new difficulties, yet again : a Life of Wisdom. 
 Such a man became, by Heaven's preappoint- 
 ment, in very deed, the Redeemer of the time. 
 Did he not bear the curse of the time? He was 
 filled full with its skepticism, bitterness, hollow- 
 ness, and thousand-fold contradictions, till his 
 heart was like to break ; but he subdued all 
 this, ros,e victorious over this, and manifoldly 
 by word and act showed others that come after 
 how to do the like. Honor to him who first, 
 ' through the impassable, paves a road ! ' Such, 
 indeed, is the task of every great man; nay, of 
 everv good man in one or the other sphere, — 
 since goodness is greatness, and the good man, 
 high or humble, is ever a martyr, and a 'spirit- 
 ual hero that ventures forward into the gulf for 
 our deliverance.' The gulf into which this 
 man ventured, which he tamed and rendered 
 habitable, was the greatest and most perilous of 
 all, wherein, truly, all others lie included : The 
 whole distracted existence of man in an age of 
 unbelief Whoso lives, whoso with earnest 
 mind studies to live wisely in that mad ele- 
 ment, may yet know, perhaps too well, what 
 an enterprise was here ; and for the chosen of 
 our time, who could prevail in that same, have 
 
 *Nieeuhr. History of Rome (3 vols. Lonuwn, .642). 
 Vol. III., pp. 125, 126, note. 
 
288 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 the higher reverence, and a gratitude such as 
 belongs to no other. 
 
 " How far he prevailed in it, and by what 
 means, with what endurances and achieve- 
 ments, will in due season be estimated ; those 
 volumes called ' Goethe's Works' will receive 
 no further addition or alteration ; and the record 
 of his whole spiritual endeavour lies written 
 there, — were the man or men but ready who 
 could read it rightly ! A glorious record ; where- 
 in he that would understand himself and his 
 environment, and struggles for escape out of 
 darkness into light, as for the one thing needful, 
 will long thankfully study. For the whole 
 chaotic time, what it has suffered, attained, and 
 striven after, stands imaged there ; interpreted, 
 ennobled, into poetic clearness. From the pas- 
 sionate longings and wailings of ' Werther,' 
 spoken as from the heart of all Europe ; onwards 
 through the wild, unearthly melody of ' Faust' 
 (like the spirit-song of falling worlds) ; to that 
 serenely smiling wisdom of ' Meisters Lehrjah- 
 re,' and the ( German Hafiz,' — what an interval ! 
 and all enfolded in an ethereal music, as from 
 unknown spheres, harmoniously uniting all ! 
 A long interval; and wide as well as long; for 
 this was a universal man. History, science, art, 
 human activity under every aspect ; the laws 
 of light in his ' Farbenlehre ' ; the laws of wild 
 Italian life in his 'Benvenuto Cellini ' ; — noth- 
 ing escaped him, nothing that he did not look 
 into, that he did not see into. Consider, too, 
 the genuineness of whatsoever he did ; his 
 hearty, idiomatic way; simplicity with lofti- 
 ness, and nobleness, and aerial grace; — pure 
 works of art, completed with an antique Gre- 
 cian polish, as ' Torquato Tasso,' as l Iphige- 
 nie ' ; proverbs, ' Xenien,' — patriarchal sayings, 
 which, since the Hebrew Scriptures were closed, 
 we know not where to match ; in whose home- 
 ly depths lie often the materials for volumes."* 
 
 Besides the numerous editions of his separate 
 works, the following collective editions may be 
 mentioned: — that published at Stuttgart and 
 Tubingen, 1827-35, in fifty-six volumes ; the 
 complete and newly arranged edition of his 
 works in forty volumes, 1840 ; and the beauti- 
 ful edition in two large volumes, 1836 — 38. 
 His life was written by H. Doring, Weimar, 
 1828. The " Correspondence between Goethe 
 and Zelter," six volumes, appeared at Berlin, 
 1833-34; "Goethe's Correspondence with a 
 Child," three volumes, Berlin, 1832 ; second 
 edition, 1837; his "Letters to the Countess 
 Auguste zu Stolberg," Leipzig, 1839; his " Cor- 
 respondence with Schiller," in six parts, Stutt- 
 gart, 1828-29. 
 
 Goethe's genius has been amply illustrated 
 by many English writers, particularly by Mrs. 
 Austin, Carlyie, and Taylor. His "Faust" has 
 been tranolated eight or nine times; his "Wil- 
 
 * Carlyle. Critical and Miscellaneous Essays (4 vols. 
 Boston, 1839). Vol. III., pp. 200-202. 
 
 helm Meister" has been excellently rendered by 
 Carlyle. Among his scientific works, his " Far- 
 benlehre," or Theory of Colors, has excited re- 
 cently much attention in the valuable transla- 
 tion of Mr. Eastlake. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM FAUST. 
 DEDICATION. 
 Agatn ye come, again ye throng around me, 
 
 Dim, shadowy beings of my boyhood's dream ! 
 Still shall I bless, as then, your spell that bound 
 me? 
 Still bend to mists and vapors, as ye seem ? 
 Nearer ye come! — I yield me, as ye found me 
 In youth, your worshipper ; and as the stream 
 Of air that folds you in its magic wreaths 
 Flows by my lips, youth's joy my bosom 
 breathes. 
 
 Lost forms and loved ones ye are with you 
 bringing, 
 And dearest images of happier days ; 
 First-love and friendship in your path upspring- 
 ing, 
 Like old Tradition's half-remembered lays ; 
 And long-slept sorrows waked, whose dirge-like 
 singing 
 Recalls my life's strange labyrinthine maze, 
 And names the heart-mourned, many a stern 
 
 doom, 
 Ere their year's summer, summoned to the tomb. 
 
 They hear not these my last songs, they whose 
 greeting 
 Gladdened my first, — my spring-time friends 
 have gone ; 
 And gone, fast journeying from that place of 
 meeting, 
 The echoes of their welcome, one by one. 
 Though stranger-crowds, my listeners since, are 
 beating 
 Time to my music, their applauding tone 
 More grieves than glads me, while the tried and 
 
 true, 
 If yet on earth, are wandering far and few. 
 
 A longing long unfelt, a deep-drawn sighing 
 For the far Spirit-World, o'erpowers me now; 
 
 My song's faint voice sinks fainter, like the dying 
 Tones of the wind-harp swinging from the 
 bough ; 
 
 And my changed heart throbs warm, — no more 
 denying 
 Tears to my eyes, or sadness to my brow : 
 
 The Near afar off seems, the Distant nigh, 
 
 The Now a dream, the Past reality. 
 
 THE CATHEDRAL. 
 
 [Margaret amongst a number of people. Evil Spirit be- 
 hind Margaret.] 
 
 EVIL SPIRIT. 
 
 How different was it with thee, Margaret, 
 When, still full of innocence 
 
GOETHE. 
 
 289 
 
 [Organ plays. 
 
 
 Thou earnest to the altar here, — 
 
 Out of the well worn little book 
 
 Lispedst prayers, 
 
 Half child-sport, 
 
 Half God in the heart ! 
 
 Margaret, 
 
 Where is thy head ? 
 
 In thy heart 
 
 What crime ? 
 
 Prayest thou for thy mother's soul, — who 
 
 Slept over into long, long pain through thee ? 
 
 Whose blood on thy threshold? — 
 
 And under thy heart 
 
 Stirs it not quickening even now, 
 
 Torturing itself and thee 
 
 With its foreboding presence ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Woe ! woe ! 
 
 Would that I were free from the thoughts 
 That come over me and across me, 
 Despite of me ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Dies ircB, dies ilia, 
 Solvet scBclum infavilld. 
 
 EVIL SPIRIT. 
 
 Horror seizes thee ! 
 
 The trump sounds ! 
 
 The graves tremble ! 
 
 And thy heart 
 
 From the repose of its ashes, 
 
 For fiery torment 
 
 Brought to life again, 
 
 Trembles up ! 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Would that I were hence ! 
 I feel as if the organ 
 Stifled my breath, — 
 As if the anthem 
 Dissolved my heart's core ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Judex ergo cum sedebit, 
 Quidquid latet adparebit, 
 Nil inultum remanebit. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 I feel so thronged ! 
 The wall-pillars 
 Close on me ! 
 The vaulted roof 
 Presses on me ! — Air ! 
 
 EVIL SPIRIT. 
 
 Hide thyself! Sin and shame 
 Remain, unhidden. 
 Air? Light? 
 Woe to thee ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Quid sum miser tunc dicturus, 
 Quern patronum rogaturus, 
 Cum vix Justus sit securus? 
 
 EVIL SPIRIT. 
 
 The glorified from thee 
 
 37 
 
 Avert their faces. 
 
 The pure shudder 
 
 To reach thee their hands. 
 
 Woe! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Neighbour ! your smelling-bottle ! 
 
 [She swoons away. 
 
 MAY-DAY NIGHT. 
 [Scene. — The Hartz Mountain, a desolate Country.] 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 Would you not like a broomstick ? As for me, 
 
 I wish I had a good stout ram to ride ; 
 
 For we are still far from the appointed place. 
 
 This knotted staff is help enough for me, 
 Whilst I feel fresh upon my legs. What good 
 Is there in making short a pleasant way ? 
 To creep along the labyrinths of the vales, 
 And climb those rocks, where ever-babbling 
 
 springs 
 Precipitate themselves in waterfalls, 
 Is the true sport that seasons such a path. 
 Already Spring kindles the birchen spray, 
 And the hoar pines already feel her breath: 
 Shall she not work also within our limbs? 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 Nothing of such an influence do I feel : 
 
 My body is all wintry, and I wish 
 
 The flowers upon our path were frost and snow. 
 
 But see, how melancholy rises now, 
 
 Dimly uplifting her belated beam, 
 
 The blank unwelcome round of the red moon, 
 
 And gives so bad a light, that, every step, 
 
 One stumbles 'gainst some crag ' With your 
 
 permission, 
 I '11 call an Ignis-fatuus to our aid : 
 I see one yonder burning jollity. 
 Halloo, my friend ! may I request that you 
 Would favor us with your bright company ? 
 Why should you blaze away there to no purpose? 
 Pray, be so good as light us up this way. 
 
 IGNIS-FATUUS. 
 
 With reverence be it spoken, I will try 
 To overcome the lightness of my nature : 
 Our course, you know, is generally zigzag. 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! your worship thinks you have to deal 
 With men. Go straight on, in the Devil'rf name. 
 Or I shall puff youi flickering life out. 
 
 IGNIS-FATUUS. 
 
 Weil, 
 
 I see you are the master of the house ; 
 I will accommodate myself to you. 
 Only consider, that to-night this mountiin 
 Is all enchanted; and if Jack -a- Lantern 
 Y 
 
290 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Shows you his way, though you should miss 
 
 your own, 
 Tou ought not to be too exact with him. 
 
 Faust, mephistopheles, and ignis-fatous (in alternate 
 chorus): 
 The limits of the sphere of dream, 
 
 The bounds of true and false, are past. 
 Lead us on, thou wandering Gleam, 
 Lead us onward, far and fast, 
 To the wide, the desert waste. 
 
 But see, how swift advance and shift 
 
 Trees behind trees, row by row, — 
 How, clift by clift, rocks bend and lift 
 
 Their frowning foreheads as we go ! 
 
 The giant-snouted crags, ho ! ho ! 
 
 How they snort, and how they blow ! 
 
 Through the mossy sods and stones 
 Stream and streamlet hurry down, 
 A rushing throng ! A sound of song 
 
 Beneath the vault of heaven is blown : 
 Sweet notes of love, the speaking tones 
 Of this bright day, sent down to say 
 That paradise on earth is known, 
 Resound around, beneath, above. 
 All we hope and all we love 
 
 Finds a voice in this blithe strain, 
 Which wakens hill and wood and rill, 
 And vibrates far o'er field and vale, 
 And which Echo, like the tale 
 Of old times, repeats again. 
 
 Tu-whoo ! tu-whoo ! near, nearer now 
 The sound of song, the rushing throng ! 
 
 Are the screech, the lapwing, and the jay, 
 
 All awake, as if 't were day ? 
 
 See, with long legs and belly wide, 
 A salamander in the brake ! 
 Every root is like a snake, 
 
 And along the loose hill-side, 
 With strange contortions, through the night, 
 Curls, to seize or to affright ; 
 And, animated, strong, and many, 
 They dart forth polypus-antennae, 
 To blister with their poison spume 
 The wanderer. Through the dazzling gloom 
 The many-colored mice, that thread 
 The dewy turf beneath our tread, 
 In troops each othei's motions cross, 
 Through the heath and through the moss ; 
 And, in legions intertangled, 
 
 The fire-flies flit, and swarm, and throng, 
 Till all the mountain depths are spangled. 
 
 Tell me, shall we go or stay ? 
 
 Shall we onward ? Come along ! 
 
 Every thing around is swept 
 Forward, onward, far away ! 
 
 Trees and masses intercept 
 The sight, and wisps on every side 
 Are puffed up and multiplied. 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 Now vigorously seize my skirt, and gain 
 
 This pinnacle of isolated crag. 
 
 One may observe with wonder, from this point, 
 
 How Mammon glows among the mountains. 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 Ay,- 
 
 And strangely, through the solid depth below, 
 
 A melancholy light, like the red dawn, 
 
 Shoots from the lowest gorge of the abyss 
 
 Of mountains, lightening hitherward : there, rise 
 
 Pillars of smoke; here, clouds float gently by; 
 
 Here the light burns soft as the enkindled air, 
 
 Or the illumined dust of golden flowers; 
 
 And now it glides like tender colors spreading; 
 
 And now bursts forth in fountains from the earth ; 
 
 And now it winds, one torrent of broad light, 
 
 Through the far valley, with a hundred veins ; 
 
 And now once more, within that narrow corner, 
 
 Masses itself into intensest splendor. 
 
 And near us, see, sparks spring out of the ground, 
 
 Like golden sand scattered upon the darkness; 
 
 The pinnacles of that black wall of mountains, 
 
 That hems us in, are kindled. 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 Rare, in faith ! 
 
 Does not Sir Mammon gloriously illuminate 
 
 His palace for this festival ? It is 
 
 A pleasure which you had not known before. 
 
 I spy the boisterous guests already 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 How 
 
 The children of the wind rage in the air ! 
 
 With what fierce strokes they fall upon my neck ! 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 Cling tightly to the old ribs of the crag. 
 Beware ! for if with them thou warrest, 
 
 In their fierce flight towards the wilder- 
 ness, 
 Their breath will sweep thee into dust, and 
 drag 
 Thy body to a grave in the abyss. 
 A cloud thickens the night. 
 Hark ! how the tempest crashes through the 
 forest ! 
 The owls fly out in strange affright ; 
 The columns of the evergreen palaces 
 Are split and shattered ; 
 The roots creak, and stretch, and groan ; 
 And, ruinously overthrown, 
 
 The trunks are crushed and shattered 
 By the fierce blast's unconquerable stress; 
 Over each other crack and crash they all, 
 In terrible and intertangled fall : 
 And through the ruins of the shaken mountain 
 
 The airs hiss and howl, — 
 It is not the voice of the fountain, 
 
 Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl. 
 
 Dost thou not hear ? 
 Strange accents are ringing 
 
 Aloft, afar, anear ; 
 The witches are singing ! 
 The torrent of a raging wizard-song 
 Streams the whole mountain along. 
 
GOETHE. 
 
 291 
 
 CHORUS OP WITCHES. 
 
 The stubble is yellow, the corn is green, 
 
 Now to the brocken the witches go ; 
 The mighty multitude here may be seen 
 
 Gathering, wizard and witch, below. 
 Sir Urean is sitting aloft in the air ; 
 
 Hey over stock ! and hey over stone ! 
 
 'Twixt witches and incubi, what shall be 
 done i 
 Tell it who dare ! tell it who dare ! 
 
 A VOICE. 
 
 Upon a sow-swine, whose farrows were nine, 
 Old Baubo rideth alone. 
 
 Honor her to whom honor is due : 
 Old Mother Baubo, honor to you ! 
 An able sow, with old Baubo upon her, 
 Is worthy of glory, and worthy of honor ! 
 The legion of witches is coming behind, 
 Darkening the night, and outspeeding the 
 wind. 
 
 A VOICE. 
 
 Which way comest thou ? 
 
 A VOICE. 
 
 Over Usenstein. 
 The owl was awake in the white moonshine : 
 I saw her at rest in her downy nest, 
 And she stared at me with her broad, bright eye. 
 
 VOICES. 
 
 And you may now as well take your course on 
 
 to hell, 
 Since you ride by so fast on the headlong blast. 
 
 A VOICE. 
 
 She dropped poison upon me as I passed. 
 Here are the wounds 
 
 CHORUS OF WITCHES. 
 
 Come away ! come along ! 
 The way is wide, the way is long, — 
 But what is that for a Bedlam throng ? 
 Stick with the prong, and scratch with the 
 
 broom ; 
 The child in the cradle lies strangled at home, 
 And the mother is clapping her hands. 
 
 SEMI-CHORDS OF WIZARDS I. 
 
 We glide in 
 Like snails, when the women are all away ; 
 And from a house once given over to sin 
 Woman has a thousand steps to stray. 
 
 SEMI-CHORUS II. 
 
 A thousand steps must a woman take, 
 Where a man but a single spring will make. 
 
 VOICES ABOVE. 
 
 Come with us, come with us, from Felunsee. 
 
 VOICES BELOW. 
 
 With what joy would we fly through the upper 
 sky ! 
 
 We are washed, we are 'nointed, stark naked 
 are we ; 
 But our toil and our pain are for ever in vain. 
 
 BOTH CHORUSES. 
 
 The wind is still, the stars are fled, 
 The melancholy moon is dead ; 
 The magic notes, like spark on spark, 
 Drizzle, whistling through the dark. 
 Come away ! 
 
 VOICES BELOW. 
 
 Stay, O, stay ! 
 
 VOICES ABOVE. 
 
 Out of the crannies of the rocks 
 Who calls ? 
 
 VOICES BELOW. 
 
 O, let me join your flocks ! 
 I three hundred years have striven 
 To catch your skirt and mount to heaven, — 
 And still in vain. O, might I be 
 With company akin to me ! 
 
 BOTH CHORUSES. 
 
 Some on a ram and some on a prong, 
 On poles and on broomsticks, we flutter along •, 
 Forlorn is the wight who can rise not to-night. 
 
 A HALF-WITCH BELOW. 
 
 I have been tripping this many an hour : 
 Are the others already so far before ? 
 No quiet at home, and no peace abroad ! 
 And less, methinks, is found by the road. 
 
 CHORUS OF WITCHES. 
 
 Come onward away ! aroint thee, aroint ! 
 A witch, to be strong, must anoint, — anoint, — 
 Then every trough will be boat enough ; 
 
 With a rag for a sail we can sweep through 
 
 the sky ; — 
 Who flies not to-night, when means he to fly ? 
 
 BOTH CHORUSES. 
 
 We cling to the skirt, and we strike on the 
 
 ground : 
 Witch-legions thicken around and around ; 
 Wizard-swarms cover the heath all over. 
 
 [They descend. 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 What thronging, dashing, raging, rustling ! 
 
 What whispering, babbling, hissing, bustling ! 
 
 What glimmering, spurting, stinking, burning ; 
 
 As heaven and earth were overturning ! 
 There is a true witch element about us. 
 Take hold on me, or we shall be divided: — 
 Where are you ? 
 
 faust (from a distance). 
 Here! 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 What! 
 
 I must exert my authority in the house. 
 
 Place for young Voland. — Pray, make way, 
 
 good people ! 
 Take hold on me, Doctor, and with one step 
 
292 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Let us escape from this unpleasant crowd : 
 They are too mad for people of my sort. 
 Just there shines a peculiar kind of light, — 
 Something attracts me in those bushes. Come 
 This way : we shall slip down there in a minute. 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 Spirit of contradiction ! Well, lead on, — 
 'T were a wise feat indeed to wander out 
 Into the brocken, upon May-day night, 
 And then to isolate one's self in scorn, 
 Disgusted with the humors of the time. 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 See yonder, round a many-colored flame 
 A merry club is huddled all together : 
 Even with such little people as sit there, 
 One would not be alone. 
 
 Would that I were 
 
 Up yonder in the glow and whirling smoke, 
 Where the blind million rush impetuously 
 To meet the evil ones ! there might I solve 
 Many a riddle that torments me. 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 Yet 
 
 Many a riddle there is tied anew 
 
 Inextricably. Let the great world rage ! 
 
 We will stay here safe in the quiet dwellings, 
 
 'T is an old custom. Men have ever built 
 
 Their own small world in the great world of all. 
 
 I see young witches naked there, and old ones 
 
 Wisely attired with greater decency. 
 
 Be guided now by me, and you shall buy 
 
 A pound of pleasure with a dram of trouble. 
 
 I hear them tune their instruments, — one must 
 
 Get used to this damned scraping. Come, I '11 
 
 lead you 
 Among them ; and what there you do and see 
 As a fresh compact 'twixt us two shall be. — 
 How say you now ? This space is wide enough : 
 Look forth, you cannot see the end of it. 
 A hundred bonfires burn in rows, and they 
 Who throng around them seem innumerable ; 
 Dancing and drinking, jabbering, making love, 
 And cooking, are at work. Now tell me, friend, 
 What is there better in the world than this ? 
 
 In introducing us, do you assume 
 The character of wizard or of devil ? 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 In truth, I generally go about 
 
 In strict incognito; and yet one likes 
 
 To wear one's orders upon gala-days. 
 
 I have no ribbon at my knee; but here, 
 
 At home, the cloven foot is honorable. 
 
 See you that snail there? — she comes creeping 
 
 up, 
 And with her feeling eyes hath smelt out some- 
 thing : 
 I could not, if I would, mask myself here. 
 Come now, we '11 go about from fire to fire: 
 
 I '11 be the pimp, and you shall be the lover. 
 [To some old women, who are sitting round a heap 
 of glimmering coals. 
 Old Gentlewomen, what do you do out here? 
 You ought to be with the young rioters, 
 Right in the thickest of the revelry ; — 
 But every one is best content at home. 
 
 GENERAL. 
 
 Who dare confide in right or a just claim ? 
 
 So much as I had done for them ! and now — 
 With women and the people 't is the same, 
 
 Youth will stand foremost ever — age may go 
 To the dark grave unhonored. 
 
 MINISTER. 
 
 Now-a-days, 
 People assert their rights ; they go too far : 
 But as for me, the good old times I praise : 
 Then we were all in all ; 't was something 
 worth 
 One's while to be in place and wear a star; 
 That was indeed the golden age on earth. 
 
 PARVENU. 
 
 We, too, are active, and we did and do 
 What we ought not, perhaps ; and yet we now 
 Will seize, whilst all things are whirled round 
 
 and round, 
 A spoke of Fortune's wheel, and keep our 
 
 ground. 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 Who now can taste a treatise of deep sense 
 And ponderous volume ? 'T is impertinence 
 To write what none will read ; therefore will I 
 To please the young and thoughtless people 
 try. 
 
 mephistopheles (who at once appears to have grown 
 
 very old). 
 I find the people ripe for the last day, 
 Since I last came up to the wizard mountain ; 
 And as my little cask runs turbid now, 
 So is the world drained to the dregs. 
 
 pedler witch. 
 Look here, 
 
 Gentlemen ! do not hurry on so fast, 
 And lose the chance of a good pennyworth. 
 I have a pack full of the choicest wares 
 Of every sort, and yet in all my bundle 
 Is nothing like what may be found on earth ; 
 Nothing that in a moment will make rich 
 Men and the world with fine, malicious mis- 
 chief: 
 There is no dagger drunk with blood ; no bowl 
 From which consuming poison may be drained 
 By innocent and healthy lips ; no jewel, 
 The price of an abandoned maiden's shame ; 
 No sword which cuts the bond it cannot loose, 
 Or stabs the wearer's enemy in the back ; 
 No 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 Gossip, you know little of these times. 
 
 What has been has been ; what is done is past 
 
 They shape themselves into the innovations 
 
GOETHE. 
 
 293 
 
 They breed, and innovation drags us with it. 
 The torrent of the crowd sweeps over us: 
 You think to impel, and are yourself impelled. 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 Who is that yonder ? 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 Mark her well. It is 
 Lilith. 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 Who? 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 Lilith, the first wife of Adam. 
 
 Beware of her fair hair, for she excels 
 
 All women in the magic of her locks; 
 
 And when she winds them round a young man's 
 
 neck, 
 She will not ever set him free again. 
 
 There sit a girl and an old woman, — they 
 Seem to be tired with pleasure and with play. 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 There is no rest to-night for any one : 
 When one dance ends, another is begun. 
 Come, let us to it; we shall have rare fun. 
 [Faust dances and sings with a girl, and Mephistophe- 
 les with an old woman. 
 
 BROCTO-PHANTASM1ST. 
 
 What is this cursed multitude about ? 
 
 Have we not long since proved, to demonstration, 
 
 That ghosts move not on ordinary feet? 
 
 But these are dancing just like men and women. 
 
 THE GIRL. 
 
 What does he want, then, at our ball ? 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 O, he 
 
 Is far above us all in his conceit ! 
 
 Whilst we enjoy, he reasons of enjoyment; 
 
 And any step which in our dance we tread, 
 
 If it be left out of his reckoning, 
 
 Is not to be considered as a step. 
 
 There are few things that scandalize him not : 
 
 And when you whirl round in the circle now, 
 
 As he went round the wheel in his old mill, 
 
 He says that you go wrong in all respects, 
 
 Especially if you congratulate him 
 
 Upon the strength of the resemblance. 
 
 BROCTO-PHANTASMIST. 
 
 Fly! 
 
 Vanish ! Unheard-of impudence ! What ! still 
 
 there ? 
 In this enlightened age, too, since you have been 
 Proved not to ex'st? — But this infernal brood 
 Will hear no reason and endure no rule. 
 Are we so wise, and is the pond still haunted ? 
 How long have I been sweeping out this rubbish 
 Of superstition, — and the world will not 
 Come clean with all my pains ! It is a case 
 Unheard of. 
 
 THE GIRL. 
 
 Then leav off teasing us so. 
 
 BROCTO-PHANTASMIST. 
 
 I tell you, Spirits, to your faces now, 
 That I should not regret this despotism 
 Of spirits, but that mine can wield it not. 
 To-night I shall make poor work of it ; 
 Yet I will take a round with you, and hope, 
 Before my last step in the living dance, 
 To beat the poet and the devil together. 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 At last he will sit down in some foul puddle ! 
 That is his way of solacing himself; 
 Until some leech, diverted with his gravity, 
 Cures him of spirits and the spirit together. — 
 [To Faust, who has seceded from the dance. 
 Why do you let that fair girl pass from you, 
 Who sang so sweetly to you in the dance ? 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 A red mouse, in the middle of her singing, 
 Sprang from her mouth. 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 That was all right, my friend ; 
 Be it enough that the mouse was not gray. 
 Do not disturb your hour of happiness 
 With close consideration of such trifles. 
 
 Then saw I. 
 What ? 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 Seest thou not a pale, 
 
 Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away ? 
 
 She drags herself now forward with slow steps, 
 
 And seems as if she moved with shackled feet: 
 
 I cannot overcome the thought that she 
 
 Is like poor Margaret. 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 Let it be, — pass on, — 
 
 No good can come of it, — it is not well 
 
 To meet it, — it is an enchanted phantom, 
 
 A lifeless idol ; with its numbing look, 
 
 It freezes up the blood of man ; and they 
 
 Who meet its ghastly stare are turned to stone, 
 
 Like those who saw Medusa. 
 
 O, too true ! 
 
 Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse 
 Which no beloved hand has closed, alas ! 
 That is the breast which Margaret yielded to 
 
 me, — 
 Those are the lovely limbs which I enjoyed ! 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 It is all magic, poor, deluded fool ! 
 
 She looks to every one like his first love. 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 O, what delight ! what woe ! I cannot turn 
 My looks from her sweet, piteous countenance 
 How strangely does a single blood-red line, 
 Not broader than the sharp edge of a knife, 
 Adorn her lovely neck ! 
 
 y2 
 
294 GERMAN 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 Then gather up thy spirits once ; 
 
 Ay, she can carry 
 
 Thy blood is youthsome yet : 
 
 Her head under her arm, upon occasion ; 
 
 To youth like thine there wanteth not 
 
 Perseus has cut it off for her. These pleasures 
 
 The strength to seek and get. 
 
 End in delusion. — Gain this rising ground, — 
 
 
 It is as airy here as in the Prater ; 
 
 " Ah, no ! to get it, that were vain : 
 
 And if I am not mightily deceived, 
 
 It stands off all to far ; 
 
 I see a theatre. — What may this mean ? 
 
 It dwells so high, it shines so fair, — 
 
 
 As fair as yonder star." 
 
 ATTENDANT. 
 
 
 Quite a new piece, — the last of seven ; for 't is 
 
 The stars we do not seek to have ; 
 
 The custom now to represent that number. 
 
 We but enjoy their light, 
 
 'T is written by a dilettante, and 
 
 As we look up in ecstasy, 
 
 The actors who perform are dilettanti. 
 
 On every pleasant night. 
 
 Excuse me, Gentlemen ; but I must vanish, — 
 
 
 I am a dilettante curtain-lifter. 
 
 " And I look up in ecstasy, 
 
 
 Full many a lovely day ; 
 
 
 So leave me to my mood at night, 
 
 THE LOVED ONE E\TER NEAR. 
 
 To weep while weep I may." 
 
 I think of thee, when the bright sunlight shim- 
 
 
 
 mers 
 
 THE SALUTATION OF A SPIRIT. 
 
 Across the sea ; 
 
 
 When the clear fountain in the moonbeam 
 
 High on the castle's ancient walls 
 
 glimmers, 
 
 The warrior's shade appears, 
 
 I think of thee. 
 
 Who to the bark that 's passing calls, 
 
 
 And thus its passage cheers : — 
 
 I see thee, if far up the pathway yonder 
 
 
 The dust be stirred ; 
 
 " Behold ! these sinews once were strong. 
 
 If faint steps o'er the little bridge to wander 
 
 This heart was firm and bold ; 
 
 At night be heard. 
 
 'Mid war and glory, feast and song, 
 
 
 My earthly years were told. 
 
 I hear thee, when the tossing waves' low rum- 
 
 
 bling 
 
 "Restless through half of life I ran, 
 
 Creeps up the hill ; 
 
 In half have sought for ease. 
 
 I go to the lone wood and listen, trembling, 
 
 What then ? Thou bark, that sail'st with 
 
 When all is still. 
 
 man, 
 
 
 Haste, haste to cleave the seas ! " 
 
 I am with thee, wherever thou art roaming, — 
 
 
 And thou art near ! 
 
 ^ ■ 
 
 The sun goes down, and soon the stars are 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 coming : 
 
 
 Would thou wert here ! 
 
 Fillest hill and vale again, 
 
 
 Still, with softening light ! 
 
 
 
 Loosest from the world's cold chain 
 
 SOLACE IN TEARS. 
 
 All my soul to-night ! 
 
 Come, tell me why this sadness now, 
 
 Spreadest round me, far and nigh, 
 
 When all so glad appears? 
 
 Soothingly, thy smile ; 
 
 One sees it in thine eyes, my friend : 
 
 From thee, as from friendship's eye, 
 
 Thou 'st surely been in tears. 
 
 Sorrow shrinks the while. 
 
 "And if I go alone and weep, 
 
 Every echo thrills my heart; — 
 
 'T is grief I can 't impart ; 
 
 Glad and gloomy mood, 
 
 And 't is so sweet, when tears will flow, 
 
 Joy and sorrow, both have part 
 
 And ease the heavy heart." 
 
 In my solitude. 
 
 Thy gladsome friends, they call to thee : 
 
 River, river, glide along ! 
 
 O, come unto our breast ! 
 
 I am sad, alas ! 
 
 And whatsoe'er thy heavy loss, 
 
 Fleeting things are love and song, — 
 
 Confide it to the rest. 
 
 Even so they pass ! 
 
 " Ye talk and stir, and do not dream 
 
 I have had and I have lost 
 
 What 't is that ails poor me : 
 
 What I long for yet ; 
 
 Ah, no ! 't is nothing I have lost, 
 
 Ah ! why will we, to our cost, 
 
 Though somewhat wanting be." 
 
 Simple joys forget? 
 
GOETHE. 295 
 
 River, river, glide along, 
 
 We troubled the foe with sword and flame, — 
 
 Without stop or stay ! 
 
 And some of our friends fared quite the same. 
 
 Murmur,- whisper to my sting, 
 
 I lost a leg for fame. 
 
 In melodious play, — 
 
 
 
 Now I 've set my heart upon nothing, you see ; 
 
 Whether on a winter's night 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Rise thy swollen floods, 
 
 And the whole wide world belongs to me. 
 
 Or in spring thou hast delight 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Watering the young buds. 
 
 The feast begins to run low, no doubt ; 
 
 
 But at the old cask we '11 have one good bout 
 
 Happy he, who, hating none, 
 
 Come, drink the lees all out ! 
 
 Leaves the world's dull noise, 
 
 
 And, with trusty friend alone, 
 Quietly enjoys 
 
 
 :\IAHOMET'S SOXG. 
 
 
 
 See the rocky spring, 
 
 What, for ever unexpressed, 
 
 Clear as joy, 
 
 Hid from common sight, 
 
 Like a sweet star gleaming ! 
 
 Through the mazes of the breast 
 
 O'er the clouds, he 
 
 Softly steals by night ! 
 
 In his vouth was cradled 
 
 
 Bv good spirits, 
 
 
 'Neath the bushes in the cliffs. 
 
 YANITAS. 
 
 
 
 Fresh with youth, 
 
 I 'te set my heart upon nothing, you see; 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 From the cloud he dances 
 
 Down upon the rocky pavement; 
 Thence, exulting, 
 Leaps to heaven. 
 
 And so the world goes well with me. 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 And who has a mind to be fellow of mine, 
 
 Why, let him take hold and help me drain 
 
 For a while he dallies 
 
 These mouldy lees of wine. 
 
 Round the summit, 
 
 
 Through its little channels chasing 
 
 I set my heart at first upon wealth ; 
 
 Motley pebbles round and round ; 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Quick, then, like determined leader, 
 
 And bartered away my peace and health ; 
 
 Hurries all his brother streamlets 
 
 But', ah ! 
 
 Off with him. 
 
 The slippery change went about like air; 
 
 
 And when I had clutched me a handful here, 
 
 There, all round him in the vale, 
 
 Away it went there. 
 
 Flowers spring up beneath his footstep, 
 
 
 And the meadow 
 
 I set my heart upon woman next; 
 
 Wakes to feel his breath. 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 But him holds no shady vale, 
 
 For her sweet sake was oft perplexed ; 
 
 No cool blossoms, 
 
 But, ah ! 
 
 Which around his knees are clinging, 
 
 The false one looked for a daintier lot, 
 
 And with loving eyes entreating 
 
 The constant one wearied me out and out, 
 
 Passing notice ; — on he speeds, 
 
 The best was not easily got. 
 
 Winding snake-like. 
 
 1 set my heart upon travels grand, 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Social brooklets 
 
 Add their waters. Now he rolls 
 
 And spurned our plain old fatherland ; 
 
 O'er the plain in silvery splendor, 
 
 But, ah ! 
 
 And the plain his splendor borrows ; 
 
 Naught seemed to be just the thing it should, 
 Most comfortless beds and indifFerent food, 
 
 And the rivulets from the plain 
 
 And the brooklets from the hill-sides 
 
 My tastes misunderstood. 
 
 All are shouting to him : "Brother, 
 
 Brother, take thy brothers too, 
 
 I set my heart upon sounding fame; 
 
 Take us to thy ancient Father, 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 To the everlasting ocean, 
 
 And, lo ! I'm eclipsed by some upstart's name; 
 
 Who e'en now, with outstretched arms, 
 
 And, ah ! 
 
 Waits for us, — 
 
 When in public life I loomed quite high, 
 
 Arms outstretched, alas ! in vain, 
 
 The folks that passed me would look awry : 
 
 To embrace his longing ones ; 
 
 Their very worst friend was I. 
 
 For the greedy sand devours us ; 
 
 
 Or the burning sun above us 
 
 And then I set mv heart upon war. 
 
 Sucks our life-blood ; or some hillock 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Hems us into ponds. Ah ! brother, 
 
 We gained some battles with eclat. 
 
 Take thy brothers from the plain, 
 
 Hurrah! 
 
 Take thy brothers from the hill-side3 
 
296 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 With thee, to our Sire with thee ! " — 
 
 " Come ye all, then ! " — 
 
 Now, more proudly, 
 
 On he swells ; a countless race, they 
 
 Bear their glorious prince aloft ' 
 
 On he rolls triumphantly, 
 
 Giving names to countries. Cities 
 
 Spring to being 'neath his foot. 
 
 >Onward, with incessant roaring, 
 See ! he passes proudly by 
 Flaming turrets, marble mansions, — 
 Creatures of his fulness all. 
 
 Cedar houses bears this Atlas 
 On his giant shoulders. Rustling, 
 Flapping in the playful breezes, 
 Thousand flags about his head are 
 Telling of his majesty. 
 
 And so bears he all his brothers, 
 And his treasures, and his children, 
 To their Sire, all joyous roaring, 
 Pressing to his mighty heart. 
 
 SONG OF THE SPIRITS. 
 
 The soul of man is 
 Like the water : 
 From heaven it cometh, 
 To heaven it mounteth, 
 And thence at once 
 'T must back to earth, 
 For ever changing. 
 
 Swift from the lofty 
 Rock down darteth 
 The flashing rill ; 
 Then softly sprinkleth 
 With dewy kisses 
 The smooth, cold stone ; 
 And, fast collected, 
 Veiled in a mist, rolls, 
 Low murmuring, 
 Adown the channel. 
 
 If jutting cliffs 
 
 His course obstruct, down 
 
 Foams he angrily, 
 
 Leap after leap, 
 
 To the bottom. 
 
 In smooth green bed he 
 
 Glideth along through the meadow, 
 
 And on the glassy lake 
 
 Bask the bright star3 all 
 
 Sweetly reflected. 
 
 Wind is the water's 
 Amorous wooer ; 
 Wind from its depths up- 
 Heaves the wild waves. 
 
 Soul of a mortal, 
 How like thou to water! 
 Fate of a mortal, 
 How like to the wind ! 
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 Blacken thy heavens, Jove, 
 
 With thunder-clouds, 
 
 And exercise thee, like a boy 
 
 Who thistles crops, 
 
 With smiting oaks and mountain-tops ! 
 
 Yet must leave me standing 
 
 My own firm Earth; 
 
 Must leave my cottage, which thou dids 
 
 not build, 
 And my warm hearth, 
 Whose cheerful glow 
 Thou enviest me. 
 
 I know naught more pitiful 
 Under the sun than you, Gods ! 
 Ye nourish scantily, 
 With altar-taxes 
 And with cold lip-service, 
 This your majesty ; — 
 Would perish, were not 
 Children and beggars 
 Credulous fools. 
 
 When I was a child, 
 
 And knew not whence or whither, 
 
 I would turn my wildered eye 
 
 To the sun, as if up yonder were 
 
 An ear to hear to my complaining, — 
 
 A heart, like mine, 
 
 On the oppressed to feel compassion. 
 
 Who helped me, 
 
 When I braved the Titans' insolence? 
 
 Who rescued me from death, 
 
 From slavery ? 
 
 Hast thou not all thyself accomplished, 
 
 Holy-glowing heart? 
 
 And, glowing young and good, 
 
 Most ignorantly thanked 
 
 The slumberer above there ? 
 
 I honor thee ? For what ? 
 
 Hast thou the miseries lightened 
 
 Of the down-trodden ? 
 
 Hast thou the tears ever banished 
 
 From the afflicted ? 
 
 Have I not to manhood been moulded 
 
 By omnipotent Time, 
 
 And by Fate everlasting, — 
 
 My lords and thine ? 
 
 Dreamedst thou ever 
 
 I should grow weary of living, 
 
 And fly to the desert, 
 
 Since not all our 
 
 Pretty dream-buds ripen ? 
 
 Here sit I, fashion men 
 
 In mine own image, — 
 
 A race to be like me, 
 
 To weep and to suffer, 
 
 To be happy and to enjoy themselves, — 
 
 All careless of thee too, 
 
 As I! 
 
F. L. STOLBERG. 
 
 297 
 
 FRIEDRICH LEOPOLD GRAF ZU 
 STOLBERG. 
 
 This writer, a younger brother of Christian 
 Stolberg, was born November 7th, 1750, at 
 Bramstedt. Like his brother, he was Gentle- 
 man of the Bedchamber at the Danish court. 
 In 1777, he was the Minister at Copenhagen 
 from the Ecclesiastical See of Liibeck ; in 1789, 
 Ambassador at Berlin ; in 1791, President at 
 Eutin. In 1800, he resigned his official em- 
 ployments and went to Milnster. Soon after, 
 he joined the Catholic Church, and wrote much 
 in its defence. In 1812, he removed to Taten- 
 feld, near Bielefeld, and afterwards to Sonder- 
 mUhlen in Osnabrilck. His last days were em- 
 bittered by a violent controversy with Voss. 
 He died December 6th, 1819. 
 
 He was a poet of a rich imagination, and of 
 great enthusiasm for country and religion. His 
 poems are chiefly lyrical. He wrote ballads, 
 odes, lyrical poems, and excellent popular 
 songs; besides didactic poems, dramas, transla- 
 tions of a part of the "Iliad," and of four trag- 
 edies of jEschylus, and many other miscella- 
 neous works. An edition of the writings of 
 the two brothers was published at Hamburg, in 
 twenty parts; of the poems, at Leipsic, in 1821, 
 and at Vienna, 1821. 
 
 SONG OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Why dost thou linger thus, O morning sun ? 
 Do the cool waves of ocean stay thy march ? 
 
 Why dost thou linger thus, 
 
 Sun of our day of fame ? 
 Rise ! a free people waits to hail thy ray. 
 Turn from yon world of slaves thine eye of fire; 
 
 On a free people shed 
 
 The glories of thy beam ! 
 He climbs, he climbs aloof, and gilds the hills; 
 A rosier radiance dances on the trees ; 
 
 Sparkling, the silver brook 
 
 To the dim valley flies. 
 
 Now thou art bright, fair stream ; but once we 
 
 saw 
 Blood in thy waves, and corses in thy bed, 
 
 And grappling warriors choked 
 
 Thy swollen and troubled flood. 
 With fluttering hair the flying tyrants sped, — 
 Pale, trembling, headlong, to thy waters sped, — 
 
 Into thine angry wave 
 
 Pursuing freemen sprang. 
 Blood of the horses dyed thy azure stream, — 
 Blood of the riders dyed thy azure stream, — 
 
 Blood of the tyrant's slaves, — 
 
 Blood of the tyrant's slaves. 
 Red was the meadow, red thy rushy brink, 
 Reeking with slaughter. In the bush of thorn 
 
 Clothes of the flying stuck, 
 
 Hair of the dying stuck. 
 
 At the rock's foot the nation-curber lay ; 
 Apollyon's sceptre-wielding arm was stiff, 
 33 
 
 Broken his long, long sword, 
 
 Wounded his groaning horse. 
 Dumb the blasphemer's, the commander's tongue, 
 Nor hell nor man gave heed: his conscious eye 
 
 Still rolled, as if to ask 
 
 The brandished spear for death ; 
 But not a son of Germany vouchsafed 
 With pitying hand the honorable steel. 
 
 Was not the curse of God 
 
 Upon his forehead stamped ? 
 As o'er her prey the screaming eagle planes, 
 O'er him was seen the wrath of Heaven to lower. 
 
 He lay till midnight wolves 
 
 Tore out the unfeeling heart. 
 
 But, ah !• the young heroic Henry fell ; 
 
 The castle-walls of Remling rang with groans ; 
 
 Mother and sister wept 
 
 Their fallen, their beloved ; 
 His lovely wife not e'en a parent's hope 
 Could lift above the crushing load of woe, — 
 
 She, and the babe unborn, 
 
 Partook his early tomb. 
 
 Not 6ne of all the slavish crew escaped. 
 Like to the fallow leaves which storm-winds 
 throw, 
 
 Their corses far and wide 
 
 Lay weltering in the field ; 
 Or floated on the far-polluted stream, 
 Welcome not now where health or pity dwells. 
 
 Back from the bloody wave 
 
 The thirsting horse withdrew ; 
 The harmless herd gazed and forebore to taste ; 
 The silent tenants of the wood forebore ; 
 
 Only the vulture drank, 
 
 The raven, and the wolf. 
 
 The glee of the victor is loud on the hill ; 
 Like nightingales singing where cataracts rush, 
 
 The song of the maiden, 
 
 The warriors' music, 
 In thundering triumph are mingled on high, 
 Or call on the echoes to bound at the dance, 
 
 With drum and with cymbal, 
 
 With trumpet and fife. 
 High in the air the eagle soars of song, 
 Beneath him hawks, our lesser triumphs, flit ; 
 
 O'er the last battle now 
 
 His steadier wing is poised. 
 
 Fierce glowed the noon ; the sweat of heroes 
 
 bathed 
 The trampled grass ; and breezes of the wood 
 
 Reached but the foe, who strove 
 
 Three hours in doubtful fight. 
 Like standing halm that rocks beneath the wind, 
 The hostile squadrons billow to and fro ; 
 
 But slow as ocean ebbs, 
 
 The sons of freedom cede, — 
 When on their foaming chargers forward sprang 
 Two youths, their sabres lightening; and their 
 name, 
 
 Stolberg; — behind them rode, 
 
 Obeying, thousand friends 
 
298 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Vehement, as down the rock the floody Rhine 
 Showers its loud thunder and eternal foam, — 
 
 Speedy, as tigers spring, 
 
 They struck the startled foe. 
 The Stol bergs fought and sank ; but they 
 
 achieved 
 The lovely bloody death of freedom won. 
 
 Let no base sigh be heard 
 
 Beside their early grave ! 
 Time was, their grandsire wept a burning tear 
 Of youthful hope that he might perish so ; 
 
 Upon his harp it fell, 
 
 To exhale not quite in vain ; 
 Then, through the mist of future years, he saw 
 Battles of freedom tinge the patrial soil, 
 
 Saw his brave children fall, 
 
 And smiled upon their doom. 
 
 Sunk was the sun of day ; with roseate wing 
 The evening fanned the aged Rhine ; but still 
 
 The battle thundered loud, 
 
 And lightened far and wide. 
 Glad, from the eaves of heaven, through purple 
 
 clouds, 
 Herman and Tell, Luther and Klopstock, leaned, 
 
 And godlike strength of soul 
 
 And German daring gave. 
 To the pale twilight wistful looked the foe ; 
 Dimmed was the frown of scorn, the blush of 
 shame ; 
 
 They fled, wide o'er the field 
 
 Their scattering legions fled. 
 With dripping swords we followed might and 
 
 main. 
 They hoped the mantle of the night would hide, 
 
 When o'er the fires arose, 
 
 Angry and fell, the moon. 
 Night of destruction, dread retributress, 
 Be dear and holy to a nation freed ! 
 
 The country's birth-day each 
 
 More than his own should prize, — 
 More than the night which gave his blushing 
 
 bride. 
 Thy song of triumph in our cities shout, 
 
 The song which heroes love, 
 
 The song to freedom dear ! 
 Voices of virgins mingle in the lay, 
 As floats its music o'er rejoicing crowds : 
 
 So murmur waterfalls 
 
 Beside the ocean's roar. 
 
 Germania, thou art free ! Germania free ! 
 Now may'st thou stately take thy central stand 
 
 Amid the nations ; now 
 
 Exalt thy wreathed brow, 
 Proud as thy Brocken, when the light of dawn 
 Reddens its forehead, while the mountains round 
 
 Still in wan twilight sleep, 
 
 And darkness shrouds the vale. 
 
 Welcome, great century of Liberty, 
 
 Thou fairest daughter of slow-teeming Time ! 
 
 With pangs unwont she bare, 
 
 But hailed her mighty child; 
 
 Trembling, she took thee with maternal arm ; 
 Glad shudders shook her frame ; she kissed thy 
 front, 
 
 And from her quivering lip 
 
 Prophetic accents broke : — 
 " Daughter, thou tak'st away thy mother's 
 
 shame ; 
 Thou hast avenged thy weeping sisters' woe. 
 
 Each to the yawning tomb 
 
 Went with unwilling step : 
 Each in her youth had hoped to wield thy sword 
 And hold thy balance, dread retributress ! 
 
 Bold is thy rolling eye, 
 
 And strong thy tender hand ; 
 And soon beside thy cradle shall be heard 
 The tunes of warfare and the clash of arms, — 
 
 And thou shalt hear with smiles, 
 
 As on thy mother's breast. 
 I see thee quickly grow ; with giant step, 
 With streamy golden hair, with lightening eye, 
 
 Thou shall come forth, and thrones 
 
 And tyrants tread to dust. 
 Thy urn, though snatched with bloody hand, 
 
 tliall pour 
 O'er Germany the stream of liberty ; 
 
 Each flower of paradise 
 
 Delights to crown its brink." 
 
 THE STREAM OF THE ROCK. 
 
 Unperishing youth ! 
 Thou leapest from forth 
 The cleft of the rock. 
 No mortal eye saw 
 The mighty one's cradle ; 
 No ear ever heard 
 The lofty one's lisp in the murmuring spring 
 
 How beautiful art thou, 
 
 In silvery locks ! 
 
 How terrible art thou, 
 When the cliffs are resounding in thunder 
 around ! 
 
 Thee feareth the fir-tree : 
 
 Thou crushest the fir-tree, 
 
 From its root to its crown. 
 
 The cliffs flee before thee : 
 
 The cliffs thou engraspest, 
 And hurlest them, scornful, like pebbles adown 
 
 The sun weaves around thee 
 
 The beams of its splendor ; 
 It painteth with hues of the heavenly iris 
 The uprolling clouds of the silvery spray. 
 
 Why speedest thou downward 
 Toward the green sea ? 
 Is it not well by the nearer heaven ? 
 Not well by the sounding cliff? 
 Not well by the o'erhanging forest of oaks? 
 O, hasten not so 
 Toward the green sea ! 
 Youth ! O, now thou art strong, like a god . 
 Free, like a god ! 
 
F. L. STOLBERG. 
 
 299 
 
 Beneath thee is smiling the peacefulest stillness, 
 The tremulous swell of the slumberous sea, 
 Now silvered o'er by the swimming moonshine, 
 Now golden and red in the light of* the west ! 
 
 Youth, O, what is this silken quiet, 
 
 What is the smile of the friendly moonlight, 
 
 The purple and gold of the evening sun, 
 
 To him whom the feeling of bondage oppresses ? 
 
 Now streamest thou wild, 
 
 As thy heart may prompt ! 
 But below, oft ruleth the fickle tempest, 
 Oft the stillness of death, in the subject sea! 
 
 O, hasten not so 
 Toward the green sea ! 
 Youth, O, now thou art strong, like a god, — 
 Free, like a god ! 
 
 TO THE SEA. 
 
 Thou boundless, shining, glorious Sea, • 
 With ecstasy I gaze on thee ; 
 Joy, joy to him whose early beam 
 Kisses thy lip, bright Ocean-stream ! 
 
 Thanks for the thousand hours, old Sea, 
 Of sweet communion held with thee ; 
 Oft as I gazed, thy billowy roll 
 Woke the deep feelings of my soul. 
 
 Drunk with the joy, thou deep-toned Sea, 
 My spirit swells to heaven with thee ; 
 Or, sinking with thee, seeks the gloom 
 Of nature's deep, mysterious tomb. 
 
 At evening, when the sun grows red, 
 Descending to his watery bed, 
 The music of thy murmuring deep 
 Soothes e'en the weary earth to sleep. 
 
 Then listens thee the evening star, 
 So sweetly glancing from afar ; 
 And Luna hears thee, when she breaks 
 Her light in million-colored flakes. 
 
 Oft, when the noonday heat is o'er, 
 I seek with joy the breezy shore, 
 Sink on thy boundless, billowy breast, 
 And cheer me with refreshing rest. 
 
 The poet, child of heavenly birth, 
 Is suckled by the mother Earth ; 
 But thy blue bosom, holy Sea, 
 Cradles his infant fantasy. 
 
 The old blind minstrel on the shore 
 Stood listening thy eternal roar, 
 And golden ages, long gone by, 
 Swept bright before his spirit's eye. 
 
 On wing of swan the holy flame 
 Of melodies celestial came, 
 And Iliad and Odyssey 
 Rose to the music of the Sea. 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Erewhile on me, leader of silent eve, 
 Thou glancedst joys brief as the dying's smiles, 
 The evanescent hues 
 That play i' th' western breeze ! 
 
 Yet, dear to me, dear as to thirsty halm 
 
 The early dews; but, ah ! they vanished soon ! 
 
 Now seldom looks thine eye, 
 
 And troubled then, on me ! 
 
 Hast thou a veil ? or shedd'st thou blinding tears ? 
 Art thou, as I, the prey of carking cares ? 
 
 An heir of woe? and are 
 
 Thy radiant brethren heirs ? 
 
 Is yon blue vest, full of enlightening suns, 
 And set with moons, only a web of grief? 
 
 And do the spheres resound 
 
 With everlasting moan ? 
 
 Or am I alone wretched ? Thou art mute, 
 Inexorable ! yet, a Saviour, thou 
 
 Bringest the welcome eve, 
 
 No ruddy morn precedes. 
 
 THE SEAS. 
 
 Thou pleasest mine ear, 
 
 Thy murmur I know, 
 The siren song of thy billows ! 
 Baltic, thou claspest me, 
 With loving arms, often 
 
 To thy cool bosom ! 
 
 Thou art fair ! 
 Nymph, how fair ! 
 Betrothed of the wood-covered shore, 
 Oft the zephyr escapes from the tops of the 
 
 grove, 
 And glides over thy billows with hovering wing ! 
 
 Thou art fair ! 
 Nymph, how fair ! 
 Yet is the goddess 
 Fairer than thou ! 
 Louder than thou 
 Thunders Atlantic, 
 Rises, white in her pride, and shakes the shores 
 with her foot. 
 
 Stronger and freer than thou, 
 Dances she her own dance, 
 Nor waits for the voice of the 
 Mastering wind ; 
 Rises and sinks, 
 When, veiled within clouds, 
 In his secret chamber slumbers the tempest's 
 head. 
 
 I saw the keel, once, 
 Of the lightning-armed vessel 
 Hasten over her here ; — 
 Then the pennon sank, 
 And the quivering streamer sank, 
 But the breezes in Hellebek's beeches were still 
 
300 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 By what name 
 
 Still hovered lightly, 
 
 Shall my song make thee known? 
 
 Ay, in my soul's twilight, 
 
 Boreal-main, ocean, goddess, the infinite, 
 
 By Rafael created, the forms of gods. 
 
 The earth-girding one, cradle of the all-enlight- 
 
 Yet haunted me, breathed from 
 
 ening 
 
 The genius of Rafael, 
 
 Sun, the heaven-wandering 
 
 His pencil's devices, 
 
 Moon, and the numberless 
 
 Like shapes of evanishing visions about. 
 
 Stars, which there, in melodious 
 
 Then trembled the earth, 
 
 Dance, themselves mirror, both when the flood 
 
 Then panted the air, 
 
 rises and sinks. 
 
 And it rushed through the lyre with terrible 
 
 
 sound, — 
 
 On thy great waters 
 
 When, veiled all in clouds, 
 
 God's spirit did brood, 
 
 Stood, wrathful, before me, 
 
 While yet the earth lay 
 
 A terrible one. 
 
 In silence and sorrow, — 
 
 My hair rose erect, 
 
 1 lie joys of a mother not known ! 
 
 My eyes stared aghast, 
 
 Over thee hovered 
 
 Yet spake I to him : — 
 
 In mystical motion, 
 
 
 Flowing and ebbing, 
 
 " Fiery one ! Who art thou ? 
 
 Yet visibly, the Omnipotent's breath ! 
 
 Thou angry, threatening shape ! 
 
 
 More mighty than shadows, 
 
 On rapture's ecstatic 
 
 Yet as terrible ; spare me ! " 
 
 Pinions upsoaring, 
 
 (Here the semblance aerial blazed abroad, as 
 
 Flew my spirit to thee ! 
 
 from iEtna, 
 
 Goddess, I pray thee, 
 
 Billow-like dashing, vapors upblaze.) 
 
 Take me, O Goddess ! 
 
 "Yes, it is thou ! thou art 
 
 Take me into thy bosom of power ! 
 
 Michael Angelo ! spare me, 
 
 Ah ! but thou passedst me, 
 
 O jealous Spirit ! 
 
 Proud, and in thunder, by ! 
 
 Lower the flaming 
 
 Then grasped I the pinions 
 
 Torch of the pencil ! 
 
 Of the birds of the billows, 
 
 Thou plungest in brightness 
 
 And swam for the margins stretching afar. 
 
 Thy pencil beneath ! 
 
 Thou thunderedst louder, 
 
 How long I mistook thee ' 
 
 From thy strand of the rock ! 
 
 Although thou life givest 
 
 There hastened I on 
 
 Unto the cold marble, 
 
 To the strand of the rock; 
 
 Yet look not my heart 
 
 Then hastened I down ; 
 
 Thy marble into ! — 
 
 There clasped I thee, Goddess, 
 
 (Ha! how thou lookest 
 
 With sinewy arm, 
 
 With Sirius' look ! — ) 
 
 In the hall of the rock ! 
 
 I saw of the pencil 
 
 Over me toppled 
 
 The magic, the wonder, 
 
 Menacing summits ; 
 
 And the whiteness of terror 
 
 Vortices wildly 
 
 And the redness of joy 
 
 Thronged through the clefts of the rocks. 
 
 Did shiver me through. 
 
 
 Then hasten, impelled on 
 
 And, covered with kisses, 
 
 The wings of the storm, 
 
 How gladsome was I, 
 
 The red-troubled clouds, 
 
 Embraced in the bosom 
 
 And fleece-mantled sky, 
 
 Of a goddess immortal ! 
 
 To the hovering shapes on the trembling sea ! " 
 
 Hail to thee, hail, 
 
 He heard it, and paused 
 
 Goddess! and thank 
 
 With milder solemnity, 
 
 For the blessed enjoyment 
 
 High over the melting clouds quick he arose. 
 
 In the hall of the rock ! 
 
 He stilled the lulled air, — 
 
 
 The lyre yet emitted 
 
 
 A murmur of love, 
 
 MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 While to its sound vanished the spirit appeased. 
 
 Yet seize I the lyre, — 
 It trembleth yet 
 
 
 
 With Rafael's praises ; 
 
 JOHANN HEINRICH VOSS. 
 
 Yet tremble thereon 
 
 
 
 Of the still horror 
 
 This celebrated scholar and author was born 
 
 Tears that were trickled. 
 
 February 20th, 1751, at Sommersdorf, in Meck- 
 
 In trance beatific, 
 
 lenburg, where his father was a farmer. He 
 
 Began I to swoon, — yet 
 
 went to school in Penzlin, till his fourteenth 
 
voss. 
 
 301 
 
 year ; but in 1766, he was placed at school in 
 New Brandenburg. He became a private tutor 
 in order to obtain the means of entering the 
 University. Poetry and the classics early en- 
 gaged his attention, and his recreations, after 
 six hours of daily teaching, were music and 
 Greek. In 1772, through the influence of Boje, 
 he was drawn to Gdttingen, where he joined 
 the poetical circle to whom German literature 
 is greatly indebted. He studied theology, but 
 soon gave his whole time to philology, under 
 the teaching of Heyne, with whom, however, 
 he afterwards quarrelled. In 1775, he took up 
 his residence in Wandsbeck ; in 1778, he was 
 appointed Rector at Otterndorf, in Hadeln. In 
 1782, he went to Eutin, and became a Court 
 Councillor in 1786. In 1802, he laid down 
 his office, and lived privately at Jena. In 
 1805, he went to Heidelberg to assist in organ- 
 izing the University, and became a Court Coun- 
 cillor of Baden. He continued in Heidel- 
 berg until his death, which took place March 
 29th, 1826. 
 
 He was a man of great ability and learning, 
 a classically cultivated taste, and immense lite- 
 rary industry, but not of high creative imagina- 
 tion. His original works are idyls, " Luise," a 
 sort of pastoral epic in hexameters, songs, odes, 
 elegies, and epigrams. An important part of 
 his literary influence and reputation is founded 
 upon his numerous translations. Among these 
 are the " Iliad " and " Odyssey," in German 
 hexameters ; the whole of Virgil and Horace ; 
 afterwards, Hesiod, Theocritus, Bion, and Mos- 
 chus ; Tibullus and Lygdamus ; Aristophanes 
 and Aratus ; — besides these, he undertook a 
 translation of Shakspeare, which was never 
 completed. His merits as a translator have been 
 very differently estimated by different writers. 
 Pyschon says, " As a translator, he is highly 
 famed ; but he forces the German language into 
 Hellenic and Vossian fetters, and represents 
 Shakspeare and Horace often in a wholly un- 
 German style." Menzel's judgment is more 
 severe, and perhaps somewhat prejudiced. It 
 may be cited as an extreme opinion against 
 Voss and his system ; and we may remark, that, 
 whatever may be the defects of Voss's style as 
 a translator, he at least led the way to a more 
 close and faithful adherence to the original than 
 had been common before his day. He was the 
 first to show that the proper object of translat- 
 ing is, not to reproduce the work as it may be 
 imagined the author would have written it, had 
 he written in the language of the translator, 
 but to reproduce it just as it is in the language 
 in which the author actually wrote. 
 
 "Voss cultivated the antique taste in relation 
 to the form. Here he is the master. The 
 proper Gracomania began with him. Voss is 
 the error to which Klopstock inclined, the 
 extreme of the whole of this false tendency in 
 our poetry. It could not go farther astray. A 
 freak of nature, by which sometimes the strang- 
 est things become objects of appetite, impelled 
 
 Voss, the most extraordinary of all literary 
 pedants, to a tragicomical passion for Grecian 
 grace, which he imitated by the most ludicrous 
 capers. For more than half a century, he un- 
 dertook the Sisyphean toil of rolling the rough 
 runestone of the German language up the Gre- 
 cian Parnassus; but 
 
 ' Back again down to the plain rebounded the ragged rock 
 swiftly.' 
 "He had the fixed idea, that the German 
 language must be fitted to the Greek, in me- 
 chanical fashion, syllable for syllable. He con- 
 founded his peculiar talent for these philological 
 trifles, and the predilection which flowed out 
 of it, with a universal capacity and with a 
 universal want of the German language and 
 poetry, as if a rope-dancer were to insist upon 
 every body's dancing on the rope. The most 
 obvious means of trailing the German language 
 over the espalier of the Greek was naturally 
 translations. Here the German language was 
 brought so near the Greek, that it was forced 
 to follow all its movements, like a wild elephant 
 harnessed to a tame one. Voss is celebrated 
 as the most faithful translator, but only so far 
 as regards the materials of language and its 
 mechanical laws ; spirit and soul have always 
 vanished under his clumsy fingers. In his 
 translations he has banished the peculiar char- 
 acter and the natural grace of the German 
 language, and put a strait jacket upon the love- 
 ly captive, which allowed her to move only in 
 a stiff*, unnatural, and constrained manner. His 
 great merit consists in having introduced into 
 the language of literature a great number of 
 good, but antiquated, words, or those used only 
 among the common people. He was forced to 
 this, because it was necessary that he should 
 have a wide range of words to choose from, in 
 order to fill out always the prescribed Greek 
 measure with the greatest exactness. He has, 
 moreover, like Klopstock, developed the pow- 
 ers of the German language, by these difficult 
 Greek exercises ; just as the money-diggers, 
 though they found no money, yet made the 
 soil more fertile. I am very far from denying 
 him this merit with regard to the language, — 
 a service as laborious as it was useful ; but his 
 studies cannot pass for masterpieces; they were 
 only the apparatus, the scaffolding, the school, 
 and not the work of art itself. They were 
 distortions of the language, in order to show 
 how far its capability extended, but did not 
 exhibit the grace of its proper movement. No 
 one could talk as Voss wrote. Every body 
 would have thought it vexatious and ridiculous, 
 who had been required to arrange his words 
 like Voss. They never sound like any thing 
 but a stiff" translation, even when he does not 
 in fact translate. These translations, however, 
 are often so slavishly close, and, therefore, not 
 German, that they are unintelligible, until we 
 read the original. And yet that fidelity could 
 not express the spirit and the peculiar character 
 of the foreign author, together with the sound 
 Z 
 
302 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 of the words. On the contrary, the painful 
 stiffness of constraint is the universal badge of 
 all his translations; and in this they are all 
 alike ; this was the last, upon which he 
 stretched them all. Whether Voss translates 
 Hesiod, Homer, Theocritus, Virgil, Ovid, Hor- 
 ace, Shakspeare, or an old Minnesong, every- 
 where we hear only the goat-footed steed of 
 his prose trotting along; and even the mighty 
 genius of Shakspeare cannot force him out of 
 his own beat for a moment." * 
 
 The collected poems of Voss were published 
 at Kdnigsberg, in seven parts, in 1802 ; again, 
 with last corrections, in 1825. His translations 
 have been many times republished. His life 
 was written by Paulus, Heidelberg, 1826. 
 
 THE BEGGAR. AN IDYL. 
 
 jcrgen. 
 Why ! my heart's child ! Thy dog salutes thee, 
 
 — see, — 
 Glad-whining; and thy sheep, too, bleats, by 
 
 thee, — 
 With bread made gentle. Why in the dew so 
 
 early ? 
 The morning air blows cold ; scarce reddens yet 
 The sun above the fir-hill. In my fold 
 At i:ight I 'm almost frozen. Come, and kiss 
 Me warm again. 
 
 MARIE. 
 
 Thou frozen ? In the rose-moon ? 
 
 lambkin, weak and tender, that e'en lies 
 
 I' th' mid-day sun, and trembles ! Take the 
 
 kiss, — 
 Thy lip is warm enough, thou false one ! So 
 Is thy hand too. 
 
 JURGEN. 
 
 Why in such haste ? Thine eyes 
 
 Are not so clear as wont, and smile compelled. 
 
 MARIE. 
 
 Beloved, hear, and vex me not. Yestreen 
 
 1 knitted in the bower, pleased to behold 
 
 The field of rye-grass wave in the golden gleam, 
 And hear the yellow-hammer, cuckoo, and quail 
 In emulation sing, and thought the while 
 The same delighted Jilrgen. Then there came 
 The old lame Tiess, and begged. "Father," 
 
 said I, 
 " Is all the bread consumed I let you bake 
 Last holiday? Sure, you grow shameless!" 
 
 Tiess 
 Would speak, but I was angry and o'erruled 
 
 him. 
 " God may again assist you, Tiess ! The host 
 Supply you brandy gratis ! Go ! " But then 
 I saw his bald head tremble in the gleam 
 Of the evening sun, and a big tear flow down 
 From his gray twinkling eyes. " Speak yet," 
 
 said I ; 
 
 * Menzel. German Literature, Vol. II., pp. 373-375 
 
 "Father, how is it? " " Maiden," answered he, 
 "I beg not for myself, but for the old curate, — 
 Good God ! whom they to us degraded ! He 
 Lies in the wood, with the poor forester, 
 Who has his house of children full, and wants ! " 
 " O father ! " — I sprang up, and had almost 
 Embraced him, — "you are a good man ! Come 
 
 here." 
 Then took I what my hand might seize, and 
 
 stuffed 
 His wallet full of sausages, and groats, 
 Bacon, and cheese, and bread. " Now, father, 
 
 yet 
 A glass of kQmmelschnap ? " " No, maiden, no ; 
 My head 's too weak. God recompense you ! " 
 
 Forth 
 He hobbled on his crutch unto the wood 
 In moonlight, that he might not be observed. 
 
 jiiRGEN. 
 
 Well know I Father Tiess. His comrade told me, 
 That when a soldier, in the foeman's land, 
 He rather gave than took. O, great reproach ' 
 Our curate is so poor the beggar tends him, 
 And we wist not of it ! 
 
 MARIE. 
 
 I dreamed of him, — 
 
 How good he was, in preaching, catechizing, 
 To counsel and to comfort in all chances, 
 And at the sick-bed. Young and old, all loved 
 
 him. 
 And when some sneak accused him of false 
 
 doctrine, 
 So that he ultimately lost at once 
 His office and his bread, — all prayed and wept, 
 Till he himself commanded their obedience. 
 Wild from my dream I roused, and found with 
 
 tears 
 My cushion moistened. Scarce the cock had 
 
 crowed, 
 I rose, and peas out of the garden took, 
 And yellow wurzel, with this pair of pigeons, — 
 And hasten now to the old man therewith. 
 The huntsman's wife, besides, brings in a basket 
 His breakfast to his bed : he may be glad once. 
 
 jOrgen. 
 Glad is he ever, though he suffer wrong. 
 He who acts honestly trusts God in sunshine 
 And storm, — so taught he. Yet he was dis- 
 graced ! 
 Take also, Mary, my good-hearted maid, 
 This piece of Dutch cheese in the basket; yes 
 And say, I '11 bring a lamb to him at evening. 
 Fie ! shall a man of hunger die, because 
 He teacheth what God saith, not men's tradi- 
 tions ? 
 Wolves in sheep's clothing ! hang your heads 
 
 for shame ! 
 Nathless, God be your judge ! Old Tiess, and 
 
 thou, 
 Have so subdued my heart, that it resolves, 
 Sunday, please God, to share their evening 
 meal. 
 
TIEDGE. 
 
 303 
 
 EXTRACT FROM LUISE. 
 
 May the blessing of God, my dearest and love- 
 liest daughter, 
 Be with thee ! yea, the blessing of God on this 
 
 earth and in heaven ! 
 Young have I been, and now am old, and of joy 
 
 and of sorrow, 
 In this uncertain life, sent by God, much, much 
 
 have I tasted : 
 God be thanked for both ! O, soon shall I 
 
 now with my fathers 
 Lay my gray head in the grave ! how fain! for 
 
 my daughter is happy : 
 Happy, because she knows this, that our God, 
 
 like a father who watches 
 Carefully over his children, us blesses in joy 
 
 and in sorrow. 
 Wondrously throbs my heart at the sight of a 
 
 bride young and beauteous, 
 Dressed and adorned, while she leans, in affec- 
 tionate, childlike demeanour, 
 On the arm of the bridegroom, who through 
 
 life's path shall conduct her : 
 Ready to bear with him boldly, let whatsoever 
 
 may happen ; 
 And feeling with him, to exalt his delight and 
 
 lighten his sorrow ; 
 And, if it please God, to wipe from his dying 
 
 forehead the last sweat ! 
 Even such my presentiments were, when, after 
 
 the bridal, 
 I my young wife led home. Happy and serious, 
 
 I showed her, at distance, 
 All the extent of our fields, the church-tower, 
 
 and the dwellings, and this one, 
 Where we together have known so much both 
 
 of good and of evil. 
 Thou, my only child ! then in sorrow I think 
 
 of the others, 
 When my path to the church by their blooming 
 
 graves doth conduct me. 
 Soon, thou only one, wilt thou track that way 
 
 whereon I came hither, — 
 Soon, soon my daughter's chamber, soon 't will 
 
 be desolate to me, 
 And my daughter's place at the table ! In vain 
 
 shall I listen 
 For her voice afar off, and her footsteps at dis- 
 tance approaching ! 
 When with thy husband on that way thou from 
 
 me art departed, 
 Sobs will escape me, and thee my eyes bathed 
 
 in tears long will follow ; 
 For I am a man and a father, — and my daugh- 
 ter, who heartily loves me, 
 Heartily love ! But I will in faith raise my head 
 
 up to heaven, 
 Wipe my eyes from their tears, and with folded 
 
 hands myself humble 
 E'en in prayer before God, who, as a father 
 
 watches his children, 
 Both in joy and in sorrow us blesses, for we are 
 
 his children. 
 
 Yea, for this is the law of the Eternal, that 
 father and mother 
 
 Ever they shall forsake, who as husband and 
 wife are united. 
 
 Go, then, in peace, my child ! forsake thy fam- 
 ily and thy 
 
 Father's dwelling, — go, by the youth guided, 
 who to thee must hence be 
 
 Father and mother ! Be to him like a vine that 
 is fruitful 
 
 In his house ; round his table thy children like 
 branches of olive 
 
 Flourish ! So will the man be blessed in the 
 Lord who confideth. 
 
 Lovely and fair to be is nothing ; but a God- 
 fearing wife brings 
 
 Honor and blessing both ! for and if the Lord 
 build the house not, 
 
 Surely the builders but labor in vain. 
 
 CHRISTOPH AUGUST TIEDGE. 
 
 This lyric poet was born Dec. 13, 1752, at 
 Gardelegen, in the Altmark, Prussia. He was, 
 for a time, a private teacher in a noble family 
 in Ellrich, where he became acquainted with 
 Gleim. In 1792, he was made Private Secreta- 
 ry of the Canon of Stedern ; afterwards he lived 
 in Magdeburg, Halle, and Berlin. In 1819, he 
 removed to Dresden, where he died in 1840. 
 He was not a poet of very vigorous genius, but 
 hi3 works are delicate and graceful. He be- 
 came known, first, by his " Letters of Two Lov- 
 ers " ; these were followed by his elegies, " Ura- 
 nia," a poem abounding in fine passages, and 
 several other works of less note. 
 
 Tiedge's works were published by A. G. Eber- 
 hard, Halle, 1823-29, in eight volumes. The 
 fourth edition, in ten volumes, appeared in 1841. 
 The life of Tiedge was written by Falkenstein, 
 in 1841. 
 
 Of Tiedge's sentimentality, Menzel* remarks, 
 rather ill-naturedly : — " He was of a soft, almost 
 womanish, nature ; and these natures, we know, 
 work themselves up into such a state of emo- 
 tion by the force of fancy, that they can cry be- 
 tween the soup and the boiled ; so that they can 
 see nothing, hear nothing, do nothing, without 
 giving it a sentimental twang. Hence, also, 
 Tiedge by no means observes so judicious a 
 measure as Matthisson, and cannot govern him- 
 self so well ; but gives a loose rein to his melan- 
 choly, and bathes in the stream of tears he has 
 himself shed, with a feeling of comfort; and 
 would not merely, like Matthisson, please peo- 
 ple, but infect them too, and sweep away every 
 thing by the stream of tears. In his ' Urania,' 
 he guides this stream, like another milky way, 
 through heaven, and dissolves astronomy into 
 amazement, ecstasy, and admiration of the great- 
 
 * German Literature, Vol. III., pp. 81, 82. 
 
304 ij Ji, «. ivi a i 
 
 ness of God, sorrow for our littleness, and, final- 
 ly, tears of emotion, of thanks, and of resigna- 
 tion." 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF KORNER. 
 
 Proudly, e'en now, the young oak waved on 
 high, 
 Hung round with youthful green full gor- 
 geously; 
 And calmly graceful, and yet bold and free, 
 Reared its majestic head in upper sky. 
 
 Hope said, " How great, in coming days, 
 shall be 
 That tree's renown ! " Already, far or nigh, 
 No monarch of the forest towered so high. 
 
 The trembling leaves murmured melodiously 
 As love's soft whisper ; and its branches rung 
 
 As if the master of the tuneful string, 
 Mighty Apollo, there his lyre had hung. 
 But, ah ! it sank. A storm had bowed its 
 pride' ! — 
 Alas ! untimely snatched in life's green spring, 
 My noble youth, the bard and hero, died! 
 
 Where sleeps my youth upon his country's 
 breast ? 
 Show me the place where ye have laid him 
 down. 
 'Mid his own music's echoes let him rest, 
 
 And in the brightness of his fair renown. 
 Large was his heart ; his free soul heavenward 
 pressed ; 
 Alternate songs and deeds his brow did crown. 
 Where sleeps my youth upon his country's 
 breast ? 
 Show me the place where ye have laid him 
 down. 
 " The youth lies slumbering where the battle- 
 ground 
 Drank in the blood of noble hearts like rain " ; 
 There, youthful hero, in thine ear shall sound 
 A grateful echo of thy harp's last strain: 
 " O Father, bless thou me ! " shall ring again ; 
 That blessing thou in calmer world hast found. 
 
 Ye who so keenly mourn the loved one's death, 
 Go with me to the mound that marks his 
 grave, 
 And breathe awhile the consecrated breath 
 Of the old oak whose boughs high o'er him 
 
 wave. 
 Sad Friendship there hath laid the young and 
 brave ; 
 Her hand shall guide us thither. Hark ! she 
 
 saith, 
 " Beneath the hallowed oak's cool, peaceful 
 breath 
 These hands had dug the hero's silent grave ; 
 Yet were the dear remains forbid to rest 
 Where lip to lip in bloody strife was pressed, 
 And ghastly death stares from the mouldering 
 
 heap ; 
 A statelier tomb that sacred dust must keep ; 
 A German prince hath spoken : This new guest, 
 And noblest, in a princely hall shall sleep." 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 There rests the Muses' son, — his conflicts o'er. 
 Forget him not, my German country, thou ! 
 The wreath that twined around his youthful 
 brow 
 May deck his urn, — but him, alas ! no more. 
 Dost ask, thou herdsmaid, for those songs of 
 yore ? 
 Though fled his form, his soul is with us now. 
 And ye who mourn the hero gone before, 
 
 Here on his grave renew the patriot vow ; 
 
 Through freedom's holy struggle he hath made, 
 
 Ye noble German sons, his heavenward way. 
 
 Feel what he felt, while bending o'er his clay ; 
 
 Thus honor him, while, in the green-arched 
 
 shade, 
 Sweet choirs of nightingales, through grove and 
 glade, 
 Awake the memory of his kindling lay. 
 
 THE WAVE OF LIFE. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 LUDWIG THEOBUL KOSEGARTEN. 
 
 The poet Kosegarten was born February 1st, 
 1758, at Grevismiihlen, in Mecklenburg. He 
 studied at Greifswald, then became a private 
 tutor in the family of a Pomeranian nobleman. 
 In 1792, he was appointed a preacher at Al- 
 tenkirchen, in the island of Rilgen. On this 
 island he lived quietly and happily ; occupying 
 his leisure hours with literature and poetry, 
 until, in 1807, he was appointed Professor of 
 Historv in Greifswald. He died October 26th, 
 1818. He was a poet of deep feeling and 
 lively imagination, but sometimes indulged in 
 false pathos. He wrote epic idyls, legends, 
 lyric and elegiac poems, dramas, and novels. 
 He also translated from the English, especially 
 Richardson's " Clarissa." His works were pub- 
 lished at Greifswald, in 1824-25. His life 
 was written by his son, J. G. L. Kosegarten, 
 in 1826. 
 
 THE AMEN OF THE STONES. 
 
 Blind with old age, the Venerable Bede 
 Ceased not, for that, to preach and publish forth 
 The news from heaven, — the tidings of great 
 
 j°y- 
 
 From town to town, — through all the villages, — 
 
KOSEGARTEN. — SCHILLER. 
 
 305 
 
 With trusty guidance, roamed the aged saint, 
 . And preached the word with all the fire of youth. 
 
 One day his boy had led him to a vale 
 That lay all thickly sowed with mighty rocks. 
 In mischief, more than malice, spake the boy : 
 " Most reverend father ! there are many men 
 Assembled here, who wait to hear thy voice." 
 
 The blind old man, so bowed, straightway rose 
 
 up, 
 Chose him his text, expounded, then applied; 
 Exhorted, warned, rebuked, and comforted, 
 So fervently, that soon the gushing tears 
 Streamed thick and fast down to his hoary beard. 
 When, at the close, as seemeth always meet, 
 He prayed "Our Father," and pronounced 
 
 aloud, 
 " Thine is the kingdom and the power, thine 
 The glory now and through eternity," — 
 At once there rang through all that echoing vale 
 A sound of many thousand voices crying, 
 " Amen ! most reverend Sire, amen ! amen ! " 
 
 Trembling with terror and remorse, the boy 
 Knelt down before the saint, and owned his sin. 
 "Son," said the old man, "hast thou, then, 
 
 ne'er read, 
 ' When men are dumb, the stones shall cry 
 
 aloud ' ? — 
 Henceforward mock not, son, the word of God ! 
 Living it is, and mighty, cutting sharp, 
 Like a two-edged sword. And when the heart 
 Of flesh grows hard and stubborn as the stone, 
 A heart of flesh shall stir in stones themselves ! " 
 
 VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS. 
 
 Through night to light ! — And though to mor- 
 tal eyes 
 Creation's face a pall of horror wear, 
 Good cheer ! good cheer ! The gloom of mid- 
 night flies ; 
 Then shall a sunrise follow, mild and fair. 
 
 Through storm to calm! — And though his 
 thunder-car 
 The rumbling tempest drive through earth 
 and sky, 
 Good cheer ! good cheer ! The elemental war 
 Tells that a blessed healing hour is nigh. 
 
 Through frost to spring! — And though the bit- 
 ing blast 
 Of Eurus stiffen nature's juicy veins, 
 Good cheer ! good cheer ! When winter's wrath 
 is past, 
 Soft-murmuring spring breathes sweetly o'er 
 the plains. 
 
 Through strife to peace! — And though, with 
 bristling front, 
 A thousand frightful deaths encompass thee, 
 Good cheer ! good cheer ! Brave thou the bat- 
 tle's brunt, 
 For the peace-march and song of victory. 
 39 
 
 Through sweat to sleep! — And though the 
 sultry noon, 
 With heavy, drooping wing, oppress thee now. 
 Good cheer ! good cheer ! The cool of eve- 
 ning soon 
 Shall lull to sweet repose thy weary brow. 
 
 Through cross to crown! — And though thy 
 spirit's life 
 Trials untold assail with giant strength, 
 Good cheer ! good cheer ! Soon ends the bitter 
 strife, 
 And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at 
 length. 
 
 Through woe to joy ! — And though at morn 
 thou weep, 
 And though the midnight find thee weeping 
 still, 
 Good cheer ! good cheer ! The Shepherd loves 
 his sheep ; 
 Resign thee to the watchful Father's will. 
 
 Through death to life! — And through this 
 vale of tears, 
 
 And through this thistle-field of life, ascend 
 To the great supper in that world whose years 
 
 Of bliss unfading, cloudless, know no end. 
 
 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH 
 VON SCHILLER. 
 
 Schiller, the illustrious friend of Goethe, 
 was born Nov. 10, 1759, at Marbach, in WUr- 
 temberg. He manifested early an ardent im- 
 agination, and a love for poetry. The poet- 
 ical passages of the Old Testament, and the 
 works of Klopstock, were his favorite reading. 
 His first desire was to study theology, but, in 
 1773, Charles, the duke of WOrtemberg, offered 
 to educate him at his military school ; an offer 
 which Schiller's father did not feel at liberty to 
 decline. Here he lived in almost monastic se- 
 clusion from the world. In addition to the 
 military studies of the place, that of jurispru- 
 dence was pursued there. The school was 
 afterwards removed to Stuttgart, and the science 
 of medicine included in its plan of studies, to 
 which Schiller gladly devoted himself. Latin 
 and poetry also occupied part of his time. At 
 the age of sixteen, he published a translation of 
 part of the " iEneid," in hexameters. He also 
 began an epic, the hero of which was Moses ; 
 this was afterwards destroyed. The reading of 
 Shakspeare kindled in him an enthusiasm for 
 the drama, and he began two pieces, which were 
 burned. His original power first appeared in 
 " The Robbers," which he commenced in 1777, 
 at the age of eighteen years. In 1780, he was 
 appointed Military Physician in Stuttgart ; and 
 this situation secured to him a greater degree of 
 liberty than he had before enjoyed. He print- 
 ed " The Robbers " at his own expense. In 
 z2 
 
306 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 1782, the play, having undergone some changes, 
 was performed at Mannheim. The representa- 
 tion was soon after repeated ; and Schiller, hav- 
 ing left his post without obtaining leave of ab- 
 sence, was put under arrest. During his deten- 
 tion, he planned the "Cabal and Love," and 
 the " Conspiracy of Fiesco." Being now sat- 
 isfied of the impossibility of continuing in his 
 present career, he left Stuttgart secretly, and 
 lived for a time at the house of Madame von 
 Wollzogen in Bauersbach, where he completed 
 his " Fiesco " and " Cabal and Love." In 1783, 
 he became attached to the theatre in Mannheim, 
 and formed the plan of his " Don Carlos " and 
 "Mary Stuart." In 1785, he went to Leipsic, 
 and in the same year to Dresden, where he re- 
 mained till 1787. "Don Carlos" was written 
 during this period. In 1787, he went to Wei- 
 mar, where he was kindly received by Wieland 
 and Herder. The next year, he wrote the " His- 
 tory of the Revolt of the Netherlands," a work 
 suggested by the preparatory studies for " Don 
 Carlos." His acquaintance with Goethe began 
 the same year. In 1789, he was appointed, 
 through the influence of Goethe, Professor Ex- 
 traordinary of History at Jena, where he taught 
 both history and aesthetics. For some years he 
 occupied himself chiefly with history, aesthetics, 
 the Kantian philosophy, and with the composi- 
 tion of that very able and interesting historical 
 work, the " History of the Thirty Years' War." 
 In 1790, he married. In 1793, he formed the 
 plan of publishing the " Hours," in which he 
 was supported by the best writers of Germany. 
 He now became intimately acquainted with 
 Goethe, and published many of his finest lyrical 
 poems soon after this time. In 1796, he be- 
 came Ordinary Professor in the University of 
 Jena. In 1797, he produced his first ballads. 
 The magnificent dramatic composition, " Wal- 
 lenstein," was finished in 1799. From this 
 time he lived in Weimar, where, in 1800 and 
 1801, he produced " Mary Stuart " and the 
 "Maid of Orleans." In 1802, he was ennobled 
 by the emperor of Germany. In 1803, appear- 
 ed the "Bride of Messina" and "William 
 Tell." In 1804, he went to Berlin, where he 
 attended a representation of " William Tell," 
 and was enthusiastically received. He returned 
 ill, and died May 9, 1805, at the early age of 
 forty-six. 
 
 Schiller was a man of a profound and earnest 
 character. He was by far the greatest tragic 
 poet of Germany, and one of the greatest in 
 modern literature. His lyrical poems are noble 
 productions. As a historian and philosopher he 
 held a v^ery distinguished rank. The moral 
 elevation of his works is one of their most strik- 
 ing characteristics. His name is an immortal 
 possession for Germany. 
 
 Menzel * has given an eloquent analysis of 
 his character, which, though animated by the 
 warmth of an enthusiastic admirer, is hardly 
 
 * German Literature, Vol. III., pp. 141-160. 
 
 overcolored. The whole is too long for quota* 
 tion, but the following passages contain the 
 most prominent parts. 
 
 " He first perceived, that, while modern poe- 
 try had, indeed, returned from the false ideala 
 of the Gallomania to simple nature, on the 
 other hand, it had again become the problem 
 of romantic poetry to return from false nature 
 to pure ideals. Most of the storm-and-pressure 
 poets and romanticists, up to this time, had 
 contented themselves with holding up the pic- 
 tures of other times and manners, contrasted 
 with the modern character ; often other cos- 
 tumes merely, or fantastic, dreamy states, con- 
 jured up for the gratification of every whim and 
 every vanity. But Schiller took up the matter 
 more profoundly, and would not have one age 
 opposed to another, but the everlasting ideal 
 contrasted with temporary vulgarity, so that we 
 might not rest satisfied with costume, and ex- 
 ternal circumstances and conditions, but might 
 represent man in great pictures of character. 
 Whether antique, romantic, or modern, it is all 
 the same ; human nature is alike through all 
 ages. It ennobles or degrades every age ; and 
 the poets, according as they take it up, contrib- 
 ute to the elevation or degradation of men. 
 Therefore Schiller believed it was the highest 
 problem of the poet to treat human nature after 
 the spirit of the noblest ideality, as Greek art 
 had done at its most flourishing period, though 
 only in the representation of corporeal beauty; 
 that is, it had represented the godlike form of 
 man. In this, the highest of problems, all the 
 controversy of the school appeared to him to 
 be annihilated; and he himself, though Goethe 
 was constantly urging him, was averse to mak- 
 ing a strong distinction between the antique, 
 romantic, and modern, and to wearing one 
 mask after another, like his aristocratic friend. 
 Modern in ' Cabal and Love,' romantic in 
 ' Wallenstein' and the 'Maid of Orleans,' an- 
 tique in the 'Bride of Messina,' Schiller is 
 nevertheless the same in all, and variety of form 
 disappears before identity of spirit. 
 
 "That which has lent Schiller's works such 
 great power over the minds of men is, at the 
 same time, their most amiable characteristic ; 
 namely, their youthful spirit. He is the poet 
 of youth, and will always continue so ; for all 
 his feelings correspond to the earliest aspiration 
 of the yet uncorrupted youthful heart, of love 
 yet pure, of faith yet unshaken, of hope still 
 warm, of the vigor of young souls not ener- 
 vated. But he is, also, the favorite of all who 
 have preserved their virtue, — whose sense o« 
 truth, and right, and greatness, and beauty, has 
 not perished in the mart of vulgar life. 
 
 " Schiller appeared with youthful vigor, in a 
 corrupt and decrepit age, with a heart of won- 
 drous strength, and, at the same time, of virgin 
 purity. He has purified and regenerated Ger- 
 man poetry. He has warred with the imrroral 
 tendency of the prevailing taste of his age 
 
SCHILLER. 
 
 307 
 
 more powerfully and victoriously than any 
 other. Undazzled by the brilliant wit of his 
 time, he has ventured to appeal again to the 
 purest and most original feelings of man, and 
 to oppose to the scoffers an austere and holy 
 earnestness. To him belongs the glory of hav- 
 ing purified, cleared, and ennobled the spirit of 
 poetry. Germany already enjoys the fruits of 
 this transformation ; for, since the appearance 
 of Schiller, all our poetry has adopted a digni- 
 fied tone. And even neighbouring nations have 
 been seized by this spirit ; and Schiller exerci- 
 ses upon that great change that is now going 
 on in their taste and poetry a mighty influence, 
 which they themselves loudly acknowledge. 
 
 " We have to thank him for yet more than 
 the purification of the temple of art. His poet- 
 ical creations have had, bevond the province of 
 art, an immediate effect upon life itself. The 
 mighty charm of his song has not only touched 
 the imaginations of men, but even their con- 
 sciences ; and the fiery zeal with which he 
 entered into conflict with all that is base and 
 vulgar, the holy enthusiasm with which he 
 vindicated the acknowledged rights and the 
 insulted dignity of man, more frequently and 
 victoriously than any before him, make his 
 name illustrious, not only among the poets, but 
 among the noblest sages and heroes, who are 
 dear to mankind. 
 
 "Schiller has concentrated his whole poet- 
 ical power upon the representation of man ; 
 and, in fact, of the ideal greatness and beauty 
 of the human soul, — the highest and most 
 mysterious of all miracles. The external world 
 he looked upon only as a foil, — .as a contrast 
 or comparison for man. He set the moral 
 power of man in opposition to the blind force 
 of nature, to exhibit the former with its more 
 elevated nobleness, or struggling with victorious 
 strength, as in ' The Diver ' and ' The Surety ' ; 
 or he assigns a human sense to nature, and 
 gives a moral meaning to her blind powers, as 
 in 'The Gods of Greece,' 'The Lament of 
 Ceres,' 'Hero and Leander,' 'The Cranes of 
 Ibycus,' ' The Bell,' and others. Even in his 
 historical writings, he is less concerned for the 
 epical course of the whole, corresponding to 
 natural necessity, than for the prominent char- 
 acters, and for the element of human freedom 
 as opposed to that necessity. 
 
 "Raphael's name has forced itself involun- 
 tarily upon me ; and it is undeniable that the 
 spirit of moral beauty hovers over Schiller's 
 poetical creations, as the spirit of visible beauty 
 hovers over Raphael's pictures. The moral 
 element appears in the changes and the life of 
 history; and action, struggle, is the sphere in 
 which it moves : visible beauty, like all nature 
 together, is confined to quiet existence. 
 
 "Thus, Schiller's ideals must show them- 
 selves in conflict ; those of Raphael, in gentle 
 and sublime repose. Schiller's genius could 
 
 not shun the office of the warlike angel Mi- 
 chael ; Raphael's genius was only the gentle 
 angel who bears his name. That original and 
 inexplicable charm, however, the heavenly 
 magic, the reflected splendor of a higher world, 
 which belongs to the facps of Raphael, belongs 
 also to the characters of Schiller. No painter 
 has been able to represent the human face, no 
 poet the human soul, with this loveliness and 
 majesty of beauty. And as Raphael's genius 
 remains the same, and as that angel of light 
 and peace, under many names and forms, al- 
 ways gazes upon us from amidst repose and 
 transfigured glory, so Schiller's genius is always 
 alike, and we see the same militant angel in 
 Charles Moor, Amalia, Ferdinand, Louisa, Mar- 
 quis Posa, Max Piccolomini, Thekla, Mary 
 Stuart, Mortimer, Joan of Orleans, and "William 
 Tell. The former genius bears the palm, the 
 latter the sword. The former rests in the con- 
 sciousness of a peace never to be disturbed, 
 absorbed in his own splendor; the other turns 
 his lovely and angelic countenance, menacing 
 and mournful, towards the monsters of the 
 deep. 
 
 "Schiller's heroes are distinguished by a 
 nobleness of nature which produces at once 
 the effect of pure and perfect beauty, like the 
 nobleness expressed by the pictures of Raphael. 
 There is about them something kingly, that at 
 once excites a holy reverence. But this beam 
 of a higher light, falling upon the dark shadows 
 of earthly corruption, can but shine the bright- 
 er: among the spectres of hell, an angel be- 
 comes the lovelier. 
 
 " The first secret of this beauty is the angelic 
 innocence which dwells eternally in the noblest 
 natures. This nobleness of innocence recurs, 
 with the same celestial features of a pure young 
 angel, in all the great poetic creations of Schil- 
 ler. In the clearest transfiguration, like the 
 purity of childhood, perfectly unarmed, and yet 
 unassailable, like the royal infant, who, accord- 
 ing to the legend, played unharmed and smil- 
 ing among the wild beasts of the forests, — this 
 innocence stands forth in the noble picture of 
 Fridolin. 
 
 "If it becomes conscious of its own happi- 
 ness, it then excites the envy of the celestial 
 powers. With this new and touching charm, 
 we see it in 'Hero and Leander.' Adorned 
 with the warrior's helm, its blooming cheeks 
 blushing with the fire of noble passion, youth- 
 ful innocence goes forth against all the dark 
 powers of hell. Thus has Schiller delineated 
 it in 'The Diver,' and 'The Surety,' and in 
 those unhappy lovers. Charles Moor and Ama- 
 lia, Ferdinand and Louisa, and, above all, in 
 Max Piccolomini and Thekla. Over these 
 moving pictures a magic of poetry hovers, 
 which is nowhere equalled. It is the flute- 
 tone amidst wild and shrieking music, a blue 
 glimpse of heaven in a storm, a paradise within 
 the abyss of a crater. 
 
308 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 "The holy innocence of the virgin appears 
 under the noblest light when she is selected as 
 the champion of God. The profound mystery 
 of Christianity, and of Christian poetry, is the 
 fact, that the salvation of the world comes from 
 a pure virgin, the highest power from the purest 
 innocency. In this spirit Schiller has com- 
 posed his ' Maid of Orleans ' ; and she is the 
 most perfect manifestation of that warlike angel 
 who bears the helmet and banner of Heaven. 
 
 "Again, in another way Schiller has had the 
 art of wedding this innocence to every noble 
 development of genuine manliness. Here three 
 holy and heroic forms tower above the rest, — 
 that martial youth, Max Piccolomini, pure, un- 
 corrupted, among all the vices of the camp and 
 court; the Marquis Posa, whose mind, armed 
 with all intellectual culture, had remained a 
 pure temple of innocence ; finally, that robust 
 and powerful son of the mountains, William 
 Tell, after his way a complete counterpart to 
 the Maid of Orleans. 
 
 "If in these cases innocence shines with its 
 purest glory, Schiller knew also the contest 
 of original innocence with the contamination 
 of self-contracted guilt, through the violent pas- 
 sions ; and he has conjured it up before our 
 souls with the like love and the same perfect 
 art. How deeply the Magdalen character af- 
 fects us in Mary Stuart ! What can be more 
 touching than the self-conquest of Charles 
 Moor ? With what unsurpassable spirit, truth, 
 and terror is the conflict in the great souls of 
 Fiesco and Wallenstein represented ! 
 
 " We turn now to the second secret of the 
 beauty belonging to Schiller's ideal characters. 
 This is their nobleness, — their honorableness. 
 His heroes and heroines never discredit the 
 pride and the dignity which announce a loftier 
 nature; and all their outward acts bear the 
 stamp of magnanimity and inborn nobleness. 
 Its perfect opposite is the vulgar character, and 
 that conventional spirit which serves for a bri- 
 dle and leading-strings to the vulgar nature. 
 Strong, free, independent, original, following 
 only the guidance of a noble spirit, Schiller's 
 heroes rend asunder the web encompassed by 
 which vulgar men drag along their common- 
 place existence. It is a very distinctive mark 
 of Schiller's poetry, that all his heroes bear 
 that impress of genius ; they have that impos- 
 ing character which in real life usually accom- 
 panies the highest nobleness of human nature. 
 All his heroes wear the stamp of Jove upon 
 their brows. In his earliest poems, we might, 
 perhaps, consider this free and bold demeanour 
 somewhat uncouth and sharp-cornered ; and 
 even the poet, at elegant Weimar, suffered 
 himself to be seduced into giving his robbers 
 a little touch of civilization. But who would 
 not look through the rough outside, into the 
 solid and pure diamond germ of the nobler 
 nature ? Whatever follies are to be found in 
 'Charles Moor,' in 'Cabal and Love,' and in 
 •Fiesco,' I can consider them under no other 
 
 light than the follies of that old German Par- 
 cifal, who gave a proof, when a rough boy in 
 child's clothes, of his noble and heroic heart, 
 to the shame of all scorners ; nay, the force of 
 moral beauty in a noble nature can nowhere 
 operate more touchingly and affectingly than 
 where it is thus unconsciously laid open to 
 one-sided derision. 
 
 " The third and highest secret of the beauty 
 of Schiller's characters is the fire of noble pas- 
 sions. Every great heart is touched with this 
 fire : it is the sacrificial fire to the heavenly 
 powers ; the vestal flame, guarded by conse- 
 crated hands in the temple of God ; the Pro- 
 methean spark, stolen from heaven, to give a 
 godlike soul to men ; the Pentecost fire of in- 
 spiration, into which souls are baptized ; the 
 phoenix fire, in which our race renews its youth 
 for ever. Without the glow of noble passions, 
 nothing great can flourish, either in life or in 
 poetry. Every man of genius bears this fire 
 in his bosom, and all his creations are pervaded 
 with it. Schiller's poetry is a strong and fiery 
 wine ; all his words are flames of the noblest 
 sentiment. The ideal characters which he has 
 created are genuine children of hisglowing heart, 
 and parted rays of his own fire. But, before all 
 other poets, Schiller maintains the prerogative 
 of the purest, and at the same time the strong- 
 est passion. No one of so pure a heart evei 
 sustained this fire ; no one of such fire evei 
 possessed this purity. Thus we see the dia- 
 mond, the purest of earthly substances, when 
 it is kindled, burn with a brilliancy and an 
 inward strength of heat, compared to which 
 every other fire appears feeble and dim." 
 
 Schiller's w,orks were published at Stuttgar« 
 and Tubingen in 1827 — 28, in eighteen parts; 
 editions, in one large volume, appeared in 1829 
 1834, and 1840 ; a beautiful octavo edition, in 
 1835 — 36, in twelve volumes; a pocket edi 
 tion, in 1838-39, in twelve volumes. Hit 
 life was written by H. Doring ; also by Car- 
 oline von Wollzogen, 1830 ; another by HofF 
 meister. The " Life of Schiller," in English, by 
 Thomas Carlyle, is a very interesting and ele- 
 gant work. His "Letters to Dalberg " appear 
 ed in 1819 ; " Correspondence between Schil 
 ler and Goethe," Stuttgart, 1828 - 29 ; " Cor- 
 respondence between William Humboldt and 
 Schiller," 1830. The principal poetical works 
 of Schiller have been translated into English 
 some of them many times; "Wallenstein," by 
 Coleridge, and again by Mr. Moir; "William 
 Tell," " Mary Stuart," and others, by W. Peter ; 
 "William Tell," also, by Rev. C. T. Brooks 
 and "Don Carlos," by Mr. Calvert, with much 
 skill and fidelity. The lyrical poems and ballads 
 have occupied the pens of some of the most 
 distinguished writers of the times. The " Song 
 of the Bell " has been several times translated 
 in England, and twice in America, namely, by 
 S. A. Eliot, and J. S. D wight, — both transla- 
 tions are excellent. A translation of the poems 
 and ballads has just appeared in England, 
 
SCHILLER. 
 
 309 
 
 i'rom the pen of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton ; 
 and a volume by John Herman Merivale, con- 
 taining " the Minor Poems of Schiller, of the 
 Second and Third Periods, with a few of those 
 of earlier date, translated for the most part into 
 the same metres with the original." 
 
 SONG OF THE BELL. 
 
 Fastened deep in firmest earth, 
 
 Stands the mould of well burnt clay. 
 Now we '11 give the bell its birth ; 
 Quick, my friends, no more delay ! 
 From the heated brow 
 Sweat must freely flow, 
 If to your master praise be given : 
 But the blessing comes from Heaven. 
 
 To the work we now prepare 
 
 A serious thought is surely due ; 
 And cheerfully the toil we '11 share, 
 
 If cheerful words be mingled too. 
 Then let us still with care observe 
 
 What from our strength, yet weakness, 
 springs ; 
 For he respect can ne'er deserve 
 
 Who hands alone to labor brings. 
 'T is only this which honors man ; 
 
 His mind with heavenly fire was warmed, 
 That he with deepest thought might scan 
 
 The work which his own hand has formed. 
 
 With splinters of the driest pine 
 
 Now feed the fire below ; 
 Then the rising flame shall shine, 
 And the melting ore shall flow. 
 Boils the brass within, 
 Quickly add the tin ; 
 That the thick metallic mass 
 Rightly to the mould may pass. 
 
 What with the aid of fire's dread power 
 
 We in the dark, deep pit now hide, 
 Shall, on some lofty, sacied tower, 
 
 Tell of our skill and form our pride. 
 And it shall last to days remote, 
 
 Shall thrill the ear of many a race ; 
 Shall sound with sorrow's mournful note, 
 
 And call to pure devotion's grace. 
 Whatever to the sons of earth 
 
 Their changing destiny brings down, 
 To the deep, solemn clang gives birth, 
 
 That rings from out this metal crown. 
 
 See, the boiling surface, whitening, 
 Shows the whole is mixing well; 
 Add the salts, the metal brightening, 
 Ere flows out the liquid bell. 
 Clear from foam or scum 
 Must the mixture come, 
 That with a rich metallic note 
 The sound aloft in air may float. 
 
 Now with joy and festive mirth 
 
 Salute that loved and lovely child, 
 Whose earliest moments on the earth 
 
 Are passed in sleep's dominion mild. 
 While on Time's lap he rests his head, 
 The fatal sisters spin their thread ; 
 
 A mother's love, with softest rays, 
 
 Gilds o'er the morning of his days. — 
 But years with arrowy haste are fled. 
 His nursery bonds he proudly spurns ; 
 
 He rushes to the world without ; 
 After long wandering, home he turns, 
 
 Arrives a stranger and in doubt. 
 There, lovely in her beauty's youth, 
 
 A form of heavenly mould he meets, 
 Of modest air and simple truth ; 
 
 The blushing maid he bashful greets. 
 A nameless feeling seizes strong 
 
 On his young heart. He walks alone j 
 To his moist eyes emotions throng ; 
 
 His joy in ruder sports has flown. 
 He follows, blushing, where she goes ; 
 
 And should her smile but welcome him, 
 The fairest flower, the dewy rose, 
 
 To deck her beauty seems too dim. 
 O tenderest passion ! Sweetest hope ! 
 
 The golden hours of earliest love! 
 Heaven's self to him appears to ope ; 
 
 He feels a bliss this earth above. 
 O, that it could eternal last ! 
 That youthful love were never past ! 
 
 See how brown the liquid turns ! 
 Now this rod I thrust within ; 
 If it's glazed before it burns, 
 Then the casting may begin. 
 Quick, my lads, and steady, 
 If the mixture 's ready ! 
 When the strong and weaker blend, 
 Then we hope a happy end : 
 Whenever strength with softness joins, 
 When with the rough the mild combines, 
 
 Then all is union sweet and strong. 
 Consider, ye who join your hands, 
 If hearts are twined in mutual bands ; 
 For passion 's brief, repentance long. 
 How lovely in the maiden's hair 
 
 The bridal garland plays ! 
 And merry bells invite us there, 
 Where mingle festive lays. 
 Alas ! that all life's brightest hours 
 Are ended with its earliest May ! 
 That from those sacred nuptial bowers 
 The dear deceit should pass away ! 
 Though passion may fly, 
 
 Yet love will endure 
 The flower must die, 
 The fruit to insure. 
 The man must without, 
 Into struggling life ; 
 With toiling and strife, 
 He must plan and contrive ; 
 Must be prudent to thrive ; 
 With boldness must dare, 
 Good fortune to share. 
 
310 GERMAN POETRY 
 
 'T is by means such as these, that abundance is 
 
 From the clouds alike 
 
 poured 
 
 Lightnings strike. 
 
 In a full, endless stream, to increase all his 
 
 Ringing loud the fearful knell, 
 
 hoard, 
 
 Sounds the bell. 
 
 While his house to a palace spreads out. 
 
 Dark blood-red 
 
 
 Are all the skies ; 
 
 Within doors governs 
 
 But no dawning light is spread. 
 
 The modest, careful wife, 
 
 What wild cries 
 
 The children's kind mother; 
 
 From the streets arise ! 
 
 And wise is the rule 
 
 Smoke dims the eyes. 
 
 Of her household school. 
 
 Flickering mounts the fiery glow 
 
 She teaches the girls, 
 
 Along the street's extended row, 
 
 And she warns the boys ; 
 
 Fast as fiercest winds can blow. 
 
 She directs all the bands 
 
 Bright, as with a furnace glare, 
 
 Of diligent hands, 
 
 And scorching, is the heated air; 
 
 And increases their gain 
 
 Beams are falling, children crying, 
 
 By her orderly reign. 
 
 Windows breaking, mothers flying, 
 
 And she fills with her treasures her sweet- 
 
 Creatures moaning, crushed and dying, — 
 
 scented chests ; 
 
 All is uproar, hurry, flight, 
 
 Fron the toil of her spinning-wheel scarcely 
 
 And light as day the dreadful night. 
 
 she rests ; 
 
 Along the eager living lane, 
 
 And she gathers in order, so cleanly and bright, 
 
 Though all in vain, 
 
 The softest of wool, and the linen snow-white: 
 
 Speeds the bucket. The engine's power 
 
 The useful and pleasant she mingles ever, 
 
 Sends the artificial shower. 
 
 And is slothful never. 
 
 But see, the heavens still threatening lower ! 
 
 The father, cheerful, from the door, 
 
 The winds rush roaring to the flame. 
 
 His wide-extended homestead eyes ; 
 
 Cinders on the store-house frame, 
 
 Tells all his smiling fortunes o'er ; 
 
 And its drier stores, fall thick ; 
 
 The future columns in his trees, 
 
 While kindling, blazing, mounting quick, 
 
 His barn's well furnished stock he sees, 
 
 As though it would, at one fell sweep, 
 
 His granaries e'en now o'erflowing, 
 
 All that on the earth is found 
 
 While yet the waving corn is growing. 
 
 Scatter wide in ruin round, 
 
 He boasts with swelling pride, 
 
 Swells the flame to heaven's blue deep, 
 
 "Firm as the mountain's side 
 
 With giant size. 
 
 Against the shock of fate 
 
 Hope now dies. 
 
 Is now my happy state." 
 
 Man must yield to Heaven's decrees. 
 
 Who can discern futurity ? 
 
 Submissive, yet appalled, he sees 
 
 Who can insure prosperity ? 
 
 His fairest works in ashes sleep. 
 
 Quick misfortune's arrow flies. 
 
 
 
 All burnt over 
 
 Now we may begin to cast ; 
 
 Is the place, 
 
 All is right and well prepared : 
 
 The storm's wild home. How changed its face ! 
 
 Yet, ere the anxious moment 's past, 
 
 In the empty, ruined wall 
 
 A pious hope by all be sh ired. 
 
 Dwells dark horror ; 
 
 Strike the stopper clear ! 
 
 While heaven's clouds in shadow fall 
 
 God preserve us here ! 
 
 Deep within. 
 
 Sparkling, to the rounded mould 
 
 
 It rushes hot, like liquid gold. 
 
 One look, 
 
 How useful is the power of flame, 
 
 In memory sad, 
 
 If human skill control and tame ! 
 
 Of all he had, 
 
 And much of all that man can boast, 
 
 The unhappy sufferer took, — 
 
 Without this child of Heaven, were lost. 
 
 Then found his heart might yet be glad. 
 
 But frightful is her changing mien, 
 
 However hard his lot to bear, 
 
 When, bursting from her bonds, she 's seen 
 
 His choicest treasures still remain : 
 
 To quit the safe and quiet hearth, 
 
 He calls for each with anxious pain, 
 
 And wander lawless o'er the earth. 
 
 And every loved one 's with him there. 
 
 Woe to those whom then she meets ! 
 
 
 Against her fury who can stand ? 
 
 To the earth it 's now committed. 
 
 Along the thickly peopled streets 
 
 With success the mould is filled. 
 
 She madly hurls her fearful brand. 
 
 To skill and care alone 's permitted 
 
 Then the elements, with joy, 
 
 A perfect work with toil to build. 
 
 Man's best handiwork destroy. 
 
 Is the casting right? 
 
 From the clouds 
 
 Is the mould yet tight? 
 
 Falls amain 
 
 Ah ! while now with hope we wait, 
 
 The blessed rain : 
 
 Mischance, perhaps, attends its fate. 
 
SCHILLER. 
 
 311 
 
 To the dark lap of mother earth 
 
 We now confide what we have made ; 
 
 As in earth too the seed is laid, 
 In hope the seasons will give birth 
 
 To fruits that soon may be displayed. 
 And yet more precious seed we sow 
 
 With sorrow in the world's wide field; 
 And hope, though in the grave laid low, 
 
 A flower of heavenly hue 't will yield. 
 
 Slow and heavy 
 Hear it swell ! 
 'T is the solemn 
 Passing bell ! 
 Sad we follow, with these sounds of woe, 
 Those who on this last, long journey go. 
 Alas ! the wife, — it is the dear one, — 
 Ah ! it is the faithful mother, 
 Whom the shadowy king of fear 
 Tears from all that life holds dear ; — 
 From the husband, — from the young, 
 The tender blossoms, that have sprung 
 From their mutual, faithful love, 
 'T was hers to nourish, guide, improve. 
 Ah ! the chain which bound them all 
 
 Is for ever broken now ; 
 She cannot hear their tender call, 
 Nor see them in affliction bow. 
 Her true affection guards no more ; 
 
 Her watchful care wakes not again : 
 O'er all the once loved orphan's store 
 The indifferent stranger now must reign. 
 
 Till the bell is safely cold, 
 
 May our heavy labor rest ; 
 Free as the bird, by none controlled, 
 Each may do what pleases best. 
 With approaching night, 
 Twinkling stars are bright. 
 Vespers call the boys to play ; 
 The master's toils end not with day. 
 
 Cheerful in the forest gloom, 
 
 The wanderer turns his weary steps 
 To his loved, though lowly home. 
 Bleating flocks draw near the fold ; 
 
 And the herds, 
 Wide-horned, and smooth, slow-pacing come 
 Lowing from the hill, 
 The accustomed stall to fill. 
 
 Heavy rolls 
 
 Along the wagon, 
 
 Richly loaded. 
 
 On the sheaves, 
 
 With gayest leaves 
 
 They form the wreath ; 
 And the youthful reapers dance 
 
 Upon the heath. 
 Street and market all are quiet, 
 And round each domestic light 
 Gathers now a circle fond, 
 While shuts the creaking city-gate. 
 
 Darkness hovers 
 
 O'er the earth. 
 
 Safety still each sleeper covers 
 
 As with light, 
 That the deeds of crime discovers ; 
 For wakes the law's protecting might. 
 
 Holy Order ! rich with all 
 
 The gifts of Heaven, that best we call, — 
 
 Freedom, peace, and equal laws, — 
 
 Of common good the happy cause ! 
 
 She the savage man has taught 
 
 What the arts of life have wrought ; 
 
 Changed the rude hut to comfort, splendor, 
 
 And filled fierce hearts with feelings tender 
 
 And yet a dearer bond she wove, — 
 
 Our home, our country, taught to love. 
 
 A thousand active hands, combined 
 
 For mutual aid, with zealous heart, 
 In well apportioned labor find 
 
 Their power increasing with their art. 
 Master and workmen all agree, 
 
 Under sweet Freedom's holy care, 
 And each, content in his degree, 
 
 Warns every scorner to beware. 
 Labor is the poor man's pride, — 
 
 Success by toil alone is won. 
 Kings glory in possessions wide, — 
 
 We glory in our work well done. 
 
 Gentle peace ! 
 Sweet union ! 
 Linger, linger, 
 Kindly over this our home ! 
 Never may the day appear, 
 When the hordes of cruel war 
 Through this quiet vale shall rush ; 
 
 When the sky, 
 With the evening's softened air, 
 
 Blushing red, 
 Shall reflect the frightful glare 
 Of burning towns in ruin dread. 
 
 Now break up the useless mould : 
 
 Its only purpose is fulfilled. 
 May our eyes, well pleased, behold 
 A work to prove us not unskilled. 
 Wield the hammer, wield, 
 Till the frame shall yield ! 
 That the bell to light may rise, 
 The form in thousand fragments flies 
 
 The master may destroy the mould 
 
 With careful hand, and judgment wise. 
 But, woe ! — in streams of fire, if rolled, 
 
 The glowing metal seek the skies ! 
 Loud bursting with the crash of thunder, 
 
 It throws aloft the broken ground ; 
 Like a volcano rends asunder, 
 
 And spreads in burning ruin round. 
 When reckless power by force prevails, 
 
 The reign of peace and art is o'er ; 
 And when a mob e'en wrong assails, 
 
 The public welfare is no more. 
 
312 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Alas ! when in the peaceful state 
 
 Conspiracies are darkly forming ; 
 The oppressed no longer patient wait ; 
 
 With fury every breast is storming. 
 Then whirls the bell with frequent clang; 
 
 And Uproar, with her howling voice, 
 Has changed the note, that peaceful rang, 
 
 To wild confusion's dreadful noise. ■ 
 
 Freedom and equal rights they call, — 
 
 And peace gives way to sudden war; 
 The street is crowded, and the hall, — 
 
 And crime is unrestrained by law: 
 E'en woman, to a fury turning, 
 
 But mocks at every dreadful deed ; 
 Against the hated madly burning, 
 
 With horrid joy she sees them bleed. 
 Now naught is sacred ; — broken lies 
 
 Each holy law of honest worth ; 
 The bad man rules, the good man flies, 
 
 And every vice walks boldly forth. 
 
 There 's danger in the lion's wrath, 
 
 Destruction in the tiger's jaw ; 
 But worse than death to cross the path 
 
 Of man, when passion is his law. 
 Woe, woe to those who strive to light 
 
 The torch of truth by passion's fire ! 
 It guides not; — it but glares through night 
 
 To kindle freedom's funeral pyre. 
 
 God has given us joy to-night ! 
 
 See how, like the golden grain 
 From the husk, all smooth and bright, 
 The shining metal now is ta'en ! 
 From top to well formed rim, 
 Not a spot is dim ; 
 E'en the motto, neatly raised, 
 Shows a skill may well be praised. 
 
 Around, around, 
 Companions all, take your ground, 
 And name the bell with joy profound ! 
 Concordia is the word we 've found 
 Most meet to express the harmonious sound, 
 That calls to those in friendship bound. 
 
 Be this henceforth the destined end 
 To which the finished work we send 
 High over every meaner thing, 
 
 In the blue canopy of heaven, 
 Near to the thunder let it swing, 
 
 A neighbour to the stars be given. 
 Let its clear voice above proclaim, 
 
 With brightest troops of distant suns, 
 The praise of our Creator's name, 
 
 While round each circling season runs. 
 To solemn thoughts of heart-felt power 
 
 Let its deep note full oft invite, 
 And tell, with every passing hour, 
 
 Of hastening time's unceasing flight. 
 Still let it mark the course of fate ; 
 
 Its cold, unsympathizing voice 
 Attend on every changing state 
 
 Of human passions, griefs, and joys. 
 
 And as the mighty sound it gives 
 Dies gently on the listening ear, 
 
 We feel how quickly all that lives 
 
 Must change, and fade, and disappear. 
 
 Now, lads, join your strength around ! 
 
 Lift the bell to upper air ! 
 And in the kingdom wide of sound 
 Once placed, we '11 leave it there. 
 All together ! heave ! 
 Its birth-place see it leave ! — 
 Joy to all within its bound ! 
 Peace its first, its latest sound ! 
 
 THE ENTRANCE OF THE NEW CENTURY. 
 
 Noble friend ! where now for Peace, worn 
 hearted, 
 
 Where for Freedom, is a refuge-place ? 
 The old century has in storm departed, 
 
 And the new with carnage starts its race. 
 
 And the bond of nations flies asunder, 
 And the ancient forms rush to decline; 
 
 Not the ocean hems the warring thunder, 
 Not the Nile-god and the ancient Rhine. 
 
 Two imperious nations are contending 
 
 For one empire's universal field ; 
 Liberty from every people rending, 
 
 Thunderbolt and trident do they wield. 
 
 Gold must be weighed them from each coun- 
 try's labor; 
 
 And, like Brennus in barbarian days, 
 See, the daring Frank his iron sabre 
 
 In the balances of Justice lays ! 
 
 The grasping Briton his trade-fleets, like mighty 
 Arms of the sea-polypus, doth spread ; 
 
 And the realm of unbound Amphitrite 
 
 Would he girdle, like his own homestead. 
 
 To the south pole's unseen constellations 
 Pierce his keels, unhindered, resting not; 
 
 All the isles, all coasts of farthest nations, 
 Spies he ; — all but Eden's sacred spot. 
 
 Ah ! in vain, on charts of all earth's order, 
 May'st thou seek that bright and blessed 
 shore, 
 
 Where the green of Freedom's garden-border, 
 Where man's prime, is fresh for evermore. 
 
 Endless lies the world that thine eye traces, 
 Even commerce scarcely belts it round ; 
 
 Yet upon its all-unmeasured spaces 
 For ten happy ones is no room found. 
 
 On the heart's holy and quiet pinion 
 
 Must thou fly from out this rough life's throng 
 
 Freedom lives but within Dream's dominion, 
 And the beautiful blooms but in song. 
 
SCHILLER. 313 
 
 KNIGHT TOGGEXBURG. 
 
 Gazing upward to the convent, 
 
 
 Hour on hour he passed, 
 
 " Knight, to love thee like a sister 
 
 Watching still his lady's lattice, 
 
 Vows this heart to thee ; 
 
 Till it oped at last, — 
 
 Ask no other warmer feeling, — 
 
 Till that form looked forth so lovely, 
 
 That were pain to me. 
 
 Till the sweet face smiled 
 
 Tranquil would I see thy coming, 
 
 Down into the lonesome valley, 
 
 Tranquil see thee go ; 
 
 Peaceful, angel-mild. 
 
 What that starting tear would tell me 
 
 
 I must never know." 
 
 Then he laid him down to slumber, 
 
 
 Cheered by peaceful dreams, 
 
 He with silent anguish listens, 
 
 Calmly waiting till the morning 
 
 Though his heart-strings bleed ; 
 
 Showed again its beams. 
 
 Clasps her in his last embraces, 
 
 Thus for days he watched and waited, 
 
 Springs upon his steed, 
 
 Thus for years he lay, 
 
 Summons every faithful vassal 
 
 Happv if he saw the lattice 
 
 From his Alpine home, 
 
 Open day by day ; — 
 
 Binds the cross upon his bosom, 
 
 
 Seeks the Holy Tomb. 
 
 If that form looked forth so lovely, 
 
 
 If the sweet face smiled 
 
 There full many a deed of glory 
 
 Down into the lonesome valley, 
 
 Wrought the hero's arm ; 
 
 Peaceful, angel-mild. 
 
 Foremost still his plumage floated 
 
 There a corse they found him sitting 
 
 Where the foemen swarm ; 
 
 Once when day returned, 
 
 Till the Moslem, terror-stricken, 
 
 Still his pale and placid features 
 
 Quailed before his name. 
 
 To the lattice turned. 
 
 But the pang that wrings his bosom 
 
 
 Lives at heart the same. 
 
 
 
 
 INDIAN DEATH-SONG. 
 
 One long year he bears his sorrow, 
 
 
 But no more can bear ; 
 
 Ox the mat he 's sitting there : 
 
 Rest he seeks, but, finding never, 
 
 See ! he sits upright, 
 
 Leaves the army there ; 
 
 With the same look that he ware 
 
 Sees a ship by Joppa's haven, 
 
 When he saw the light. 
 
 Which with swelling sail 
 
 
 Wafts him where his lady's breathing 
 
 But where now the hand's clinched weight? 
 Where the breath he drew, 
 
 Mingles with the gale. 
 
 
 That to the Great Spirit late 
 
 At her father's castle portal, 
 
 Forth the pipe-smoke blew ? 
 
 Hark ! his knock is heard ; 
 
 
 See ! the gloomy gate uncloses 
 
 Where the eyes, that, falcon-keen 
 
 With the thunder-word : 
 
 Marked the reindeer pass, 
 
 " She thou seek'st is veiled for ever, 
 
 By the dew upon the green, 
 
 Is the bride of Heaven ; 
 
 By the waving grass ? 
 
 Yester eve the vows were plighted, — 
 
 
 She to God is given.'' 
 
 These the limbs, that, unconfined, 
 
 
 Bounded through the snow, 
 
 Then his old ancestral castle 
 
 Like the stag that 's twenty-tyned, 
 
 He for ever flees ; 
 
 Like the mountain roe ! 
 
 Battle-steed and trustv weapon 
 
 
 Never more he sees. 
 
 These the arms, that, stout and tense, 
 
 From the Toggenburg descending, 
 
 Did the bow-string twang ! 
 
 Forth unknown he glides ; 
 
 See, the life is parted hence ! 
 
 For the frame once sheathed in iron 
 
 See, how loose they hang ! 
 
 Now the sackcloth hides. 
 
 
 
 Well for him ! he 's gone his ways 
 
 There beside that hallowed region 
 
 Where are no more snows ; 
 
 He hath built his bower, 
 
 Where the fields are decked with maize, 
 
 Where from out the dusky lindens 
 
 That unplanted grows; — 
 
 Looked the convent tower ; 
 
 
 Waiting from the morning's glimmer 
 
 Where with beasts of chase each wood, 
 
 Till the day was done, 
 
 Where with birds each tree, 
 
 Tranquil hope in every feature, 
 
 Where with fish is every flood 
 
 Sat he there alone. 
 
 Stocked full pleasantly. 
 
 40 
 
 AA 
 
314 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 He above with spirits feeds ; — 
 
 We, alone and dim, 
 Left to celebrate his deeds, 
 
 And to bury him. 
 
 Bring the last sad offerings hither ; 
 
 Chant the death-lament; 
 All inter with him together, 
 
 That can him content. 
 
 'Neath his head the hatchet hide, 
 That he swung so strong ; 
 
 And the bear's ham set beside, — 
 For the way is long ; — 
 
 Then the knife, — sharp let it be, — 
 That from foeman's crown, 
 
 Quick, with dexterous cuts but three, 
 Skin and tuft brought down ; — 
 
 Paints, to smear his frame about, 
 
 Set within his hand, 
 That he redly may shine out 
 
 In the spirits' land. 
 
 THE DIVISION OF THE EARTH. 
 
 " Here, take the world ! " cried Jove, from his 
 high heaven, 
 
 To mortals. — "Take it; it is yours, ye elves; 
 'T is yours, for an eternal heirdom given ; 
 
 Share it like brothers 'mongst yourselves." 
 
 Then hastened every one himself to suit, 
 And busily were stirring old and young. — . 
 
 The Farmer seized upon the harvest-fruit ; 
 The Squire's horn through the woodland rung. 
 
 The Merchant grasped his costly warehouse 
 loads ; 
 
 The Abbot chose him noble pipes of wine ; 
 The King closed up the bridges and the roads, 
 
 And said, " The tenth of all is mine." 
 
 Quite late, long after all had been divided, 
 The Poet came, from distant wandering ; 
 
 Alas ! the thing was everywhere decided, — 
 Proprietors for every thing ! 
 
 "Ah, woe is me ! shall I alone of all 
 
 Forgotten be? — I, thy roost faithful son?" 
 
 In loud lament he thus began to bawl, 
 And threw himself before Jove's throne. 
 
 " Tf in the land of dreams thou hast delayed," 
 Replied the god, "then quarrel not with me; 
 
 Where wast thou when division here was 
 made ? " 
 " I was," the Poet said, " with thee ; — 
 
 "Mine eyes hung on thy countenance so bright, 
 Mine ear drank in thy heaven's harmony ; 
 
 Forgive the soul, which, drunken with thy light, 
 Forgot that earth had aught for me." 
 
 " What shall I do ? " said Zeus; ; ' the world 's 
 all given ; 
 
 The harvest, chase, or market, no more mine; 
 If thou wilt come and live with me in heaven, 
 
 As often as thou com'st, my home is thine." 
 
 EXTRACT FROM WALLENSTEIN'S CAMP. 
 
 [Enter a band of Miners, and play a waltz. The First Ja- 
 ger dances with the Waiting-girl, the Recruit with the 
 Sutler's Wife. The Girl slips away, the Jager after her, 
 and seizes hold of the Capuchin, who enters at this mo 
 ment.] 
 
 CAPUCHIN.* 
 
 Shout and swear, ye Devil's crew! 
 
 He is one among ye, and I make two. 
 
 Can these be Christians in faith or works ? 
 
 Are we Anabaptists, Jews, or Turks ? 
 
 Is this a time for feast or play, 
 
 For banquet, dance, and holiday ? 
 
 When the quickest are slow, and the earliest 
 
 late is, 
 Quid hie otiosi statis ? 
 
 When the furies are loose by the Danube's side 
 And the bulwark is low of Bavaria's pride, 
 And Ratisbon in the enemy's claw, 
 And the soldier still looks to his ravenous maw 
 For, praying or fighting, he eats and swears ; 
 Less for the battle than the bottle he cares ; 
 Loves better his beak than his blade to whet ; 
 On an ox, not an Oxenstiern, would set. 
 'T is a time for mourning, for prayer and tears; 
 Sign and wonder in heaven appears : 
 Over the firmament is spread 
 War's wide mantle all bloody red ; 
 And the streaming comet's fiery rod 
 Betokens the rightful wrath of God. 
 Whence comes all this? I now proclaim 
 That from your sin proceeds your shame : 
 Sin, like the magnet, draws the steel, 
 Which in its bowels the land must feel; 
 Ruin as close on wrong appears, 
 As, on the acrid onion, tears. 
 Who learns his letters this may know, 
 That violence produces woe, 
 As in the alphabet you see 
 How W comes after V. 
 When the altar and pulpit despised we see, 
 Ubi erit spes victoria, 
 
 Si offenditur Deus9 How can we prevail, 
 If his house and preachers we assail ? 
 The woman in the Gospel found 
 The farthing dropped upon the ground ; 
 Joseph again his brothers knew 
 (Albeit a most unworthy crew) ; 
 Saul found his father's asses too. 
 Who in the soldier seeks to find 
 The Christian's love and humble mind, 
 And modesty and just restraint, 
 He in the Devil seeks a saint ; 
 
 * This exhortation of the Capuchin Friar is taken frorr 
 one of the sermons of Abraham a Sancta Clara ; for the 
 character of whose eloquence, see p. 241. 
 
SCHILLER. 
 
 315 
 
 And small reward will crown his hopes, 
 
 Though with a hundred lights he gropes. 
 
 The Gospel tells how the soldiers ran 
 
 In the desert of old to the holy man, 
 
 Did penance, were baptized, and prayed. 
 
 Quid faciemus nos? they said ; 
 
 Et ait Mis, — he answers them : 
 
 Concutiatis neminem, — 
 
 No one vex, or spoil, or kill ; 
 
 JVec calumniam, — speak no ill ; 
 
 Contenti estote, — learn not to fret 
 
 Stipendiis vestris, — at what you get. 
 
 The Scripture forbids us, in language plain, 
 
 To take the holiest name in vain : 
 
 But here the law might as well be dumb ; 
 
 And if for the thundering oaths which come 
 
 From the tip of the blasphemous soldier's tongue, 
 
 As for Heaven's thunder, the bells were rung, 
 
 The sacristans would soon be dead ; 
 
 And if, for each wanton and wicked prayer, 
 
 Were plucked from the blasphemous soldier's 
 
 head, 
 As a gift for Satan, a single hair, 
 Each head in the camp would be smooth and 
 
 bare, 
 Ere the watch was set and the sun was down, 
 Though at morn it were bushy as Absalom's 
 
 crown. 
 A soldier Joshua was like you, 
 And David tall Goliath slew ; 
 They laid about them as much or more, 
 But where do we read that they cursed and 
 
 swore ? 
 Yet the lips, which we open to curse and swear, 
 Are not opened wider for creed or prayer; 
 But that with which the cask we fill, 
 The same we must draw and the same must spill. 
 Thou shalt not steal, so the Scriptures tell, 
 And, for this, I grant that you keep it well ; 
 For you carry your plunder, and lift your prey, 
 With your vulture claws, in the face of day ; 
 Gold from the chest your tricks convey ; 
 The calf in the cow is not safe from you ; 
 You take the egg and the hen thereto. 
 Contenti estote, the preacher has said, — 
 Be content with your ammunition bread. 
 But the low and the humble 't were sin to blame ; 
 From the greatest and highest the evil came ; 
 The limbs are bad, but the head as well : 
 No one his faith or his creed can tell. 
 
 FIRST JAGER. 
 
 Sir Priest, the soldier I count fair game; 
 
 So, please you, keep clear of the general's name. 
 
 CAPUCHIil. 
 
 Ne custodias gregem meam ! 
 He is an Ahab and Jerobeam ; 
 God's people to folly he leads astray, 
 To idols of falsehood he point3 the way. 
 
 TRUMPETER. 
 
 Let us not hear that twice, I pray. 
 
 CAPUCHIN. 
 
 Such a Bramabas, with iron hand, 
 
 Would spoil the high places throughou- '% land. 
 
 We know, though Christian lips are loath 
 To repeat the words of his godless oath, 
 How Stralsund's city he vowed to gain, 
 Though it held to heaven with bolt and chain. 
 
 TRUMPETER. 
 
 Will no man throttle him, once for all? 
 
 CAPUCHIN. 
 
 A wizard, a fiend-invoking Saul, 
 
 A Jehu ; or he whom Judith slew, 
 
 By a woman's hand in his cups who died ; 
 
 Like him who his Master and Lord denied, 
 
 Who was deaf to the warning cock that crew, 
 
 Like him, when the cock crows, he cannot hear. 
 
 FIRST JAGER. 
 
 Shaveling liar, thy death is near ! 
 
 CAPUCHIN. 
 
 A fox, like Herod, in wiles and lies. 
 
 trumpeter and jagers (pressing upon him). 
 The lie in his slanderous throat ! he dies ! 
 
 Croats (interfering). 
 They shall not harm thee. Discourse thy fill ; 
 Give us thy sermon and fear no ill. 
 
 CAPUCHIN. 
 
 A Nebuchadnezzar in pride and sin, 
 Heretic, pagan, his heart within ; 
 While such a Friedland has command, 
 The country is ever an unfreed land. 
 
 [During this last speech he has been gradually making 
 his retreat. The Croats, meanwhile, protecting 
 him from the rest. 
 
 THE GLOVE: A TALE. 
 
 Before his lion-court, 
 
 To see the grisly sport, 
 
 Sat the king ; 
 
 Beside him grouped his princely peers, 
 
 And dames aloft, in circling tiers, 
 
 Wreathed round their blooming ring 
 King Francis, where he sat, 
 Raised a finger ; yawned the gate, 
 And slow, from his repose, 
 
 A lion goes ! 
 Dumbly he gazed around 
 The foe-encircled ground ; 
 And, with a lazy gape, 
 He stretched his lordly shape, 
 And shook his careless mane, 
 And — laid him down again. 
 
 A finger raised the king, 
 
 And nimbly have the guard 
 
 A second gate unbarred ; 
 
 Forth, with a rushing spring, 
 A tiger sprung ! 
 
 Wildly the wild one yelled, 
 When the lion he beheld ; 
 
 And, bristling at the look, 
 With his tail his sides he strook, 
 
 And rolled his rabid tongue ; 
 
316 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 In many a wary ring 
 He swept round the forest king, 
 With a fell and rattling sound; 
 
 And laid him on the ground, 
 Grommelling. 
 
 The king raised his finger; then 
 Leaped two leopards from the den 
 With a bound ; 
 And boldly bounded they 
 Where the crouching tiger lay 
 Terrible ! 
 And he griped the beasts in his deadly hold ; 
 In the grim embrace they grappled and rolled ; 
 Rose the lion with a roar, 
 
 And stood the strife before ; 
 And the wild-cats on the spot, 
 From the blood-thirst, wroth and hot, 
 Halted still. 
 
 Now from the balcony above 
 A snowy hand let fall a glove : 
 Midway between the beasts of prey, 
 Lion and tiger, — there it lay, 
 The winsome lady's glove ! 
 
 Fair Cunigonde said, with a lip of scorn, 
 
 To the knight Delorges, " If the love you have 
 
 sworn 
 Were as gallant and leal as you boast it to be, 
 I might ask you to bring back that glove to me ! " 
 
 The knight left the place where the lady sat; 
 The knight he has passed through the fearful 
 
 gate ; 
 The lion and tiger he stooped above, 
 And his fingers have closed on the lady's glove ! - 
 All shuddering and stunned, they beheld him 
 
 there, — 
 The noble knights and the ladies fair ; 
 But loud was the joy and the praise the while 
 He bore back the glove with his tranquil smile ! 
 
 With a tender look in her softening eyes, 
 That promised reward to his warmest sighs, 
 Fair Cunigonde rose her knight to grace; 
 He tossed the glove in the lady's face ! 
 "Nay, spare me the guerdon, at least," quoth 
 
 he ; 
 And he left for ever that fair ladye ! 
 
 THE DANCE. 
 
 See how they float, the glad couples, along, in 
 billowy motion 
 Gliding, — and scarcely the ground touch 
 with their feathery feet ! 
 Do I behold flitting shadows, escaped from the 
 v/eight of the body ? 
 Or are they moonlight elves, threading their 
 aCry maze ? 
 As, by the west wind cradled, the light smoke 
 curls into ether, 
 Gently as tosses the bark, rocked by the sil- 
 very flood, 
 
 Moves the obedient foot, on the tide of melody 
 bounding ; 
 Poised on the warbling string, floats the ethe 
 real frame. 
 Now, as the links of the dance were forcibly 
 broken asunder, 
 Darts through the closest ranks, madly, some 
 swift-whirling pair ; 
 Instant, a passage before them is made, then be- 
 hind them has vanished, — 
 Seems as by magical spell opens and closes 
 the path. 
 See ! now it fades from their sight, — in wild 
 confusion around them, 
 Falling in pieces, the world's beautiful frame 
 dies away ! 
 No ! there exultingly soar they aloft, — the knots 
 disentangle; 
 Only with varied charm, order recovers its 
 sway. 
 Ever destroyed, yet ever renewed, is the cir- 
 cling creation, — 
 Ever a fixed silent law guides the caprices ol 
 change. 
 Say, how befalls it that figures renewed are 
 yet ceaselessly shifting? 
 How, that rest yet abides e'en in the form 
 that is moved ? 
 Each man self-governed, free, to his own heart 
 only obedient; 
 Yet in time's eddying course finding his one 
 only road ? 
 Wouldst thou the reason attain? — it is Harmo- 
 ny's powerful godhead, 
 Which to the social dance limits the mad- 
 dening bound ; 
 Nemesis-like, with the golden bridle of rhyth- 
 mical measure, 
 Curbs the unruly desire, chains the wild ap- 
 petite down. 
 And do they sweep o'er thy senses in vain, — 
 those heavenly hymnings? 
 Doth it not raise thee, — the full swell of this 
 mystical song? 
 Nor the ecstatic note that all beings are striking 
 around thee ? 
 Nor the swift-whirling dance, which through 
 unlimited space 
 Whirls swift-revolving suns in bold concentrical 
 circles? — 
 That which in sport thou reverest, — Meas- 
 ure, — in truth thou dost spurn. 
 
 JOHANN PETER HEBEL. 
 
 This poet was born May 11th, 1760, near 
 Schopfheim, in Baden. He studied in Erlang- 
 en, and afterwards became an instructer in 
 the " Poedagogium," at Lorrach. In 1791, he 
 was made Sub-deacon at Karlsruhe, and in 
 1798 was appointed Professor in the Gymna- 
 sium there; in 1805, he became Church Coun- 
 cillor; in 1808, Director of the Lyceum; in 
 
HEBEL. — MATTHISSON. 
 
 317 
 
 1819, Prelate. He died at Schwetzingen, 
 September 22d, 1826. For his poems, he se- 
 lected the simple and popular dialect which 
 prevails near Basle, and, with various modifica- 
 tions, over a great part of Swabia. They contain 
 beautiful delineations of nature, and pictures 
 of manners. The poems were first published 
 at Karlsruhe, in 1808; they have been several 
 times translated into German, by SchafFner, 
 Girardet, and Adrian. Hebel was also the 
 author of popular tales. His works were pub- 
 lished at Karlsruhe in 1832; again in 1837 
 - 38 ; and a new edition was commenced in 
 1842. 
 
 SUNDAY MORNING. 
 
 " Well," Saturday to Sunday said, 
 " The people now have gone to bed ; 
 All, after toiling through the week, 
 Right willingly their rest would seek ; — 
 Myself can hardly stand alone, 
 So very weary I have grown." 
 
 His speech was echoed by the bell, 
 As on his midnight couch he fell ; 
 And Sunday now the watch must keep. 
 So, rising from his pleasant sleep, 
 He glides, half-dozing, through the sky, 
 To tell the world that morn is nigh. 
 
 He rubs his eyes, — and, none too late, 
 Knocks aloud at the sun's bright gate ; 
 She 1 slumbered in her silent hall, 
 Unprepared for his early call. 
 Sunday exclaims, " Thy hour is nigh ! " 
 "Well, well," says she, "I '11 come by and by.' 
 
 Gently, on tiptoe, Sunday creeps, — 
 Cheerfully from the stars he peeps, — 
 Mortals are all asleep below, — 
 None in the village hears him go ; 
 E'en Chanticleer keeps very still, — 
 For Sunday whispered 't was his will. 
 
 Now the world is awake and bright, 
 
 After refreshing sleep all night ; 
 
 The Sabbath morn in sunlight comes, 
 
 Smiling gladly on all our homes. 
 
 He has a mild and happy air, — 
 
 Bright flowers are wreathed among his hair. 
 
 He comes, with soft and noiseless tread, 
 To rouse the sleeper from his bed ; 
 And tenderly he pauses near, 
 With looks all full of love and cheer, 
 Well pleased to watch the deep repose 
 That lingered till the morning rose. 
 
 How gaily shines the early dew, 
 Loading the grass with its silver hue ! 
 
 i In the German language, the sun is feminine, and the 
 moon is masculine. 
 
 And freshly comes the fragrant breeze. 
 Dancing among the cherry-trees ; 
 The bees are humming all so gay, — 
 They know not it is Sabbath-day. 
 
 The cherry-blossoms now appear, — 
 Fair heralds of a fruitful year ; 
 There stands upright the tulip proud, — 
 Bethlehem-stars 2 around her crowd, — 
 And hyacinths of every hue, — 
 All sparkling in the morning dew. 
 
 How still and lovely all things seem ! 
 Peaceful and pure as an angel's dream ! 
 No rattling carts are in the streets ; — 
 Kindly each one his neighbour greets : — 
 " It promises right fair to-day " ; — 
 "Yes, praised be God ! " — 't is all they say. 
 
 The birds are singing, " Come, behold 
 Our Sabbath morn all bathed in gold, 
 Pouring his calm, celestial light 
 Among the flowers so sweet and bright ! " 
 The pretty goldfinch leads the row, 
 As if her Sunday-robe to show. 
 
 Mary, pluck those auriculas, pray, 
 And do n't shake the yellow dust away ; 
 Here, little Ann, are some for you, — 
 I 'm sure you want a nosegay too. 
 The first bell rings, — away ! away ! 
 We will go to church to-dav. 
 
 FRIEDRICH VON MATTHISSON. 
 * 
 
 This celebrated lyrical poet was born Janu- 
 ary 23d, 1761, at Hohendodeleben, near Mag- 
 deburg. He studied theology at the University 
 in Halle, but afterwards gave his attention to 
 philology, natural science, and polite literature. 
 He passed two years with Bonstetten, at Nyon ; 
 then became a private tutor in Lyons ; after- 
 wards a teacher in Dessau. In 1794, he was ap- 
 pointed reader and travelling companion to the 
 princess of Dessau, and visited Rome, Naples, 
 Switzerland, the Tyrol, and the North of Italy. 
 In 1809, he was made a knight of the WUr- 
 temberg order of Civil Service, and ennobled ; 
 in 1812, he was appointed Councillor of Lega- 
 tion in Stuttgart. He visited Italy again, in 
 the retinue of the duke of Wilrtemberg, and 
 passed some time in Florence, in 1819. From 
 1829, he lived in a private station at Worlitz, 
 where he died March 12th, 1831. He is one 
 of the most popular lyric and elegiac poets of 
 Germany. He shows delicate feeling, an ex- 
 quisite sense of the beauties of nature, and 
 great powers of description. His verse is dis- 
 tinguished for its musical flow and careful fin- 
 ish ; but he is not free from, a sentimental man- 
 
 's The name of a very pretty wild flower. 
 aa2 
 
318 
 
 GERMAN POETR5T. 
 
 nerisrn, which exposed him to the ridicule of 
 Schlegel and Menzel. His works were pub- 
 lished at Zurich, 1825-29, in eight parts. His 
 life, by H. Dbring, appeared in 1833. 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE RUINS OF AN OLD CASTLE. 
 
 Silent, in the veil of evening twilight, 
 
 Rests the plain ; the woodland song is still, 
 
 Save that here, amid these mouldering ruins, 
 Chirps a cricket, mournfully and shrill. 
 
 Silence sinks from skies without a shadow, 
 
 Slowly wind the herds from field and meadow, 
 And the weary hind to the repose 
 Of his father's lowly cottage goes. 
 
 Here, upon this hill, by forests bounded, 
 
 'Mid the ruins of departed days, 
 By the awful shapes of Eld surrounded, 
 
 Sadness ! unto thee my song I raise ! 
 Sadly think I what in gray old ages 
 Were these wrecks of lordly heritages : 
 
 A majestic castle, like a crown, 
 
 Placed upon the mountain's brow of stone 
 
 There, where round the column's gloomy ruins, 
 Sadly whispering, clings the ivy green, 
 
 And the evening twilight's mournful shimmer 
 Blinks the empty window-space between, 
 
 Blessed, perhaps, a father's tearful eye 
 
 Once the noblest son of Germany ; 
 
 One whose heart, with high ambition rife, 
 Warmly swelled to meet the coming strife. 
 
 " Go in peace ! " thus spake the hoary warrior, 
 As he girded on his sword of fame ; 
 
 " Come not back again, or come as victor: 
 O, be worthy of thy father's name ! " 
 
 And the noble youth's bright eyes were throwing 
 
 Deadly flashes forth ; his cheeks were glowing, 
 As with full-blown branches the red rose 
 In the purple light of morning glows. 
 
 Then, a cloud of thunder, flew the champion, 
 Even as Richard Lion-Heart, to fight ; 
 
 Like a wood of pines in storm and tempest, 
 Bowed before his path the hostile might. 
 
 Gently, as a brook through flowers descendeth, 
 
 Homeward to the castle-crag he wendeth, — 
 To his father's glad, yet tearful face, — 
 To the modest maiden's chaste embrace. 
 
 O, with anxious longing, looks the fair one 
 From her turret down the valley drear ! 
 
 Shield and breastplate glow in gold of evening, 
 Steeds fly forward, the beloved draws near ! 
 
 Him the faithful right-hand mute extending, 
 
 Stands she, pallid looks with blushes blending. 
 O, but what that soft, soft eye doth say, 
 Sings not Petrarch's, nor e'en Sappho's lay ! 
 
 Merrily echoed there the sound of goblets, 
 Where the rank grass, waving in the gale, 
 
 O'er the nests of owls is blackly spreading, 
 Till the silver glance of stars grew pale. 
 
 Tales of hard-won battle fought afar, 
 
 Wild adventures in the Holy War, 
 
 Wakened in the breast of hardy knight 
 The remembrance of his fierce delight. 
 
 O, what changes ! Awe and night o'ershadow 
 Now the scene of all that proud array ; 
 
 Winds of evening, full of sadness, whisper, 
 Where the strong ones revelled and were 
 
 gay ; 
 
 Thistles lonely nod, in places seated 
 Where for shield and spear the boy entreated, 
 When aloud the war-horn's summons rang, 
 And to horse in speed the father sprang. 
 
 Ashes are the bones of these, — the mighty ! 
 
 Deep they lie within earth's gloomy breast ; 
 Hardly the half-sunken funeral tablets 
 
 Now point out the places where they rest ! 
 Many to the winds were long since scattered, — 
 Like their tombs, their memories sunk and shat 
 tered ! 
 
 O'er the brilliant deeds of ages gone 
 
 Sweep the cloud-folds of Oblivion! 
 
 Thus depart life's pageantry and glory ! 
 
 Thus flit by the visions of vain might ! 
 Thus sinks, in the rapid lapse of ages, 
 
 All that earth doth bear, to empty night ! 
 Laurels, that the victor's brow encircle, 
 High deeds, that in brass and marble sparkle, 
 
 Urns devoted unto Memory, 
 
 And the songs of Immortality ! 
 
 All, all, that with longing and with rapture 
 Here on earth a noble heart doth warm, 
 
 Vanishes like sunshine in the autumn, 
 
 When the horizon's verge is veiled in storm. 
 
 Friends at evening part with warm embraces, — 
 
 Morning looks upon the death-pale faces ; 
 Even the joys that Love and Friendship find 
 Leave on earth no lasting trace behind. 
 
 Gentle Love ! how all thy fields of roses 
 Bounded close by thorny deserts lie ! 
 
 And a sudden tempest's awful shadow 
 
 Oft doth darken Friendship's brightest sky ! 
 
 Vain are titles, honor, might, and glory ! 
 
 On the monarch's temples proud and hoary, 
 And the way-worn pilgrim's trembling head, 
 Doth the grave one common darkness spread ! 
 
 THE SPRING EVENING. 
 
 Bright with the golden shine of heaven plays 
 
 On tender blades the dew ; 
 And the spring-landscape's trembling likeness 
 sways 
 
 Clear in the streamlet's blue. 
 
 Fair is the rocky fount, the blossomed hedge, 
 Groves stained with golden light; 
 
 Fair is the star of eve, that on the edge 
 Of purple clouds shines bright. 
 
KOTZEBUE. 
 
 319 
 
 Fair is the meadow's green, — the valley's 
 copse, — 
 
 The hillock's dress of flowers, — 
 The alder-brook, — the reed-encircled pond, 
 
 O'er-snowed with blossom-showers. 
 
 This manifold world of life is held in one 
 
 By Love's eternal band : 
 The glowworm and the fire-sea of the sun 
 
 Sprang from one Father's hand. 
 
 Thou beckonest, Almighty ! from the tree 
 The blossom's leaf doth fall ; — 
 
 Thou beckonest, — and in immensity 
 Is quenched a solar ball ! 
 
 FOR EVER THINE. 
 
 For ever thine ! though sea and land divide thee, 
 
 For evet thine ! 
 Through burning wastes and winds, — whate'er 
 betide me, — 
 
 For ever thine ! 
 'Mid dazzling tapers in the marble palace, 
 
 For ever thine ! 
 Beneath the evening moon in pastoral valleys, 
 
 For ever thine ! 
 And when the feeble lamp of life, expiring, 
 
 Becomes divine, — 
 My breaking heart will echo, still untiring, 
 
 For ever thine ! 
 
 AUGUST FRIEDRICH FERDINAND 
 VON KOTZEBUE. 
 
 This celebrated person was born May 3d, 
 1761, at Weimar. He entered the University 
 of Jena, at the age of sixteen ; afterwards studied 
 at Duisburg, but returned in 1779 to Jena and 
 studied law. He showed an early passion for 
 the theatre, and wrote many dramatic pieces, in 
 imitation of Goethe, Schiller, and other popular 
 authors. In 1781, he went to St. Petersburg, 
 and became secretary to Von Bawr, the general 
 of the engineers, and director of the court thea- 
 tre. After the death of this gentleman, he re- 
 ceived the patronage of the Empress Catharine; 
 in 1783, was appointed Assessor of the Chief 
 Court in Revel, the capital of the duchy of Estho- 
 nia; in 1785, became President of the govern- 
 ment of Esthonia, and received a patent of nobil- 
 ity. In 1790, he published his notorious "Doc- 
 tor Bahrdt with the Iron Brew." In 1795, he 
 retired to a country residence in Esthonia; then 
 removed to Weimar ; then returned to St. Peters- 
 burg, when he was arrested and hurried away 
 to Siberia, without being informed of the cause. 
 He was, however, soon recalled by the Emperor 
 Paul, and made Court Councillor and Director 
 of the Theatre in St. Petersburg. In 1801, he re- 
 turned to Weimar ; then lived as a private man 
 in Berlin, where, in 1802, he was chosen a 
 
 member of the Academy of Sciences. From 
 1806 to 1813, he lived in Russia ; then in Wei- 
 roar, whence he removed to Mannheim. He 
 received a large salary from Russia, and was 
 employed to report from time to time to the 
 Russian cabinet on the state of affairs in Ger- 
 many. His hatred of liberal institutions, and 
 advocacy of political opinions which were re- 
 garded by the Germans with abhorrence, drew 
 upon him the detestation of many of his 
 countrymen. This was carried to such a fanat- 
 ical height, that a student of theology, named 
 Sand, having convinced himself, after severe 
 mental struggles, that it was an act of duty, as- 
 sassinated him at his residence, on the 23d of 
 March, 1819. 
 
 Kotzebue was a voluminous writer, and a man 
 of great talent. But his moral principles were 
 lax, and his writings are filled with theatrical 
 clap-traps and false and sickly sentimentality. 
 His historical works are considered as of no 
 value. His dramas were published at Leipsic, 
 in five volumes, 1797 ; new dramas, in twenty- 
 three volumes, 1798- 1819. A collective edi- 
 tion of his dramatic works appeared at Leipsic, 
 in 1827-29, in forty-four volumes; a new and 
 handsome edition, in forty volumes, at Leipsic, 
 1840 - 42. He wrote also novels and tales. 
 His life was published by H. DSring, Weimar, 
 1830. 
 
 Many of Kotzebue's plays were well received 
 throughout Europe. They were translated into 
 English, French, Dutch, Danish, Polish, Rus- 
 sian, and Italian. Eleven or twelve were 
 brought upon the English stage. The " Ger- 
 man Theatre," translated by Benjamin Thomp- 
 son, six volumes, London, 1801, contains a 
 large number of them. 
 
 FROM THE TRAGEDY OF HUGO GROTITJS. 
 
 THE FLIGHT FROM PRISON. 
 
 Cornelia (anxiously). 
 What means this firing, mother? 
 Have we succeeded ? Is my father safe ? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Go down, — but no. What an unusual pother! 
 Has he been seized ? Are these alarm-guns 
 
 signals 
 To thwart his flight? I quake for agony. 
 
 Cornelia (at the window). 
 People are running one among the other, 
 And drums are beating, — yet upon the river 
 All appears quiet. — 
 
 [ Pause. 
 Our blue streamer floats 
 
 Further and further off". See there on board 
 A man, no doubt my brother, waving to us 
 In triumph a white handkerchief, — he is safe ' 
 
 Is he ? — or does the distance not deceive you ? 
 
320 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 CORNELIA. 
 
 No, no, — the longer on the waves I rest 
 My eyes, the clearer every thing becomes. 
 It is my brother, — hail, beloved Felix ! 
 He is now set down and steering, — and the boat 
 With swelling sail cuts swiftly through the 
 
 wave. 
 They '11 soon have crossed the Maas. My fa- 
 ther 's saved ! 
 
 maria (falls on her knees with folded hands. She tries to 
 
 speak, and cannot, — then clasps Cornelia in her arms). 
 Now be it known that I, the wife of Hugo, 
 And thou, his child, are worthy of our race ! 
 No word of prayer for us, now he is free ! 
 We care not for their power ; we cheerfully 
 Shall sing athwart our grating : he is free ! 
 Let them from us exclude the light of heaven, 
 Let them with thirst and hunger plague our 
 
 frames, 
 We suffer now for him ; and he is free ! 
 
 Maurice (enters). 
 The prince of Orange unexpectedly 
 Appeared before the fortress : drums were beat, 
 And cannon fired, in honor of his coming. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Is our sworn foe so nigh, and at this moment ? 
 Well, let him come ! 
 
 MAURICE. 
 
 The prince had scarce alighted 
 
 From off his horse, when he inquired for Gro- 
 
 tius ; 
 He means to see him. 
 
 maria (with a triumphant smile). 
 Well, then, let him come. 
 
 MAURICE. 
 
 In a few minutes he will be before you. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 And we are ready to receive him. 
 
 MAURICE. 
 
 Mother, 
 
 I augur good. He is indeed our foe, — 
 
 But a great man, who scorns the petty triumphs 
 
 Of huniibling by his presence the disarmed. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 I pledge myself he '11 not do that. 
 
 MAURICE. 
 
 So be it. 
 
 Is Hugo sleeping still ? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 He is broad awake. 
 
 [Prince of Orange enters, with the Captain. 
 
 MAURICE. 
 
 The general. 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 Thanks, my worthy captain : 
 
 All things I find as I expected of you. 
 
 captain (presenting Maria and Cornelia to the Prince). 
 The wife of Grotius, — and his daughter. 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 Lady, 
 
 Though we meet not as friends, at least I hope 
 
 That we shall part as such. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 I know Prince Moritz 
 
 Values consistency e'en in a foe. 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 This virtue sometimes looks like obstinacy. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 And sometimes serves ambition for a cloak. 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 A truce to words that might be taken harshly : 
 You '11 learn to know me better, noble lady. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 We 've known you ever since we 've been in 
 prison. 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 Who forced you to partake your husband's for- 
 tunes ? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 If you were married, you would not inquire. 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 Enough. The memory of the past be razed. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Are you a god ? 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 Lead me to Hugo Grotius ; 
 
 And he shall reconcile me to his consort. 
 
 CAPTAIN. 
 
 There is his chamber. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 You will find in it 
 
 Only the relics of the saint who dwelt there. 
 
 prince (startled). 
 Is Hugo dead ? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 And would it be a wonder, 
 
 If these damp walls had nipped his frail exist 
 
 ence ? 
 But I am not here to curse his murderers, 
 I smile in scorn upon their impotence ; 
 My husband has escaped 
 
 ALL. 
 
 Escaped ? Escaped ? 
 
 [ The Captain goes into the sleeping-room. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 In spite of all your halberds, all your bolts, 
 A woman's cunning snatched him from you! 
 
 power, 
 And love has triumphed over violence. 
 
 captain (returns terrified). 
 She speaks the truth : he is not to be found. 
 
 prince (surprised and angry). 
 How ? By whose help ? 
 
 
KOTZEBUE. 
 
 321 
 
 By mine. 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 By what contrivance ? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Who can compel me to discover that ? 
 
 Maurice (aside). 
 I guess. 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 Speak, — whither, whither is he gone ' 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Send out your spies, and track him as you can. 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 Woman, beware my anger ! 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 I fear nothing. 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 Who are the helper's helpers? for alone 
 
 You cannot have accomplished it. Speak out, 
 
 Lest force extort confession from your lips. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 None knew but I ; therein consists my pride. 
 
 Cornelia (modestly). 
 You rob me of my little share of merit; — 
 I also knew it; but no one besides. 
 
 And was the law unknown to you, that each 
 Who breaks the prison of seditious persons 
 Is subject to the penalty of death ? 
 
 CAPTAIN. 
 
 They knew it well. 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 Then give the law its course; 
 The wife, at least 
 
 CORNELIA. 
 
 Do not forget the daughter. 
 
 MAURICE. 
 
 They both have falsely testified, — 't was I, 
 I only did it. 
 
 prince (astonished). 
 Who are you ? 
 
 MAURICE. 
 
 My name 
 
 Is Maurice Helderbusch : I am a lieutenant 
 Now stationed in this garrison. An orphan boy, 
 Grotius first noticed me, and taught me much : 
 This lady has been quite a mother to me. 
 Under your Highness I have served with honor; 
 But when the fortunes of my foster-father, 
 My benefactor, reached me, and I heard 
 That he was here in close confinement kept, 
 And his dear life in danger, I endeavoured 
 To get the humbler place I occupy, 
 Wishing to free him, and I have succeeded 
 I only am the criminal to punish. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Fie, Maurice ' Do n't believe him, — he has lied. 
 41 
 
 CORNELIA. 
 
 He often has refused to me his help, 
 Because he held it contrary to duty. 
 
 Maurice (pointing to Maria). 
 This woman loves me as were I her son. 
 
 [Pointing to Cornelia. 
 This girl has been betrothed to me as bride. 
 They sacrifice themselves to rescue me. 
 
 maria (deeply moved). 
 Maurice, what are you doing ? 
 
 CORNELIA. 
 
 Prince, — by Heaven ! 
 He is not speaking truth. 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 How, how is this ? 
 
 Who disentangles for me the enigma ? 
 
 CAPTAIN. 
 
 I stand astonished, Prince, as you must do : 
 Nor can I clearly fathom the strange contest. 
 One thing I know, that Maurice Helderbusch 
 Was always a brave soldier, and a man 
 Of nicest honor, to whom, but last night, 
 When duty took me 'cross the Maas to Gorcum, 
 I handed over the command in trust. 
 
 CORNELIA. 
 
 And did he not that very night prevent 
 My father's flying, by his vigilance ? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 He did so. 
 
 CAPTAIN. 
 
 All the garrison knows that. 
 
 MAURICE. 
 
 I did it the more certainly to favor 
 
 The riper purpose of this morning's flight. 
 
 Ask you for proofs ? These have been telling 
 
 you 
 That no one knows the way he left his prison. 
 I know it, — I. 'T was in a chest for books 
 That he was carried out. I stood beside it ; 
 And called, myself, the men who took it hence. 
 The sergeant, as his duty ordered him, 
 Wanted to break it open. I forbade ; 
 Took on myself the whole responsibility. 
 Can you deny it ? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Maurice, were you not 
 Deceived, like him ? 
 
 MAURICE. 
 
 O, no ! I knew the whole. 
 
 Would you have further proofs ? The son of 
 
 Hugo, 
 The same who lately broke away from prison, 
 And for whose capture the States General 
 Offered rewards (for that I also knew), 
 Came here most rashly, and was in my power: 
 I let him go, — ask all the garrison, — 
 I am the guilty person. 
 
 PRINCE. 
 
 Give your sword 
 
322 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 To the commanding officer. To-day 
 By martial law the case shall be decided. 
 
 [To the Captain. 
 Till then, remain he in the very cell 
 Whose doors he says he opened for this Grotius. 
 Transfer these women to the castle, — there 
 They '11 have a better lodging : but remain 
 For their safe custody responsible, 
 Until the trial shall allot the guilt. 
 If they are criminals, let them join the fled one : 
 My heart 's a stranger to ignoble vengeance. 
 
 CAPTAIN. 
 
 You must be parted. Follow, noble lady. 
 
 Maurice ! 
 
 maria (painfully). 
 
 maurice (in a petitioning tone). 
 Now am I not again your son ? 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 Is this your way of punishing the mother 
 Who once mistook her child ? — you give him 
 
 back, 
 Only to tear him the more hardly from me. 
 
 CORNELIA. 
 
 Beloved, — not this dreadful sacrifice ! 
 
 CAPTAIN. 
 
 I can allow no further conversation. 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 I follow. Maurice, thou hast been obedient • 
 Honor thy mother's will. 
 
 CORNEtlA. 
 
 Thy loved one's prayer. 
 
 FROM THE TRAGEDY OF GUSTAVUS WASA. 
 
 THE ARREST AND ESCAPE. 
 [Scene. — Saloon in the Caatle of Calmar.] 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Thou messenger of Heaven ! Have I my senses? 
 Tell me a hundred times, how does he look ? 
 Whence comes he ? What 's he after ? 
 
 GREGERSON. 
 
 He himself 
 
 Will tell you that : he follows me forthwith. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Now I shall have a brother once again ! 
 
 My heart will beat against a kindred heart; 
 
 The memory of better days return ; 
 
 And my dried eyes in milder sorrow gleam. 
 
 Where is he? O, my throbbing breast can hardly 
 
 Bear this impatience, now he is so near me ! 
 
 GREGERSON. 
 
 I hope that here he 's safe ? 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 That 's a strange question ! 
 
 Whose life is safe an hour on Sweden's soil ? 
 
 Tread where you will, the earth beneath you 
 
 quakes, 
 And hollow ashes hide a glowing lava : 
 
 Through smoke and flame, athwart the yawning 
 
 chasms, 
 One path alone is safe, — the path of meanness. 
 
 GREGERSON. 
 
 Too crooked for my master. Let me know, 
 How is the garrison disposed, — the burghers 
 How ? 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Who can fathom, in these times, men's minds? 
 When every one who catches himself sighing 
 Looks round for fear he was not quite alone; 
 Where brother trusts not brother ; where the 
 
 windows 
 Are shut, that not a neighbour may suspect 
 You grieve for slaughtered kinsfolk; where the 
 
 mourner 
 In gay attire struts loyally to church, 
 Joins the Te Deum in his shrillest key, 
 Lest spies report : " He sang not loud enough." 
 
 GREGERSON. 
 
 If so, alas ! 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Yes, that is here the watchword. 
 
 Our country now is still and desolate 
 
 As a Carthusian cloister, — those who dwell 
 
 there 
 Walk silent over graves, and, when they meet, 
 Whisper with hollow voice : Memento mori ! 
 
 GREGERSON. 
 
 God ! what a picture ! 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Yet there 's light about it, — 
 
 The lightning's lurid light : for he, that tore 
 
 Hence every comfort dear to better men, 
 
 At least has robbed us of the fear of death. 
 
 Though every day brings news of fresh-spilt 
 
 blood, 
 We hear it without shuddering, and lie down 
 Full of the thought, "Shall I outlive to-morrow?" 
 But this no longer troubles our repose. 
 As when a wild storm, rushing from the moun- 
 tains, 
 Tears trees and houses down, it also shakes 
 The prison into ruin ; and the captive 
 Breathes suddenly once more the air of heaven 
 [German officers enter. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 A daring stranger is arrived. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Where ? where ? 
 
 GREGERSON (goes). 
 
 'T is he ! I hasten. 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 Who proclaims himself 
 To be Gustavus Wasa. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 He 's my brother. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 Is he ? So much the worse. 
 
 O, lead me to him ! 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
KOTZEBUE. 
 
 323 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 He 's standing in the market : round him throng 
 The burghers, and by torch-light he harangues 
 
 them, 
 And counsels insurrection. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 I was passing, 
 
 And saw and heard him. He is very bold : 
 His eyeballs glow ; his lips spit fire; he curses 
 The very king. 
 
 ERAHE. 
 
 How do the people take it ? 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 They are quite silent. 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 Sometimes by his prayers, 
 
 Sometimes with threats, he calls on them for 
 
 vengeance, 
 And cries : " To arms ! " 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Well, — but the citizens? 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 They listen silently, — yet a faint murmur, 
 Like subterraneous thunder, runs along them. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 It cannot pass unnoticed. Satellites 
 Are gathering round him slowly. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 For what purpose ? 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 Do you suppose we mean to let him go ? 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 A heavy price is set upon his head. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Which you would earn ? 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 I ? — every one of us. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Are you not Germans ? 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 And could you 
 
 Dishonorably murder the last offspring 
 
 Of such a noble stem ? 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 Murder? — that Christiern, 
 
 Indeed, might choose. We only do our duty. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Where is your captain ? 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 He is coming, lady. 
 
 [Melen enters. 
 brahe (goes towards him). 
 Bernard of Melen, do you know already 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 I know a restless youth has undertaken 
 A mad exploit. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Hoping to meet with men, 
 And not with slaves. 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 His rashness is too likely 
 To cost his life. 
 
 How ? You, too ? 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Noble lady, 
 
 What can I do ? The gates of Calmar still 
 
 Were standing open. Through the crowd of 
 
 burghers, 
 Who thronged in a respectful silence round him, 
 He might have found the timely means of flight; 
 But he, as if indignant at their stillness, 
 Has turned his back upon them, and is coming 
 Here rashly to the castle. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 May he not 
 Salute his sister ? 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 He surrenders, then, 
 Into our hands. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Melen, can that be true ? 
 
 [Melen shrugs his shoulders. 
 And you would lead the hero, like a victim, 
 Up to the royal butcher's slaughter-block ? 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 Why must he come just hither ? 
 
 brahe (low). 
 And will you 
 Become the murderer of Brahe's brother? 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 How can I save him ? 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Yet you still presume 
 To fable love to me ! 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 God ! can I save him ? 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Know, Melen, on his life my own depends. 
 Do what you will and may. I perish with him. 
 
 gustavus (still behind the scene). 
 O sister, sister ! 
 
 brahe (going toward him). 
 Brother ! 
 
 gustavus (embracing her). 
 Now I feel 
 
 A heart like mine beat on my happy breast ! — 
 'T is well I am with men of Germany, 
 Who will not lend their hero-arms to tyrants, 
 To rivet yokes upon an orphan people. 
 Yes, — at your head I shall withdraw, and feel 
 
324 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 That to brave Germans it has been reserved 
 To break the heavy fetters of the Swedes, 
 And on the borders of the Baltic build 
 A lasting monument to German virtue. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 You are mistaken, Knight. We serve the king. 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 For his protection we were sent on duty. 
 
 ALL THE OFFICERS. 
 
 Yes, so it truly is. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Alas, my brother ! 
 
 OUSTAVDS. 
 
 Men I behold, indeed, like soldiers clad ; 
 
 But what I hear is not the warriors' language. 
 
 That frightened citizens stood still around me, 
 
 And shrugged their shoulders at my loud com- 
 plaints, 
 
 Might be, — but men and Germans, under 
 arms 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 We 're weary of the war. 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 The Admiral Norby 
 
 Lies with his shipping off the coast hard by. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 What signify to us the acts of Sweden ? 
 Why should our blood be spilt about the Swedes? 
 The kingdom has submitted to the victor, 
 Rightly or wrongly; who commissions us 
 To be the judges ? In a word, we swim 
 But with the stream 
 
 GUSTAVUS. 
 
 And you all think so ? 
 
 ALL. 
 
 All. 
 
 GUSTAVUS. 
 
 Then, sister, follow me ! Let us retire 
 Into the mountains, where on humble fare 
 Survives as yet some Swedish truth and cour- 
 age ; 
 Where neither cowardice nor profligacy 
 Have yet unnerved the arm ; and no one asks, 
 On hearing deeds of blood, " What 's that to 
 
 us ? " 
 Come, sister. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 Hold, young man ! you must not go. 
 You are our prisoner. 
 
 Who r I i 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 No doubt. 
 
 Trusting your honor, hospitality ? 
 
 GUSTAVUS. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 You are in ban. 
 
 GUSTAVUS. 
 
 Wherein consists my crime ? 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 The legate has denounced you as an outlaw. 
 
 GUSTAVUS. 
 
 Do n't make me laugh ! Let me retire in quiet: 
 And when you hear of what I shall accomplish, 
 Then gnash your teeth that it was done without 
 you. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 Why such proud words ? Your sword. 
 
 gustavus (draws his sword). 
 My sword ? Who ventures 
 To take it from me ? 
 
 Melen, can you calmly 
 Look on all this ? 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 My brethren, what have we 
 To do with these affairs? You 're very right. 
 We will stand neuter 'twixt the combatants. 
 Gustavus Wasa may remain our guest, 
 Here in the castle, and an honored guest, 
 Who full of confidence has fled to us. 
 Misfortune should be honored in a foe. 
 At pleasure he '11 withdraw. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 No, Captain, no. 
 
 We know what motives you ; but give me leave 
 
 To say the prize is precious. 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 And would not 
 
 My share be greatest? Yours I will make up 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 With what? 
 
 brahe (hastily). 
 O, with my jewels ! 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 Noble lady, 
 
 You and your jewels are in custody 
 
 GUSTAVUS. 
 
 Do I stand among Jews ? 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 Dare you still growl ? 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 Knight, give no further useless opposition. 
 You must surrender. Lay your weapon down. 
 
 gustavus (swinging his sword). 
 He who has blood to spare may come and 
 fetch it. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 Now, brethren, shall a single man defy us ? 
 
 [All but Melen draw their swords. 
 
 brahe (throws herself between them). 
 For God's sake, yet a word, a single word ! 
 He can 't escape you. Leave me but a moment 
 With him alone. The sister's love shall take, 
 Bloodless, his sword away, — he well may hope 
 For your king's mercy, — 't were in vain to stakf 
 
KOTZEBUE. 
 
 32f 
 
 Against you all his solitary life. 
 
 Grant me this one last prayer, but to pass 
 
 Two minutes with him here apart. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 3o be it : 
 
 Out of respect to you, most noble lady. 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 But from the door we shall not stir at all. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 Make a short parley of it. Brethren, come. 
 [All retire but Melen. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Melen, you love me : but till now in vain 
 Have tried to draw aside the widow's weeds. 
 Do you still love me ? 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 Like my very soul. 
 
 But what can I do here ? 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Behold the youth, 
 
 Who soon may be your brother ! Quick, decide. 
 
 The tyrant's instrument I marry not. 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 Think not I need persuasion. I am vexed 
 You use the bribe of love, where honor speaks 
 Aloud. But what can I against a crowd, 
 Who bow to me as captain, you well know, 
 While I advance the pay; but who, by Heaven ! 
 Will not let slip this opportunity 
 Of earning costly ransom for their prisoner. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 The key into the subterraneous passage. 
 
 melen (startled). 
 How ? 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Do you hesitate ? Do you dissemble ? 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 No : but of what use can that passage he ? 
 It leads unto the outer ditch, where mire 
 Would check the passenger until too late. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 And why too late ? 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 You see these greedy people 
 
 Are counting minutes ; they will soon pursue, 
 
 And their shots reach our hero in the fosse. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Is not the powder in that passage stowed? 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 That 's enough, — the key. 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 You still persist ? 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 O, as you love me, give it, while there 's time ! 
 
 MELEN. 
 
 Well, I will stake mv life to do you service, 
 
 And save, if possible, the Swedish hero. 
 Nor will I therefore claim the meed of love 
 For doing as in honor I feel bound. 
 There is the key. God guide you ! 
 
 GUSTAVDS. 
 
 Now, my sister, 
 
 What are you planning ? 
 
 brahe (has opened the passage-door : casks of powder art 
 
 seen in dark perspective : also a pile of torches). 
 In, take the light, and bolt the door behind you. 
 Off quickly ! 
 
 GUSTAVUS. 
 
 There are here no inside bolts. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Then trust in me. I stay behind on guard. 
 Our father's spirit guide thee ! 
 
 gustavds (disappears). 
 My good sister ! 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Away, away ! I hear the soldiers coming. 
 What next is best ? Shall I lock up the door, 
 And fling into the ditch the key ? Their anger, 
 Or their revenge, I bid defiance to ! 
 Should they break ope the door, and so pursue, 
 Ere he 's in safety, — and their bullets reach 
 
 him 
 
 [Perceiving the pile of torches, she pushes off the head 
 
 of a powder-cask, and proceeds to light the torch. 
 Better the door stand open. — Courage, now ! 
 A brother's life 's at stake, — perhaps a country's. 
 [She places herself at the entrance with the torch in 
 
 her hand. The officers enter, and look round with 
 
 surprise and mistrust. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 Your time is now expired ; but where is he ? 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Whom are you seeking here? — perhaps my 
 brother. 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 Hell and the Devil ! What has been the matter? 
 The subterraneous passage-door is open. 
 
 FIRST OFFICER. 
 
 There 's treachery. 
 
 SECOND OFFICER. 
 
 Let 's follow him at once. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Stand back, or in that powder-cask I '11 plunge 
 This burning torch. 
 
 the officers (stand petrified). 
 The woman 's crazy, surely. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Look in. Yon cask is open. If but one 
 Of you presume by force to enter here, 
 The die is cast, the fortress is blown up, — 
 By God, and by my father's blood, it is ! 
 
 the officers (in consultation). 
 The woman 's crazy. We must take our horses, 
 And after him. 
 
 BRAHE. 
 
 Thank God, he 'a safely hence ! 
 
326 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 JOHANN GAUDENZ VON SALIS. 
 
 The poet Salis was born Dec. 26th, 1762, at 
 Seewis. He received his first instruction in his 
 father's house ; then lived with PfefFel in Col- 
 mar. He was afterwards captain of the Swiss 
 guard at Versailles. In 1789, he became ac- 
 quainted with Goethe, Wieland, Herder, and 
 Schiller, while on a journey. At the beginning 
 of the Revolution, he served under General 
 Montesquiou in Savoy; afterwards, lived pri- 
 vately at Paris, occupied with his studies. In 
 1793, he returned to his country and married at 
 Malans. He was obliged to leave Malans, on ac- 
 count of political difficulties, and went to Zurich, 
 where he held several offices. In 1803, he re- 
 turned to his family estate, where he remained 
 until 1817 ; afterwards, to Malans, where he 
 died in 1834. . 
 
 In genius he resembled Matthisson. He 
 wrote only lyric poems. His works were pub- 
 lished in 1790 ; again in 1823 ; and lastly, at 
 Zurich, 1839. His poems are characterized by 
 a soft melancholy, and deep feeling. He pre- 
 served, in all the scenes through which he pass- 
 ed, at the court of France, at the Residence, 
 where he spent his youth, and in the tumults 
 of war, the simplicity of his tastes, and the puri- 
 ty of his character. 
 
 CHEERFULNESS. 
 
 See how the day beameth brightly before us ! 
 
 Blue is the firmament, green is the earth ; 
 Grief hath no voice in the Universe chorus, 
 
 Nature is ringing with music and mirth. 
 Lift up the looks that are sinking in sadness ; 
 
 Gaze ! and if beauty can rapture thy soul, 
 Virtue herself shall allure thee to gladness, — 
 
 Gladness ! philosophy's guerdon and goal. 
 
 Enter the treasuries Pleasure uncloses ; 
 
 List ! how she trills in the nightingale's lay ! 
 Breathe ! she is wafting the sweets from the 
 roses ; 
 
 Feel ! she is cool in the rivulet's play; 
 Taste ! from the grape and the nectarine gush- 
 ing, 
 
 Flows the red rill in the beams of the sun ; 
 Green in the hills, the flower-groves blushing, 
 
 Look ! she is always and everywhere one. 
 
 Banish, then, mourner, the tears that are trick- 
 ling 
 
 Over the cheeks that should rosily bloom; 
 Why should a man, like a girl or a sickling, 
 
 Suffer his lamp to be quenched in the tomb? 
 Still may we battle for good and for beauty ; 
 
 Still have philanthropy much to essay : 
 Glory rewards the fulfilment of duty; 
 
 Rest will pavilion the end of our way. 
 
 What though corroding and multiplied sorrows, 
 Legion-like, darken this planet of ours? 
 
 Hope is a balsam the wounded heart borrows, 
 Even when anguish hath palsied its powers; 
 
 Wherefore, though fate play the part of a traitor, 
 Soar o'er the stars on the pinions of hope, — 
 
 Fearlessly certain, that, sooner or later, 
 
 Over the stars thy desires shall have scope. 
 
 Look round about on the face of creation !' 
 
 Still is God's earth undistorted and bright; 
 Comfort the captive's too long tribulation, 
 
 Thus shall thou reap thy perfect delight. 
 Love ! — but if love be a hollow emotion, 
 
 Purity only its rapture should share ; 
 Love, then, with willing and deathless devotion, 
 
 All that is just, and exalted, and fair. 
 
 Act ! — for in action are wisdom and glory ; 
 
 Fame, immortality, these are its crown ; 
 Wouldst thou illumine the tablets of story, 
 
 Build on achievements thy doom of renown. 
 Honor and feeling were given to cherish ; 
 
 Cherish them, then, though all else should 
 decay ; 
 Landmarks be these that are never to perish, 
 
 Stars that will shine on the duskiest day. 
 
 Courage ! disaster and peril, once over, 
 
 Freshen the spirits as flowers the grove ; 
 O'er the dim graves that the cypresses cover, 
 
 Soon the forget-me-not rises in love. 
 Courage, then, friends ! though the universe 
 crumble, 
 
 Innocence, dreadless of danger beneath, 
 Patient and trustful, and joyous and humble, 
 
 Smiles through ruin on darkness and death ! 
 
 SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 
 
 Into the Silent Land ! 
 Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? 
 Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 
 And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 
 Who leads us with a gentle hand 
 Thither, O, thither, 
 Into the Silent Land? 
 
 Into the Silent Land ! 
 To you, ye boundless regions 
 Of all perfection ! Tender morning-visions 
 Of beauteous souls ! The Future's pledge 
 and band ! 
 Who in Life's battle firm doth stand 
 Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 
 Into the Silent Land ! 
 
 O Land ! O Land ! 
 For all the broken-hearted 
 The mildest herald by our fate allotted 
 
 Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 
 
 To lead us with a gentle hand 
 
 Into the land of the great departed, 
 
 Into the Silent Land ! 
 
 HARVEST SONG. 
 
 Autumn winds are sighing, 
 Summer glories dying, 
 Harvest-time is nigh. 
 
SALIS. — NEUBECK. 
 
 327 
 
 Cooler breezes, quivering, 
 Through the pine-groves shivering, 
 Sweep the troubled sky. 
 
 See the fields, how yellow ! 
 Clusters, bright and mellow, 
 
 Gleam on every hill ; 
 Nectar fills the fountains, 
 Crowns the sunny mountains, 
 
 Runs in every rill. 
 
 Now the lads are springing, 
 Maidens blithe are singing, 
 
 Swells the harvest strain : 
 Every field rejoices ; 
 Thousand thankful voices 
 
 Mingle on the plain. 
 
 Then, when day declineth, 
 And the mild moon shineth, 
 
 Tabors sweetly sound ; 
 And, while they are sounding, 
 Fairy feet are bounding 
 
 O'er the moonlit ground. 
 
 THE GRATE. 
 
 The grave all still and darkling lies, 
 Beneath its hallowed ground; 
 
 And dark the mists to human eyes, 
 That float its precincts round. 
 
 No music of the grove invades 
 
 That dark and dreary way ; 
 And fast the votive floweret fades 
 
 Upon its heaving clay. 
 
 And vain the tear in beauty's eye, — 
 
 The orphan's groan is vain : 
 No sound of clamorous agony 
 
 Shall pierce its gloomy reign. 
 
 Yet that oblivion of the tomb 
 
 Shall suffering mai. desire, 
 And through that shadowy gate of gloom 
 
 The weary wretch retire. 
 
 The bark, by ceaseless storms oppressed, 
 
 Runs madly to the shore ; 
 And thus the grief-worn heart shall rest 
 
 There where it beats no more. 
 
 VALERIUS WILHELM NEUBECK. 
 
 This poet was born Jan. 29th, 1765, at Arn- 
 stadt, in the principality of Schwarzburg-Son- 
 dershausen. He studied at the school of his na- 
 tive place, and at the Knights' Academy at Lieg- 
 nitz, in Silesia; afterwards at the Universities 
 of Gottingen and Jena, from the latter of which 
 he received his medical degree in 1788. He 
 remained, as practising physician, some time at 
 Liegnitz ; but was afterwards called to Steinau, 
 in Lower Silesia, where he was honored with 
 
 the title of Court Councillor. He acquired his 
 reputation as a didactic poet by a poem upon 
 the "Mineral Springs," an extract from which 
 is given below. This was followed by a poem 
 on the " Destruction of the Earth after the Final 
 Judgment," Liegnitz, 1785. He wrote, also, 
 lyrical pieces, and a drama. A collection of his 
 works appeared at Leipsic, in 1827. 
 
 THE PRAISE OF IRON. 
 
 Now strike, my lyre, thy strongest, fullest tones ! 
 Now sing the praise of Iron ! 'Mongst the bards, 
 So potent in Thuiskon's sacred land, 
 None sang the fruits of the Teutonic hills; 
 No festal lay was hsard to Iron's praise 
 Beneath the sacred oaks, which stretch their roots 
 Down to the silent caves, where Nature bids 
 Her seeds to germ and ripe in gentle growth. 
 Hail, noble present of our native heights ! 
 Despised by many, who, with foolish sense, 
 Gold's treacherous splendor more revere, and 
 
 covet 
 More than thee, Iron, and thy modest sheen ! — 
 Ye sons of Herrmann ! undervalue not, 
 Scorn not, this treasure of your native moun- 
 tains ! 
 Hear me ! I sing the worth of native wealth ! — 
 Say, — whence doth War derive his glittering 
 
 arms ? 
 'T is Iron, hardened in the tempering fire 
 To steel, and fashioned on the anvil-head, 
 Then sharpened by the artist's busy hand, 
 That arms the hero, — Iron guards his breast ■ 
 Hail, noble tribute of our native heights ! 
 Accept the incense of my song ! — thou giv'st 
 The avenging sword into his hand to wage 
 The war of Justice ; thou assistest him 
 To conquer for his country in the field. — 
 Yet greater is thy praise in peace, and fairer 
 Thy blessing ! Verily, I love thee more, 
 My song more fervently salutes thee, when 
 The workman's hand hath on the anvil shaped 
 Thee to the shining arms of Peace, which ne'er 
 Inhuman warriors with the innocent blood 
 Shall stain of slumbering infants. Evermore 
 The softest rural joys expand my heart, 
 And from my quivering lips in holy hymns 
 Stream out, whene'er I see thee, shining, peep 
 From out the clodded furrow ; when I hear 
 The sweeping scythe upon the flowery mead ; 
 Or, 'midst the sinking ears, the grateful sound 
 Of the shrill sickle, where the nutbrown maid 
 Weaves the blue corn-flowers in the wisp of 
 
 straw, 
 To bind the fairest sheaf; when, in the time, 
 The merry vintage-time, I hear the knife 
 Rubbed on the grating whetstone, to collect 
 The gifts of Autumn on the clustered hills. — 
 Hail, useful ore ! the choir of social Arts 
 Join with my numbers, in thy well earned praise 
 Ne'er had Praxiteles the marble formed 
 With silver chisel into breathing life ; — 
 No palace from the mountain's rocky ribs, 
 Conntnian-built, had risen, without thee, 
 
323 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 To the astonished clouds; — without thy help, 
 Arachne's art would never know to trace 
 The varied picture on the glossy silk. 
 Say, would the horse, if shod with purest gold, 
 More safely scour the ice, or climb the moun- 
 tain-path ? 
 O, how would the bold pilot in the wastes 
 Of ocean find a way, when, round about, 
 The heavens are hung with dreary, stormy 
 
 clouds, 
 Like curtains, shutting out the friendly stars, 
 Which else, through labyrinths of treacherous 
 
 sands 
 And hurrying whirlpools, by a golden clue 
 Would safely lead him, that he founder not? 
 Through the dread night art thou, respondent 
 
 needle, 
 To him a faithful oracle, which reads, 
 With magic tremblings, in what cloudy range 
 Of heaven the Dog-star, where Arcturus, where 
 The sevenfold Pleiads, and Orion shine. 
 
 FRIEDRICH LUDWIG ZACHARIAS 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 This eccentric person was born Nov. 18th, 
 1768, at Konigsberg, in Prussia, where his 
 father was Professor of History and Eloquence. 
 In 1784, he attended the juridical lectures in 
 the University, and heard Kant on philosophy. 
 In 1793, he entered the Prussian civil service, 
 and lived at several places, — among others, 
 at Warsaw. He was married three times ; his 
 first marriage, proving unhappy, was dissolved ; 
 his second having the same result, he contract- 
 ed a third with a beautiful Polish lady; but the 
 irregularities of his life led, a few years after, 
 to a separation also from her. In 1801, he 
 was recalled to Konigsberg by the illness of 
 his mother, who died in 1804 ; after which 
 he returned to Warsaw. By the favor of the 
 minister, Von Schrotter, he received, in 1805, 
 a secretariship in Berlin. Soon after, he left 
 the civil service, and visited Prague, Vien- 
 na, Munich, Frankfort, Gotha, and Weimar, 
 where, in 1807, he first became acquainted with 
 Goethe. He returned to Berlin in 1808; but 
 speedily resuming his travels, visited Switzer- 
 land, and at Interlachen made the acquaintance 
 of Madame de StaSl. In the autumn of 1808, 
 he visited Paris, but soon returned to Weimar, 
 where he had the promise of a pension, and 
 about the same time the duke of Hesse-Darm- 
 stadt named him Court Councillor. He again 
 visited Madame de StaSl, and passed four months 
 with her at Coppet. By her assistance, he trav- 
 elled in Italy, visiting Turin, Florence, and 
 Rome. In this last city, he was converted to 
 the Catholic church, in 1811, and began to 
 study theology. In 1814, he entered the sem- 
 inary at AschafFenburg, and was soon after con- 
 secrated as a priest. At the time of the Congress 
 in 1814, he went to Vienna, where his preach- 
 
 ing attracted large audiences. During the years 
 1816 — 17, he lived in Podolia, with the family 
 of Count Cholonievski, by whose influence he 
 was appointed Honorary Canon of Kamieniek. 
 He preached with great zeal and eloquence, 
 until a short time before his death, which took 
 place Jan. 18th, 1823. 
 
 Werner was a poet of a rich and fertile, 
 though eccentric, genius. He was particularly 
 distinguished as the author of some of the most 
 remarkable of the German Destiny dramas. 
 The most striking of his tragedies are " The 
 Sons of the Valley," "The Consecration of 
 Power," " Attila, King of the Huns," and 
 " Wanda, Queen of the Sarmatians." One of his 
 most original and singular pieces is the " Twen- 
 ty-fourth of February." A collection of his the- 
 atrical pieces was published at Vienna, 1817 — 
 18 ; his " Sermons," twenty-five in number, 
 also appeared at Vienna, in 1836. A sketch of 
 his life was published by Hitzig, Berlin, 1823. 
 
 On Werner, and the principles of the Destiny 
 dramas, Menzel * has some striking remarks. 
 
 " The highest summit of this poetry was 
 re. ched by Werner, who strove to elevate it 
 to tragical dignity. 
 
 " Werner endeavoured to bring about this 
 elevation and improvement by converting the 
 magical powers, or mystical societies, upon 
 whom the guidance and probation of the unin- 
 itiated should be dependent, into God's dele- 
 gates, and brought the whole subject of the 
 marvellous under the religious ideas of Provi- 
 dence and Predestination. This man possessed 
 the fire of poetry, and, still more, of passion, but, 
 perhaps, too dry a brain, — for who can deny 
 that his brain was a little scorched? Seeking 
 salvation from the flames that were consuming 
 him within, he threw himself into that ocean 
 of Grace, where poor sinners like him common- 
 ly put off" the old man of earth, that they may 
 put on the heavenly. Amidst his deep contri- 
 tion, the poet felt, in all its severity, the truth 
 of the saying of the pious, 'Self-justification is 
 a garment of abomination before the Lord.' 
 
 " He felt that a man's own actions and vir- 
 tue were vain ; that man fulfils the decree of 
 destiny, devoid of will and blindly ; that he is 
 predestinated to every thing that he does and 
 suffers. All his poetical works maintain this 
 doctrine. His heroes are guided, by the leading- 
 strings of destiny, into the clear realm of 'azure 
 and light,' or to the dark abode of ' night and 
 flames.' A mystical society undertakes the 
 guidance on earth ; and we cannot fail to per- 
 ceive here an analogy to the hierarchical tribu- 
 nals. Those sons of the valley, those mystical 
 old men, at one time, form a holy Fehme ; at 
 another, an inquisitorial tribunal, under a most 
 venerable and holy man ; and this old man of 
 the valley and mountain can say, as the grand 
 inquisitor of Schiller's 'Don Carlos' said of 
 the hero of the tragedy, — 
 
 * German Literature, Vol. III., pp. 234-236. 
 
WERNER 
 
 329 
 
 
 ' His life, 
 At its beginning and its end, is there 
 In Santa Casa's holy records writ.' 
 
 The heroes are destined from their birth to all 
 that they have to do or to suffer. Some of them 
 are ' Sunday children,' born angels, who, after 
 some theatrical farces, — after they have, like 
 Tamino, passed through fire and water, — com- 
 fortably enter the heaven destined to them time 
 out of mind. Destiny plays at hide-and-seek 
 with them a little while ; here is the mysteri- 
 ous valley, and there the mystical beloved is 
 hidden from the elect, and finally the bandage 
 is taken from their eyes. The- disciple becomes 
 an adept, and the lover finds his other half. 
 No matter how widely the two people were 
 separated from each other ; destiny brings them 
 together, even if ' the north pole should have 
 to bow to the south.' 
 
 " As all freedom is taken away after this fash- 
 ion from the heroes, this species of poetry can 
 never rise to tragical dignity, however great the 
 pains Werner has takeu to this end. Still, his 
 poems show no deficiency of religious depth, and 
 of a certain ardor of devotion, particularly in the 
 lyrical passages, which lend them a value off the 
 stage. Moreover, he has generally taken only the 
 bright side of fatalism ; his only complete night- 
 piece was the 'Twenty-fourth of February.' 
 
 The limits of this volume render it impossible 
 to give extracts from other distinguished writers 
 of this school, as Mdllner, Houwald, and Grill- 
 parzer. For notices of their works the reader is 
 referred to the series of elaborate and well writ- 
 ten articles under the title of " Horae Germani- 
 cse," in the earlier volumes of "Blackwood's 
 Magazine." 
 
 FROM THE TEMPLARS IN CYPRUS. 
 
 ADALBERT IN THE CHURCH OF THE TEMPLARS. 
 
 [Scene. — Midnight. Interior of the Temple Church. Back- 
 wards, a deep perspective of Altars and Gothic Pillars. 
 On the right-hand side of the foreground, a little Chapel ; 
 and in this an Altar with the figure of St. Sebastian. The 
 scene is lighted very dimly by a single Lamp which 
 hangs before the Altar.] 
 
 Adalbert (dressed in white, without mantle or doublet; 
 
 groping his way in the dark). 
 Was it not at the altar of Sebastian 
 That I was bid wait for the Unknown ? 
 Here should it be; but darkness with her veil 
 Inwraps the figures. 
 
 [Advancing to the altar. 
 Here is the fifth pillar. 
 
 Yes, this is he, the Sainted. — How the glimmer 
 Of that faint lamp falls on his fading eye ! — 
 Ah, it is not the spears o' th' Saracens, — 
 It is the pangs of hopeless love, that, burning, 
 Transfix thy heart, poor comrade ! — O my 
 
 Agnes, 
 May not thy spirit, in this earnest hour, 
 Be looking on ? Art hovering in that moonbeam, 
 Which struggles through the painted window, 
 and dies 
 
 42 
 
 Amid the cloister's gloom? Or linger'st thou 
 Behind these pillars, which, ominous and black, 
 Look down on me, like horrors of the past 
 Upon the present? and hidest thy gentle form, 
 Lest with thy paleness thou too much affright 
 
 me ? 
 Hide not thyself, pale shadow of my Agnes ! 
 Thou affrightest not thy lover. — Hush ! 
 Hark! Was there not a rustling? — Father! 
 
 You? 
 
 philip (rushing in with wild looks). 
 Yes, Adalbert ! — But time is precious ! — Come, 
 My son, my one sole Adalbert, come with me ! 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 What would you, father, in this solemn hour? 
 
 PHILIP. 
 
 This hour, or never ! 
 
 [Leading Adalbert to the altar. 
 Hither ! — Know'st thou him? 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 'T is Saint Sebastian. 
 
 PHILIP. 
 
 Because he would not 
 
 Renounce his faith, a tyrant had him murdered. 
 
 [Points to his head. 
 These furrows, too, the rage of tyrants ploughed 
 In thy old father's face. My son, my first-born 
 
 child, 
 In this great hour I do conjure thee ! Wilt thou, 
 Wilt thou obey me ? 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 Be it just, I will ! 
 
 PHILIP. 
 
 Then swear, in this great hour, in this dread 
 
 presence, 
 Here by thy father's head made early gray, 
 By the remembrance of thy mother's agony, 
 And by the ravished blossom of thy Agnes, 
 Against the tyranny which sacrificed us, 
 Inexpiable, bloody, everlasting hate ! 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 Ha ! This the All-avenger spoke through thee ! 
 Yes ! Bloody shall my Agnes' death-torch burn 
 In Philip's heart; I swear it! 
 
 philip (with increasing vehemence). 
 And if thou break 
 
 This oath, and if thou reconcile thee to him, 
 Or let his golden chains, his gifts, his prayers, 
 His dying moan itself, avert thy dagger, 
 When the hour of vengeance comes, — shall 
 
 this gray head, 
 Thy mother's wail, the last sigh of thy Agnes, 
 Accuse thee at the bar of the Eternal ? 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 So be it, if I break my oath ! 
 
 PHILIP. 
 
 Then man thee ! — 
 
 [Looking up, then shrinking together, as with dazzled eyej 
 Ha! was not that his lightning? — Fare fnee 
 well 1 
 
 bb2 
 
330 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 I hear the footstep of the Dreaded ! — Firm ! — 
 Remember me, — remember this stern midnight ! 
 
 [Retires hastily. 
 Adalbert (alone). 
 Yes, Grayhead, whom the beckoning of the 
 
 Lord 
 Sent hither to awake me out of craven sleep, 
 I will remember thee and this stern midnight, 
 And my Agnes' spirit shall have vengeance ! 
 [Enter an Armed Man. He is mailed from head to foot 
 in black harness; his visor is closed. 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 Pray ! 
 
 [Adalbert kneels. 
 Bare thyself! 
 
 [He strips him to the girdle, and raises him. 
 Look on the ground, and follow ! 
 
 [He leads him into the background to a trap-door on 
 the right. He descends first himself; and when 
 Adalbert has followed him, it closes. 
 
 ADALBERT IN THE CEMETERY. 
 
 [Scene. — Cemetery of the Templars, under the Church. 
 The scene is lighted only by a Lamp which hangs down 
 from the vault. Around are Tombstones of deceased 
 Knights, marked with Crosses and sculptured Bones. In 
 the background, two colossal Skeletons, holding between 
 them a large white Book, marked with a red Cross. From 
 the under end of the Book hangs a long b ick Curtain. 
 The Book, of which only the cover is visible, has an in- 
 scription in black ciphers. The Skeleton on the right 
 holds in its right hand a naked drawn Sword ; that on the 
 left holds in its left hand a Palm turned downwards. On 
 the right side of the foreground stands a black Coffin 
 open; on the left, a similar one with the body of a Tem- 
 plar in full dress of his order; on both Coffins are inscrip- 
 tions in white ciphers. On each side, nearer the back- 
 ground, are seen the lowest steps of the stairs which lead 
 up into the Temple Church above the vault.] 
 
 armed man (not yet visible ; above on the right-hand 
 stairs). 
 Dreaded ! is the grave laid open ? 
 
 CONCEALED VOICES. 
 
 Yea! 
 
 armed man (who after a pause shows himself on the stairs). 
 Shall he behold the tombs o' th' fathers ? 
 
 concealed voices. 
 Yea! 
 
 [Armed Man with drawn sword leads Adalbert carefully 
 down the steps on the right hand. 
 
 armed man (to Adalbert). 
 Look down ! 'T is on thy life ! 
 
 [Leads him to the open coffin. 
 What seest thou ? 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 An open, empty coffin. 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 'T is the house 
 
 Where thou one day shalt dwell. Canst read 
 the inscription ? 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 Nc. 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 Hear it, then : — " Thy wages, Sin, is death ! " 
 [Leads him to the opposite coffin, where the body is lying. 
 Look down ! 'T is on thy life ! — What seesl 
 thou ? 
 
 [Shows the coffin. 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 A coffin with a corpse. 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 He is thy brother ; 
 
 One day thou art as he. — Canst read the in- 
 scription ? 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 No. 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 Hear : — " Corruption is the name of life." 
 Now look around ; go forward, — move, and 
 
 act ! 
 [He pushes him toward the background of the stage. 
 
 Adalbert (observing the book). 
 Ha ! Here the Book of Ordination ? — Seems 
 
 [Approaching. 
 As if the inscription on it might be read. 
 
 [He reads it. 
 " Knock four times on the ground, 
 Thou shalt behold thy loved one." 
 O Heavens ! And may I see thee, sainted Ag- 
 nes ? 
 
 [Hastening close to the book. 
 My bosom yearns for thee ! — 
 
 [With the following words, he stamps four times on 
 the ground. 
 
 One, — Two, — Three,— Four ! — 
 
 [The Curtain hanging from the Book rolls rapidly up, 
 and covers it. A colossal Devil's-head appears be- 
 tween the two Skeletons ; its form is horrible ; it is 
 gilt ; has a huge golden Crown, a Heart of the same 
 in its brow ; rolling, flaming eyes ; Serpents instead 
 of hair ; golden Chains round its neck, which is vis- 
 ible to the breast ; and a golden Cross, yet not a Cru- 
 cifix, which rises over its right shoulder, as if crush- 
 ing it down. The whole Bust rests on four gilt 
 Dragon's-feet. At sight of it, Adalbert starts back 
 in horror, and exclaims : — 
 
 Defend us ! 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 Dreaded ! may he hear it ? 
 
 Yea! 
 
 CONCEALED VOICES. 
 
 armed man (touches the Curtain with his sword ; it rolls 
 down over the Devil's-head, concealing it again; and 
 above, as before, appears the Book, but now opened, 
 with white colossal leaves and red characters. The 
 Armed Man, pointing constantly to the Book with his 
 sword, and therewith turning the leaves, addresses Adal- 
 bert, who stands on the other side of the Book, and near- 
 er the foreground). 
 
 List to the Story of the Fallen Master. 
 
 [He reads the following from the Book; yet not stand- 
 ing before it, but on one side, at some paces' distance, 
 and, whilst he reads, turning the leaves with his sword. 
 
 " So now, when the foundation-stone was laid, 
 The Lord called forth the Master, BafFomelus, 
 
WERNER. 
 
 331 
 
 And said to him : ' Go and complete my tem- 
 ple ! ' 
 But in his heart the Master thought: 'What 
 
 boots it 
 Building thee a temple ? ' and took the stones, 
 And built himself a dwelling; and what stones 
 Were left he gave for filthy gold and silver. 
 Now after forty moons the Lord returned, 
 And spake : ' Where is my temple, BafFometus ?' 
 The Master said : ' I had to build myself 
 A dwelling : grant me other forty weeks.' 
 And after forty weeks, the Lord returns, 
 And asks : ' Where is my temple, BafFometus ? ' 
 He said : ' There were no stones ' (but he had 
 
 sold them 
 For filthy gold) ; ' so wait yet forty days.' 
 In forty days thereafter came the Lord, 
 And cried : ' Where is my temple, BafFometus ? ' 
 Then like a millstone fell it on his soul, 
 How he for lucre had betrayed his Lord ; 
 But yet to other sin the Fiend did tempt him, 
 And he answered, saying : ' Give me forty 
 
 hours ! ' 
 And when the forty hours were gone, the Lord 
 Came down in wrath : ' My temple, BafFometus ?' 
 Then fell he, quaking, on his face, and cried 
 For mercy ; but the Lord was wroth, and said : 
 ' Since thou hast cozened me with empty lies, 
 And those the stones I lent thee for my temple 
 Hast sold them for a purse of filthy gold, 
 Lo ! I will cast thee forth, and with the Mam- 
 mon 
 Will chastise thee, until a Saviour rise 
 Of thy own seed, who shall redeem thy trespass.' 
 Then did the Lord lift up the purse of gold ; 
 And shook the gold into a melting-pot, 
 And set the melting-pot upon the sun, 
 So that the metal fused into a fluid mass. 
 And then he dipped a finger in the same, 
 And, straightway, touching BafFometus, 
 Anoints him on the chin and brow and cheeks. 
 Then was the face of BafFometus changed : 
 His eyeballs rolled like fire-flames ; 
 His nose became a crooked vulture's-bill ; 
 The tongue hung bloody from his throat; the 
 
 flesh 
 Went from his hollow cheeks ; and of his hair 
 Grew snakes, and of the snakes grew Devil's- 
 
 horns. 
 Again the Lord put forth his finger with the 
 
 gold, 
 And pressed it upon BafFometus' heart ; 
 Whereby the heart did bleed and wither up, 
 And all his members bled and withered up, 
 And fell away, the one and then the other. 
 At last his back itself sunk into ashes : 
 The head alone continued gilt and living ; 
 And instead of back, grew dragon's-talons, 
 Which destroyed all life from off the earth. 
 Then from the ground the Lord took up the 
 
 heart, 
 Which, as he touched it, also grew of gold, 
 And placed it on the brow of BafFometus ; 
 And of the other metal in the pot 
 He made for him a burning crown of gold, 
 
 And crushed it on his serpent-hair, so that 
 E'en to the bone and brain the circlet scorched 
 
 him; 
 And round the neck he twisted golden chains, 
 Which strangled him and pressed his breath to- 
 gether. 
 What in the pot remained he poured upon the 
 
 ground, 
 Athwart, along, and there it formed a cross ; 
 The which he lifted and laid upon his neck, 
 And bent him that he could not raise his head. 
 Two Deaths, moreover, he appointed warders 
 To guard him : Death of Life, and Death of 
 
 Hope. 
 The sword of the first he sees not, but it smites 
 
 him ; 
 The other's palm he sees, but it escapes him. 
 So languishes the outcast BafFometus 
 Four thousand years and four-and-forty moons, 
 Till once a Saviour rise from his own seed, 
 Redeem his trespass, and deliver him." 
 
 [To Adalbert. 
 This is the Story of the Fallen Master. 
 
 [With his sword he touches the Curtain, which now as 
 before rolls up over the book; so that the head under 
 ' it again becomes visible, in its former shape. 
 
 Adalbert (looking at the head). 
 Ha ! what a hideous shape ! 
 
 head (with a hollow voice). 
 Deliver me ! 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 Dreaded ! shall the work begin ? 
 
 CONCEALED VOICES. 
 
 Tea! 
 
 armed man (to Adalbert). 
 Take the neckband 
 Away ! 
 
 [Pointing to the heaH 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 I dare not ! 
 
 head (with a still more piteous tone). 
 O, deliver me ! 
 
 Adalbert (taking off the chains). 
 Poor fallen one ! 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 Now lift the crown from 's head ! 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 It seems so heavy ! 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 Touch it, it grows light. 
 
 [Adalbert takes off the crown, and casts it, as he did 
 the chains, on the ground. 
 
 Now take the golden heart from off" his brow ! 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 It seems to burn ! 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 Thou errest : ice is warmer. 
 
 Adalbert (taking the heart from the brow) 
 Ha ! shivering frost ! 
 
332 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 Take from his back the cross, 
 And throw it from thee ! 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 How ? The Saviour's token ? 
 
 HEAD. 
 
 Deliver, O, deliver me ! 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 This cross 
 
 Is not thy Master's, not that bloody one : 
 
 Its counterfeit is this : throw 't from thee ! 
 
 Adalbert (taking it from the bust, and laying it softly on 
 
 the ground). 
 The cross of the Good Lord that died for me ? 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 Thou shall no more believe in one that died ; 
 Thou shalt henceforth believe in one that liveth 
 And never dies ! — Obey, and question not, — 
 Step over it ! 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 Take pity on me ! 
 
 armed man (threatening him with his sword). 
 Step! 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 I do 't with shuddering ! 
 
 [Steps over, and then looks up to the head, which 
 raises itself aa freed from a load. 
 How the figure rises, 
 And looks in gladness ! 
 
 ARMED MAN. 
 
 Him whom thou hast served 
 Till now, deny ! 
 
 Adalbert (horror-struck). 
 Deny the Lord, my God ? 
 
 armed man. 
 Thy God 't is not : the idol of this world ! — 
 Deny him, or — 
 
 [Pressing on him with the sword in a threatening posture. 
 Thou diest ! 
 
 ADALBERT. 
 
 I deny ! 
 
 armed man (pointing to the head with his sword). 
 Go to the Fallen ! — Kiss his lips ! 
 
 ERNST MORITZ ARNDT. 
 
 This patriotic writer was born December 
 26th, 1769, at Schoritz, in Rtlgen. Towards 
 the end of the last century, he distinguished 
 himself as a traveller, and by his published 
 observations on Sweden, Italy, France, Ger- 
 many, Hungary, &c. In 1806, he was ap- 
 pointed Professor Extraordinary of Philosophy 
 at Greifswald. He was a vehement lover of 
 liberty, and, though at first a favorer of Napo- 
 leon, became one of bis bitterest opponents, as 
 soon as he comprehended his designs of conquest. 
 
 A work published by him, called "The Spirit of 
 the Age," which went rapidly through several 
 editions, and excited universal attention by the 
 boldness of its attacks on Napoleon, made it 
 necessary for him to take refuge in Stockholm, 
 whence he was unable to return until 1813. 
 His writings, which flowed in rapid succession 
 from his indefatigable pen, exercised an im- 
 mense influence upon the popular feeling, and 
 contributed powerfully to excite and keep alive 
 among the Germans that hatred of French 
 domination which led to their unparallelled ef- 
 forts and sacrifices in the War of Liberation. 
 In 1818, he was appointed Professor of History 
 in the recently established University of Bonn; 
 but the next year, the inquiry into the " Dem- 
 agogical Intrigues," as they were termed, im- 
 plicated him together with some of the other 
 professors, and he remained without public 
 employment until Frederic William restored 
 him to the University, in 1840. 
 
 Arndt is one of the most vigorous, animated, 
 and eloquent of the German writers. His prose 
 works have had an extraordinary circulation 
 and effect. His patriotic and popular poems 
 and his war-songs are of distinguished excel- 
 lence. They were published at Frankfort, in 
 1815 ; again at Leipsic, in 1840. 
 
 THE GERMAN FATHERLAND. 
 
 Which is the German's fatherland ? 
 
 Is 't Prussia's or Swabia's land ? 
 
 Is 't where the Rhine's rich vintage streams? 
 
 Or where the Northern sea-gull screams? — 
 
 Ah, no, no, no ! 
 His fatherland 's not bounded so ! 
 
 Which is the German's fatherland ? 
 Bavaria's or Styria's land ? 
 Is 't where the Marsian ox unbends ? 
 Or where the Marksman iron rends ? — 
 
 Ah, no, no, no ! 
 His fatherland 's not bounded so. 
 
 Which is the German's fatherland ? 
 Pomerania's, or Westphalia's land ? 
 Is it where sweep the Dunian waves ? 
 Or where the thundering Danube raves? — 
 
 Ah, no, no, no ! 
 His fatherland 's not bounded so ! 
 
 Which is the German's fatherland ? 
 
 O, tell me now the famous land ! 
 
 Is 't Tyrol, or the land of Tell ? 
 
 Such lands and peopie please me well. — 
 
 Ah, no, no, no . 
 His fatherland 's not bounded so ! 
 
 Which is the German's fatherland? 
 Come, tell me now the famous land. 
 Doubtless, it is the Austrian state, 
 In honors and in triumphs great. — 
 
 Ah, no, no, no ! 
 His fatherland 's not bounded so ! 
 
ARNDT. — TIECK. 
 
 333 
 
 Which is the German's fatherland ? 
 So tell me now the famous land ! 
 Is 't what the Princes won by sleight 
 From the Emperor's and Empire's right ? — 
 
 Ah, no, no, no ! 
 His fatherland 's not bounded so ! 
 
 Which is the German's fatherland ? 
 So tell me now at last the land ! — 
 As far 's the German accent rings 
 And hymns to God in heaven sings, — 
 
 That is the land, — 
 There, brother, is thy fatherland ! 
 
 There is the German's fatherland, 
 Where oaths attest the grasped hand, — 
 Where truth beams from the sparkling eyes, 
 And in the heart love warmly lies; — 
 
 That is the land, — 
 There, brother, is thy fatherland ! 
 
 That is the German's fatherland, 
 Where wrath pursues the foreign band, — 
 Where every Frank is held a foe, 
 And Germans all as brothers glow; — 
 
 That is the land, — 
 All Germany 's thy fatherland ! 
 
 FIELD-MARSHAL BLUCHER. 
 
 Why are the trumpets blowing ? Ye hussars, 
 
 away ! 
 'T is the Field-marshal rideth, with flying fray ; 
 He rideth so joyous his mettlesome steed, 
 He swingeth so keenly his bright-flashing blade ! 
 
 His oath he hath redeemed ; when the battle- 
 cry rang, 
 Ha ! the old boy ! how to saddle he sprang ! 
 It was he who led off the last dance of the ball ; 
 With besom of iron he swept clean the hall ! 
 
 At Lutzen, on the mead, there he struck such 
 
 a blow, 
 That on end with affright stood the hair of the 
 
 foe ; 
 That thousands ran off" with hurrying tread ; 
 Ten thousand slept soundly the sleep of the 
 
 dead ! 
 
 At Katzbach, by the stream, he there played 
 
 his part ; 
 He taught you, O Frenchmen, the swimmer's 
 
 good art ! 
 Farewell to you, Frenchmen, away to the 
 
 waves ! 
 And take, ye sans-culottes, the whales for your 
 
 graves ! 
 
 At Wartburg, on the Elbe, how before him all 
 
 yielded ! 
 Nor fortress nor castle the Frenchmen shielded ; 
 Again they must spring like hares o'er the field, 
 And the hero's hurrah after them pealed. 
 
 At Leipsic, on the mead, — O, honor's glorious 
 fight! — 
 
 There he shattered the fortunes of France and 
 her might ; 
 
 There lie they all safely, since so hardly they 
 fell ; 
 
 And there the old BlUcher played the field- 
 marshal well. 
 
 LUDWIG TIECK. 
 
 Ludwig Tieck, who, since the death of 
 Goethe, has occupied the greatest space in 
 German literature, was born May 31st, 1773, 
 at Berlin. In his nineteenth year he entered 
 the University of Hrile, whence he went to 
 GSttingen, and at a later period to Erlangen. 
 His studies here, and afterwards again at Got- 
 tingen, were chiefly devoted to history and 
 ancient and modern poetry. His peculiar ten- 
 dencies began to display themselves while he 
 was yet at school, where he began the " Abdal- 
 lah," published in 1795. In 1796, his " William 
 Lovell " appeared. These were followed in 
 rapid succession by a series of works, in which 
 his narrative powers, and the romantic, as dis- 
 tinguished from the classical style of composi- 
 tion, were strikingly developed. About this 
 time, he formed an intimate connection with 
 the younger Nicolai in Berlin, and, on a jour- 
 ney, became acquainted with the two Schle- 
 gels, Novalis (Hardenberg), and Herder. Dur- 
 ing a visit to Hamburg, he was much interested 
 and excited by the acting of Schroder. His early 
 love for art was further unfolded, and his views 
 rendered clear, by a residence in Dresden, Mu- 
 nich, and Rome. After this, he lived at Jena, 
 in the society of the Schlegels and Schelling. 
 Several of his best-known works, and the 
 translation of " Don Quixote," which far sur- 
 passed all preceding attempts, appeared during 
 the years 1799, 1800, and 1801. In the years 
 1801, 1802, Tieck resided in Dresden, where, 
 in conjunction with A. W. Schlegel and several 
 other poets, he composed the "Musenalma- 
 nach," published at Tubingen. After this, he 
 lived again at Berlin, then at Tubingen. His 
 " Minnesongs from the Swabian Period " were 
 published at Berlin in 1803, and excited a great 
 interest in the ancient German literature. These 
 were followed, in 1804, by his " Emperor Octa- 
 vian." In 1805, Tieck and Friedrich Schlegel 
 edited the works of Novalis. After this he 
 travelled in Italy, but returned to Germany 
 towards the end of 1806, and went to Munich, 
 where he experienced his first severe attack of 
 the gout. He passed some years in the country, 
 near Frankfort on the Oder, without publishing 
 anything. In 1814 — 16, his "Ancient English 
 Theatre " appeared, together with several other 
 works. In 1818, he went to London to collect 
 materials for his great work on Shakspeare. 
 In 1819, he established himself in Dresden 
 
334 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 with his family, and since then has written a 
 series of tales, which form a distinct epoch in 
 his literary life. In 1821, he published a com- 
 plete collection of his poems, in three volumes, 
 and edited the works of Heinrich von Kleist. 
 In 1825, he was made Court Councillor, and 
 one of the directors of the theatre in Dresden. 
 In 1840, he received from his Majesty, Frederic 
 William the Fourth, an honorary pension, and 
 died in 1853. 
 
 Tieck is not only a poet of considerable 
 creative genius, but an eloquent and masterly 
 prose-writer, and a profound critic. He belongs 
 emphatically to the Romantic School in his 
 views of poetry and art, and has strenuously 
 labored to embody in his works the national 
 subjects, and the poetical traditions from Ger- 
 man antiquity. His serv'ces as a commentator 
 and translator of Shakspeare have been highly 
 important, and ire applauded not only in Ger- 
 many, but in I- igland. His single works have 
 passed througl numerous editions. A new edi- 
 tion of his complete works was begun in 1827. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Look all around thee ! How the spring ad- 
 vances ! 
 New life is playing through the gay, green 
 trees ; 
 See how, in yonder bower, the light leaf dances 
 To the bird's tread, and to the quivering 
 breeze ! 
 How every blossom in the sunlight glances ! 
 The winter-frost to his dark cavern flees, 
 And earth, warm-wakened, feels through every 
 
 vein 
 The kindling influence of the vernal rain. 
 
 Now silvery streamlets, from the mountain 
 stealing, 
 Dance joyously the verdant vales along ; 
 Cold fear no more the songster's tongue is seal- 
 ing ; 
 Down in the thick, dark grove is heard his 
 song ; 
 And, all their bright and lovely hues revealing, 
 A thousand plants the field and forest throng; 
 Light comes upon the earth in radiant showers, 
 And mingling rainbows play among the flowers. 
 
 SONG FROM BLUEBEARD. 
 
 In the blasts of winter 
 
 Are the sere leaves sighing, 
 And the dreams of love 
 
 Faded are, and dying; 
 Cloudy shadows flying 
 
 Over field and plain, 
 Sad the traveller hieing 
 
 Through the blinding rain. 
 Overhead the moon 
 
 Looks into the vale ; 
 From the twilight forest 
 
 Comes a song of wail : 
 
 " Ah ! the winds have wafted 
 My faithless love away, 
 
 Swift as lightning flashes 
 Fled life's golden ray; — 
 
 O, wherefore came the vision, 
 Or why so brief its stay ? 
 
 " Once with pinks and roses 
 
 Were my temples shaded ; 
 Now the flowers are withered, 
 
 Now the trees are faded ; 
 Now the spring, departed, 
 
 Yields to winter's sway, 
 And my love false-hearted, 
 
 He is far away." 
 
 Life so dark and wildered, 
 What remains for thee ? 
 
 Hope and memory, bringing 
 Joy or grief to me ; — 
 
 Ah ! for them the bosom 
 Open still must be ! 
 
 LUDOLF ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO. 
 
 Chamisso, the poet, natural philosopher, and 
 circumnavigator of the globe, was born at Bon- 
 court, in Champagne, January 27th, 1781. Dur- 
 ing the Revolution, he left France with his pa- 
 rents, and went to Berlin, where, in 1796, he 
 was appointed one of the pages of the court. 
 He afterwards entered the army and received a 
 commission. He devoted himself zealously to 
 the study of the German language and litera- 
 ture, and became personally acquainted with 
 the principal German authors of the time. He 
 formed an intimate relation with Fichte, the 
 philosopher. In 1804-06, he published, with 
 Varnhagen von Ense, an " Almanac of the 
 Muses." At the conclusion of the peace of 
 Tilsit, he left the Prussian service, returned to 
 France, where his family had recovered a part 
 of their estates, and for a time filled the office 
 of Professor in the College at Napoleonville ; 
 but he soon returned to Germany, and devoted 
 himself wholly to his studies, particularly to 
 natural science. In 1814, he published the 
 singular story of " Peter Schlemihl," the man 
 who had lost his shadow, — a work well known 
 in the English translation. A voyage of dis- 
 covery round the world being projected by the 
 Russian chancellor, Count Romanzoff, Cha- 
 misso accepted an invitation to accompany it, as 
 a naturalist. He sailed from Cronstadt in 1815, 
 and returned in 1818. His observations were 
 published in the work containing an account 
 of the voyage. Chamisso now took up his 
 residence in Berlin, where he received an ap- 
 pointment in the Botanical Garden. He wrote 
 on various scientific subjects, and, during the 
 same period, composed sonnets, and some of the 
 oest and most popular ballads that have recent- 
 ly appeared in German literature. Besides his 
 
CH AMIS SO. 
 
 335 
 
 other labors, he assisted Gaudy in translating 
 Beranger's songs. He died, August 21st, 1838. 
 His works were published at Leipsic, in six 
 volumes, 1838-39; and anew edition, 1842. 
 
 A lively sketch of Chamisso has been given 
 by Laube, in his " Characteristics," * from which 
 the following passages are taken. 
 
 " I know of no more delightful poet than 
 Chamisso, except Rtlckert. There is a healthi- 
 ness in him, which fills us with the greatest 
 pleasure. Every poet, to be sure, is delightful, 
 because he gives the best there is in his heart. 
 
 But one person likes the dark eye best, 
 
 another the blue; to me Chamisso's has always 
 seemed so strangely invigorating and refreshing, 
 — awakening such life, strength, and courage, — 
 so manly, confident, and commanding. The suns 
 of all the zones have looked into this vigorous 
 and ever-straining eye; the pale and meagre 
 North, — the dark, luxuriant South, — the bar- 
 ren and desert island, which, like a bad debtor, 
 points the thoughts to heaven, — the green and 
 juicy isle, which intoxicates with the enchant- 
 ments of earth. 
 
 " To have an image of the poet Chamisso, I 
 often think of him as a lofty statue upon the 
 eternal summit of the Alps; he looks abroad 
 over all seas and zones, to the uttermost ends of 
 the earth. His poetry has such broad pinions, 
 that it sweeps over the whole globe in its 
 mighty flight; and our chamber and provincial 
 warblers cower together in terror, as soon as 
 the stroke of his wings is heard. From the far 
 island of Guahia, from Russia's icy steppes, 
 from the almond-groves of Spain, from the 
 Turkish kiosk, comes his song; everywhere is 
 he at home. 
 
 "Such, I believe, will be Chamisso's image 
 in our literary history, and he will remain in 
 the memory of the Germans as a hale, hearty, 
 sinewy poet; but I shall always remember him 
 as I met him, early in the spring, in the Mark- 
 gravenstrasse, Berlin. Ah ! then for the first 
 time did I fully feel his poetry; and I recog- 
 nized yet once again the truth, that the poet has 
 an immortal soul. Chamisso, the prince of Gua- 
 hia, the weather-beaten circumnavigator, totter- 
 ed like a broken reed. His strong, flowing locks 
 hung round his shrunken temples, gray with 
 age and illness; his once proud and vigorous 
 ey? was dimmed; round his once firm and 
 haughty lips were deep, deep traces of suffer- 
 ing; the feeble breast no longer supported the 
 mighty and majestic head ; it was sunken, and 
 resounded with a hollow, racking cough. The 
 sturdy Chamisso crawled feebly along, leaning 
 on his cane ; Chamisso, who, with the fabulous 
 Peter Schlemihl, had leaped from one part of 
 the world to the other in the mad boots : ah, 
 how sadly I thought then of Peter Schlemihl, 
 
 * Moderne Characteristiken, von Heinrich Laude (2 
 rola. Mannheim : 1835). Vol. II. p. 77. 
 
 in whom was so much strange, deep life, — so 
 much delight of life ! The early sunshine of 
 spring feebly fell upon one side of the street, 
 and the old, decrepit, palsied - singer steered 
 slowly after its beam, and cast his shadow, 
 though tremulous, across the pavement ; his 
 large eye, troubled by the cough and consump- 
 tion, sought the pallid sky, and seemed to ask : 
 ' What islanders shall I find in yonder silent 
 ocean ? ' " 
 
 THE LAST SONNETS. 
 
 I. 
 
 " To thy dear lips my ears were ever cleaving, 
 
 My gentle friend, to hear thy dainty lays 
 
 Of life and woman's love in other days: 
 
 With love and pleasure then my breast was 
 
 heaving ; 
 But now the. spinners in thy lyre are weaving 
 A mourning-flower, methinks, — thou sing'st 
 no more: 
 
 golden singer, wilt thou not restore 
 
 To me the olden joy, thy harp-strings leav- 
 ing?"— 
 " Be still, my dearest child, the time is gray; 
 
 1 bear in peace the shadow of its wings, 
 Arn weary now, my songs have passed away. 
 
 I was a minstrel, like the bird that sings 
 
 And twitters out its sunny little day ; 
 
 The swan alone But speak of other 
 
 things." 
 
 ii. 
 
 I feel, I feel, each day, the fountain failing ; 
 It is the death that gnaweth at my heart: 
 I know it well, and vain is every art 
 
 To hide the fatal ebb, the secret ailing. 
 
 So wearily the spring of life is coiling, 
 Until the fatal morning sets it free : 
 Then sinks the dark, and who inquires for me 
 
 Will find a man at rest from all his toiling. 
 
 That I can speak to thee of death and dying, 
 And yet my cheeks the loyal blood maintain, 
 Seems bold to thee, and almost over-vain : 
 
 But Death ! — no terror in the word is lying ; 
 And yet the thought I cannot well embrace, 
 Nor have I looked the angel in the face 
 
 He visited my dreams, the fearful guest ! 
 
 My careless vigor, while I slumbered, stealing,. 
 
 And, huge and shadowy above me kneeling, 
 Buried his wosome talons in my breast. 
 I murmured, — "Dost thou herald my hereafter? 
 
 Is it the hour ? Art calling me away ? 
 
 Lo ! I have set myself in meet array." — 
 He broke upon my words with mocking laughter. 
 I scanned him sharply, and the terror stood 
 
 In chilly dew, — my courage had an end : 
 His accents through me like a palsy crept 
 "Patience ! " he cried; "I only suck thy blood 
 
 Didst think 't was Death already ? Not so 
 friend ; 
 I am Old Age, thy fable ; thou hast slept.' 
 
336 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 They say the year is in its summer glory : 
 But thou, O Sun, appearest chill and pale, 
 The vigor of thy youth begins to fail. — 
 Say, art thou, too, becoming old and hoary ? 
 Old Age, forsooth ! — what profits our complain- 
 ing? 
 Although a bitter guest and comfortless, 
 One learns to smile beneath its stern caress, 
 The fated burden manfully sustaining : 
 'T is only for a span, a summer's day. 
 Deep in the fitful twilight have I striven, 
 Must now the even-feast of rest be holding: 
 One curtain falls, — and, lo ! another play ! 
 " His will be done whose mercy much has 
 given ! " 
 I '11 pray, — my grateful hands to heaven 
 folding. 
 
 JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND. 
 
 Johann Ludwig Uhland, one of the most 
 eminent among the living poets of Germany, 
 was born April 26th, 1787, at Tubingen, where 
 he studied law from 1805 to 1808. He then 
 became an advocate in Stuttgart. He visited 
 Paris in 1810, where he spent much time in 
 studying the manuscripts of the Middle Ages. 
 He was for a time Professor of German Litera- 
 ture in the University of Tubingen. Since 1809, 
 he has been a member of the Legislature of 
 WUrtemberg, as a representative from Tubingen. 
 His ballads, songs, and allegories have begun a 
 new epoch in German lyrical poetry. His 
 dramas are less distinguished. They are enti- 
 tled, "Duke Ernest of Swabia," "Lewis the 
 Bavarian," and " Walther von der Vogelweide." 
 An edition of his poems appeared in 1814. The 
 fourteenth edition was published at Stuttgart in 
 1840. His life has been written by Schwab. 
 He died in 1862. 
 
 Theodore Mundt, in his "History of the 
 Literature of the Present," * says of Uhland : — 
 
 " As German freedom and German nobleness 
 of soul gave the key-note to his poetry, so it 
 chimed in powerfully with those jubilant strains 
 of national exaltation which German poetry 
 scattered abroad with such daring enthusiasm 
 at the time of the Liberation War. Belonging to 
 a highly favored German race, which was not 
 only distinguished by a deeper spring of poetry, 
 a vigorous nature, and a profound feeling, but had 
 from ancient times been in the possession of free 
 and popular constitutional forms, the Swabian 
 poet could not fail, at the very outset, to feel the 
 benefit of these most favorable influences. Uh- 
 land was also thoroughly the poet of the WUr- 
 temberg people, whose local peculiarities, whose 
 cheerful and hearty nature and genuine national 
 customs, he has everywhere reflected in his own 
 character, and exalted to forms of beauty. The 
 
 * Die Literatur der Gegenwart, von Theodor Mundt 
 (Berlin: IS42). pp. 205-208. 
 
 charming life of nature, which is unfolded in 
 Uhland's poems, is always at the same time 
 the expression of the noblest, the freest, the 
 most vigorous tone of thought, which seeks to 
 mould itself harmoniously into the forms of art. 
 From the vine-clad hills to the peopled valleys 
 below, along the margins of the brooks, and in 
 the forests, — everywhere is heard the voice of 
 poetry and song ; and the poetry is the people, 
 and the song is freedom. And where the pres- 
 ent is darkened over, and has no room for all 
 that exulting life of love and freedom, there 
 comes the ancient legend sweeping through the 
 forest with its magic mirror, and, taking poetry 
 by the hand, leads her back into the golden age, 
 into the age of the Minnelied and of heroes, into 
 the Middle Ages. The connection between the 
 poetry of freedom and the noble life of the 
 Middle Ages appears in Uhland as a peculiar 
 trait of his natural temperament, and a result 
 of a sound and healthy romanticism. We have 
 in Uhland the poet in whom romanticism and 
 freedom do not stand apart, as two absolute op- 
 posites, but blend in the unity of a full and 
 vigorous life, and that through the medium of a 
 genuine nationality, which even in the Middle 
 Ages pervades with the spirit of freedom the 
 romantic principle of life. Though Uhland 
 herein had an affinity with the earlier and better 
 spirit of the Romantic School, his course of cul- 
 ture must yet be called an individual and inde- 
 pendent one, which saved him from all the ab- 
 errations into which we have seen that school, 
 
 in its later development, led astray 
 
 In him all was harmony and unity. In this 
 sound and thorough culture we must attach 
 much weight to the influence of Goethe upon 
 this poet. As Uhland did not allow himself to 
 be led astray by the romanticists, so, on the 
 other hand, he was trained by Goethe to artistic 
 clearness in spirit and form. It is remarkable 
 here to see the Goethean nature coming in to 
 mediate, with its serene, statuesque plasticity, 
 between the romantic tendency of the Middle 
 Ages and the liberal historical movement of 
 modern times. This influence is, no doubt, 
 exercised upon Uhland, who restrained the ro- 
 mantic exuberance of popular poetry by Goe- 
 the's delicate art of limitation. Many have 
 professed to discover herein an imitation of the 
 Goethean form, which they may point out, if 
 they so choose, particularly in Uhland's lays 
 and ballads. But that cannot be called essen 
 tially an imitation, which is only a measure of 
 representation acquired from the influence of 
 another poet, — which is only a detected secret 
 of form. Uhland has gained as much from the 
 German mediaeval poetry, for his form, as he 
 has from Goethe. Uhland participated in the 
 devotion to the study of this poetry, which was 
 created by the Romantic School ; of this his 
 essay on Walther von der Vogelweide affords 
 a fine illustration. But in his lays and ballads 
 we encounter the mediaeval both in form and 
 substance, and see how fondly the poet's heart 
 
IT H L A N D. 
 
 337 
 
 .ingers among tliese knights 
 these goldsmiths' daughters, 
 ties and enchanted forests. 
 to employ the legend of h 
 as is shown in ' Eberhard 
 Uhland also sought to- shape 
 in the dramatic form ; but 
 doubting, on the whole, his 
 matic poetry." 
 
 and sons of kings, 
 
 tliese sunken cas- 
 
 Yet he loves best 
 
 own province, 
 
 der Rauschebart.' 
 
 national materials 
 
 we cannot help 
 
 vocation for dra- 
 
 THE LUCK OF EDEN HALL. 
 
 Or Edenhall the youthful .^rd 
 
 Bids sound the festal trumpet's call ; 
 
 He rises at the banquet board, 
 
 And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, 
 "Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall !" 
 
 The butler hears the words with pain, — 
 The house's oldest seneschal, — 
 
 Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
 The drinking-glass of crystal tall ; 
 They call it The Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 Then said the lord, " This glass to praise, 
 Fill with red wine from Portugal ! " 
 
 The graybeard with trembling hand obeys ; 
 A purple light shines over all ; 
 It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 Then speaks the lord, and waves it light, — 
 "This glass of flashing crystal tall 
 
 Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite ; 
 She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall, 
 Farewell then, Luck of Edenhall ! 
 
 " 'T was right a goblet the fate should be 
 Of the joyous race of Edenhall ! 
 
 We drink deep draughts right willingly ; 
 And willingly ring, with merry call, 
 Kling ! klang ! to the Luck of Edenhall ! " 
 
 First rings it deep, and full, and mild, 
 Like to the song of a nightingale ; 
 
 Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 
 
 Then mutters, at last, like the thunder's fall, 
 The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 "For its keeper, takes a race of might 
 The fragile goblet of crystal tall ; 
 
 It has lasted longer than is right ; 
 
 Kling ! klang ! — with a harder blow than all 
 Will I try the Luck of Edenhall ! " 
 
 As the goblet, ringing, flies apart, 
 Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; 
 
 And through the rift the flames upstart; 
 The guests in dust are scattered all 
 With the breaking Luck of Edenhall ! 
 
 In storms the foe, with fire and sword ! 
 He in the night had scaled the wall ; 
 
 Slain by the sword lies the youthful lord, 
 But holds in his hand the crystal tall, 
 The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 
 43 
 
 On the morrow the butler gropes alone, 
 The graybeard, in the desert hall , 
 
 He seeks his lord's burnt skeleton ; 
 He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall 
 The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 
 
 " The stone wall," saith he, " doth fall aside ; 
 Down must the stately columns fall ; 
 
 Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride ; 
 In atoms shall fall this earthly ball, 
 One day, like the Luck of Edenfcal! ' 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN BOY. 
 
 The shepherd of the Alps am I, 
 The castles far beneath me lie ; 
 Here first the ruddy sunlight gleams, 
 Here linger last the parting beams. 
 The mountain boy am I ! 
 
 Here is the river's fountain-head, 
 I drink it from its stony bed ; 
 As forth it leaps with joyous shout, 
 I seize it, ere it gushes out. 
 The mountain boy am I ! 
 
 The mountain is my own domain; 
 It calls its storms from sea and plain; 
 From north to south they howl afar ; 
 My voice is heard amid their war. 
 The mountain boy am I ! 
 
 And when the tocsin sounds alarms, 
 And mountain bale-fires call to arms, 
 Then I descend, I join my king, 
 My sword I wave, my lay I sing. 
 The mountain boy am I ! 
 
 The lightnings far beneath me lie • 
 High stand I here in clear blue sky; 
 I know them, and to them I call ; 
 In quiet leave my father's hall. 
 The mountain boy am I ! 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A COUNTRY CLERO tMAN. 
 
 If in departed souls the power remain 
 These earthly scenes to visit once again, 
 Not in the night thy visit wilt thou make, 
 When only sorrowing and longing wake; — 
 No ! in some summer morning's light serene, 
 When not a cloud upon the sky is seen, 
 When high the golden harvest rears its head, 
 All interspersed with flowers of blue and red, 
 Thou, as of yore, around the fields wilt walk, 
 Greeting the reapers with mild, friendly lark. 
 
 THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 
 
 "Hast thou seen that lordly cavil' , 
 
 That castle by the sea : 
 Golden and red above it 
 
 The clouds float gorgeously. 
 
 cc 
 
338 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 "And fain it would stoop downward 
 To the mirrored wave below ; 
 
 And fain it would soar upward 
 In the evening's crimson glow." 
 
 " Well have I seen that castle, 
 
 That castle by the sea, 
 And the moon above it standing, 
 
 And the mist rise solemnly." 
 
 " The winds and the waves of ocean, 
 
 Had they a merry chime ? 
 Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, 
 
 The harp and the minstrel's rhyme ? " 
 
 "The winds and the waves of ocean, 
 
 They rested quietly ; 
 But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, 
 
 And tears came to mine eye." 
 
 "And sawest thou on the turrets 
 The king and his royal bride, 
 
 And the wave of their crimson mantles, 
 And the golden crown of pride ? 
 
 " Led thej' not forth, in rapture, 
 
 A beauteous maiden there, 
 Resplendent as the morning sun, 
 
 Beaming with golden hair r " 
 
 "Well saw I the ancient parents, 
 
 Without the crown of pride; 
 They were moving slow, in weeds of woe ; 
 
 No maiden was by their side ! " 
 
 THE BLACK KNIGHT. 
 
 'T was Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 
 When woods and fields put off all sadness. 
 
 Thus began the king and spake : 
 " So from the halls 
 Of ancient Hofburg's walls 
 
 A luxuriant spring shall break." 
 
 Drums and trumpets echo loudly, 
 Wave the crimson banners proudly. 
 
 From balcony the king looked on ; 
 In the play of spears, 
 Fell all the cavaliers 
 
 Before the monarch's stalwart son. 
 
 To the barrier of the fight 
 Rode at last a sable knight. 
 
 "Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon? 
 say ! " 
 "Should I speak it here, 
 Ye would stand aghast with fear ; 
 
 I 'm a prince of mighty sway ! " 
 
 When he rode into the lists, 
 
 The arch of heaven grew black with mists, 
 
 And the castle 'gan to rock. 
 At the first blow, 
 Fell the youth from saddle-bow, — 
 
 Hardly rises from the shock. 
 
 Pipe and viol call the dances, 
 
 Torch-light through the high halls glances, 
 
 Waves a mighty shadow in ; 
 With manner bland 
 Doth ask the maiden's hand, 
 
 Doth with her the dance begin : 
 
 Danced in sable iron sark, 
 Danced a measure weird and dark, 
 
 Coldly clasped her limbs around. 
 From breast and hair 
 Down fall from her the fair 
 
 Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 
 
 To the sumptuous banquet came 
 Every knight and every dame. 
 
 'Twixt son and daughter all distraug- 
 With mournful mind 
 The ancient king reclined, 
 
 Gazed at them in silent thought. 
 
 Pale the children both did look, 
 But the guest a beaker took : 
 
 " Golden wine will make you whole ! " 
 The children drank, 
 Gave many a courteous thank : 
 
 " O, that draught was very cool ! " 
 
 Each the father's breast embraces, 
 Son and daughter ; and their faces 
 
 Colorless grow utterly. » 
 Whichever way 
 Looks the fear-struck father gray, 
 
 He beholds his children die. 
 
 " Woe ! the blessed children both 
 Takest thou in the joy of youth : 
 
 Take me, too, the joyless father ! " 
 Spake the grim guest, 
 From his hollow, cavernous breast- 
 
 " Roses in the spring I gather ! " 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 Two lovers through the garden 
 Walked hand in hand along; 
 
 Two pale and slender creatures, 
 They sat the flowers among. 
 
 They kissed each other's cheek so warm, 
 They kissed each other's mouth ; 
 
 They held each other arm in arm, 
 They dreamed of health and youth. 
 
 Two bells they sounded suddenly, 
 They started from their sleep ; 
 
 And in the convent cell lay she, 
 And he in dungeon deep. 
 
 THE PASSAGE. 
 
 Many a year is in its grave, 
 Since I crossed this restless wave; 
 And the evening, fair as ever, 
 Shines on ruin, rock, and river 
 
UHLAND. — SCHULZE. 
 
 339 
 
 Then in this same boat beside 
 Sat two comrades old and tried, — 
 One with all a father's truth, 
 One with all the fire of youth. 
 
 One on earth in silence wrought, 
 And his grave in silence sought; 
 But the younger, brighter form 
 Passed in battle and in storm. 
 
 So, whene'er I turn my eye 
 Back upon the days gone by, 
 Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, 
 Friends that closed their course before me. 
 
 But what binds us, friend to friend, 
 But that soul with soul can blend ? 
 Soul-like were those hours of yore ; 
 Let us walk in soul once more. 
 
 Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee, — 
 
 Take, I give it willingly ; 
 
 For, invisible to thee, 
 
 Spirits twain have crossed with me. 
 
 THE NUN. 
 
 In the silent cloister-garden, 
 
 Beneath the pale moonshine, 
 There walked a lovely maiden, 
 
 And tears were in her eyne. 
 
 " Now, God be praised ! my loved one 
 
 Is with the blest above : 
 Now man is changed to angel, 
 
 And angels I may love." 
 
 She stood before the altar 
 
 Of Mary, mother mild, 
 And on the holy maiden 
 
 The Holy Virgin smiled. 
 
 Upon her knees she worshipped 
 And prayed before the shrine, 
 
 And heavenward looked, — till Death came 
 And closed her weary eyne. 
 
 THE SERENADE. 
 
 " What sounds so sweet awake me ? 
 What fills me with delight? 
 
 mother, look ! who sings thus 
 So sweetly through the night? " 
 
 " I hear not, child, I see not ; 
 
 O, sleep thou softly on ! 
 Comes now to serenade thee, 
 
 Thou poor sick maiden, none ! " 
 
 "It is not earthly music, 
 That fills me with delight ; 
 
 1 hoar the angels call me : 
 
 O mother dear, good night ! " 
 
 THE WREATH. 
 
 There went a maid and plucked the flowers 
 That grew upon the sunny lea; 
 
 A lady from the greenwood came 
 Most beautiful to see ! 
 
 Unto the maid she friendly came, 
 And in her hand a wreath she bore: 
 
 " It blooms not now, but soon will bloom ; 
 O, wear it evermore ! " 
 
 And as this maid in beauty grew, 
 
 And walked the mellow moon beneath, 
 
 And weeped young tears so tender, sweet, 
 Began to bud the wreath. 
 
 And when the maid, in beauty grown, 
 
 Clasped in her arms the glad bridegroom, 
 
 Forth from the bud's unfolded cup 
 There blushed a joyous bloom. 
 
 And when a playsome child she rocked 
 Her tender mother-arms between, 
 
 Amid the spreading leafy crown 
 A golden fruit was seen. 
 
 And when was sunk in death and night 
 The heart a wife had held most dear, 
 
 Then shook amid her shaken locks 
 A yellow leaf and sear. 
 
 Soon lay she, too, in blenched death, 
 
 And still this dear-loved wreath she wore, 
 
 Then bore the wreath, — this wondrous wre Uh, 
 Both fruit and bloom it bore. 
 
 TO . 
 
 Upon a mountain's summit 
 
 There might I with thee stand, 
 And, o'er the tufted forest, 
 
 Look down upon the land ; 
 There might my finger show thee 
 
 The world in vernal shine, 
 And say, if all mins own were, 
 
 That all were mine and thine. 
 
 Into my bosom's deepness, 
 
 O, could thine eye but see, 
 Where all the songs are sleeping 
 
 That G-od e'er gave to me ! 
 There would thine eye perceive it, 
 
 If aught of good be mine, — 
 Although I may not name thee, — 
 
 That aught of good is thine. 
 
 ERNST CONRAD FRIEDRICH SCHULZE. 
 
 Ernst Schulze was born at Celle, March 
 22d, 1789. In 1806, he began his theological 
 studies at Gottingen, but soon afterwards ex- 
 changed theology for philology, with the design 
 
340 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 of becoming a teacher of the classics and polite 
 literature. He displayed a lively poetical im- 
 agination from his early youth. He was deeply 
 affected by the early loss of a lady to whom he 
 was passionately attached, and, as soon as the 
 first violence of his grief was calmed, he form- 
 ed the resolution of immortalizing her name by 
 a poem, to which he devoted all his intellectual 
 energies. In three years he completed the 
 work, which was published under the title of 
 "Cecilia," a romantic poem in twenty cantos. 
 His poetical activity was interrupted, in 1814, 
 by the war against France, in which he engaged 
 as a volunteer. The exercise and hardships of 
 military service operated favorably upon his 
 spirits and his physical strength ; but after his 
 return to Gottingen, his health again began to 
 decline. In 1816, he made a journey on foot 
 through the Rhine country, and early in the 
 following year visited Celle, where he died, 
 June 26, 1817. His works are, the above-men- 
 tioned poem, which is considered by some the 
 greatest romantic epic the Germans have pro- 
 duced in recent times ; " The Enchanted Rose," 
 a romantic poem, in three cantos; lyric poems; 
 and a narrative poem, "Psyche." His collected 
 works were published by Bouterwek, 1819-20; 
 a new edition, in four volumes, appeared in 
 1822. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Steeds are neighing, swords are gleaming, 
 
 Germany's revenge is nigh ; 
 And the banners, brightly streaming, 
 
 Wave us on to victory. 
 
 Rouse thee, then, fond heart, and see 
 For a time thy task forsaken ; 
 
 Bear what life hath laid on thee, 
 And forget what it hath taken ! 
 
 THE HUNTSMAN DEATH. 
 
 The chief of the huntsmen is Death, whose aim 
 
 Soon levels the brave and the craven ; 
 He crimsons the field with the blood of his 
 game, 
 But the booty he leaves to the raven. 
 Like the stormy tempest that flies so fast, 
 O'er moor and mountain he gallops fast; 
 Man shakes 
 And quakes 
 At his bugle-blast. 
 
 But what boots it, my friends, from the hunter 
 to flee, 
 Who shoots with the shafts of the grave? 
 Far better to meet him thus manfully, 
 The brave by the side of the brave ! 
 And when against us he shall turn his brand, 
 With his face to the foe let each hero stand, 
 And await 
 His fate 
 From a hero's hand. 
 
 MAY LILIES. 
 
 Faded are our sister flowers, 
 
 Faded all and gone; 
 In the meadows, in the bowers, 
 
 We are left alone ! 
 Dark above our valley lowers 
 
 That funereal sky, 
 And the thick and chilling showers 
 
 Now come blighting by. 
 
 Drooping stood we in the strife, 
 
 Pale and tempest-shaken, 
 Weeping that our love and life 
 
 Should at once be taken ; 
 Wishing, while within its cover 
 
 Each wan flower withdrew, 
 That, like those whose life was over, 
 
 We had withered too. 
 
 But the air a soothing ditty 
 
 Whispered silently ; 
 How that love and gentlest pity 
 
 Still abode with thee ; 
 How thy very presence ever 
 
 Shed a sunny glow, — 
 And where thou wert smiling, never 
 
 Tears were seen to flow. 
 
 So to thee, thou gentle spirit, 
 
 Are the wanderers come ; 
 Let the weak thy care inherit, 
 
 Take the trembling home ! 
 Though the bloom that did surround js 
 
 Withered with the blast, 
 Still the scent that hangs around us 
 
 Lives when that hath passed. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM CECILIA. 
 
 And now 't is o'er, — the long-planned work 
 is done, — 
 
 The last sad meed that love and longing gave : 
 Beside thy bier the strain was first begun, 
 
 And now I lay the gift upon thy grave. 
 The bliss, the bale, through which my heart 
 hath run, 
 
 Are mirrored in the story's mystic wave ; 
 Take, then, the song, that in my bitter grief 
 Hath been my latest joy, my sole relief. 
 
 As mariners that on the flowery side 
 
 Of some fair coast have for a time descended, 
 
 And many a town and many a tower descried, 
 And many a blooming grove and plain ex- 
 tended, 
 
 Till, borne again to sea by wind and tide, 
 They see the picture fade, the vision ended ; 
 
 So in the darkening distance do I see 
 
 My hopes grow dim, my joy and solace flee. 
 
 Such as thou didst in love and life appear, 
 In joy, in grief, in pleasure, and in pain, — 
 
 Such have I strove in words to paint thee here, 
 And link thy beauties with my lowly strain. 
 
RUCKERT. 
 
 341 
 
 Still, as I sang, thy form was floating near, 
 
 And, hand in hand with thee, the goal I gain ; 
 Alas, that, with the wreath that binds my brow, 
 My visionary bliss must vanish now ! 
 
 Three years in that fond dream have flitted by ; 
 
 For, though the tempest of the time was rife, 
 And, rising at the breath of destiny, 
 
 Through peace and war hath borne my bark 
 of life, 
 I heeded not how clouds grew dark on high, 
 
 How beat against the bark the waters' strife ; 
 Still in the hour of need unchangeably 
 The compass of my spirit turned to thee. 
 
 While time rolled on with ever-changing tide, 
 Thou wert the star, the sun, that shone for me ; 
 
 For thee I girt the sword upon my side ; 
 
 Each dream of peace was consecrate to thee; 
 
 And if my heart was long and deeply tried, 
 For thee alone I bore my misery ; 
 
 Watching lest autumn with his chilling breath 
 
 Should blight the rose above thy couch of death. 
 
 Ah me ! since thou hast gained thy heavenly 
 throne, 
 
 And I, no more by earthly ties controlled, 
 Have shunned life's giddy joys, with thee alone 
 
 Sad fellowship in solitude to hold ; 
 Full many a faithless friend is changed and gone, 
 
 Full many a heart that once was warm grown 
 cold. 
 All this have I for thee in silence borne, 
 And joyed to bear, as on a brighter morn. 
 
 As vases, once with costlv scents supplied, 
 Long after shed around their sweet perfume ; 
 
 As clouds the evening sun with gold hath dyed 
 Gleam brightly yet, while all around is gloom ; 
 
 As the strong river bears its freshening tide 
 Far out into the ocean's azure room; — 
 
 Forlorn and bruised, the heart, that once hath 
 beat 
 
 For thee, can feel no anger and no hate. 
 
 FRIEDRICH RUCKERT. 
 
 This author, one of the most important of 
 the recent German lvrical poets, and known to 
 the world under the poetical pseudonym of 
 Freimund Raimar, was born at Schweinfurt in 
 1789, and, having pursued his preparatory stud- 
 ies at the Gymnasium in that place, entered the 
 University of Jena, where he devoted himself 
 to an extensive range of philological and lit- 
 erary studies. He commenced the career of 
 private teacher in 1811, but did not long con- 
 tinue it. After several changes of residence, 
 he finally established himself in Stuttgart, and 
 assisted in editing the " Morgenblatt " from 
 1815 to 1817. The greater part of the year 
 1818 he passed at Rome and Aricia, where he 
 
 occupied much of his time with the populai 
 poetry of Italy. After his return he lived in 
 Coburg, where, in the bosom of his family, he 
 devoted himself to poetry, and to the study of 
 the Oriental languages, especially the Persian 
 and Arabic. In 1826, he was appointed Pro- 
 fessor of the Oriental Languages in the Univer- 
 sity of Erlangen, where he remained, until, in 
 1841, he was called to Berlin. He is distin- 
 guished by a bold and fiery spirit, an intense 
 love of country and hatred of her oppressors 
 He is not only an original author, but an ex- 
 cellent translator from the Oriental languages 
 He has also translated parts of the prophetical 
 writings in the Old Testament. His collected 
 poems, first part, were published at Erlangen in 
 1834; fifth edition, 1840 ; — second part, 1836; 
 third edition, 1839; — third part, 1837; second 
 edition, 1839; — parts four to six, 1837-38. A 
 selection of his poems appeared at Frankfort 
 on the Mayn in 1841. He died in 1866. 
 
 STRUNG PEARLS. 
 
 'T is true, the breath of sighs throws mist upon 
 
 a mirror ; 
 But vet, through breath of sighs, the soul's clear 
 
 glass grows clearer. 
 From God there is no flight, but only to him 
 
 Daring 
 Protects not when he frowns, but the child's 
 
 filial bearing. 
 The father feels the blow, when he corrects his 
 
 son ; 
 But when thy heart is loose, rigor 's a kindness 
 
 done. 
 A father should to God pray, each new day at 
 
 latest, 
 " Lord, teach me how to use the power thou 
 
 delegatest ! " 
 O, lotfk, whene'er the world thy senses would 
 
 betray, 
 Up to the steady heavens, where the stars never 
 
 stray ! 
 The sun and moon take turns, and each to each 
 
 gives place ; 
 Else were e'en their wide house but a too nar- 
 row space. 
 When thy weak heart is tossed with passion's 
 
 fiery gust, 
 Say to it, " Knowest thou how soon thou shalt 
 
 be dust? " 
 Say to thy foe, " Is death not common to us 
 
 twain ? 
 Come, then, death-kinsman mine, and we '11 
 
 be friends again." 
 Much rather than the spots upon the sun's broad 
 
 light, 
 Would love spy out the stars, scarce twinkling 
 
 through the night. 
 Thou none the better art for seeking what to 
 
 blame, 
 And ne'er wilt famous be by blasting others' 
 
 fame. 
 
 cc2 
 
342 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 The name alone remains, when all beside is reft : 
 O, leave, then, to the dead that little which is 
 
 left! 
 Repentance can avail from God's rebuke to 
 
 save ; 
 But men will ne'er forget thine errors in thy 
 
 grave. 
 Be good, and fear for naught that slanderous 
 
 speech endangers : 
 Who bears no sin himself affords to bear a 
 
 stranger's. 
 Say to thy pride, " 'T is all but ashes for the urn ; 
 Come, let us own our dust, before to dust we 
 
 turn." 
 Be yielding to thy foe, and peace shall he yield 
 
 back ; 
 But yield net to thyself, and thou 'rt on victory's 
 
 track. 
 Who is thy deadliest foe? — An evil heart's 
 
 desire, 
 That hates thee still the worse, as thy weak 
 
 love mounts higher. 
 Know'st thou where neither lords nor wretched 
 
 serfs appear ? 
 Where one the other serves, for each to each is 
 
 dear. 
 Thou 'It ne'er arrive at love, while still to life 
 
 thou 'It cling : 
 I 'm found but at the cost of thy self-offering. 
 According as thou wouldst receive, thou must 
 
 impart ; 
 Must wholly give a life, to wholly have a heart. 
 Till thought of thine own worth far buried from 
 
 thee lies, 
 How know I that indeed my worth 's before 
 
 thine eyes ? 
 What more says he that speaks, than he that 
 
 holds his peace ? 
 Yet woe betide the heart that from thy praise 
 
 can cease ! 
 Say I, "In thee I am"? — say I, " Thou art 
 
 in me " ? — 
 Thou art what in me is ; — what I am is through 
 
 thee. 
 
 sun, I am thy beam ! O rose, I am thy scent ! 
 
 1 am thy drop, O sea ! thy breath, O firmament ! 
 Unmeasured mystery ! what not the heavens 
 
 contain 
 Will here be held in this small heart and nar- 
 row brain. 
 Of that tree I 'm a leaf, which ever new doth 
 
 sprout : 
 Hail me ! my stock remains, though winds toss 
 
 me about. 
 Destruction blows on thee, while thou alone 
 
 dost stay : 
 O, feel thee in that whole which ne'er shall 
 
 pass away ! 
 How great soe'er thyself, thou 'rt naught before 
 
 the All ; 
 But, as a member there, important, though most 
 
 small. 
 The little bee to fight doth like a champion spur, 
 Recause not for herself, — she feels her tribe in 
 
 her ; 
 
 Because so sweet her work, so sharp must be 
 her sting : 
 
 The earth hath no delight unscourged by suf- 
 fering. 
 
 From the same flower she sucks both food and 
 poison up ; 
 
 For death doth lurk alway in life's delicious 
 cup. 
 
 The mulberry-leaf must bear the biting of a 
 worm, 
 
 That so it may be raised to wear its silken form. 
 
 See, how along the ground the ant-hosts blind- 
 ly throng ! 
 
 Yet no more than the choirs of stars can these 
 go wrong. 
 
 Toward setting sun the lark floats on in jubilee, 
 
 Frisking in light, the gnat to himself makes 
 melody. 
 
 Sunset, the lark's note melts into the air of 
 even ; 
 
 To earth she falls not back ; her grave is in the 
 heaven. 
 
 When twilight fades, steal forth the conslella 
 tions bright ; 
 
 Below, 't is day that lives, — in upper air, the 
 night. 
 
 The powerful sun to earth the fainting spirit 
 beats, 
 
 Which mounts again on night's sweet breath of 
 violets. 
 
 Through heaven, the livelong night, I 'm float- 
 ing in my dreams, 
 
 And, when aroused, my room a scanty limit 
 seems. 
 
 Wake up ! the sun presents an image, in his 
 rays, 
 
 How man can shine at morn to his Creator's 
 praise. 
 
 The flowers will tell to thee a sacred, mystic 
 
 story, 
 How moistened earthy dust can wear celestial 
 
 glory. 
 On thousand stems is found the love-inscription 
 
 graven, 
 " How beautiful is earth, when it can image 
 
 heaven ! " 
 Wouldst thou first pause to thank thy God for 
 
 every pleasure, 
 For mourning over griefs thou wouldst not find 
 
 the leisure. 
 O heart, but try it once : 't is easy good to he; 
 But to appear so, such a strain and misery ! 
 Who hath his day's work done may rest him 
 
 as he will : 
 O, urge thyself, then, quick thy day's work to 
 
 fulfil ! 
 Of what each one should be, he sees the form 
 
 and rule, 
 And, till he reach to that, his joy can ne'er be 
 
 full. 
 O, pray for life ! thou feel'st, that, with those 
 
 faults of thine, 
 Thou art not ready yet with sons of God to 
 
 shine. 
 
RiJCKERT. 
 
 343 
 
 From the sun's might away may the calm planet 
 
 rove ? 
 How easy, then, for man to wander from God's 
 
 love ! 
 Yet from each circle's point to the centre lies a 
 
 track ; 
 And there 's a way to God from furthest error 
 
 back. 
 Whoso mistakes me now but spurs me on to 
 
 make 
 My life so speak, henceforth, that no one can 
 
 mistake. 
 And though, throughout the world, the good I 
 
 nowhere find, 
 I still believe in it, for its image in my mind. 
 The heart that loves somewhat is not aban- 
 doned yet : 
 The smallest fibre serves some root in God to set. 
 
 Because she bears the pearl, that makes the 
 shell-fish sore : 
 
 Be thankful for the grief that but exalts thee 
 more. 
 
 The sweetest fruit grows not when the tree's 
 sap is full : 
 
 The spirit is not ripe, till meaner powers grow 
 dull. 
 
 Spring weaves a spell of odors, colors, sounds : 
 
 Come, Autumn, free the soul from these en- 
 chanted bounds. 
 
 My tree was thick with shade : O blast, thine 
 office do, 
 
 And strip the foliage off, to let the heaven shine 
 through. 
 
 They 're wholly blown away, bright blossoms 
 and green leaves : 
 
 They 're brought home to the barn, all color- 
 less, the sheaves. 
 
 THE SUN AND THE BROOK. 
 
 The Sun he spoke 
 
 To the Meadow-Brook, 
 And said, — "I sorely blame you; 
 
 Through every nook 
 
 The wild-flower folk 
 You hunt, as naught could shame you. 
 
 What but the light 
 
 Makes them so bright, — 
 The light from me they borrow ? 
 
 Yet me you slight, 
 
 To get a sight 
 At them, and I must sorrow ! 
 
 Ah ! pity take 
 
 On me, and make 
 Your smooth breast stiller, clearer; 
 
 And, as I wake 
 
 In the blue sky-lake, 
 Be thou, O Brook, my mirror ! " 
 
 The Brook flowed on, 
 And said anon, — 
 " Good Sun, it should not grieve you 
 
 That, as I run, 
 
 I gaze upon 
 The motley flowers, and leave you 
 
 You are so great 
 
 In your heavenly state, 
 And they so unpretending, 
 
 On you they wait, 
 
 And only get 
 The graces of your lending. 
 
 But when the sea 
 
 Receiveth me, 
 From them I must me sever; 
 
 I then shall be 
 
 A glass to thee, 
 Reflecting thee for ever." 
 
 NATURE MORE THAN SCIENCE. 
 
 I have a thousand thousand lays, 
 Compact of myriad myriad words, 
 
 And so can sing a million ways, 
 
 Can play at pleasure on the chords 
 
 Of tuned harp or heart ; 
 
 Yet is there one sweet song 
 
 For which in vain I pine and long; 
 
 I cannot reach that song, with all my minstrel- 
 art. 
 
 A shepherd sits within a dell, 
 
 O'ercanopied from rain and heat; 
 A shallow, but pellucid well 
 
 Doth ever bubble at his feet. 
 His pipe is but a leaf; 
 
 Yet there, above that stream, 
 
 He plays and plays, as in a dream, 
 One air that steals away the senses like a thief. 
 
 A simple air it seems, in truth, 
 And who begins will end it soon ; 
 
 Yet, when that hidden shepherd-youth 
 So pours it in the ear of Noon, 
 
 Tears flow from those anear : 
 All songs of yours and mine, 
 Condensed in one, were less divine 
 
 Than that sweet air to sing, that sweet, sweet 
 air to hear ! 
 
 'T was yester noon he played it last ; 
 
 The hummings of a hundred bees 
 Were in mine ears, yet, as I passed, 
 
 I heard him through the myrtle-trees : 
 Stretched all along he lay, 
 
 'Mid foliage half decayed; 
 
 His lambs were feeding while he played, 
 And sleepily wore on the stilly summer day. 
 
 THE PATRIOT'S LAMENT. 
 
 " What forgest, smith ? " " We 're forging 
 chains; ay, chains ! " 
 "Alas ! to chains yourselves degraded are ! "— 
 "Why ploughest, farmer?" "Fields tbeir 
 fruit must bear." 
 "Yes, seed for foes; — the burr for thee r<» 
 mains! " 
 
344 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 " What aim'st at, sportsman ? " "Yonder stag, 
 so fat." 
 " To hunt you down, like stag and roe, they '11 
 
 try." — 
 " What snarest, fisher ? " "Yonder fish, so 
 shy." 
 " Who 's there to save you from your fatal net ?" 
 
 "What art thou rocking, sleepless mother?" 
 "Boys." 
 " Yes ; let them grow, and wound their coun- 
 try's fame, 
 Slaves to her foes, with parricidal arm ! " — 
 " What art thou writing, poet? " " Words of 
 flame ; 
 I mark my own, record my country's harm, 
 Whom thought of freedom never more employs." 
 
 I blame them not, who with the foreign steel 
 Tear out our vitals, pierce our inmost heart ; 
 For they are foes created for our'smart, 
 
 And when they slay us, why they do it, feel. 
 
 But, in these paths, ye seek what recompense ? 
 For you what brilliant toys of fame are here, 
 Y"e mongrel foes, who lift the sword and spear 
 
 Against your country, not for her defence ? 
 
 Ye Franks, Bavarians, and ye Swabians, say, 
 Ye aliens, sold to bear the slavish name, — 
 
 What wages for your servitude they pay. 
 
 Your eagle may perchance redeem your fame ; 
 
 More sure his robber-train, ye birds of prey, 
 To coming ages shall prolong your shame ! 
 
 CHRISTKINDLEIN. 
 
 How bird-like o'er the flakes of snow 
 
 Its fairy footsteps flew ! 
 And on its soft and childish brow 
 
 How delicate the hue ! 
 
 And expectation wiDgs its feet, 
 
 And stirs its infant smile ; 
 The merry bells their chime repeat; 
 
 The child stands still the while. 
 
 Then clasps in joy its little hand ; 
 
 Then marks the Christian dome ; 
 The stranger child, in stranger land, 
 
 Feels now as if at home. 
 
 It runs along the sparkling ground ; 
 
 Its face with gladness beams ; 
 It frolics in the blaze around, 
 
 Which from each window gleams. 
 
 The shadows dance upon the wall, 
 
 Reflected from the trees ; 
 And from the branches, green and tall, 
 
 The glittering gifts it sees. 
 
 It views within the lighted hall 
 The charm of social love ; — 
 
 O, what a joyous festival ! 
 'T is sanctioned from above. 
 
 But now the childish h-eart 's unstrung : 
 " Where is my taper's light? 
 
 And why no evergreen been hung 
 With toys for me to-night ? 
 
 " In my sweet home there was a band 
 
 Of holy love for me ; 
 A mother's kind and tender hand 
 
 Once decked my Christmas-tree. 
 
 " O, some one take me 'neath the blaze 
 
 Of those light tapers, do ! 
 And, children, I can feel the plays; 
 
 O, let me play with you ! 
 
 "I care not for the prettiest toy; 
 
 I want the love of home ; 
 O, let me in your playful joy 
 
 Forget I have to roam ! " 
 
 The little fragile hand is raised, 
 
 It strikes at every gate ; 
 In every window earnest gazed, 
 
 Then 'mid the snow it sat. 
 
 " Christinkle ! 1 thou, the children's friend, 
 
 I 've none to love me now ! 
 Hast thou forgot my tree to send, 
 
 With lights on every bough ? " 
 
 The baby's hands are numbed with frost, 
 
 Yet press the little cloak ; 
 Then on its breast in meekness crossed, 
 
 A sigh the silence broke. 
 
 And closer still the cloak it drew 
 
 Around its silken hair; 
 Its pretty eyes, so clear and blue, 
 
 Alone defied the air. 
 
 Then came another pilgrim child, — - 
 
 A shining light he held ; 
 The accents fell so sweet and mild, 
 
 All music they excelled. 
 
 " I am thy Christmas friend, indeed, 
 
 And once a child like thee ; 
 When all forget, thou need'st not plead, — 
 
 I will adorn thy tree. 
 
 " My joys are felt in street or bower, 
 
 My aid is everywhere ; 
 Thy Christmas-tree, my precious flower, 
 
 Here, in the open air, 
 
 " Shall far outshine those other trees, 
 Which caught thy infant eye." 
 
 The stranger child looks up, and sees, 
 Far, in the deep blue sky, 
 
 A glorious tree, and stars among 
 The branches hang their light ; 
 
 The child, with soul all music, sung, 
 "My tree indeed is bright! " 
 
 1 A corruption of the German Christicindlein. It Means 
 the chilil Christ, to whom it is thought all these gifts are 
 owing. 
 
ZEDLITZ. — KORNER. 
 
 345 
 
 As 'neath the power of a dream 
 The infant closed its eyes, 
 
 And Hoops of radiant angels seem 
 Descending from the skies, 
 
 The baby to its Christ they bear ; 
 
 With Jesus it shall live ; 
 It finds a home and treasure there 
 
 Sweeter than earth can give. 
 
 JOSEPH CHRISTIAN VON ZEDLITZ. 
 
 The Baron von Zedlitz, one of the most 
 gifted of the German poets of the present day, 
 was born in 1790, at Johannisburg in Austrian 
 Silesia. After having studied several years at 
 Breslau, he made choice of a military career, 
 and in 1806 entered the hussar regiment of the 
 Archduke Ferdinand. He rose to high military 
 rank by successive promotions ; was present in 
 the battles of Regensburg, Aspern, and Wa- 
 gram ; in 1810, was appointed to an office at 
 the imperial court, and, the following year, 
 married the daughter of the Baron von Liptay. 
 Afterwards he left the military service, and 
 devoted himself to science and art. He pub- 
 lished in various journals a series of short lyri- 
 cal poems, which he called " Spring Roses." 
 These were followed by a rapid succession of 
 dramatic compositions, which were brought 
 upon the stage at Vienna witli great applause. 
 Those of his lyrical poems, which he judged 
 worthy of preservation, were published at Stutt- 
 gart in 1833. The best known of his pieces, 
 at least to English readers, is " The Midnight 
 Review," which was set to music by the Chev- 
 alier Neukomm. He has also translated Lord 
 Byron's " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," and for 
 several years edited the Vienna annual, called 
 the " Vesta," and contributed several critical 
 papers to the Vienna " Jahrbucher der Litera- 
 tur." He died in 1862. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW. 
 
 At midnight from his grave 
 The drummer woke and rose, 
 
 And, beating loud the drum, 
 Forth on his errand goes. 
 
 Stirred by his fleshless arms, 
 The drumsticks rise and fall ; 
 
 He beats the loud retreat, 
 Reveille and roll-call. 
 
 So strangely rolls that drum, 
 
 So deep it echoes round, 
 Old soldiers in their graves 
 
 To life start at the sound : 
 
 Both they in farthest North, 
 
 Stiff in the ice that lay, 
 And they who warm repose 
 
 Beneath Italian clav : 
 44 
 
 Below the mud of Nile, 
 
 And 'neath the Arabian sand, 
 
 Their burial-place they quit, 
 And soon to arms they stand. 
 
 And at midnight from his grave 
 
 The trumpeter arose, 
 And, mounted on his horse, 
 
 A loud, shrill blast he blows. 
 
 On airy coursers then 
 
 The cavalry are seen, 
 Old squadrons, erst renowned, 
 
 Gory _an,d gashed, I ween. 
 
 Beneath the casque, their skulls 
 Smile grim, and proud their air, 
 
 As in their bony hands 
 
 Their long, sharp swords they bare 
 
 And at midnight from his tomb 
 The chief awoke and rose, 
 
 And, followed by his staff, 
 With slow steps on he goes. 
 
 A little hat he wears, 
 
 A coat quite plain has he, 
 
 A little sword for arms 
 
 At his left side hangs free. 
 
 O'er the vast plain the moon 
 
 A paly lustre threw : 
 The man with the little hat 
 
 The troops goes to review. 
 
 The ranks present their arms, 
 Deep rolls the drum the while ; 
 
 Recovering then, the troops 
 Before the chief defile. 
 
 Captains and generals round 
 In circles formed appear ; 
 
 The chief to the first a word 
 Now whispers in his ear. 
 
 The word goes round the ranks, 
 Resounds along the line ; 
 
 That word they give is, — France! 
 The answer, — Saint HeUne ! 
 
 'T is there, at midnight hour, 
 The grand review, they say, 
 
 Is by dead Caesar held, 
 In the Champs-Elysies ! 
 
 KARL THEODOR KORNER. 
 
 This writer, equally distinguished as a poet 
 and hero, was born September 23d, 1791, at 
 Dresden. He studied first at the Mining Acad- 
 emy in Freiberg, and in 1810 entered the Uni- 
 versity of Leipsic. Being compelled to leavo 
 the University on account of some imprudences 
 
346 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 he had committed, he went to Vienna, where 
 he wrote for the theatre. In 1813, he served 
 in Ltltzow's corps in the war against Napoleon, 
 and in the battle of Kitzen he was severely 
 wounded and narrowly escaped being made 
 prisoner. Recovering from his wounds during 
 the armistice, he rejoined the corps on the re- 
 newal of hostilities, and fought with signal 
 intrepidity in several battles against the French 
 under Davoust. He fell on the field of battle, 
 August 26th, 1813, a short distance from Ros- 
 enberg, having only an hour before finished 
 his celebrated " Sword-Song," and read it to 
 his comrades. His poems are marked by a 
 lofty lyrical genius and die greatest patriotic 
 enthusiasm. His works are lyrical poems, 
 entitled " Knospen," or Buds, 1810; "The 
 Lyre and Sword," 1814, — seventh edition, Ber- 
 lin, 1834 ; and dramatic pieces, including trage- 
 dies and comedies. His collected works were 
 published in four volumes, Berlin, 1838 ; sec- 
 ond edition, 1842. His life was written by 
 Lehmann, Halle, 1819 ; also by his father. His 
 works have been translated into English by 
 G. F. Richardson, in two volumes, London, 
 1827; and his lyrical poems, by W. B. Chor- 
 ley, London, 1834. 
 
 MY FATHERLAND. 
 
 Where is the minstrel's fatherland? — 
 Where noble spirits beam in light; 
 Where love-wreaths bloom for beauty bright; 
 Where noble minds enraptured dream 
 Of every high and hallowed theme : 
 
 This was the minstrel's fatherland ! 
 
 How name ye the minstrel's fatherland? — 
 Now o'er the corses of children slain 
 She weeps a foreign tyrant's reign ; 
 She once was the land of the good oak-tree, 
 The German land, the land of the free : 
 
 So named we once my fatherland ! 
 
 Why weeps the minstrel's fatherland? — 
 She weeps, that, for a tyrant, still, 
 Her princes check their people's will ; 
 That her sacred words unheeded fly, 
 And that none will list to her vengeful cry: 
 
 Therefore weeps my fatherland ! 
 
 Whom calls the minstrel's fatherland ? — 
 She calls upon the God of heaven, 
 In a voice which Vengeance's self hath given ; 
 She calls on a free, devoted band; 
 She calls for an avenging hand : 
 
 Thus calls the minstrel's fatherland ! 
 
 What will she do, thy fatherland? — 
 She will drive her tyrant foes away ; 
 She will scare the bloodhound from his prey; 
 She will bear her son no more a slave, 
 Or will yield him at least a freeman's grave: 
 
 This will she do, my fatherland ! 
 
 And what are the hopes of thy fatherland ? — 
 
 She hopes, at length, for a glorious prize ; 
 
 She hopes her people will arise ; 
 
 She hopes in the great award of Heaven ; 
 
 And she sees, at length, an avenger given : 
 And these are the hopes of my fatherland ! 
 
 GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 Good night ! 
 Be thy cares forgotten quite ! 
 Day approaches to its close ; 
 Weary nature seeks repose. 
 Till the morning dawn in light, 
 Good night ! 
 
 Go to rest ! 
 Close thine eyes in slumbers blest ! 
 Now 't is still and tranquil all; 
 Hear we but the watchman's call, 
 And the night is still and blest. 
 Go to rest ! 
 
 Slumber sweet ! 
 Heavenly forms thy fancy greet ! 
 Be thy visions from above, 
 Dreams of rapture, — dreams of love ! 
 As the fair one's form you meet, 
 Slumber sweet ! 
 
 Good night ! 
 Slumber till the morning light ! 
 Slumber till the dawn of day 
 Brings its sorrows with its ray ! 
 Sleep without or fear or fright ! 
 
 Our Father wakes ! Good night ' 
 good night ! 
 
 SWORD-SONG. 
 
 " Sword at my left side gleaming ! 
 Why is thy keen glance beaming, 
 
 So fondly bent on mine ? 
 
 I love that smile of thine ! 
 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
 " Borne by a trooper daring, 
 My looks his fire-glance wearing, 
 I arm a freeman's hand : 
 This well delights thy brand ! 
 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
 " Ay, good sword ! Free I wear thee ; 
 And, true heart's love, I bear thee, 
 
 Betrothed one, at my side, 
 
 As my dear, chosen bride ! 
 
 Hurrah! ' 
 
 "To thee till death united, 
 
 Thy steel's bright life is plighted; 
 
 Ah, were my love but tried ! 
 
 When wilt thou wed thy bride ? 
 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
KORNER. — FOLLEN. 
 
 347 
 
 "The trumpet's festal warning 
 Shall hail our bridal morning; 
 When loud the cannon chide, 
 Then clasp I my loved bride ! 
 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
 " O, joy, when thine arms hold me ! 
 I pine until they fold me. 
 
 Come to me ! bridegroom, come ! 
 
 Thine is my maiden bloom. 
 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
 " Why, in thy sheath upspringing, 
 Thou wild, dear steel, art ringing ? 
 
 Why clanging with delight, 
 
 So eager for the fight ? 
 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
 " Well may thy scabbard rattle, 
 Trooper, I pant for battle ; 
 
 Right eager for the fight, 
 
 I clang with wild delight. 
 
 Hurrah ■ " 
 
 " Why thus, my love, forth creeping ? 
 Stay, in thy chamber sleeping ; 
 
 Wait, still, i' th' narrow room ; 
 
 Soon for my bride I come. 
 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
 " Keep me not longer pining ! 
 
 O, for Love's garden, shining 
 With roses, bleeding red, 
 And blooming with the dead ! 
 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
 " Come from thy sheath, then, treasure ! 
 Thou trooper's true eye-pleasure ! 
 
 Come forth, my good sword, come ! 
 
 Enter thy father-home ! 
 
 Hurrah ' " 
 
 " Ha ! in the free air glancing, 
 How brave this bridal dancing ! 
 How, in the sun's glad beams, 
 Bride-like thy bright steel gleams ! 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
 Come on, ye German horsemen ! 
 Come on, ye valiant Norsemen ! 
 
 Swells not your hearts' warm tide ? 
 
 Clasp each in hand his bride ! 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Once at your left side sleeping, 
 Scarce her veiled glance forth peeping; 
 Now, wedded with your right, 
 God plights your bride i' th' light. 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Then press, with warm caresses, 
 
 Close lips, and bridal kisses, 
 
 Your steel ; — cursed be his head, 
 Who fails the bride he wed ! 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Now, till your swords flash, flinging 
 Clear sparks forth, wave them singing; 
 
 Day dawns for bridal pride ; 
 
 Hurrah, thou Iron-bride ! 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 THE OAK-TREES. 
 
 Evening is near, — the sun's last rays have 
 darted 
 O'er the red sky, — day's busy sounds wax 
 low; 
 Beneath your shade I seat me, anxious-hearted, 
 Full of high thoughts and manhood's youthful 
 glow. 
 Ye true old witnesses of times departed, 
 
 Still are ye decked in young Life's gTeenest 
 show ; 
 The strong old days, the past world's forms 
 
 of power, 
 Still in your pride of strength before us tower. 
 
 Much that was noble Time hath been defil- 
 ing; 
 Much that was fair an early death hath died ; 
 Still through your leaf-crown glimmers, faintly 
 smiling, 
 The last departing glow of eventide : 
 Careless ye view the Fates v/ide ruins piling, — 
 
 In vain Time menaces your healthy pride, 
 And voices whisper, through your branches 
 
 sighing, 
 "All that is great must triumph over dying ! " 
 
 Thus have ye triumphed ! O'er what droops 
 decaying, 
 Green, fresh, and strong, ye rear your lusty 
 heads; 
 No weary pilgrim, through the forest straying, 
 But rests him in the shade your branch-work 
 spreads ; 
 E'en when your leaves are dead, each light 
 wind playing 
 On the glad earth their precious tribute sheds: 
 Thus o'er your roots your fallen children sleep- 
 ing, 
 Hold all your next spring-glories in sure keep- 
 ing. 
 
 Fair images of true old German feeling, 
 As it showed in my country's better days, 
 
 When, fearlessly with life's-blood freedom seal 
 ing, 
 Her sons died, glad the holy wall to raise ! 
 
 Ah ! what avails our common grief revealing? 
 On every heart a hand of death it lays ! 
 
 My German land ! thou noblest under heaven ! 
 
 Thine Oak-trees stand, — Thou down to earth 
 art driven ! 
 
 ADOLF LUDWIG FOLLEN. 
 
 Tnis poet was the oldest brother of Dr. 
 Charles Follen, whose name is so well known 
 in the United States. He was born January 
 21st, 1794, at Darmstadt. He studied several 
 years at the Gymnasium in Giessen, then gave 
 two years to theology at the High School there, 
 after which he passed some time as private 
 tutor in a noble family. In 1814, ho joined 
 
348 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 the Hessian jager corps of volunteers, and shared 
 with them in the campaign against France. On 
 his return, he studied law two years in Heidel- 
 berg; afterwards edited the Elberfeld "Univer- 
 sal Gazette." In 1819, he was implicated in 
 the " Demagogical Intrigues," and imprisoned 
 in Berlin. Being set at liberty in 1821, he 
 removed to Switzerland, and received an ap- 
 pointment in the Canton School of Aarau, 
 which at a later period he resigned, and has 
 ever since lived as a private citizen. He was 
 highly distinguished among the poets of the 
 excited period from 1813 to 1819. His works 
 consist of songs of very great merit, and trans- 
 lations from the Greek, Latin, and Italian. 
 The best known of his pieces are the " Free 
 Voices of Fresh Youth," Jena, 1819. After- 
 wards he published the " Gallery of German 
 Poetry," two volumes, Winterthilr, 1827. 
 
 BLUCHER'S BALL.* 
 
 By the Katzbach, by the Katzbach, ha ! there 
 
 was a merry dance ; 
 Wild and weird and whirling waltzes skipped 
 
 ye through, ye knaves of France ! 
 For there struck the great bass-viol an old Ger- 
 man master famed, — 
 Marshal Forward, Prince of Wallstadt, Geb- 
 
 hardt Lebrecht BlUcher named. 
 Up ! the BlUcher hath the ball-room lighted 
 
 with the cannon's glare ! 
 Spread yourselves, ye gay, green carpets, that 
 
 the dancing moistens there ! 
 And his fiddle-bow at first he waxed with 
 
 Goldberg and with Jauer ; 
 Whew ! he 's drawn it now full length, his play 
 
 a stormy northern shower ! 
 Ha ! the dance went briskly onward, tingling 
 
 madness seized them all; 
 As when howling, mighty tempests on the arms 
 
 . of windmills fall. 
 But the old man wants it cheery, wants a 
 
 pleasant dancing chime'; 
 And with gun-stocks clearly, loudly, beats the 
 
 old Teutonic time. 
 Say, who, standing by the old man, strikes so 
 
 hard the kettle-drum, 
 And, with crushing strength of arm, down lets 
 
 the thundering hammer come? 
 Gneisenau, the gallant champion : Alemannia's 
 
 envious foes 
 Smites the mighty pair, her living double-eagle, 
 
 shivering blows. 
 
 * In the battle of Katzbach, which was fought on the 
 26lh of August, 1813, the Russians and Prussians, under 
 the command of the veteran Field-marshal Blucher, defeat- 
 ed the French, who were led by Macdonald, Ney, Lauriston, 
 andSebastiani.and were driven pell-mell into the Katzbach. 
 Skirmishes had previously taken place at Goldherg and 
 Jauer. The day of the battle was rainy, and the soldiers 
 fought with clubbed muskets. The poet represents the 
 ecene as a ball, under the direction of old Blucher, who had 
 received, from his vigor and promptitude, the name of 
 "Marshal Forward." 
 
 And the old man scrapes the sweep-out : ' hap- 
 less Franks and hapless trulls ! 
 
 Now what dancers leads the graybeard ? Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! 't is dead men's skulls ! 
 
 But, as ye too much were heated in the sultri- 
 ness of hell, 
 
 Till ye sweated blood and brains, he made the 
 Katzbach cool ye well. 
 
 From the Katzbach, while ye stiffen, hear the 
 ancient proverb say, 
 
 "Wanton varlets, venal blockheads, must with 
 clubs be beat away ! " 
 
 WILHELM MULLER. 
 
 Wilhelm Mdller was born October 7th, 
 1795, at Dessau. In 1812, he began his studies 
 at Berlin, devoting himself chiefly to history 
 and philology. The Liberation War of 1813 
 interrupted his studies, and he was present, as a 
 volunteer, in the battles of Liltzen, Bautzen, 
 Hanau, and Culm. He resumed his studies in 
 1814. In 1819, he travelled in Italy, and, on 
 his return, published the results of his observa- 
 tions on Rome. He then became a teacher in 
 the Gymnasium at Dessau, Court Councillor, 
 and Librarian. He died October 1st, 1827. 
 His works are, "Poems from the Papers of a 
 Travelling Player on the Bugle-horn," two vol- 
 umes, 1824; "Songs of the Greeks," 1821 ; 
 "Lyrical Walks," 1827. He also published a 
 valuable collection of the poets of the seven- 
 teenth century, ten volumes, Leipsic, 1822 — 27; 
 and a translation of Fauriel's " Modern Greek 
 Popular Songs." His poems were edited by 
 Schwab, Leipsic, 1837, who also wrote his life. 
 
 THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 
 
 " 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 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 tho narrow land. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 1 The kehraus, or sweep-out, was formerly the conclud- 
 ing dance at balls and parties in Germany. All the com- 
 pany, headed by the musicians, danced up and down every 
 staircase, and through every room in the house. 
 
MULLER. — PLATEN. — HEINE. 
 
 349 
 
 "And wilt thou, little bird, go with us ? 
 
 Thou may'st 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 T, 
 Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. 
 
 "High over the sails, high over the mast, — 
 
 Who shall gainsay these jovs ? 
 When thy 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 whole life long, 
 Neither poet nor printer may know." 
 
 WHITHER ? 
 
 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 soil murmur, 
 
 Murmured my senses away. 
 
 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. 
 
 AUGUST GRAF VON PLATEN- 
 HALLERMUNDE. 
 
 This accomplished and interesting person 
 was born at Anspach, October 24th, 1796. He 
 was educated for the militarv career, and served 
 again-*. France. But, unsatisfied with a military 
 
 life, he studied at Wurzburg and Erlangen, 
 and bv his unwearied industry made himself a 
 proficient in the Latin, Greek, Persian, Arabic, 
 French, Italian, Spanish, Dutch, and Swedish 
 languages. He travelled and resided much in 
 Italy, where many of his best pieces were 
 written. He died at Syracuse, in Sicilv, Decern 
 ber 5th, 1835. His principal writings are dra- 
 matic poems, lyrical pieces, " Gazelles " (poems 
 in imitation of the Persian), and " The Abas- 
 sides," in nine cantos. His collected works were 
 published in 1838. 
 
 SOXNETS. 
 I. 
 Fair as the day that bodes as fair a morrow, 
 
 With noble brow, with eyes in heaven's dew, 
 
 Of tender years, and charming as the new, 
 So found I thee, — so found I, too, my sorrow. 
 O, could I shelter in thy bosom borrow, 
 
 There most collected where the most unbent ! 
 
 O, would this coyness were already spent, 
 That aye adjourns our union till to-morrow ! 
 But canst thou hate me ? Art thou vet unshaken ? 
 
 Wherefore refusest thou the soft confession 
 To him who loves, yet feels himself forsaken? 
 
 O, when thv future love doth make expression, 
 An anxious rapture will the moment waken, 
 
 As with a youthful prince at his accession ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 TO SCHELLIXG : 
 
 WITH SOME POEMS IN THE ORIENTAL STYLE. 
 
 Is he not also Beauty's sceptre bearing, 
 
 Who holds in Truth's domain the kingly right? 
 
 Thou seest in the Highest both unite, 
 Like long-lost melodies together pairing. 
 
 Thou wilt not scorn the dainty, motley band, 
 With clang of foreign music hither faring, 
 
 A little gift for thee, from Morning-land, — 
 Thou wilt discern the beauty thev are wearing 
 Among the flowers, forsooth, of distant valleys, 
 
 I hover like the butterfly, that clings 
 To summer-sweets and with a trifle dallies : 
 
 But thou dost dip thy holy, honeyed wings, 
 Beyond the ruarffin of the world's flower-chalice, 
 
 Deep, deep into the mystery of things. 
 
 HEIXRICH HEINE. 
 
 Heinrich Heine, well known as a political 
 writer and a poet, was bom in 1797, at Dilssel- 
 dorf, on the Rhine, and studied law at the Uni- 
 versities of Bonn, Berlin, and Gottingen; at 
 the last of which he took his degree. He after- 
 wards resided in Hamburg, Berlin, and Munich ; 
 and since 1830 has lived in Paris. His princi- 
 pal writings are " Buch der Lieder," a collec- 
 tion of lyrical poems; two tragedies, "Alman- 
 sor " and "Radcliff"; the four volumes of 
 " Reisebilder " ; the"Beitr5ge zur Geschichte 
 der neuern schonen Literatur in Deutschland "; 
 the " Franzosische Zustande "; and "Der Sa- 
 
350 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Ion " ; — the last two being collections of his 
 various contributions to the German newspa- 
 pers. The most popular of his writings is the 
 "Reisebilder" (Pictures of Travel). The " Bei- 
 trage " has been translated into English, by 
 G. W. Haven, under the title of "Letters aux- 
 iliary to the History of Modern Polite Litera- 
 ture in Germany" (Boston, 1836); a work 
 several times referred to in this volume. The 
 same work, with many additions, has been pub- 
 lished in Paris, under the title of " De l'Alle- 
 magne." He died in 1856. 
 
 The style of Heine is remarkable for vigor, 
 wit, and brilliancy ; but is wanting in taste and 
 refinement. To the recklessness of Byron he 
 adds the sentimentality of Sterne. The "Reise- 
 bilder " is a kind of" Don Juan " in prose, with 
 passages from the "Sentimental Journey." He 
 is always in extremes, either of praise or cen- 
 sure ; setting at naught the decencies of life, 
 and treating the most sacred things with frivoli- 
 ty. Throughout his writings are seen traces of 
 a morbid, ill-regulated mind ; of deep feeling, 
 disappointment, and suffering. His sympathies 
 seem to have died within him, like Ugolino's 
 children in the tower of Famine. With all his 
 various powers, he wants the one great power, 
 — the power of truth. He wants, too, that 
 ennobling principle of all human endeavours, the 
 aspiration " after an ideal standard, that is high- 
 er than himself." 
 
 In the highest degree reprehensible, too, is 
 the fierce, implacable hatred with which Heine 
 pursues his foes. No man should write of 
 another as he permits himself to write at times. 
 In speaking of Schlegel as he does in his 
 " German Literature," he is utterly without 
 apology. And yet to such remorseless invec- 
 tives, to such witty sarcasms, he is indebted in 
 a great degree for his popularity. It was not 
 till after it had bitten the heel of Hercules, that 
 the Crab was placed among the constellations. 
 
 The minor poems of Heine, like most of his 
 prose-writings, are but a portrait of himself. 
 The same melancholy tone, the same endless 
 sigh, pervades them. Though they possess 
 a high lyric merit, they are for the most part 
 fragmentary ; — expressions of some momentary 
 state of feeling, — sudden ejaculations of pain 
 or pleasure, of restlessness, impatience, regret, 
 longing, love. They profess to he songs, and 
 as songs must they be judged. Then these im- 
 perfect expressions of feeling, — these mere sug- 
 gestions of thought, — this "luminous mist," 
 that half reveals, half hides the sense, — this 
 selection of topics from scenes of every-day life, 
 — and, in fine, this prevailing tone of sadness, 
 will not seem affected, misplaced, or exaggerated. 
 At the same time it must be confessed, that, in 
 these songs, the lofty aim is wanting; we listen 
 in vain for the spirit-stirring note, — for the 
 word of power, — for those ancestral melodies, 
 which, amid the uproar of the world, breathe 
 into our ears for evermore the voices of conso- 
 lation, encouragement, and warning. 
 
 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 As at times a moonbeam pierces 
 Through the thickest cloudy rack, 
 
 So to me, through days so dreary, 
 One bright image struggles back. 
 
 Seated all on deck, we floated 
 
 Down the Rhine's majestic stream ; 
 
 On its borders, summer-laden, 
 
 Slept the peaceful evening-gleam. 
 
 Brooding, at the feet I laid me 
 
 Of a fair and gentle one, 
 On whose placid, pallid features 
 
 Played the ruddy-golden sun. 
 
 Lutes were ringing, youths were singing, 
 Swelled my heart with feelings strange; 
 
 Bluer grew the heaven above us, 
 Wider grew the spirit's range. 
 
 Fairy-like beside us flitted 
 
 Rock and ruin, wood and plain; 
 
 And I gazed on all reflected 
 In my loved one's eyes again. 
 
 THE TEAR. 
 
 The latest light of evening 
 
 Upon the waters shone, 
 And still we sat in the lonely hut, 
 
 In silence and alone. 
 
 The sea-fog grew, the screaming mew 
 
 Rose on the water's swell, 
 And silently in her gentle eye 
 
 Gathered the tears and fell. 
 
 I saw them stand on the lily hand, 
 
 Upon my knee I sank, 
 And, kneeling there, from her fingers fair 
 
 The precious dew I drank. 
 
 And sense and power, since that sad hour, 
 
 In longing waste away ; 
 Ah me ! I fear, in each witching tear 
 
 Some subtile poison lay. 
 
 THE EVENING GOSSIP. 
 
 We sat by the fisher's cottage, 
 We looked on sea and sky, 
 
 We saw the mists of evening 
 Come riding and rolling by : 
 
 The lights in the lighthouse window 
 Brighter and brighter grew, 
 
 And on the dim horizon 
 A ship still hung in view. 
 
 We spake of storm and shipwreck, 
 Of the seaman's anxious life ; 
 
 How he floats 'twixt sky and water, 
 'Twixt joy and sorrow's strife : 
 
HEINE. 351 
 
 We spoke of coasts far distant, 
 
 Brothers they who thus in fury 
 
 We spoke of south and north, 
 
 Fierce encounter hand to hand ; 
 
 Strange men, and stranger customs, 
 
 Say, what cause could make a brother 
 
 That those wild lands send forth : 
 
 'Gainst a brother turn his brand ? 
 
 Of the giant trees of Ganges, 
 
 Countess Laura's beaming glances 
 
 Whose balm perfumes the breeze ; 
 
 Did the fatal feud inflame, 
 
 And the fair and slender creatures, 
 
 Kindling both with equal passion 
 
 That kneel by the lotus-trees : 
 
 For the fair and noble dame. 
 
 Of the flat-skulled, wide-mouthed, Lap- 
 
 Which hath gained the fair one's favor ? 
 
 landers, 
 
 Which shall win her for his bride ? — 
 
 So dirty and so small ; 
 
 Vain to scan her heart's inclining ; 
 
 Who bake their fish on the embers, 
 
 Draw the sword, let that decide. 
 
 And cower, and shake, and squall. 
 
 
 
 Wild and desperate grows the combat, 
 
 The maidens listened earnestly, 
 
 Clashing strokes like thunder fly ; 
 
 At last the tales were ended ; 
 
 Ah ! beware, ye savage warriors ! 
 
 The ship was gone, the dusky night 
 
 Evil powers by night are nigh. 
 
 Had on our talk descended. 
 
 
 
 Woe for you, ye bloody brothers ! 
 
 
 Woe for thee, thou bloody vale ! 
 
 THE LORE-LEI.* 
 
 By each other's swords expiring, 
 
 
 Sink the brothers, stark and pale. 
 
 I know not whence it rises, 
 
 
 This thought so full of woe ; 
 
 Many a century has departed, 
 
 But a tale of times departed 
 
 Many a race has found a tomb, 
 
 Haunts me, and will not go. 
 
 Yet from yonder rocky summits 
 
 The air is cool, and it darkens, 
 
 Frown those moss-grown towers of 
 gloom ; 
 
 And calmly flows the Rhine, 
 
 The mountain-peaks are sparkling 
 
 And within the dreary valley 
 
 In the sunny evening-shine. 
 
 Fearful sights are seen by night ; 
 
 , 
 
 There, as midnight strikes, the brothers 
 
 And yonder sits a maiden, 
 The fairest of the fair ; 
 
 Still renew their ghastly fight. 
 
 With gold is her garment glittering, 
 
 
 
 And she combs her golden hair : 
 
 THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 
 
 With a golden comb she combs it; 
 
 The sea it hath its pearls, 
 
 And a wild song singeth she, 
 
 The heaven hath its stars, 
 
 That melts the heart with a wondrous 
 
 But my heart, my heart, 
 
 And powerful melody. 
 
 My heart hath its love. 
 
 The boatman feels his bosom 
 
 Great are the sea and the heaven, 
 
 With a nameless longing move ; 
 
 Yet greater is my heart, 
 
 He sees not the gulfs before him, 
 
 And fairer than pearls and stars 
 
 His gaze is fixed above, 
 
 Flashes and beams my love. 
 
 Till over boat and boatman 
 
 Thou little, youthful maiden, 
 
 The Rhine's deep waters run : 
 
 Come unto my great heart ; 
 
 And this, with her magic singing, 
 
 My heart, and the sea, and the heaven 
 
 The Lore-lei has done ! 
 
 Are melting away with love. 
 
 THE HOSTILE BROTHERS. 
 
 THE FIR-TREE AND THE PALM. 
 
 Yonder, on the mountain summit, 
 
 A lonely fir-tree standeth 
 
 Lies the castle wrapped in night; 
 
 On a height where north winds blow ; 
 
 In the valley gleam the sparkles 
 
 It sleepeth, with whitened garment, 
 
 Struck from clashing swords in fight. 
 
 Enshrouded by ice and snow. 
 
 It dreameth of a palm-tree, 
 That far in the Eastern land, 
 
 Lonely and silent, mourneth 
 On its burning shelf of sand. 
 
 * A witch, who, in the form of a lovely maiden, used to 
 place herself on the remarkable rock, called the Lurleyberg, 
 overlooking the Rhine, and, by her magic songs arresting 
 the attention of the boatmen, lured them into the neigh- 
 bouring whirlpool. 
 
352 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 AUGUST HEINRICH HOFFMANN VON 
 EALLERSLEBEN. 
 
 August Heinrich Hoffmann, callpd Von 
 Fallersleben, to distinguish him from the numer- 
 ous other writers of the same name, was born 
 April 2d, 1798, at Fallersleben. In 1812, he 
 entered the Gymnasium at Helmstadt, and in 
 1816, began his studies at the University of 
 Gottingen. He was destined for theology, but 
 soon gave it up and devoted himself wholly 
 to literary history and German philology, the 
 study of which he prosecuted at the newly 
 established University of Bonn, to which he 
 resorted in 1819. In his various journeys along 
 the Rhine, his attention was attracted to the 
 remains of German popular poetry still pre- 
 served among the people. In 1821, he visited 
 Holland for the purpose of investigating the 
 old Netherlandish literature. In 1823, he was 
 appointed keeper of the University library at 
 Breslau. In 1830, he was made Professor Ex- 
 traordinary, and in 1835, Ordinary Professor of 
 the German Language and Literature in the 
 Berlin University. Besides numerous valuable 
 works in various departments of literary history 
 and criticism, particularly upon German phi- 
 lology, he has also written " Alemannic Songs," 
 Fallersleben, 1826; "Poems," two volumes, 
 Leipsic, 1833; "The Book of Love," Breslau, 
 1836 ; " Poems, a new Collection," Breslau, 
 1837. His poems are distinguished by an art- 
 less simplicity, by harmony of language, and 
 skilful versification. 
 
 The following is part of Laube's* sketch of 
 Hoffmann von Fallersleben. 
 
 " I can never speak of Hoffmann without 
 singing some of his verses, and methinks that 
 is a good sign. He is a singer, and not merely 
 the idea of a singer, like many of those our 
 blessed native land possesses. I never think of 
 the secunda and prima, where metre was drilled 
 into us, where, in a dead white, comfortless 
 room, we sat on black, unyielding benches ; I 
 do not think of the metrical crotchets and qua- 
 vers, when I see Hoffmann ; no, thank God ! 
 one needs not to have learned, in order to enjoy 
 him. The sounding beech-groves upon our 
 hillocks, the hamlets with black wooden walls, 
 with nut-brown maids, and uproarious young- 
 sters in short leathern breeches and short jack- 
 ets, — the whole, dear, rustic Germany rises 
 before me in this poet. The little, peaceful 
 valleys, with their green slopes, open before me ; 
 I see the white cottages, I hear the clarionet, 
 and under the great linden, before the inn, sits a 
 long gentleman with one or two travelling com- 
 panions, in the midst of boors. A great flask 
 of wine stands before him, a happy friendliness 
 rests upon his features, and smiling eyes upon 
 that small, delicate countenance. Long, waving 
 locks fl >at over his shoulders, and a little, funny 
 
 * Mnderne Characteristiken, Vol. II.. p. 121. 
 
 black cap covers the top of his head. He shows 
 in his looks that his heart is delighted with the 
 clarionet, with the merry peasants, with the sun- 
 beams dancing among the branches of the lin- 
 den, with the whole world, and the next song, 
 that is already sitting upon his lips. Is it 
 an ancient wayfaring Mastersinger ? There is 
 something in the whole cut of his figure so like 
 the later Middle Ages, something so scholarly 
 and careless and German. Such a long, slen- 
 der man, with his hearty affection for his coun- 
 try, — it can only be a German, who loves the 
 spring, the wine-cup, and a traveller's song, to 
 the melody, 
 
 " ' Once on a time, three -jolly blades, 
 Three jolly blades were they,' — 
 who likes all that a great deal better than free- 
 dom and fame and God knows what. 
 
 " Yes, it is a German, and that, too, a Ger- 
 man from Fallersleben ; it is the tail Hoffmann 
 von Fallersleben, the tall professor ; a Ger- 
 man poet through and through and over and 
 over. I never thought of any thing but Ger- 
 many, when I saw him near Breslau, striding 
 along the Marienau Oderdamm, with long and 
 wide step, into the shade of the oaks. By day, 
 he sits in the cool, lofty library on the Sand- 
 gasse, where once monks or nuns have prayed. 
 There he studies old German codices ; hard 
 by ring the bells of the Sandkirche; single la- 
 borious students pass reverently, softly brushing 
 by the long rows of books, and look with as- 
 tonishment upon the folios. There, perhaps, a 
 silent song occurs to him, of romantic longing 
 for the ancient Rhine, its castles, turrets, and 
 cellars. And when he goes home at evening, 
 the trees are rustling, the maidens singing, the 
 lads yodling, the mother lulling the baby to 
 sleep, a lover standing on the bridge and wait- 
 ing for his love. 
 
 " From all this, the homely, hearty, and yet so 
 bright and fresh poetry of Hoffmann is woven. 
 The German song is his soul. It sounds, and 
 rustles, and rings through all his little volumes 
 of songs : all we can do fitly is to write a song 
 again about him ; reviewing sounds like a dis- 
 cord. Swallows, living swallows are his poems, 
 and the spring is not far off." 
 
 ON THE WALHALLA.* 
 
 Hail to thee, thou lofty hall 
 Of German greatness, German glory ! 
 
 Hail to you, ye heroes all 
 Of ancient and of modern story ! 
 
 O, ye heroes in the hall, 
 Were ye but alive, as once ! 
 
 Nay, that would not do at all, — 
 The king prefers you, stone and bronze ! 
 
 * A temple on the banks of the Danube, near Regens- 
 burs, in which the king of Bavaria has assembled the busta 
 and statues of the great men of Germany, heroes, patriots, 
 and reformers; Luther, and such little men, however, ex- 
 cepted. 
 
HOFFMANN. — GRABBE. 
 
 355 
 
 LAMENTATION FOR THE GOLDEN AGE. 
 
 Would our bottles but grow deeper, 
 Did our wine but once get cheaper, 
 Then on earth there might unfold 
 The golden time, the age of gold. 
 
 But not for us, — we are commanded 
 To go with temperance even-handed ; — 
 The golden age is for the dead ; 
 We 've got the paper age instead. 
 
 But, ah ! our bottles still decline, 
 And daily dearer grows our wine, 
 And flat and void our pockets fall ; — 
 Faith ! soon there '11 be no times at all ! 
 
 GERMAN NATIONAL "WEALTH. 
 
 Hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! 
 
 We 're off unto America ! 
 
 What shall we take to our new land ? 
 
 All sorts of things from every hand ! 
 
 Confederation protocols ; 
 
 Heaps of tax and budget-rolls ; 
 
 A whole ship-load of skins, to fill 
 
 With proclamations just at will. 
 
 Or when we to the New World come, 
 
 The German will not feel at home. 
 
 Hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! 
 We 're off unto America ! 
 What shall we take to our new land? 
 All sorts of things from every hand ! 
 A brave supply of corporals' canes; 
 Of livery suits a hundred wains ; 
 Cockades, gay caps to fill a house, and 
 Armorial buttons a hundred thousand. 
 Or when we to the New World come, 
 The German will not feel at home. 
 
 Hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! 
 We 're off unto America ! 
 What shall we take to our new land ? 
 All sorts of things from every hand ! 
 Chamberlains' keys ; a pile of sacks ; 
 Books of full blood-descents in packs ; 
 Dog-chains and sword-chains by the ton ; 
 Of order-ribbons bales twenty-one. 
 Or when to the New World we come, 
 The German will not feel at home. 
 
 Hurra! hurra! hurra! hurra! 
 
 We 're off unto America! 
 
 What shall we take to our new land ? 
 
 All sorts of things from every hand ! 
 
 Skull-caps, periwigs, old-world airs; 
 
 Crutches, privileges, easy-chairs ; 
 
 Councillors' titles, private lists, 
 
 Nine hundred and ninety thousand chests. 
 
 Or when to the New World we come, 
 
 The German will not feel at home. 
 
 Hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! 
 We 're off unto America! 
 45 
 
 What shall we take to our new land? 
 All sorts of things from every hand ! 
 Receipts for tax, toll, christening, wedding. • 
 
 and funeral ; 
 Passports and wander-books great and small ; 
 Plenty of rules for censors' inspections, 
 And just three million police-directions. 
 Or when to the New World we come, 
 The German will not feel at home. 
 
 DIETRICH CHRISTIAN GRABBE. 
 
 This unfortunate, but richly gifted person 
 was born at Detmold, December 11th, 1801 
 His whole life was made wretched by the 
 demoralizing circumstances in which his child- 
 hood was passed under the domestic roof. In 
 spite of such unhappy influences at home, 
 Grabbe was laborious at school, and at the 
 Universities of Leipsic and Berlin. He wrote 
 several dramas, which indicated great, though 
 irregular and disordered powers ; but his per- 
 sonal character prevented him from forming 
 intimate relations with the distinguished men 
 whom the genius displayed in his writings had 
 at first attracted. He attempted, but without 
 success, to figure upon the stage. After this 
 he gave several years of earnest labor to his 
 juridical studies, commenced the practice of 
 law, received a government appointment, and 
 married ; but he soon fell into difficulties of 
 various kinds. His dissipated habits had brok- 
 en down his health, and he quarrelled with 
 his acquaintances and his wife ; but his poet- 
 ical abilities were not suffered to remain idle. 
 He was at length dismissed from his place, 
 deserted his wife, and went to Frankfort, 
 whence, on the invitation of Immermann, he 
 repaired to Dilsseldorf. Here, after a short 
 respite, he yielded himself wholly to dissipa- 
 tion, abandoned himself to the lowest com- 
 pany, and was utterly ruined. In May, 1836, 
 he returned, with health irremediably shatter- 
 ed, to his native city, was reconciled with his 
 wife, and died on the 12th of September. Frei- 
 ligrath has commemorated this ill-fated man in 
 a poem, from which the following lines are 
 taken. 
 
 "This camp ! ah, yes ! methinks it images well 
 
 What thou hast been, thou lonely tower ! 
 Moonbeam and lamplight mingled ; the deep choral swell 
 
 Of Music, in her peals of proudpst power, • 
 And then — the tavern dice-box rattle ! 
 
 The Grand and the Familiar fought 
 
 Within thee for the mastery ; and thy depth of thought 
 And play of wit made every conflict a drawn battle . 
 
 "And, 0, that such a mind, so rich, so overflowing 
 
 With ancient lore and modern phantasy, 
 
 And prodigal of its irea, ures as a tree 
 Of golden leaves when autumn winds are blowing, — 
 That such a mind, made to illume and glad 
 
 All minds, all hearts, should have itself become 
 
 Affliction's chosen sanctuary and home ! 
 This is, in truth, most marvellous and sad ! " 
 
 DD2 
 
354 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 The works of Grabbe are chiefly dramatic ; 
 the most noted of tbem are, "The Duke of 
 Gothland," " Don Juan and Faust," " Barba- 
 rossa," " Henry the Sixth," and "The Battle 
 of Arminius." He also wrote a dramatic epic, 
 entitled "Napoleon, or the Hundred Days." 
 
 EXTRACT FROM CINDERELLA. 
 
 [Sceite. — A grass-plat surrounded by woods and hills. — 
 The Fairies appear.] 
 
 THE FAIRIES. 
 
 Nestled in the rose we lie, 
 
 And scatter perfume through the sky. 
 
 FIRST FAIRY. 
 
 The snowdrop bells are ringing. 
 
 SECOND FAIRY. 
 
 Hark, how the brooks are singing ! 
 
 FAIRIES. 
 
 They ring, they sing, 
 
 For the coming spring ! 
 From a far-off zone does the stranger seem, 
 And his robe is wove of the sunny beam. 
 
 FIRST FAIRY. 
 
 The golden sun is the crown he wears. 
 
 SECOND FAIRY. 
 
 His carpet, the dew-besprinkled green. 
 
 FIRST FAIRY. 
 
 The flowers, the prints where his foot hath 
 been. 
 
 SECOND FAIRY. 
 
 And winter flies when his voice he hears. 
 
 FIRST FAIRY. 
 
 The greenwood longs for his warm embrace. 
 
 SECOND FAIRY. 
 
 The lake looks up with a smiling face. 
 
 FIRST FAIRY. 
 
 And the bee and fly 
 
 In ambush lie, 
 
 To catch but a glance of his gentle eye. 
 
 Hear'st thou the tale 
 
 Of the nightingale ? 
 
 SECOND FAIRY. 
 
 Clear as the day sounds her silver note. 
 Through the thickets dark, 
 Breaks the glowing spark 
 That fires my bosom and tunes my throat 
 To sing love's joys and woes. 
 
 FIRST FAIRY. 
 
 What means the perfume of the rose ? 
 
 SECOND FAIRY. 
 
 'T is the rose's voice, 
 
 That, with trembling noise, 
 Thus to the sun-god whispers low 
 
 "In my bed of green 
 
 Did I sleep unseen, 
 Till thou didst wake me to blush and blow ! " 
 
 a gnome (rising out of the earth). 
 So ! So ! 
 Why here 's a taking spectacle ! 
 A miracle ! a miracle ! 
 Not much amiss, in truth, are they ; 
 And I am not quite frightful in my way. 
 Here, then, I may succeed, — at least, I '11 try 
 I see no use of being over-shy. 
 Ah ! what a foot and ankle now was there ! 
 She dances on the air 
 Unharmed, as I declare ! 
 O, were I but as light and debonair ! 
 
 the fairies (without perceiving the Gnome). 
 Greet well the gentle spring ! 
 As in the swimming eye 
 Of love, in ecstasy, 
 Sparkles the evening star with softer light ; 
 So, fierier and more bright, 
 Shine out the new-born world ! 
 Their hair with leafy garlands curled, 
 The horn of plenty heavy in their hand, 
 The hours, a smiling band, 
 In flying dance shall greet the race of men 
 No evil eye 
 
 From subterranean deeps be there to spy ; 
 But golden morns be near, 
 And evenings swathed in gold, 
 And noons all crystal-clear, 
 To light him on his way ! 
 Away ! dull clouds, away ! 
 Let naught but fleecy flakes, 
 Like solitary sheep, 
 Across the blue of heaven 
 At times come driving by, 
 Losing themselves in its immensity. 
 
 GNOME. 
 
 I must confess I like these fairies now ; 
 All of them pretty fair, I must avow. 
 But yet I can 't make up my mind 
 To which of all the group I am inclined. 
 That nearest one would never do 
 
 the fairies (suddenly perceiving him). 
 See ! see ! a gnome ! 
 
 GNOME. 
 
 A gnome ? — and what of that? 
 
 THE FAIRIES. 
 
 How short and squat ! 
 His hair how tangled ! and how black, l:ke soot 
 
 GNOME. 
 
 Upon my honor, 't is the latest cut. 
 
 FAIRIES. 
 
 Has he an eye ? or has he not ? 
 
 GNOME. 
 
 They 're quizzing me, I see, by Jove ! 
 And quizzing is a step to love. 
 But what is this? — O Lord ! I faint for fear 
 
 FAIRIES. 
 
 Our queen, our queen draws near ' 
 
 [The queen of ihe Fairies appears 
 
SIMROCK. — MOSEN. 
 
 355 
 
 GNOME. 
 
 O all ye lightnings, 
 
 No meteor flashes brighter 
 
 Than she, from pole to pole ! 
 
 She is, indeed, the fairest of them all ! 
 
 See, how, submissive, at her feet they fall ! 
 
 The sun himself loses his countenance 
 
 Before her blooming cheek, her garment's glance! 
 
 I feel, I know not how, — I really quake. 
 
 O, yes ! this must be love, — and no mistake. 
 
 FIRST FAIRY. 
 
 The queen is angry, — see, she pouts her lip ! 
 
 GNOME. 
 
 Would that I were a bee, from thence to sip ! 
 
 KARL SIMROCK. 
 
 This distinguished scholar and author was 
 born at Bonn, August 28th, 1802. He received 
 his early education at the Lyceum. In 1818, 
 after the left bank of the Rhine had been re- 
 stored to Germany, he commenced the study 
 of law at the newly established University of 
 Bonn, and completed it in Berlin under the 
 direction of Savigny. In 1823, he entered 
 the Prussian civil service. But from his early 
 youth he had shown a love of poetry and letters. 
 His first translation of the " Nibelungenlied " 
 appeared in 1827. In 1830, some expressions 
 in a poem, which he wrote on the July Revolu- 
 tion in France, caused his dismissal from the 
 service. But this did not interfere with his 
 literary ardor. He has since then published a 
 series of very interesting and valuable works, 
 consisting of translations from the old German, 
 such as the poems of Walther von der Vogel- 
 weide, editions of the originals of many curi- 
 ous and important ancient German poems, 
 translations from Shakspeare, &c. Since 1839, 
 he has been associated with Freiligrath and 
 Matzerath, in writing the " Rheinische Jahrbuch 
 fur Kunst und Poesie." 
 
 WARNING AGAINST THE RHINE. 
 
 To the Rhine, to the Rhine, go not to the Rhine, — 
 
 I counsel thee well, my boy; 
 Too many delights of life there combine, 
 
 Too blooming the spirit's joy. 
 
 Seest the maidens so frank, and the men so free, 
 
 As a noble race they were, 
 And near with thy soul all-glowing shouldst be, — 
 
 Then it seems to thee good and fair. 
 
 On the river, how greet thee the castles so bright, 
 
 And the great cathedral town ! 
 On the hills, how thou climbest the dizzy height, 
 
 And into the stream lookest down ! 
 
 And the Nix from the deep emerges to light, 
 
 And thou hast beheld her glee, 
 And the Lurley hath sung with lips so white, — 
 
 My son, 't is all over with thee. 
 
 Enchants thee the sound, befools thee the shine, 
 Art with rapture and fear overcome, — 
 
 Thou singest for aye, " On the Rhine ! on the 
 Rhine ! " 
 And returnest no more to thy home. 
 
 JULIUS MOSEN. 
 
 Julius Mosen was born at the village of 
 Marienei, in Saxon Voigtland, July 8th, 1803. 
 His education, until his fourteenth year, was 
 directed by his father ; he was then placed at 
 the Gymnasium in Plauen. He did not readily 
 submit himself to the discipline of the school, 
 but when, in 1822, he entered the University 
 of Jena, he found the comparative freedom of 
 the student-life very much to his taste, and 
 several of his poems were composed at this pe- 
 riod. In 1824, he travelled in Italy ; and after- 
 wards, in 1826, accompanied by Dr. Kluge, who 
 died subsequently in Egypt, he visited Florence 
 and Venice. In 1827, he resorted to the Univer- 
 sity of Leipsic, and in the following year passed 
 his examination in law. He returned home, 
 but found himself reduced to poverty, with but 
 a slender chance of mending his condition by 
 the practice of his profession. The July Rev- 
 olution made a deep impression on his mind, 
 and roused him from despair. He went to 
 Leipsic, and published the novel, " George Ven- 
 lot." In 1831, he left Leipsic, and received 
 an appointment in Kohren, which he held until 
 1834. Since then he has lived at Dresden, 
 and has published an epic poem, "Ahasuerus," 
 Dresden and Leipsic, 1838; "Poems," Leipsic, 
 1836; ballads, tales, and a number of historical 
 dramas. He also labors in his profession, as 
 an advocate. 
 
 Ferdinand Stolle says, in the preface to " The 
 Book of Songs,"* "The poetry of Julius Mo- 
 sen, like a mineral spring, rushes down from a 
 high and forest-covered mountain, bearing gold- 
 en grains, now breaking boldly through the 
 rocks, now sporting with the bluebell flowers, 
 which hang down from its margin. Mosen, 
 next to Heine, has the most original power, 
 depth, and delicacy of all the lyrical poets ol 
 the present age. His songs are magnets, which 
 must be borne not so much on the breast as in 
 the breast, in order to be convinced of theii 
 miraculous vigor." 
 
 THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR. 
 
 Forms of saints and kings are standing 
 
 The cathedral door above ; 
 Yet I saw but one among them, 
 
 Who hath soothed my soul with lov« 
 
 * Das Buch der Lieder, oder die Lyriker der Gegenwarl 
 in ihren Sch'dnsten Ges'angen, herausgegeben Von Fep.di 
 nand Stolle. Grimma, 1839. 
 
356 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 In his mantle, — wound about him, 
 As their robes the sowers wind, — 
 
 Bore he swallows and their fledglings, 
 Flowers and weeds of every kind. 
 
 And so stands he calm and childlike, 
 High in wind and tempest wild ; 
 
 O, were I like him exalted, 
 I would be like him, a child ! 
 
 And my songs, — green leaves and blossoms,- 
 Up to heaven's door would bear, 
 
 Calling, even in storm and tempest, 
 Round me still these birds of air. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. 
 
 On the cross the dying Saviour 
 Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, 
 
 Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
 In his pierced and bleeding palm. 
 
 And by all the world forsaken, 
 Sees he how with zealous care 
 
 At the ruthless nail of iron 
 A poor bird is striving there. 
 
 Stained with blood and never tiring, 
 With its beak it doth not cease, 
 
 From the cross 't would free the Saviour, 
 Its Creator's Son release. 
 
 And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 
 "Blest be thou of all the good ! 
 
 Bear, as token of this moment, 
 Marks of blood and holy-rood ! " 
 
 And that bird is called the crossbill ; 
 
 Covered quite with blood so clear, 
 In the groves of pine it singeth 
 
 Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 
 
 ANTON ALEXANDER VON AUER- 
 SPERG. 
 
 This writer, belonging to the noble and 
 princely house of Auersperg, was born April 
 11, 1806. He is known under the poetical 
 pseudonym of Anastasius GrOn. His poem en- 
 titled "The Last Knight" appeared at Munich, 
 in 1831; and his pieces called "Walks of a 
 Poet of Vienna " have gained him great celeb- 
 rity, and placed him among the best of the liv- 
 ing German poets. 
 
 SALOON SCENE. 
 
 'T 13 evening : flame the chandeliers in the or- 
 namented hall ; 
 
 From the crystal of tall mirrors thousand-fold 
 their splendors fall : 
 
 In the sea of radiance moving, almost floating, 
 
 round are seen 
 Lovely ladies young and joyous, ancient dames 
 
 of solemn mien. 
 
 And amongst them staidly pacing, with their 
 
 orders graced, elate, 
 Here the rougher sons of war, there peaceful 
 
 servants of the state ; 
 But, observed by all observers, wandering 'mid 
 
 them, one I view 
 Whom none to approach dare venture, save the 
 
 elect, illustrious few. 
 
 It is he who holds the rudder of proud Austria's 
 
 ship of state, 
 Who, 'mid crowned heads in congress, acting 
 
 for her, sits sedate. 
 But now see him ! O, how modest ! how polite 
 
 to one and all ! 
 Gracious, courtly, smiling round him, on the 
 
 great and on the small. 
 
 The stars upon his bosom glitter faintly in the 
 
 circle's blaze, 
 But a smile so mild and friendly ever on his 
 
 features plays : 
 Both when from a lovely bosom now he takes 
 
 a budding rose, 
 And now realms, like flowers withered, plucks, 
 
 and scatters as he goes. 
 
 Equally bewitching sounds it, when fair locks 
 
 his praise attends, 
 Or when he from heads anointed kingly crowns 
 
 so calmly rends : 
 Ay, the happy mortal seemeth in celestial joys 
 
 to swim, 
 Whom his word to Elba doometh, or to Mun- 
 
 kat's dungeons grim. 
 
 O, could Europe now but see him, so obliging, 
 
 so gallant, 
 As the man in martial raiment, as the church's 
 
 priestly saint, 
 As the state's star-covered servant, by his smile 
 
 to heaven advanced, 
 As the ladies, old and young, are all enraptured 
 
 and entranced ! 
 
 Man o' th' empire ! Man o' th' council ! as 
 thou art in kindly mood, 
 
 Show'st thyself just now so gracious, unto all 
 so wondrous good, — , 
 
 See ! without, an humble client to thy princely 
 gate hath pressed, 
 
 Who with token of thy favor burns to be su- 
 premely blessed. 
 
 Nay, — thou hast no cause of terror; he is hon- 
 est and discreet, 
 
 Carries no concealed dagger 'neath his garments 
 smooth and neat : 
 
 It is Austria's people ! — open, full of truth and 
 honor, — see ! 
 
 How he prays most mildly, " May I — take the 
 freedom to be free ? " 
 
AUERSPERG. 
 
 357 
 
 THE CENSOR. 
 
 Many a hero-priest is shown us in the storied 
 
 times of yore, 
 Who the word of truth, undaunted, through the 
 
 world unceasing bore ; 
 Who in halls of kings hath shouted, — "Fie ! 
 
 I scent lost Freedom's grave ! " 
 And to many a high dissembler bluntly cried, 
 
 " Thou art a knave ! " 
 
 Were I but such Freedom's champion, shrouded 
 
 in the monkish frock, 
 Straight unto the Censor's dwelling I must hie, 
 
 and loudly knock; 
 To the man must say, — "Arch scoundrel! 
 
 down at once upon thy knees ! 
 For thou art a vile offender, — down ! confess 
 
 thy villanies ! " 
 
 And I hear the wretch already how he wipes 
 his vileness clean, — 
 
 " O, your reverence is in error, I am not the 
 man you mean ! 
 
 I omit 10 mass, no duty, fill my post with ser- 
 vice true ; 
 
 I 'm no lewd one, no blasphemer, murderer, 
 thief, or godless Jew ! " 
 
 But my zeal indignant flashes from my heart in 
 
 flaming tones ; 
 Like the thunder 'mid the mountains, in his ear 
 
 my answer groans : 
 Every glance falls like an arrow, cutting through 
 
 his guilty heart ; 
 Every word is like a hammer, which makes 
 
 bone and marrow part. 
 
 •' Yes ! thou art a stock-blind Hebrew ! for thou 
 hast not yet divined, 
 
 That for us, like Christ, all-glorious rose, too, 
 Freedom of the Mind ! 
 
 Yes ! thou art a bloody murderer ! doubly cursed 
 and doubly fell ! — 
 
 Others merely murder bodies, — thou dost mur- 
 der souls as well ! 
 
 " Yes ! iiioii art a thief, a base one ! or, by 
 Heaven ! a fouler wight ! — 
 
 Others to steal fruits do merely leap our garden- 
 fence by night ; 
 
 But thou, wretch ! into the garden of the human 
 mind hast broke, 
 
 And with fruit, and leaf, and blossom, fell'st the 
 tree too at a stroke ! 
 
 •'Yes ! thou art a base adulterer! but in shame 
 art doubly base ! — 
 
 Others burn and strive for beauties that their 
 neighbours' gardens grace ; 
 
 But a crime inspired by beauty for thy grovel- 
 ling soul 's too poor : 
 
 Night, and fog, and vilest natures can alone 
 thy heart allure ! 
 
 " Yes ! thou art a foul blasphemer ! or, by 
 
 Heaven ! a devil born ! — 
 Others wood and marble figures dash to pieces, 
 
 in their scorn ; 
 But thy hand, relentless villain ! strikes to dust 
 
 the living frame, 
 Which man's soul, God's holy image, quickens 
 
 with its thoughts of flame ! 
 
 " Yes ! thou art an awful sinner ! True, our 
 
 laws yet leave thee free ; 
 But within thy soul, in terror, rack and gallows 
 
 must thou see ! 
 Smite thy breast, then, in contrition ; thy bowed 
 
 head strew ashes o'er; 
 Bend thy knee, make full confession ; — go thy 
 
 way, and sin no more ! " 
 
 THE CUSTOMS-CORDON. 
 
 Our country is a garden, which the timid gard- 
 ener's doubt 
 
 With an iron palisado has inclosed round 
 about ; 
 
 But without live folk whom entrance to this 
 garden could make glad ; 
 
 And a guest who loves sweet scenery cannot 
 be so very bad. 
 
 Black and yellow lists go stretching round our 
 
 borders grim and tight ; 
 Custom-house and beadle-watchers guard our 
 
 frontiers day and night, — 
 Sit by day before the tax-house, lurk by night 
 
 i' th' long damp grass, 
 Silent, crouching on their stomachs, lowering 
 
 round on all that pass ; 
 
 That no single foreign dealer, foreign wine, to- 
 bacco bale, 
 
 Foreign silk, or foreign linen, slyly steal within 
 their pale ; 
 
 That a guest, than all more hated, set not foot 
 upon our earth, — 
 
 Thought, which in a foreign soil, in foreign light, 
 has had its birth ! 
 
 Finally the watch grows weary, when the ghost- 
 ly hour draws near ; 
 
 For in our good land how many from all spec- 
 tres shrink in fear ! 
 
 Cold and cutting blows the north wind, on each 
 limb doth faintness fall ; 
 
 To the pot-house steal the watchers, where both 
 wine and comfort call. 
 
 See ! there start forth from the bushes, from the 
 
 night-wind's shrouding wings, 
 Men with heavy packs all laden, carts upheaped 
 
 with richest things : 
 Silent as the night-fog creeping, through the 
 
 noiseless tracts they wend ; 
 See ! there, too, goes Tfiought amongst them 
 
 towards his mission's sacred end. 
 
358 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 With the smugglers must he travel, — he whom 
 nothing hides from sight ; 
 
 With the murky mists go creeping, — he the 
 son of Day and Light ! 
 
 0, come forth, ye thirsty drinkers ! weary 
 watchers-out, this way ! 
 
 Fling yourselves in rank and file, — post your- 
 selves in armed array ! 
 
 Point your muskets ! sink your colors, with the 
 
 freeman's solemn pride ! 
 Let the drums give joyful thunder ! — cast the 
 
 jealous barriers wide ! 
 That with green palms all-victorious, proud and 
 
 free in raiment bright, 
 Through the hospitable country Thought may 
 
 wander, scattering light! 
 
 THE LAST POET. 
 
 " When will your bards be weary 
 Of rhyming on ? How long 
 
 Ere it is sung and ended, 
 The old, eternal song ? 
 
 " Is it not, long since, empty, 
 The horn of full supply ; 
 
 And all the posies gathered, 
 And all the fountains dry ? " 
 
 As long as the sun's chariot 
 Yet keeps its azure track, 
 
 And but one human visage 
 
 Gives answering glances back; 
 
 As long as skies shall nourish 
 The thunderbolt and gale, 
 
 And, frightened at their fury, 
 One throbbing heart shall quail ; 
 
 As long as after tempests 
 
 Shall spring one showery bow, 
 
 One breast with peaceful promise 
 And reconcilement glow; 
 
 As long as night the concave 
 Sows with its starry seed, 
 
 And but one man those letters 
 Of golden writ can read ; 
 
 Long as a moonbeam glimmers, 
 
 Or bosom sighs a vow ; 
 Long as the wood-leaves rustle 
 
 To cool a weary brow ; 
 
 As long as roses blossom, 
 And earth is green in May 
 
 As long as eyes shall sparkle 
 And smile in pleasure's ray; 
 
 As long as cypress shadows 
 
 The graves more mournful make, 
 
 Or one cheek 's wet with weeping, 
 Or one poor heart can break; — 
 
 So long on earth shall wander 
 
 The goddess Poesy, 
 And with her, one exulting 
 
 Her votarist to be. 
 
 And singing on, triumphing, 
 
 The old earth-mansion through, 
 
 Out marches the last minstrel ; — 
 He is the last man too. 
 
 The Lord holds the creation 
 Forth in his hand meanwhile, 
 
 Like a fresh flower just opened, 
 And views it with a smile. 
 
 When once this Flower Giant 
 
 Begins to show decay, 
 And earths and suns are flying 
 
 Like blossom-dust away; 
 
 Then ask, — if of the question 
 Not weary yet, — "How long, 
 
 Ere it is sung and ended, 
 The old, eternal song? " 
 
 HENRY FRAUENLOB. 
 
 In Mentz 't is hushed and lonely, the streets 
 are waste and drear, 
 
 And none but forms of sorrow, clad in mourn- 
 ing garbs, appear ; 
 
 And only from the steeple sounds the death- 
 bell's sullen boom ; 
 
 One street alone is crowded, and it leads but to 
 the tomb. 
 
 And as the echo from the tower grows faint and 
 
 dies away, 
 Unto the minster comes a still and sorrowful 
 
 array, — 
 The old man and the young, the child, and 
 
 many a maiden fair ; 
 And every eye is dim with tears, in every 
 
 heart is care. 
 
 Six virgins in the centre bear a coffin and a bier, 
 And to the rich high-altar steps with deadened 
 
 chant draw near, 
 Where all around for saintly forms are dark 
 
 escutcheons found, 
 With a cross of simple white displayed upon a 
 
 raven ground. 
 
 And, placed that raven pall above, a laurel-gar- 
 land green, 
 
 The minstrel's verdant coronet, his meed of 
 song, is seen ; 
 
 His golden harp, beside it laid, a feeble murmur 
 flings, 
 
 As the evening wind sweeps sadly through its 
 now forsaken strings. 
 
 Who rests within his coffin there? For whom 
 
 this general wail ? 
 Is some beloved monarch gone, that old and 
 
 young look pale ? 
 
PFIZER. — FREILIGRATH. 
 
 359 
 
 A. king, in truth, — a king of song! and Frau- 
 
 enlob his name ; 
 And thus in death his fatherland must celebrate 
 
 his fame. 
 
 Unto the fairest flowers of heaven that bloom 
 
 this earth along, 
 To women's worth, did he on earth devote his 
 
 deathless song; 
 And though the minstrel hath grown old, and 
 
 faded be his frame, 
 They yet requite what he in life hath done for 
 
 love and them. 
 
 GUSTAV PFIZER. 
 
 Gustav Pfizer, well known as a poet, 
 translator, and critic, was born at Stuttgart, 
 July 29, 1809. His education was commenced 
 at the Gymnasium there, and he afterwards 
 studied philology, philosophy, and theology at 
 Tubingen. But few events have happened to 
 disturb the even tenor of his literary life. His 
 "Poems," published at Stuttgart, 1831, were 
 received with applause. In 1834, after a tour 
 in Italv, he published a new collection. He 
 has written a " Life of Luther " ; translated 
 the greater part of Byron's poems, several of 
 Bui wer's novels, and the " Athens " of the same 
 author; he has published many poems, in vari- 
 ous journals, and contributed critical articles to 
 the reviews ; thus leading a life of external quiet, 
 but of great literary activity. 
 
 THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 
 
 A youth, light-hearted and content, 
 
 I wander through the world ; 
 Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent, 
 
 And straight again is furled. 
 
 Yet oft I dream that on"e a wife 
 
 Close in my heart was locked, 
 And in the sweet repose of life 
 
 A blessed child I rocked. 
 
 I wake ! Away, that dream, — away ! 
 
 Too long did it remain ! 
 So long, that, both by night and day, 
 
 It ever comes again. 
 
 The end lies ever in my thought; — 
 
 To a grave so cold and deep 
 The mother beautiful was brought ; 
 
 Then dropped the child asleep. 
 
 But now the dream is wholly o'er, 
 
 I bathe mine eyes and see; 
 \nd wander through the world once more, 
 
 A youth so light and free. 
 
 Two locks, — and they are wondrous fair, — 
 
 Left me that vision mild; 
 The brown is from the mother's hair, 
 
 The blond is from the child. 
 
 And when I see that lock of gold, 
 Pale grows the evening-red ; 
 
 And when the dark lock I behold, 
 I wish that I were dead. 
 
 FERDINAND FREILIGRATH. 
 
 Ferdinand Freiligrath was born at Det- 
 mold, in Westphalia, in the year 1810, and 
 there passed his childhood and early youth. 
 He afterwards engaged in commercial pursuits, 
 and resided for a season in Holland. Of late 
 years, he has given himself wholly to literature, 
 and has chosen for his residence the beautiful 
 town of St. Goar, on the Rhine, where, divid- 
 ing his time between his books and his friends, 
 he leads the true life of a poet, in the quiet of 
 rural scenes, whose seclusion is not solitude, 
 and whose transcendent beauty moves the soul 
 to song. 
 
 Among all the younger poets of Germany, 
 Freiligrath possesses the highest claim to our 
 admiration. He has the richest imagination 
 and the greatest power of language. His writ- 
 ings are filled with the most vivid pictures, 
 sketched with a bold hand and a brilliant col- 
 oring. He delights particularly in remote and 
 desert regions, in the geysers of Iceland, the 
 ocean, and the sands of Africa: 
 
 "Where the barren earth, and the burning sky, 
 And the blank horizon, round and round, 
 Spread, void of living sight or sonnd." 
 
 This is one of the most striking characteris- 
 tics of his genius, and was nurtured from his 
 childhood by his favorite books, which were 
 those of wild adventure, and voyages and trav- 
 els in far-off lands. He seems to say : 
 
 "Alone in the desert 1 love to ride, 
 With the silent bush-boy alone by my side ; 
 Away, away from the dwellings of men, 
 By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen, 
 By valleys remote, where the oribi plays, 
 Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hanebeest graze, 
 And the kudu and eland unhunted recline 
 By the skirts of gray forests o'erhung with wild vine, 
 Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, 
 And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, 
 And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 
 In the fen, where the wild ass is drinking his fill." 
 
 Indeed, from the vividness of his pictures, 
 the reader would be led to think him a great 
 traveller, and to imagine that he had seen all 
 he describes. But this is not the case. He 
 has beheld these scenes with the eye of the 
 mind only. 
 
 Freiligrath is also remarkable for his great 
 skill as a translator. Among other beautiful 
 versions, he has rendered into his native tongue 
 Shakspeare's "Venus and Adonis," and "The 
 Forest Sanctuary " of Mrs. Hemans ; and is 
 now occupied with a volume of selections from 
 the American poets. 
 
 The following characteristic poems, though 
 not always very literally rendered, are full o) 
 
360 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 life, and of that fire, vigor, and originality, 
 which place Freiligrath at the head of the 
 young poets of Germany. 
 
 " Wholly different from the other poets," 
 says Ferdinand Stolle,* "Ferdinand Freiligrath 
 gallops about upon his 'steed of Alexandria ' ; 
 and, from dislike of present time and place, 
 flies, with careering strength of imagination, to 
 the deserts of Arabia, where the phantom car- 
 avan sweeps grimly along, or to the interior 
 of Africa, where the lion bounds through the 
 sandy sea upon the bleeding giraffe, or to the 
 primeval forests of Canada, where the red men 
 sit silently around their fires." 
 
 THE MOORISH PRINCE. 
 PART I. 
 
 His lengthening host through the palm-vale 
 
 wound ; 
 The purple shawl on his locks he bound ; 
 He hung on his shoulders the lion-skin ; 
 Martially sounded the cymbal's din. 
 
 Like a sea of termites, that black, wild swarm 
 Swept, billowing onward : he fimig his dark arm, 
 Encircled with gold, round his loved one's 
 
 neck : — 
 " For the feast of victory, maiden, deck ! 
 
 " Lo ! glittering pearls I 've brought thee there, 
 
 To twine with thy dark and glossy hair ; 
 
 And the corals, all snake-like, in Persia's green 
 
 sea, 
 The dripping divers have fished for me. 
 
 " See, plumes of the ostrich, thy beauty to grace ! 
 Let them nod, snowy white, o'er thy dusky face ; 
 Deck the tent, make ready the feast for me, 
 Fill the garlanded goblet of victory ! " 
 
 And forth from his snowy and shimmering tent 
 
 The princely Moor in his armor went: 
 
 So looks the dark moon, when, eclipsed, through 
 
 the gate 
 Of the silver-edged clouds she rides forth in 
 
 her state. 
 
 A welcoming shout his proud host flings ; 
 And " welcome ! " the stamping steed's hoof 
 
 rings ; 
 For him rolls faithful the negro's blood, 
 And Niger's old, mysterious flood. 
 
 "Now lead us to victory, lead us to fight ! " — 
 They battled from morning far into the night; 
 The hollow tooth of the elephant blew 
 A blast that pierced each foeman through. 
 
 How scatter the lions ! the serpents fly 
 From the rattling tambour ; the flags on high, 
 All hung with skulls, proclaim the dead, 
 And the yellow desert is dyed in red. 
 
 * Das Buch der Lieder. Vorwort, p. 8. 
 
 So rings in the palm-vale the desperate fight; — 
 But she is preparing the feast for tae night ; 
 She fills the goblets with rich palm-wines, 
 And the shafts of the tent-poles with flowers 
 she twines. 
 
 With pearls, that Persia's green flood bare, 
 She winds her dark and curly hair ; 
 Feathers are floating her brow to deck, 
 And gay shells gleam on her arms and neck. 
 
 She sits by the door of her lover's tent, 
 She lists the far war-horn till morning is spent; 
 The noonday burns, the sun stings hot, 
 The garlands wither, — she heeds it not. 
 
 The sun goes down in the fading skies, 
 The night-dew trickles, the glowworm flies, 
 And the crocodile looks from the tepid pool, 
 As if he, too, would enjoy the cool. 
 
 The lion, he stirs him and roars for prey, 
 
 The elephant-tusks through the jungles make 
 
 way, 
 Home to her lair the giraffe goes, 
 And flower-leaves shut, and eyelids close. 
 
 When a bleeding, fugitive Moor draws nigh : — 
 " Farewell to all hope now ! The battle is lost! 
 Thy lover is captured, — he 's borne to the 
 coast, — 
 
 " They sell him to white men, — he 's carried — " 
 
 O, spare ! 
 The maiden falls headlong ; she clutches her 
 
 hair ; 
 All-quivering, she crushes the pearls in her 
 
 hand ; 
 She hides her hot cheek in the burning-hot 
 
 sand. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 'T is fair-day ; how sweeps the tempestuous 
 
 throng 
 To circus and tilt-ground, with shout and with 
 
 song ! 
 There 's a blast of trumpets, the cymbal rings, 
 The deep drum rumbles, Bajazzo springs. 
 
 Come on ! come on ! — how swells the roar ! 
 They fly, as on wings, o'er the hard, flat floor ; 
 The British sorrel, the Turk's black steed, 
 From plumed beauty seek honor's meed. 
 
 And there, by the tilting-ground's curtained door, 
 Stands, silent and thoughtful, a curly-haired 
 
 Moor • 
 The Turkish drum he beats full loud ; 
 On the drum is hanging a lion-skin proud. 
 
 He sees not the knights and their graceful swing, 
 He sees not the steeds and their daring spring; 
 The Moor's dry eye, with its stiff, wild stare, 
 Sees naught but the shaggy lion-skin there. 
 
FREILIGRATH. 
 
 361 
 
 He thinks of the far, far distant Niger, 
 
 And how he once chased there the lion and 
 
 tiger ; 
 And how he once brandished his sword in the 
 
 fight, 
 And came not back to his couch at night. 
 
 And he thinks of her, who, in other hours, 
 Decked her hair with his pearls and plucked 
 
 him her flowers ; — 
 His eye grew moist, — with a scornful stroke 
 He smote the drum-head, — it rattled and broke. 
 
 THE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 I cannot take my eyes away 
 
 From you, ye busy, bustling band ! 
 
 Tour little all to see you lay, 
 
 Each, in the waiting seaman's hand ! 
 
 Ye men, who from your necks set down 
 
 The heavy basket, on the earth, 
 Of bread from German corn, baked brown 
 
 By German wives, on German hearth ! 
 
 And you, with braided queues so neat, 
 Black-Forest maidens, slim and brown, 
 
 How careful on the sloop's green seat 
 You set your pails and pitchers down ! 
 
 Ah ! oft have home's cool, shady tanks 
 These pails and pitchers filled for you: 
 
 On far Missouri's silent banks, 
 
 Shall these the scenes of home renew: — 
 
 The stone-rimmed fount in village street, 
 That, as ye stooped, betrayed your smiles; 
 
 The hearth and its familiar seat ; 
 The mantle and the pictured tiles. 
 
 Soon, in the far and wooded West, 
 
 Shall log-house walls therewith be graced; 
 
 Soon, many a tired, tawny guest 
 
 Shall sweet refreshment from them taste. 
 
 From them shall drink the Cherokee, 
 Faint with the hot and dusty chase ; 
 
 No more from German vintage ye 
 
 Shall bear them home, in leaf-crowned grace. 
 
 O, say, why seek ye other lands ? 
 
 The Neckar's vale hath wine and corn ; 
 Full of dark firs the Schwarzwald stands ; 
 
 In Spessart rings the Alp-herd's horn. 
 
 Ah ! in strange forests how ye '11 yearn 
 For the green mountains of your home, 
 
 To Deutschland's yellow wheat-fields turn, 
 In spirit o'er her vine-hills roam ! 
 
 How will the form of days grown pale 
 
 In golden dreams float softly by ! 
 Like some unearthly, mystic tale, 
 
 'T will stand before fond memory's eye. 
 46 
 
 The boatman calls ! go hence in peace ! 
 
 God bless ye, man and wife and sire ! 
 Bless all your fields with rich increase, 
 
 And crown each true heart's pure desire ! 
 
 THE LION'S RIDE. 
 
 What ! — wilt thou bind him fast with a 
 chain ? 
 Wilt bind the king of the cloudy sands ? 
 Idiot fool ! — he has burst from thy hands 
 and bands, 
 And speeds like Storm through his far do- 
 main ! 
 ' See ! he crouches down in the sedge, 
 
 By the water's edge, 
 Making the startled sycamore-boughs to quiver ! 
 Gazelle and giraffe, I think, will shun that 
 river. 
 
 Not so ! — The curtain of evening falls, 
 And the Caffre, mooring his light canoe 
 To the shore, glides down through the 
 hushed karroo, 
 And the watchfires burn in the Hottentot 
 kraals, 
 And the antelope seeks a bed in the bush 
 Till the dawn shall blush, 
 And the zebra stretches his limbs by the tink- 
 ling fountain, 
 And the changeful signals fade from the Table 
 Mountain. 
 
 Now look through the dusk ! What seest 
 thou now ? 
 Seest such a tall giraffe ! She stalks, 
 All majesty, through the desert walks, — 
 In search of water to cool her tongue and 
 brow. 
 From tract to tract of the limitless waste 
 Behold her haste ! 
 Till, bowing her long neck down, she buries 
 
 her face in 
 The reeds, and, kneeling, drinks from the river's 
 basin. 
 
 But look again ! — look ! — see once more 
 Those globe eyes glare ! The gigantic reeds 
 Lie cloven and trampled like puniest 
 weeds, — , 
 
 The lion leaps on the drinker's neck with a 
 roar ! 
 O, what a racer ! Can any behold, 
 'Mid the housings of gold 
 In the stables of kings, dyes half so splendid 
 As those on the brindled hide of yon wild an- 
 imal blended? 
 
 Greedily fleshes the lion his teeth 
 
 In the breast of his writhing prey : — 
 
 around 
 Her neck his loose brown mane is wound.— 
 Hark, that hollow cry ! She springs up from 
 beneath, 
 
302 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 And in agony flies over plains and heights. 
 See, how she unites, 
 Even under such monstrous and torturing tram- 
 mel, 
 With the grace of the leopard, the speed of the 
 camel ! 
 
 She reaches the central moon-lighted plain, 
 That spreadeth around all bare and wide ; 
 Meanwhile, adown her spotted side 
 The dusky blood-gouts rush like rain, — 
 And her woful eyeballs, how they stare 
 On the void of air ! 
 Yet on she flies, — on, — on; — for her there is 
 
 no retreating ; — 
 And the desert can hear the heart of the doomed 
 one beating ! 
 
 And, lo ! a stupendous column of sand, 
 A sand-spout out of that sandy ocean, up- 
 
 curls 
 Behind the pair in eddies and whirls ; 
 Most like some flaming colossal brand, 
 Or wandering spirit of wrath 
 On his blasted path, 
 Or the dreadful pillar that lighted the warriors 
 
 and women 
 Of Israel's land through the wilderness of Ye- 
 men. 
 
 And the vulture, scenting a coming carouse, 
 Sails, hoarsely screaming, down the sky ; 
 The bloody hyena, be sure, is nigh, — 
 Fierce pillager he of the charnel-house ! 
 The panther, too, who strangles the Cape- 
 Town sheep 
 As they lie asleep, 
 Athirst for his share in the slaughter, follows ; 
 While the gore of their victim spreads like a 
 pool in the sandy hollows ! 
 
 She reels, — but the king of the brutes be- 
 strides 
 His tottering throne to the last: — with 
 
 might 
 He plunges his terrible claws in the bright 
 And delicate cushions of her sides. 
 
 Yet hold ! — fair play ! — she rallies again ! 
 In vain, — in vain ! 
 Her struggles but help to drain her life-blood 
 
 faster ; — 
 She staggers, — gasps, — and sinks at the feet 
 of her slayer and master ! 
 
 She staggers, — she falls ; — she shall struggle 
 no more ! 
 The death-rattle slightly convulses her 
 
 throat ; — 
 Mayest look thy last on that mangled coat, 
 Besprent with sand, and foam, and gore ! 
 Adieu ! The orient glimmers afar, 
 And the morning-star 
 Anon will rise over Madagascar brightly. — 
 So rides the lion in Afric's deserts nightly. 
 
 ICELAND-MOSS TEA. 
 
 Old even in boyhood, faint and ill, 
 And sleepless on my couch of woe, 
 I sip this beverage, which I owe 
 
 To geysers' depths and Hecla's hill. 
 
 In fields where ice lies layer on layer, 
 And lava hardens o'er the whole, 
 And the circle of the Arctic Pole 
 
 Looks forth on snow-crags ever bare ; 
 
 Where fierce volcanic fires burn blue, 
 Through many a meteor-lighted night, 
 'Mid springs that foam in boiling might, 
 
 These blandly-bitter lichens grew. 
 
 Where from the mountain's furnace-lair, 
 From thousand smoke-enveloped cones, 
 Colossal blocks of red-hot stones 
 
 Are, night by night, uphurled in air — 
 
 (Like blood-red saga-birds of yore), 
 While o'er the immeasurable snows 
 A sea of burning resin flows, 
 
 Bubbling like molten metal ore ; 
 
 Where, from the jokuls to the strand, 
 
 The dimmed eye turns from smoke and 
 
 steam, 
 Only to track some sulphur-stream, 
 
 That seethes along the blasted land ; 
 
 Where clouds lie black on cinder-piles, 
 And all night long the lone seal moans, 
 As, one by one, the mighty stones 
 
 Fall echoing down on far-off isles ; 
 
 Where, in a word, hills vomit flame, 
 And storms for ever lash the sea, — 
 There sprang this bitter moss for me, 
 
 Thence this astringent potion came. 
 
 Yes ! and my heart beats lightlier now, 
 My blood begins to dance along : 
 I now feel strong, — O, more than strong ! 
 
 I feel transformed, I know not how. 
 
 The meteor-lights are in my brain, — 
 
 I see through smoke the desolate shore, — 
 The raging torrent sweeps once more 
 
 From Hecla's crater o'er the plain. 
 
 Deep in my breast the boiling springs 
 Beneath apparent ice are stirred, — 
 My thoughts are each a saga-bird, 
 
 With tongues of living flame for wings ! 
 
 Ha ! if this green beverage be 
 The chalice of my future life, — 
 If now, as in yon isle, the strife 
 
 Of snow and fire be born in me, — 
 
 O, be it thus ! O, let me feel 
 
 The lava-flood in every vein ! 
 
 Be mine the will that conquers pain, 
 The heart of rock, the nerves of steel ! 
 
FREILIGRATH. 
 
 36c 
 
 O, let the flames that burn unfed 
 Within me was until they glow, 
 Volcano-like, through even the snow 
 
 That in few years shall strew my head 1 
 
 And, as the stones that Hecla sees 
 
 Flung up to heaven through fiery rain 
 Descend like thunderbolts again 
 
 Upon the distant Faroese, — 
 
 So let the rude but burning rhymes 
 Cast from the caldron of my breast 
 Again fall flashing down, and rest 
 
 On human hearts in farthest climes ' 
 
 THE SHEIK OF MOUNT SINAI. 
 
 A NARRATIVE OP OCTOBER, 1S30. 
 
 " How sayest thou ? Came to-day the caravan 
 From Africa ? And is it here ? 'T is well ; 
 Bear me beyond the tent, me and mine ottoman ; 
 
 I would myself behold it. I feel eager 
 To learn the youngest news. As the gazelle 
 
 Rushes to drink, will I to hear, and gather 
 thence fresh vigor." 
 
 So spake the sheik. They bore him forth ; and 
 
 thus began the Moor : — 
 " Old man ! upon Algeria's towers the tricolor 
 
 is flying ! 
 Bright silks of Lyons rustle at each balcony and 
 
 door ; 
 In the streets the loud reveil resounds at 
 
 break of day ; 
 Steeds prance to the Marseillaise o'er heaps of 
 
 dead and dying : 
 The Franks came from Toulon, men say. 
 
 " Southward their legions marched through 
 
 burning lands; 
 The Barbary sun flashed on their arms; about 
 Their chargers' manes were blown clouds of 
 Tunisian sands. 
 Knowest where the giant Atlas rises dim in 
 The hot sky ? Thither, in disastrous rout, 
 The wild Kabyles fled with their herds and 
 women. 
 
 " The Franks pursued. Hu ! Allah !— Each defile 
 Grew a very hell-gulf then, with smoke, and 
 
 fire, and bomb ! 
 The lion left the deer's half-cranched remains 
 the while ; 
 He snuffed upon the winds a daintier prey ! 
 Hark ! the shout, '-Ere Avanil ' To the topmost 
 peak upclomb 
 The conquerors in that bloody fray ! 
 
 " Circles of glittering bayonets crowned the 
 
 mountain's height. 
 The hundred cities of the plain, from Atlas to 
 
 the sea afar, 
 From Tunis forth to Fez, shone in the noonday 
 
 light. 
 
 The spearmen rested by their steeds, or slaked 
 
 their thirst at rivulets ; 
 And round them through dark myrtles burned, 
 
 each like a star, 
 The slender, golden minarets. 
 
 " But in the valley blooms the odorous almond- 
 tree, 
 
 And the aloe blossoms on the rock, defying 
 storms and suns. 
 
 Here was their conquest sealed. Look ! — yon- 
 der heaves the sea, 
 And far to the left lies Franquistan. The 
 banners flouted the blue skies, 
 
 The artillery-men came up. Mashallah ! how 
 the guns 
 Did roar, to sanctify their prize ! " 
 
 " 'T is they ! " the sheik exclaimed ; " I fought 
 
 among them, I, 
 At the battle of the Pyramids ! Red, all the long 
 
 day, ran, 
 Red as thy turban-folds, the Nile's high billows 
 
 by! 
 But, their sultan ? — Speak ! — He was once 
 
 my guest. 
 His lineaments, — gait, — garb ? Sawest thou 
 
 The Man?" 
 The Moor's hand slowly felt its way into his 
 
 breast. 
 
 " No," he replied ; " he bode in his warm pal- 
 ace-halls. 
 
 A pacha led his warriors through the fire of 
 hostile ranks ; 
 
 An aga thundered for him before Atlas' iron 
 walls. 
 His lineaments, thou sayest ? On gold, at 
 least, they lack 
 
 The kingly stamp. See here ! A spahi ' of the 
 Franks 
 Gave me this coin, in chaffering, some days 
 back." 
 
 The kashef - took the gold ; he gazed upon the 
 
 head and face. 
 Was this the great sultan he had known long 
 
 years ago ? 
 It seemed not ; for he sighed, as all in vain to 
 
 trace 
 The still remembered features. "Ah, to! — 
 
 this," he said, "is 
 Not his broad brow and piercing eye : who this 
 
 man is I do not know. 
 How very like a pear his head is ! " 
 
 TO A SKATING NEGRO. 
 
 Man of giant height and form, 
 Who beside the Gambia river, 
 
 Oft, amid the lightning storm, 
 
 Sawest the glittering fetish quiver ! 
 
 i Horse-soldier. 
 
 2 Governor. 
 
364 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Who hast poured the panther's hot 
 Life-blood out beneath the equator, 
 
 And with poisoned arrow shot 
 Through red reeds the alligator ! 
 
 Wherefore art thou here? Why flies 
 Thy fleet foot o'er frozen places, — 
 
 Thou, the child of tropic skies, 
 Cradled in the sun's embraces ? 
 
 Thou that, reeking from the wave, 
 On thy war-horse often sprungest, 
 
 And around the Foulah slave 
 
 Guinea's badge of bondage flungest ! 
 
 O, at home, amid thy mates, 
 
 There, where skulls tattooed and gory 
 Whiten high o'er palace-gates, 
 
 Let me see thee in thy glory ! 
 
 Where gold gum from bursten trees 
 Oozes like the slime of Lethe, 
 
 As in dreams my spirit sees, 
 
 Let mine eyes in daylight see thee ! 
 
 See thee, far frcm our chill North, 
 Which thou in thy soul abhorrest, 
 
 Chase the koomozeeno l forth 
 
 Through the boundless bannian-forest ! 
 
 See thee, in thine own rich land, 
 
 Decked with gems of barbarous beauty, 
 
 Keeping watch, with spear in hand, 
 O'er thy manza's 2 piles of booty ! 
 
 Whirling, gliding here along, 
 
 Ever shifting thy position, 
 Thou resemblest, in this throng, 
 
 Some strange African magician, 
 
 Who, within the enchanted ring, 
 
 All the host of hell defieth, 
 Or, upborne on griffin-wing, 
 
 Through Zahara's desert flieth ! 
 
 O, when sunny spring once more 
 Melts the ice of western oceans, 
 
 Hie thee back to that loved shore 
 Where were born thy first emotions ! 
 
 There, around thy jet-black head 
 
 Bright gold-dust in garlands flashes, — 
 
 Here, hoar-frost and snows instead 
 Strew it but with silver ashes ! 
 
 THE ALEXANDRINE METRE. 
 
 Bocnd ! bound ! my desert-barb from Alexan- 
 dria! 
 My wild one ! Such a courser no emir or shah 
 Bestrides, — whoever else may, in those East- 
 ern lands, 
 
 • Rhinoceros. 
 
 2 Sovereign's. 
 
 Rock in magnificent saddles upon field it 
 
 plain ! 
 Where thundereth such a hoof as thine along 
 
 the sands ? 
 Where streameth such a tail ? Where such 
 
 a meteor mane ? 
 
 As it stands written, thus thou neighest loud, 
 "Ha! ha!" 
 
 Spurning both bit and reins ! The winds of 
 Africa 
 
 Blow the loose hair about thy chaffron to and fro ! 
 Lightning is in thy glance, thy flanks are 
 white with foam ! 
 
 Thou art not, sure, the animal snaffled by Boi- 
 leau, 
 And whom Gottschedian turnpike-law for- 
 bade to roam ! 
 
 He, bitted, bridled, reined, steps delicately along, 
 Ambling for ever to the air of one small song, 
 Till he reaches the casura. That 's a highway- 
 ditch 
 For him to cross ! He stops, — he stares, — 
 he snorts, — at last, 
 Sheer terror screwing up his pluck to a desper- 
 ate pitch, 
 He — jumps one little jump, and the ugly 
 gulf is passed. 
 
 Thou, meanwhile, speedest far o'er deserts and 
 
 by streams, 
 Like rushing flame ! To thee the same caesura 
 
 seems 
 A chasm in Mount Sinai. The rock is riven in 
 
 two ! 
 Still on ! Thy fetlocks bleed. Now for an 
 
 earthquake shock ! 
 Hurrah ! thou boundest over, and thine iron shoe 
 Charms rattling thunder and red lightning 
 
 from the rock ! 
 
 Now hither ! Here we are ! Knowest thou this 
 yellow sand ? 
 
 So! — there, — that's well! Reel under my 
 controlling hand ! 
 
 Tush! never heed the sweat : — Honor is born 
 of Toil. 
 I '11 see thee again at sunset, when the south- 
 ern breeze 
 
 Blows cool. Then I will lead thee o'er a soft 
 green soil, 
 And water thee till nightfall in the Middle 
 Seas. 
 
 THE KING OF CONGO AND HIS HUNDRED WIVES. 
 
 Fill up with bright palm-wine, unto the rim 
 
 fill up 
 The cloven ostrich-eggshell cup, 
 
 And don your shells and cowries, ye eul- 
 tanas ! 
 O, choose your gayest, gorgeousest array, 
 As on the brilliant Buram holiday 
 
 That opes the doors of your zenanas ! 
 
FREILIGRATH. 
 
 o65 
 
 Come ! never sit a-trembling on your silk de- 
 
 wauns ! 
 What fear ye ? To your feet, ye timid fawns ! 
 See here your zones embossed with gems and 
 
 amber ! 
 See here the fire-bright beads of coral for your 
 
 necks ! 
 In such a festal time, each young sultana 
 
 decks 
 Herself as for the nuptial chamber. 
 
 Rejoice! — your lord, your king, comes home 
 
 again ! 
 His enemies lie slaughtered on the desert plain. 
 Rejoice ! — it cost you tears of blood to sever 
 From one you loved so well, — but now your 
 
 griefs are o'er : 
 Sing! dance! — he leaves his land, his house, 
 no more ; 
 Henceforward he is yours for ever ! 
 
 Triumphant he returns ; naught seeks he now ; 
 his hand 
 
 No more need hurl the javelin ; sea and sand 
 and land 
 Are his, far as the Zaire's blue billows wan- 
 der ; 
 
 Henceforth he bids farewell to spear and battle- 
 horse, 
 
 And calls you to his couch, — a cold one, for — 
 his corse 
 Lies on the copper buckler yonder ! 
 
 Nay, fill not thus the harem with your shrieks ! 
 
 'Tis he; — behold his cloak, striped quagga-like 
 
 with bloody streaks ! 
 
 'T is he, albeit his eyes lie glttzed for ever 
 
 under 
 
 Their lids, — albeit his blood no more shall 
 
 dance along 
 In rapture to the music of the tomtom gong, 
 Or headlong war-steed's hoof of thunder ! 
 
 Yes ! the Great Buffalo sleeps ! His mightiest 
 
 victory was his last. 
 His warriors howl in vain, — his necromancers 
 
 gaze aghast ; 
 Fetish, nor magic wand, nor amulet of darnel, 
 Can charm back life to the clay-cold heart and 
 
 limb. 
 He sleeps, — and you, his women, sleep with 
 
 him ! 
 You share the dark pomps of his charnel ! 
 
 Even now the headsman whets his axe to slay 
 
 you at the funeral feast ! 
 Courage ! a glorious fate is yours ' Through 
 
 Afric and the East 
 Your fame shall be immortal ! Kordofan and 
 
 Yemen 
 With stories of your lord's exploits and your 
 
 devotedness shall ring, 
 And future ages rear skull-obelisks to the king 
 Of Congo and his hundred women ! 
 
 SAND-SONGS. 
 I. 
 
 Sing of Sand ! — not such as gloweth 
 Hot upon the path of the tiger and snake ; — 
 Rather such sand as, when the loud winds wake 
 
 Each ocean-wave knoweth. 
 
 Like a Wrath with pinions burning 
 Travels the red sand of the desert abroad ; 
 While the soft sea-sand glisteneth smooth and 
 untrod, 
 
 As eve is returning. 
 
 Here no caravan or camel ; 
 Here the weary mariner alone finds a grave, 
 Nightly mourned by the moon, that now on yon 
 wave 
 
 Sheds a silver enamel. 
 
 Weapon-like, this ever-wounding wind 
 Striketh sharp upon the sandful shore ; 
 
 So fierce Thought assaults a troubled mind, 
 Ever, ever, ever more ! 
 
 Darkly unto past and coming years 
 
 Man's deep heart is linked by mystic bands; 
 Marvel not, then, if his dreams and fears 
 
 Be a myriad, like the sands ! 
 
 'T were worth much lore to understand 
 Thy nature well, thou ghastly sand, 
 Who wreckest all that seek the sea, 
 Yet savest them that cling to thee ! 
 
 The wild-gull banquets on thy charms, 
 The fish dies in thy barren arms ; 
 Bare, yellow, flowerless, there thou art, 
 With vaults of treasure in thy heart ! 
 
 I met a wanderer, too, this morn, 
 Who eyed thee with such lofty scorn ! 
 Yet I, when with thee, feel my soul 
 Flow over like a too-full bowl. 
 
 Would I were the stream whose fountain 
 
 Gushes 
 From the heart of some green mountain, 
 And then rushes 
 On through many a land with a melodious mo- 
 tion, 
 Till it finds a bourne in the globe-girdling ocean ! 
 
 That, in sooth, were truest glory ! 
 
 Vernal 
 Youth, and eld serene and hoary, 
 Coeternal ! 
 All the high-souled stripling feels of great and 
 
 glowing, 
 Tempered by the wisdom of the world's be- 
 stowing ! 
 
 be 2 
 
366 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 Gulls are flying, one, two, three, 
 
 Silently arid heavily, 
 
 Heavily as winged lead, 
 
 Through the sultry air over my languid head. 
 
 Whence they come, or whither flee, 
 
 They, not I, can tell; I see, 
 
 On the bright, brown sand I tread, 
 
 Only the black shadows of their wings outspread. 
 
 Ha ! a feather flutteringly 
 
 Falls down at my feet for me ! 
 
 It shall serve my turn instead 
 
 Of an eagle's quill, till all my songs be read. 
 
 Mist robes the moss-grown castle-walls ; 
 And as the veil of evening falls 
 In deep and ever deeper shades, 
 The autumn-landscape slowly fades, 
 
 And all is dusk. One after one 
 The red lamps on the heights are gone, 
 And crag and castle, hill and wood, 
 Evanish in the engulfing flood. 
 
 Farewell, green valleys! Did I not 
 Once wind my way through hill and grot, 
 And muse beside some wine-dark stream? 
 Or was it all an Eastern dream ? 
 
 The moonless heaven is dim once more, 
 The waves break on the shingly shore ; — 
 I listen to their mournful tone, 
 And pace the silent sands alone. 
 
 MY THEMES. 
 
 " Most weary man ! — why wreathest thou 
 Again and yet again," methinks I hear you ask, 
 " The turban on thy sunburnt brow ? 
 Wilt never vary 
 Thy tristful task ; 
 But sing, still sing, of sands and seas, as now, 
 Housed in thy willow zumbul on the dromedary ? 
 
 " Thy tent has now o'er many times 
 Been pitched in treeless places on old Ammon's 
 plains ; 
 We long to greet in blander climes 
 The love and laughter 
 Thy soul disdains. 
 Why wanderest ever thus, in prolix rhymes, 
 Through snows and stony wastes, while we 
 come toiling after? 
 
 "Awake ! Thou art as one who dreams ! 
 Thy quiver overflows with melancholy sand ! 
 Thou faintest in the noontide beams ! 
 Thy crystal beaker 
 Of song is banned ! 
 Filled with the juice of poppies from dull 
 streams 
 In sleepy Indian dells, it can but make thee 
 weaker ! 
 
 "O, cast away the deadly draught, 
 And glance around thee, then, with an awak- 
 ened eye ! 
 The waters healthier bards have quaffed 
 At Europe's fountains 
 Still bubble by, 
 Bright now as when the Grecian summer 
 laughed, 
 And poesy's first flowers bloomed on Apollo s 
 mountains ! 
 
 " So many a voice thine era hath, 
 And thou art deaf to all ! O, study mankind ! 
 Probe 
 The heart ! Lay bare its love and wrath, 
 Its joy and sorrow ! 
 Not round the globe, 
 O'er flood and field and dreary desert-path, 
 But into thine own bosom look, and thence thy 
 marvels borrow ! 
 
 " Weep ! Let us hear thy tears resound 
 From the dark iron concave of life's cup of woe ! 
 Weep for the souls of mankind bound 
 In chains of error ! 
 Our tears will flow 
 In sympathy with thine, when thou hast 
 wound 
 Our feelings up to the proper pitch of grief or 
 terror. 
 
 " Unlock the life-gates of the flood 
 That rushes through thy veins ! Like vultures, 
 we delight 
 To glut our appetites with blood ! 
 Remorse, Fear, Torment, 
 The blackening blight 
 Love smitds young hearts withal, — these be 
 the food 
 For us ! without such stimulants our dull souls 
 lie dormant ! 
 
 " But no long voyagings, — O, no more 
 Of the weary East or South, — no more of the 
 simoom, — 
 No apples from the Dead Sea shore, — 
 No fierce volcanoes, 
 All fire and gloom ! 
 Or else, at most, sing basso, we implore, 
 Of Orient sands, while Europe's flowers mo- 
 nopolize thy sopranos .' " 
 
 Thanks, friends, for this your kind advice ! 
 Would I could follow it, — could bide in balm, 
 ier land ! 
 But those far Arctic tracts of ice, 
 Those wildernesses 
 Of wavy sand, 
 Are the only home I have. They must suffice 
 For one whose lonely hearth no smiling Peri 
 blesses. 
 
 Yet count me not the more forlorn 
 For my barbarian tastes. Pity me not. O, no ! 
 The heart laid waste by grief or scorn, 
 
FREILIGRATH. 
 
 367 
 
 Which only knoweth 
 Its own deep woe, 
 Is the only desert. There no spring is born 
 Amid the sands, — in that no shady palm-tree 
 groweth. 
 
 GRABBE'S DEATH. 
 
 There stood I in the camp. 'T was when the 
 setting sun 
 
 Was crimsoning the tents of the hussars. 
 The booming of the evening-gun 
 
 Broke on mine ear. A few stray stars 
 Shone out, like silver-blank medallions 
 
 Paving a sapphire floor. There flowed in 
 unison the tones 
 
 Of many hautboys, bugles, drums, trombones, 
 And fifes from twenty-two battalions. 
 
 They played, " Give glory unto God our Lord ! " 
 A solemn strain of music and sublime, 
 That bade imagination hail a coming time, 
 
 When universal mind shall break the slaying 
 sword, 
 
 And sin and wrong and suffering shall depart 
 An earth which Christian love shall turn to 
 heaven. 
 
 A dream ! — yet still I listened, and my heart 
 Grew tranquil as that summer even. 
 
 But soon uprose pale Hecate, — she who trances 
 The skies with deathly light. Her beams 
 fell wan, but mild, 
 On the long line of tents, on swords and lances, 
 
 And on the pyramids of muskets piled 
 Around. Then sped from rank to rank 
 
 The signal order, " Tzako ab!" The music 
 
 ceased to play. 
 The stillness of the grave ensued. I turned 
 away. 
 Again my memory's tablets showed a sadden- 
 ing blank ! 
 
 Meanwhile, another sort of scene 
 
 Was acting at the outposts. Carelessly I 
 strolled, 
 In quest of certain faces, into the canteen. 
 
 Here wine and brandy, hot or cold, 
 Passed round. At one long table fredericksd'or 
 Glittered, a qui mieux mieux, with epaulettes ; 
 And, heedless of the constant call, " Who 
 sets ? " 
 Harp-women played and sang old ballads by 
 the score. 
 
 I sought an inner chamber. Here sat some 
 Dragoons and yagers, who conversed, or gam- 
 bled, 
 Or drank. The dice-box rattled on a drum. 
 
 I chose a seat apart. My speculations rambled. 
 Scarce even a pensive listener or beholder, 
 I mused : " Give glory — " "Qui en veul? " — 
 
 The sound 
 Came from the drum-head. I had half turned 
 round, 
 When some one touched me on the shoulder. 
 
 " Ha ! — is it you ? " — " None other." — " Well, 
 — what news? 
 How goes it in Muhlhausen ? " Queries with- 
 out end 
 Succeed, and I reply as briefly as I choose. 
 An hour flies by. " Now then, adieu, my 
 friend ! " — 
 "Stay ! — tell me — " "Quick! I am off to 
 Rouge-et-Noir." — 
 "Well, — one short word, and then good 
 
 night! — 
 Grabbe ? " — " Grabbe ? He is dead. Wait : 
 let me see. Ay, right ! 
 We buried him on Friday last. Bon soir ! " 
 
 An icy thrill ran through my veins. 
 
 Dead? — buried? — Friday last? — and here? 
 
 His grave 
 Profaned by vulgar feet r — O noDle, gifted, 
 brave ! 
 Bard of The Hundred Days! — was this to be 
 
 thy fate indeed ? 
 I wept. Yet not because life's galling chains 
 No longer bound thy spirit to this barren earth ; 
 I wept to think of thy transcendent worth 
 And genius, — and of what had been their meed ! 
 
 I wandered forth into the spacious night, 
 Till the first feelings of my heart had spent 
 Their bitterness. Hours passed. There was 
 an Uhlan tent 
 At hand. I entered. By the moon's blue light 
 I saw some arms and baggage, and a heap 
 Of straw. Upon this last I threw 
 My weary limbs. In vain ! The moanful 
 night-winds blew 
 About my head and face, and memory banish- 
 ed sleep. 
 
 All night he stood, as I had seen him last, 
 Beside my couch. Had he indeed forsaken 
 The tomb ? Or did I dream, and should 1 
 waken ? 
 
 My thoughts flowed like a river, dark and fast. 
 
 Again I gazed on that columnar brow: 
 
 "Deserted house ! of late so bright with viv- 
 idest flashes 
 
 Of intellect and passion, can it be that thou 
 Art now a mass of sparkless ashes ? 
 
 " Those ashes once were watch-fires, by whose 
 gleams 
 The glories of the Hohenstaufen race, 
 And Italy's shrines, and Greece's hallowed 
 streams 
 Stood variously revealed, — now, softly, as 
 the face 
 Of night illumined by her silver lamp, — 
 
 Now, burning with a deep and living lustre, 
 
 Like the high beacon-lights that stud this camp, 
 
 Here, far apart, — there, in a circular cluster. 
 
 " This camp ! ah, yes ! methinks it images well 
 What thou hast been, thou lonely tower ! 
 
 Moonbeam and lamplight mingled; the deep 
 choral swell 
 Of Music, in her peals of proudest power, 
 
368 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 And then — the tavern dice-box rattle ! 
 The Grand and the Familiar fought 
 Within thee for the mastery ; and thy depth 
 of thought 
 And play of wit made every conflict a drawn 
 battle ! 
 
 " And, O, that such a mind, so rich, so over- 
 flowing 
 With ancient lore and modern phantasy, 
 And prodigal of its treasures as a tree 
 
 Of golden leaves when autumn winds are blow- 
 ing,— 
 
 That such a mind, made to illume and glad 
 All minds, all hearts, should have itself become 
 Affliction's chosen sanctuary and home ! 
 
 This is, in truth, most marvellous and sad ! 
 
 'Alone the poet lives, — alone he dies. 
 Cain-like, he bears the isolating brand 
 Upon his brow of sorrow. True, his hand 
 
 Is pure from blood-guilt, but in human eyes 
 
 His is a darker crime than that of Cain, — 
 Rebellion against social wrong and law ! " — 
 Groaning, at length I slept, and in my dreams 
 I saw 
 
 The ruins of a temple on a desolate plain. 
 
 FRANZ DINGELSTEDT. 
 
 Franz Dingelstedt was born in 1814, at 
 Halsdorf, in Upper Hessia. Though a very 
 young man, he has gained a high reputation 
 among the living political poets of Germany 
 by his "Songs of a Cosmopolitan Watchman," 
 from which the following extracts have been 
 made. Several of his pieces are contained in 
 Stolle's " Buch der Lieder." Dingelstedt has 
 recently been appointed Aulic Councillor at 
 Vienna. It is to be hoped that the poet will 
 not be lost in the politician. 
 
 THE WATCHMAN. 
 
 The last faint twinkle now goes out 
 
 Up in the poet's attic ; 
 And the roisterers, in merry rout, 
 
 Speed home with steps erratic. 
 
 Soft from the house-roofs showers the snow, 
 The vane creaks on the steeple, 
 
 The lanterns wag and glimmer low 
 In the storm by the hurrying people. 
 
 The houses all stand black and still, 
 The churches and taverns deserted, 
 
 And a body may now wend at his will, 
 With his own fancies diverted. 
 
 Not a squinting eye now looks this way, 
 Not a slanderous mouth is dissembling, 
 
 And a heart that has slept the livelong day 
 May now love and hope with trembling. 
 
 Dear Night ! thou foe to each base end, 
 While the good still a blessing prove thee, 
 
 They say that thou art no man's friend, — 
 Sweet Night ! how I therefore love thee ' 
 
 THE GERMAN PRINCE. 
 
 In the royal playhouse lately 
 Sat our honored prince sedately, 
 When this amusing thing befell, 
 As the paper states it well. 
 
 Taking, from his usual station, 
 Through his lorgnette observation, 
 Straight his eagle eye did hit 
 On a stranger in the pit. 
 
 Such stranger ne'er was seen before ; — 
 A blue-striped shirt the fellow wore ; 
 His neckerchief tri-colored stuff; — 
 Ground for suspicion quite enough ! 
 
 His face was red as sun at rising, 
 And bore a scar of breadth surprising ; 
 His beard was bushy, round, and short, 
 Just of the forbidden Hambach sort. 
 
 Quick to the prince's brow there mounted 
 Frowns, though he did not want them counted. 
 But asked the chamberlain quite low, 
 "Who is that fellow? do you know? " 
 
 The chamberlain, though most observant, 
 Knew not, so asked the prince's servant; 
 The valet, to supply the want, 
 Asked councillor and adjutant. 
 
 No soul could give the slightest notion ; — 
 The nobles all were in comnnotion ; 
 Strange whispers through the boxes ran, 
 And all about the stranger man. 
 
 " His Highness talks of Propagand ; — 
 Forth with the villain from the land ! 
 Woe to him, if he make delay 
 I' th' city but another day ! " 
 
 Thus the police began exclaiming, 
 With sacred zeal all over flaming. 
 But soon his Highness gave the hint, 
 None but himself should meddle in 't. 
 
 One of his servants he despatches 
 Down to the fellow, while he watches, 
 And bids him ask him, blunt and free, 
 Who, and what, and whence he be. 
 
 After some minutes' anxious waiting, 
 Staring below, and calculating, 
 With knowing, but demurest face, 
 Comes back the lacquey to his Grace. 
 
 "Your Highness ! " says he, in a whisper, 
 "He calls himself John Jacob Risper; 
 Travels in mustard for his house ! " 
 " Hush ! not a word ! to man or mouse ! " 
 
HERWEGH. 
 
 3£9 
 
 GEORG HERWEGH. 
 
 This young poet, a native of Wflrtemberg, 
 received his early education in Stuttgart, and 
 afterwards studied at Tubingen. He has re- 
 cently become one of the celebrities of Ger- 
 many. He is known particularly by his " Po- 
 ems of a Living Man, with a Dedication to the 
 Dead." For a full account of his writings, see 
 " Foreign Quarterly Review," No. LXL, for 
 April, 1843. 
 
 THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Comrade, why the song so joyous, — why the 
 
 goblet in your hand, — 
 While, in sackcloth and in ashes, yonder weeps 
 
 our Fatherland? 
 
 Still the bells, and bid the roses wither, girls, 
 
 on German strand ; 
 For, deserted by her bridegroom, yonder sits our 
 
 Fatherland ! 
 
 Wherefore strive for crowns, ye princes ? — 
 quit your state, your jewels grand; 
 
 See, where, at your palace-portal, shivering sits 
 our Fatherland ! 
 
 Idle priestlings, what avail us prayer and pulpit, 
 
 cowl and band ? 
 Trodden in the dust and groaning, yonder lies 
 
 our Fatherland ! 
 
 Counting out his red round rubles, yon sits 
 
 Dives smiling bland, — 
 Reckoning his poor wounds and sores, Lazarus, 
 
 our Fatherland ! 
 
 Woe, ye poor ! for priceless jewels lie before 
 
 ye in the sand, — 
 Even my tears, my best and brightest, lie there, 
 
 wept for Fatherland ! 
 
 But, O poet, cease thy descant, — 't is not thine 
 as judge to stand ; 
 
 Silence now, — the swan hath sung his death- 
 song for our Fatherland ! 
 
 THE SONG OF HATRED. 
 
 Brave soldier, kiss the trusty wife, 
 
 And draw the trusty blade ! 
 Then turn ye to the reddening east, 
 
 In freedom's cause arrayed. 
 Till death shall part the blade and hand, 
 
 They may not separate : 
 We 've practised loving long enough, 
 
 And come at length to hate ! 
 
 To right us and to rescue us 
 Hath Love essayed in vain ; 
 
 O Hate ! proclaim thy judgment-day, 
 And break 4 ur bonds in twain. 
 
 47 
 
 As long as ever tyrants last, 
 
 Our task shall not abate : 
 We 've practised loving long enough, 
 
 And come at length to hate ! 
 
 Henceforth let every heart that beats 
 
 With hate alone be beating ; — 
 Look round ! what piles of rotten sticks 
 
 Will keep the flame a-heating ! — 
 As many as are free and dare, 
 
 From street to street go say 't : 
 We 've practised loving long enough, 
 
 And come at length to hate ! 
 
 Fight tyranny, while tyranny 
 
 The trampled earth above is; 
 And holier will our hatred be, 
 
 Far holier than our love is. 
 Till death shall part the blade and hand, 
 
 They may not separate : 
 We 've practised loving long enough, 
 
 Let 's come at last to hate ! 
 
 THE PROTEST. 
 
 As long as I 'ra a Protestant, 
 
 I 'm bounden to protest ; 
 Come, every German musicant, 
 
 And fiddle me his best! 
 You 're singing of "the Free old Rhine"; 
 But I say, No, good comrades mine, — 
 The Rhine could be 
 Greatly more free, 
 And that I do pro-test. 
 
 I scarce had got my christening o'er, 
 
 Or was in breeches dressed, 
 But I began to shout and roar 
 
 And mightily protest. 
 And since that time I 've never stopped, 
 My protestations never dropped ; 
 And blessed be they 
 Who every way 
 And everywhere protest. 
 
 There's one thing certain in my creed, 
 
 And schism is all the rest, — 
 That who 's a Protestant indeed 
 
 For ever must protest. 
 
 What is the river Rhine to me ? 
 
 For, from its source unto the sea, 
 
 Men are not free, 
 
 Whate'er they be, 
 
 And that I do protest. 
 
 And every man in reason grants, 
 
 What always was confessed, 
 As long as we are Protestants, 
 
 We sternly must protest. 
 And when they sing " the Free old Rhine,' 
 Answer them, " No," good comrades 
 mine, — 
 The Rhine could be 
 Greatly more free, 
 And that you shall protest. 
 
370 
 
 GERMAN POETRY. 
 
 TO A POETESS. 
 
 On humble knees, of silent nights, 
 
 No more my lady prays ; 
 But now in glory she delights, 
 
 And pines to wear the bays. 
 The gentle secrets of her heart 
 
 She 'd tell to idle ears, 
 And fain would carry to the mart 
 
 The treasure of her tears ! 
 
 When there are roses freshly blown 
 
 That forehead to adorn, 
 Why ask the poet's martyr-crown, — 
 
 The bitter wreath of thorn? 
 That lip which all so ruddy is, 
 
 With freshest roses vying, 
 Believe me, sweet, was made to kiss, — 
 
 Not formed for prophesying. 
 
 Remain, my nightingale, remain, 
 
 And warble in your shade ! 
 The heights of glory were in vain 
 
 By wings like yours essayed. 
 And while at Glory's shrine the priest 
 
 A hecatomb must proffer, 
 There 's Love, — O, Love ! will take the least 
 
 Small mite the heart can offer. 
 
 BENEDIKT DALEI. 
 
 "Who Benedikt Dalei is we know not," 
 says a writer in the London " Athenaeum," 
 from whose pages the following pieces are 
 taken; "but his songs have all the feeling and 
 effect of the genuine effusions of a Catholic 
 priest who has passed through the dispensa- 
 tions which he describes. He traces, or rather 
 retraces, every painful position and stage in the 
 life of the solitary priest who possesses a feeling 
 heart; — the trials, the temptations, the pangs, 
 which his unnatural vow and isolated existence 
 heap upon him, amid the social relationships 
 and enjoyments of his fellow-men. The do- 
 mestic circl*, the happy group of father, moth- 
 er, and merry children; the electric touch of 
 youthful love which unites two hearts for ever; 
 the wedding, the christening, the funeral; all 
 have for him their inexpressible bitterness. 
 The perplexities, the cares, the remorse, the 
 madness, which, spite of the power of the 
 church, of religion, and of the most ardent faith 
 and devotion, have, through the singular and 
 unparalleled position of the Catholic priest, 
 made him often a walking death, are all sketch- 
 ed with a master's hand, or, more properly, 
 perhaps, a sufferer's heart." 
 
 ENVIABLE POVERTY. 
 I glance into the harvest field, 
 
 Where, 'neath the shade of richest trees, 
 The reaper and the reaper's wife 
 
 Enjoy their noon-day ease. 
 
 And in the shadow of the hedge 
 I hear full many a merry sound, 
 
 Where the stout, brimming water-jug 
 From mouth to mouth goes round. 
 
 About the parents, in the grass, 
 Sit boys and girls of various size, 
 
 And, like the buds about the rose, 
 Make glad my gazing eyes. 
 
 See! God himself from heaven spreads 
 Their table with the freshest green, 
 
 And lovely maids, his angel band, 
 Bear heaped dishes in. 
 
 A laughing infant's sugar lip, 
 
 Waked by the mother's kiss, doth deal 
 To the poor parents a dessert 
 
 Still sweeter than their meal. 
 
 From breast to breast, from arm to arm, 
 Goes wandering round the rosy boy, 
 
 A little circling flame of love, 
 A living, general joy. 
 
 And strengthened thus for farther toil, 
 Their toil is but joy fresh begun ; 
 
 That wife, — O, what a happy wife ! 
 And, O, how rich is that poor man ! 
 
 THE WALK. 
 
 I went a walk on Sunday, 
 But so lonely everywhere ! — 
 
 O'er every path and upland 
 Went loving pair and pair. 
 
 I strolled through greenest corn-fields, 
 All dashed with gold so deep; — 
 
 How often did I feel as though 
 My very heart would weep ! 
 
 The heaven so softly azure, 
 
 The sun so full of life ! 
 And everywhere was youth and maiden, 
 
 Was happy man and wife. 
 
 They watched the yellowing harvest, 
 Stood where cool water starts; 
 
 They plucked flowers for each other, 
 And with them gave their hearts. 
 
 The larks, how they singing hovered 
 And streamed gladness from above ! 
 
 How high in the listening bosoms 
 Rose the flame of youthful love ! 
 
 In the locks of the blithe youngsters 
 The west wind loved to play, — 
 
 And lifted, with colder finger, 
 My hair, already gray. 
 
 Ah ! I heard song and laughter, 
 
 And it went to my heart's core ; — 
 
 O, were I again in boyhood ! 
 
 Were I free and young once more ' 
 
DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETEY. 
 
 The Dutch is that form of the Gothic now- 
 spoken between the shores of the Zuider-Zee 
 and the mouths of the Rhine, or, in other 
 words, the kingdom of Holland. To the north 
 and east it passes into the Frisic, or language 
 of Friesland,* which connects it with the Piatt 
 Deutsch, or Low German ; and to the south, in 
 Brabant and Flanders, changes into the Flem- 
 ish, which differs from the Dutch in having 
 more French idioms and fewer guttural sounds. 
 
 The Frisic, Dutch, and Flemish were origi- 
 nally the same language, and were known by 
 the name of Belgian or Xetberlandic ; but, in 
 the lapse of time, the Dutch has gained the 
 ascendency as the language of literature, and 
 the Frisic and Flemish remain as less cultivat- 
 ed dialects, whose literature is confined mostly 
 to popular songs, tales, and farces. t In parts 
 of Belgium, the Walloon, a dialect of the 
 French, descended from the old Roman TVallon, 
 is still spoken. "In all Flanders," savs a writ- 
 er in the " Conversations-Lexicon," + " Northern 
 Brabant, and a part of Southern Brabant, the 
 Flemish is the common language. The line of 
 division is in Brussels, where the people of the 
 lower city speak Flemish, in the upper city, 
 Walloon. To the south of Brussels, in the (so 
 called) Walloon Brabant, in Hainault, Namur, 
 Liege, and part of Limbourg, the Walloon con- 
 tinues to be the popular language It is worthy 
 of remark, that, even in that part of Flanders 
 which has been under the French sceptre for a 
 long series of years, the Flemish, nevertheless, 
 is the popular language as far as Dunkirk, while, 
 to this moment, Walloon is spoken in Hainault, 
 Brabant, and particularly in Liege, though so 
 long united to Germany. The dialects of the 
 Low German, spoken in the Netherlands, may 
 be divided into five: 1. The Dutch proper, 
 which, as early as towards the end of the fif- 
 teenth century, w r as elevated to a literary lan- 
 guage in the northern provinces; 2. the (so 
 
 * For a sketch of the Frisic language and literature, see 
 "Wiarda, Geschichte der alien ausgestorbenen Friesischen 
 oder Sachsischen Sprache : Aurich: 1734:— Foreign Quar- 
 terly Review. VoL HI. ; — Bosworth, Preface to the Anglo- 
 Saxon Dictionary, p. xxxv. ; — and TvIoxe, Ubersicht der 
 Niederlandischen Yolks-Lileratur. the Appendix of which 
 contains a list of works published in the Frisic language. 
 
 t As. for example, in Frisic. Gtsbert Japicx's Friesche 
 Bijmlerye, and the plays and songs of J. P. Hacsex ; — and 
 in Flemish, De Dulle Griete, Vlaemsche Liedekens op den 
 Tyd : Jacobus de Rcyter's Nieuw Lied-Boek ; the Tales 
 of Thyl Uylenspiegel, and Reynaert den Yos ; and Brobck- 
 aert's Jelle en Mietje. 
 
 I YoL IX, p. 223. 
 
 called) Peasant-Frisian (once the literary lan- 
 guage of Gysbert Japicx), an idiom which is 
 gradually disappearing ; 3. the Gelders dialect, 
 or the (so called) Lower Rhenish; 4. the Gro- 
 ningen dialect, to which also belongs the Upper 
 Yssel dialect; and, 5. the Flemish, which has 
 remained the literary language in the southern 
 provinces, though much poorer than the Dutch, 
 and overloaded with all the mongrel words, of 
 which Coornhert, Spiegel, and Hoost have pu- 
 rified the Dutch." 
 
 In single words and phrases, the Dutch lan- 
 guage strikingly resembles the English ; as in 
 the proverbs: 
 
 " Wanneer de wijn is in den man, 
 
 Dan is de wijsheid in de kan " ; 
 which hardly needs a translation into 
 
 ■Whene'er the wine is in the man, 
 
 Then is the wisdom in the can. 
 And again, 
 
 " Als April blaast op zijn hoom, 
 
 Is 't goed voor hooi en koorn " ; 
 in English, 
 
 When April blows on his horn, 
 
 It is good for hay and com. * 
 
 The Dutch is said also to preserve a more 
 striking resemblance to the original Gothic 
 tongue than any of the cognate dialects. For 
 a more detailed account of the language and 
 its history, the reader is referred to Bosworth, 
 Meidinger, Bowring, and Mone.t 
 
 * If proverbs may be relied on, the resemblance between 
 Frisic and English is still greater; for 
 
 "Bread, butler, and green cheese, 
 Is good English and good Friese." 
 But let not the reader be deluded by this into the belief that 
 he can read Frisic as easily as English. 
 
 t Bosworth. Dictionary of the Anglo-Saxon Language. 
 Preface, p. xci. — 3Ieidixger. Dictionnaire Comparatif. 
 Introduction, p. xxxi. — Bowrixg. Sketch of the Lan- 
 guage and Literature of Holland. Amsterdam : 1329. 12mo.; 
 first published in the Foreign Quarterly Review, Yol. rV. — 
 Moxe. Ubersicht der Niederlandischen Tolks-Literatur 
 alterer Zeit. Tubingen: 1S33. 8vo. — See also Gemeen- 
 schap lussen de Gottische Spraeke en de Nederduytsche. 
 t'Amsterdam : 1710. 4to. 
 
 The historian Niebuhr, in one of his letters, gives the 
 following account of the dialects of the Netherlands. 
 " 1. In old times, as in the seventh century, the Yssel 
 formed the boundary between the Frisians and Saxons, so 
 that all the country west of this river, excepting a portion 
 of Yeluve, belonged to Friesland, which was bounded on the 
 south by the Maas. The Zuyder-Zee, or, as it was then 
 called, the Ylie, was still only an inland lake, and Friesland 
 extended along the coast to the north as far as Schleswig. 
 Inland, it reached, at most points, as far as the great mo- 
 rasses, which extend from Overyssel and Drenthe, through 
 
372 
 
 DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 The history of Dutch poetry may be divided 
 into five periods. I. From the earliest times 
 to 1600, including the old Flemish writers. 
 II. From 1600 to 1700. III. From 1700 to 
 1775. IV. From 1775 to the revolution of 
 1795. V. From 1795 to the present time. 
 
 I. From the earliest times to 1600. The his- 
 tory of the poetry of the Netherlands begins 
 as far back as the twelfth century, with the 
 rhymed romance of " The Siege of Troy " (Be 
 Trojaensche Oorlog), a poem of between three 
 and four thousand lines, by Seger Dieregodgaf 
 (Deodatus). It commences with a royal feast 
 in the court of Priam, and ends with Hector's 
 death. To the same century belongs the won- 
 derful "Journey of St. Brandaen " (Reis van 
 Sintc Brandaen) * containing an account of his 
 remarkable adventures by sea and land; how 
 he put to sea with his chaplain and monks, 
 and provisions for nine years; how, after sail- 
 ing about for a whole year without sight of 
 shore, they landed on what, like Sinbad the 
 Sailor, they supposed to be an island, but found 
 to be a great fish ; how they all took to their 
 heels, and were no sooner on board than the 
 fish sank and came near swamping their ship ; 
 how they were followed by a sea-monster, half 
 woman, half fish (half wijf, half visch), which 
 the Saint sank with a prayer; how they came 
 to a country of scoria? and cinders (drossaerden 
 en schinkers), where they suffered from the ex- 
 tremes of heat and cold; how they were driven 
 
 Westphalia,. into the county of Hoya. These were the 
 northern limits of the Westphalian Saxons; and I find that 
 the word which I heard in Suhlingen, and supposed to be 
 Frisian, really belongs to this language. Overyssel is 
 therefore purely Saxon. 2. The ancient inhabitants of Bra- 
 bant, Flanders, and the country between the Maas and the 
 Rhine, before and under the Romans, seem to have been of 
 the same race as the Frisians. But in the last mentioned 
 country, and in the Betuve, the Franks settled in the fourth 
 century, and altered the dialect still more than in the coun- 
 tries west of the Maas, where they never were so numerous. 
 However, here as well as there, it was their supremacy 
 which affected the language most. 3. Low Dutch is not an 
 original language, but Frisian, modified by the influence of 
 Frankish and Saxon. The most distinctive words are orig 
 inally Frisian, and indigenous in no other German dialect 
 This appears especially in the particles, which in all Ian 
 guages are least borrowed, and therefore the most charac 
 teristic parts of it. All words in Hollandish, which resem 
 ble Danish or English, and vary from German, are Frisian. 
 4. The mixture of Frankish arose through the conquest and 
 settlement of the Franks ; that of Saxon, through the cir 
 cumstance that Low Saxon was from early times the writ 
 ten language of these regions. Thence comes the Low 
 Dutch mode of spelling, which deceives the Low Saxon 
 for many words are spelt as they formerly were with us 
 but pronounced quite differently. Hence it is that the 
 sound u is designated by oe. They pronounce mid, bind, 
 hud, muder ; and write, as they formerly did with us, moed. 
 bloed, hoed, moeder. 5. In the thirteenth century the 
 pre-^nt language of Holland already existed, and was near- 
 er to German than now." — Foreign Quarterly Review. 
 Vol. XXXI., pp. 389, 390. 
 
 * This old romance is probably of French origin. There 
 is a poem on the same subject by an Anglo-Norman Trou- 
 vere, of which an analysis, with extracts, may be found in 
 Blackwood's Magazine, Vol. XXXIX., p. 807. 
 
 by a storm into the Leverzee (the old German 
 Lebermeer), where they saw a mast rise from 
 the water, and heard a mysterious voice, bid- 
 ding them sail eastward, to avoid the Magnetic 
 Rocks, that drew to them all that passed too 
 near; how they steered eastward, and saw a 
 beautiful church on a rock, wherein were sev- 
 en monks, fed with food from Paradise by a 
 dove and a raven ; how they were driven by 
 a southwest wind into the Wild Sea, in the 
 midst of which they found a man perched on 
 a solitary rock, who informed them he was the 
 king of Pamphylia in Cappadocia, and, having 
 been shipwrecked there ninety-nine years pre- 
 vious, had ever since been sitting alone on that 
 solitary rock ; how they came to a fearful whirl- 
 pool called Helleput, or Pit of Hell, where 
 they heard the lamentations of damned souls ; 
 how they arrived in Donkerland, a land cover- 
 ed with gold and jewels instead of grass, and 
 watered by a fountain of oil and honey ; how 
 one of the monks stole there a costly bridle, 
 by which afterwards a devil dragged him down 
 to hell ; how they came to a goodly castle, 
 at the gate of which sat an old man with a 
 gray beard, and beside him an angel with a 
 flaming sword ; how the monks loaded their 
 ship with gold, and a great storm rose, and St. 
 Brandaen prayed, and a demon came with the 
 lost monk on his shoulders, and threw him into 
 the rigging of the ship ; how they sailed near 
 the Burning Castle (Brandenden Burcht) and 
 heard the dialogues of devils ; how they came 
 to the Mount of Syoen, and found there a castle 
 whose walls were of crystal, inset with bronze 
 lions and leopards, the dwelling of the Walschr- 
 ander, or rebel angels ; how they journeyed 
 farther and found a little man no bigger than 
 one's thumb, trying to bail out the sea ; how a 
 mighty serpent wound himself round the ship, 
 and, taking his tail in his mouth, held them 
 prisoners for fourteen days ; and finally, how 
 they came to anchor, and St. Brandaen asked 
 his chaplain Noe if he had recorded all these 
 wonders, and the chaplain Noe answered, 
 " Thank God, the book is written " (God danc, 
 ditboec esvolscreven). And so ends this ancient 
 " Divina Commedia " of the Flemish School; 
 not unlike, in its general tone and coloring, 
 "The Vision of Frate Alberico," or "The Le- 
 gend of Barlaam and Josaphat," and the rest 
 of the ghostly legends of the Middle Ages, 
 which mingled together monkhood and knight- 
 errantry.* 
 
 To the close of this century is referred, also 
 the famous poem of "Renard the Fox" (Rei 
 naert de Vos), in its antique Flemish form. "In 
 all probability," says Willems, in the Introduc- 
 tion to his beautiful edition of this work, " the 
 fable of the Fox and the Wolf was known 
 among us as early as the ninth century; but 
 
 * Oudvlaemsche Gedichten der XII e , XIII e , en XIV e 
 Eeuwen, nilgegeven door Jokkhe. Ph. Blommaebt. 3ent: 
 183S-41. 8vo. 
 
DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 373 
 
 the poem of which we here speak seems to 
 have been composed in the second half of the 
 welfth century, probably about the year 1170. 
 All circumstances conspire to fix this date ; so 
 that the ' Reinaert ' may be regarded as the 
 oldest known poem in our mother tongue, of 
 which the Netherlanders can boast." * 
 
 In the thirteenth century flourished Jacob 
 van Maerlant, the father of Dutch poetry. He 
 was born at Damme, in Flanders, and apologizes 
 for his use of Flemish words in his poems: 
 
 "For I am Flemysh, I yow beseche, 
 Of youre curtesye, al and eche, 
 That shal thys Boche chaunce peruse, 
 Unto me nat youre grace refuse : 
 And yf ye fynden any worde 
 In youre countrey that ys unherde, 
 Thynketh that clerkys for her ryme 
 Taken a faultie worde somtyme."f 
 
 His principal works are his " Poetic Para- 
 phrase of the Scriptures" (Rijmbijbel) ; and the 
 "Mirror of History " (Spiegel Historiel), a free 
 translation of the " Speculum Historiale " of 
 Vincent de Beauvais. To the same century 
 belong Melis Stoke, author of a " Rhyme- 
 Chronicle " of Holland (Rijmkronijk) ; — Jan 
 van Heelu, who celebrated in song the victory 
 of Duke John of Brabant in Gelderland ; — 
 Heijnric van Holland, author of " The Power 
 of the Moon," (De Kragt der Maane) ; — Friar 
 Thomas, author of a poem on "Natural Phi- 
 losophy " (Natuurk.un.de) ; — Claes van Brecht- 
 en, translator of some of the romances of the 
 Round Table; — Willem Utenhoven ; — Calf- 
 staf and Noijdekijn, of which last two Maerlant 
 makes honorable mention, as translators of 
 "Esop's Fables" : 
 
 "These have Calfstafand Noijdekijn 
 Put into rhyme so fair and fine." 
 
 The chief poetic names that have survived 
 the civil wars of the fourteenth century are 
 Lodewijk van Velthem, author of a "Rijm- 
 kronijk"; and Jan de Clerk, author of " Bra- 
 bantsche Jeesten " (Gesta), the " Dietschen Doc- 
 trinael," and the didactic poem of " Lekenspie- 
 gel," or Mirror for Laymen. Niclaes de Clerk 
 and Jan Dekens are also mentioned ; but the 
 personal identity of the last seems to be con- 
 founded with that of Jan de Clerk. t To these 
 may be added Jan de Weert, and Claes Willems, 
 and the list is nearly, if not quite, complete. 
 The bloody feuds of the Hoekschen and the 
 Kabbeljauwschen were not favorable to poetry. 
 To this period, however, are to be referred a 
 great number of old chivalrous romances, of 
 French, German, and Scandinavian origin ; as, 
 "Roland," " Olger the Dane," "Lancelot," 
 "Parcival," "The Holy Grail," and many 
 more. At the close of the century, also, the 
 Kamern der Rederijkern, or Chambers of 
 
 * Reinaert de Vos, episch fabeldicht van de Twaelfde en 
 Dertiende Eeuw, met aenmerkingen en ophelderingen van 
 J. F. Willems. Gent: 1836. 8vo. 
 
 f Bowring. Batavian Anthology, p. 25. 
 
 I SeeMoNB, p. 118. 
 
 Rhetoricians, had their origin ; but as they 
 flourished more extensively during the follow- 
 ing century, the notice of them properly belongs 
 to that period. 
 
 The literary names of the fifteenth century 
 are hardly more numerous than those of the 
 fourteenth. The only ones of any note are 
 Jan Van den Dale, Anton de Rovere, Dirk van 
 Munster, and Lambertus Goetman, who seem 
 to have been honest burghers, and some of them 
 respectable members of the Chambers of Rhet- 
 oric. These Chambers were to Holland, in the 
 fifteenth century, what the Guilds of the Meis- 
 tersingers were to Germany, and were numer- 
 ous throughout the Netherlands. Brussels could 
 boast of five ; Antwerp of four ; Louvain of 
 three ; and Ghent, Bruges, Malines, Middel- 
 burg, Gouda, Haarlem, and Amsterdam of at 
 least one. Each chamber had its coat of arms 
 and its standard, and the directors bore the title 
 of Princes and Deans. At times they gave 
 public representations of poetic dialogues and 
 stage-plays, called Spelen van Sinne, or Morali- 
 ties. Like the Meistersiugers, they gave singular 
 titles to their songs and metres. A verse was 
 called siRegel; a strophe, a Clause; and a burden 
 or refrain, a Stockregel. If a half-verse closed 
 a strophe, it was called a Steert, or tail. Tafel 
 spelen, and Spelen van Sinne, were the titles of 
 the dramatic exhibitions ; and the rhymed in 
 vitation to these was called a Charte, or Hit- 
 roep (outcry). Ketendichten (-chain-poems) are 
 short poems in which the last word of each 
 line rhymes with the first of the line following, 
 Scaekberd (checker-board), a poem of sixty-four 
 lines, so rhymed, that in every direction it 
 forms a strophe of eight lines ; and Dobbel- 
 steert (double-tail), a poem in which a double 
 rhyme closes each line.* 
 
 Upon this subject Dr. Bowring says : " The 
 degeneracy of the language may mainly be at- 
 tributed to the wandering orators (sprekers), 
 who, being called to the courts of princes, or 
 admitted though uninvited, rehearsed, for mon- 
 ey, the miserable doggerel produced by them- 
 selves or others. These people afterwards 
 formed themselves, in Flanders and Brabant, 
 into literary societies, which were known by 
 the name of Chambers of Rhetoricians (Kamern 
 der Rhetorijkern or Rederijkern), and which 
 offered prizes to the most meritorious poets. 
 The first Chambers appear to have been found- 
 ed at Dixmuiden and Antwerp : at the former 
 place in 1394, and at the latter in 1400. These 
 societies were formed in imitation of the French, 
 who began to institute them about the middle 
 
 * With the Rederijkern, Hood's amusing " Nocturnal 
 Sketch " would have been a Driedobbelsteert, or a poem 
 with three tails : 
 
 " Even is come ; and from the dark park, hark, 
 The signal of the setting sun, one gun ! 
 And six is sounding from the chime, prime time 
 To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain. 
 Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things 
 Such as with his poetic tongue Young sung." 
 
374 
 
 DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 of the fourteenth century, under the name of 
 Colleges de Rhitorique. The example of Flan- 
 ders was speedily followed by Zeeland and 
 Holland. In 1430, there was a Chamber at 
 Middelburg ; in 1433, at Vlaardingen ; in 1434, 
 at Nieuwkerk ; and in 1437, at Gouda. Even 
 insignificant Dutch villages had their Chambers. 
 Among others, one was founded in the Lier, in 
 the year 1480. In the remaining provinces 
 they met with less encouragement. They ex- 
 isted, however, at Utrecht, Amersfoort, Leeuw- 
 aarden, and Hasselt. The purity of the lan- 
 guage was completely undermined by the rhym- 
 ing self-called Rhetoricians, and their aban- 
 doned courses brought poetry itself into dis- 
 repute. All distinction of genders was nearly 
 abandoned ; the original abundance of words 
 ran waste ; and that which was left became 
 completely overwhelmed by a torrent of bar- 
 barous terms." * 
 
 To the fifteenth century belongs the earliest 
 specimen of the Dutch drama. It is one of the 
 Spelen van Sinne, or Moralities of the Rederij- 
 kern, entitled "The First Joy of Maria" (De 
 eerste bliscap van Maria), and was performed in 
 the public square of Brussels during the reign 
 of Philip the Good, in 1444, by the Kersauwe 
 Chamber of Rhetoric. It seems to have been 
 rather a splendid spectacle ; for the characters 
 introduced are Envy, Lucifer, Serpent, Eve, 
 Adam, God, Angel, two children, Seth, David, 
 Job, Esaias, Misery, Prayer, Charity, Right- 
 eousness, Truth, the Holy Ghost, God's Son, 
 Peace, Joachim, Bishop, Priest, Anna, two 
 peasants, Maria, two young men, Joseph, and 
 Gabriel. Six other spiritual plays, on the six 
 other joys of the Virgin Mary, were composed 
 by them; one of which was annually performed 
 by command of the city of Brussels. Wage- 
 naer, in his " Description of Amsterdam, "t gives 
 a copy of a painter's bill for work done at the 
 play-house in the town of Alkmaar, of which 
 the following is a translation : 
 
 " Imprimis, made for the Clerks a Hell ; 
 Item, the Pavilion of Satan ; 
 Item, two pairs of Devil's-breeches ; 
 Item, a Shield for the Christian Knight ; 
 Item, have painted the Devils whenever they played ; 
 Item, some Arrows and other small matters. 
 Sum total ; worth in all xii. guilders. 
 
 "Jacues Mol. . 
 " Paid, October viii., 95 [1495]." 
 
 It was customary for the various Chambers 
 of Rhetoric to meet together, and perform plays 
 in rivalship of each other. These meetings 
 were held in all the principal cities of Flan- 
 ders. Thirteen are on record between the 
 years 1441 and 1599. They were of three 
 
 * Batavian Anthology, pp. 27, 28. — For further and more 
 minute information on the subject of the Kederijkern the 
 reader is referred to Mone's Niederlandische Volks-Litera- 
 tur; — Kop, Schets eener geschiedenis der Rederijkeren, in 
 the Second Part of the Transactions of the Leyden Society 
 of Belles-Lettres ; and Casteleyn, De Const van Rethori- 
 ken : Gent. : 1550, 12mo. 
 
 t Beschryvning van Amsterdam, Vol. II., p. 392. 
 
 different kinds, according to the number of 
 Chambers assembled. The simplest form was 
 when one or two Chambers united to represent 
 a single play. When several joined in the fes- 
 tival, it was called a Haegspel ; and when all, 
 or nearly all, came together, a Landt-Juweel. 
 
 The palmiest days of the Rederijkern were 
 in the sixteenth century. In the year 1539, 
 nineteen Chambers met at Ghent, and the play- 
 ing lasted from the 12th to the 23d of June. 
 The Antwerp Chamber bore away the highest 
 prize, consisting of four silver tankards of nine 
 marks' weight ; and Sinte Wynocx-berge the 
 second, three silver beakers of seven marks' 
 weight. The plays performed on this occasion 
 were published at Antwerp during the same 
 year. A second edition appeared there in 1562, 
 and a third at Wesel in 1564.* 
 
 On the 3d of August, 1561, fourteen Cham- 
 bers of Rhetoric, from various Belgian towns, 
 held a Landt-Juweel in the city of Antwerp. 
 They entered the city in procession, on horse- 
 back, arrayed in gorgeous dresses of scarlet, 
 violet, and green, with plumes, and banners, 
 and devices. Each Chamber was followed by 
 its Spelwaghenen, or carts, upon which were 
 performed, as on a stage, the Spelen van Sinne. 
 The fourteen Chambers were : 1. The Golden 
 Flower of Antwerp ; 2. The Olive-branch of 
 Antwerp ; 3. The Passion-flower of Bergen 
 op Zoom ; 4. The Piony of Mechlin ; 5. The 
 Evergreen of Lier ; 6. The Fleur de Lis of 
 Mechlin ; 7. The Pumpkin of Herenthals ; 
 8. The Golden Flower of Vilvoorden ; 9. The 
 Lily of Diest ; 10. The Lily of the Valley of 
 Leeuwen ; 11. The Oculus Christi of Diest; 
 12. The Rose of LSven ; 13. The Holy Thorn 
 of Schertoghenbosch ; 14. The Garland of Ma- 
 ria of Brussels. 
 
 The Chambers were received with great 
 pomp by the Gillyflower of Antwerp, the 
 founders of the festival (Opsetters des Landt- 
 Juweels), and conducted to the market-place, 
 where the plays were performed. In the fol- 
 lowing year, these plays were printed by Wil- 
 lem Silvius in a handsome volume, with the 
 escutcheons of the several Chambers, and a 
 description of the triumphal entry. The title 
 of the work is, " Spelen van Sinne : full of beau- 
 tiful Moral Expositions and Representations 
 of all the Fine Arts, wherein clearly, as in a 
 Mirror, figuratively, poetically, and rhetorically, 
 may be seen how necessary and serviceable 
 these same Arts are to all Mankind." Most of 
 these pieces are allegorical, with such charac- 
 ters as Common Report, Carnal Delight, Small 
 Profit, Greedy Heart, Subtle Conceit, and Stout- 
 in-Adventure. Some aspire to a classip tone, 
 and represent the gods of Greece ; and one is 
 a conversation between Bacchus, who is called 
 the Wijnen Patroon, and his retainers, Malmsey, 
 Romane, Ay, Rhine-Wine, and Leus-Beer. 
 
 * Spelen van Sinne by den XIV. gheconfirmeerden ca- 
 maren van rhethorijkern, &c. Thantwerpen : 1539. 8vo. 
 
DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 375 
 
 The poetic names of the sixteenth century 
 are few in number, and not of great renown. 
 The chief of them are Hendrik Spieghel, au- 
 thor of a didactic poem, called " The Mirror 
 of the Heart" (Hertspiegel) ; — Dirk Volkert 
 Coornherts, translator of Homer, Cicero, and 
 Boethius ; — Petrus Dathenus, translator of the 
 Psalms: — Roemer Visscher, called the Dutch 
 Martial; — and Anna Byns, the Dutch Sappho. 
 Due mention should here be made of the 
 old ballads and popular songs of Holland, 
 which extend back as far as the fourteenth 
 century. Among them is a vast number of 
 Christmas carols, Easter hymns, Pater-Nosters, 
 Ave-Marias, Salve-Reginas, songs on the cross 
 and the name of Jesus, the ballads of Sister 
 Bertha, and the love-songs of a nun, who calls 
 herself a wretched woman (ellendech wijf), and 
 laments that she has never known what love 
 is, and shall go to her grave without knowing 
 it. Speaking of these old spiritual songs, Hoff- 
 mann says, in his Preface : "The older spiritual 
 poetry of Holland, at least that part of it which 
 is extant in the form of songs, existed for a 
 very limited period. The greater portion of 
 the songs of this class appeared in the middle of 
 the fifteenth centurv, and disappeared again 
 before the close of the following one. Many 
 had found favor with the people, and might 
 therefore justly lay claim to the title of popular 
 songs. These, like all the religious ones, were 
 for the most part either adapted to the airs of 
 profane ones, or imitated from them ; the great- 
 er number were, however, not so widely spread, 
 but confined rather to the circle of private de- 
 votion. Moreover, from the nature of their 
 contents, they were of necessity kept within a 
 very limited circle ; for the greatest number of 
 them consisted of songs which treated of the 
 nature and circumstances of the loving soul, 
 and of the means whereby it sought to gain the 
 affections of its Bridegroom, — Jesus Christ. 
 The other divisions of the sacred songs were 
 severally devoted to the celebration of the birth 
 and resurrection of Christ, and to the praises 
 of the Blessed Virgin. Thus, then, the earlier 
 sacred poetry of Holland consisted only of four 
 descriptions of songs, namelv, the Christmas 
 Carols, the Easter Hymns, the Songs of the 
 Virgin, and the Songs of Christian Doctrine."* 
 Among these popular songs will be found also 
 some romantic ballads, and others of a historic 
 character. Two collections have recently been 
 published by Le Jeune and Hoffmann. t 
 
 II. From 1600 to 1700. The seventeenth 
 century was the Augustan age of Holland. 
 Then lived and labored her greatest men in the 
 arts of peace and war; — her admirals, Heems- 
 kerk, Ruyter, and Tromp ; — her statesmen, 
 
 * Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. XIY., p. 164. 
 
 t Letterkundig orerzigt en proeven van de Nederland- 
 Bche volkszangen sedert de XYde eeuw, door Mr. J. C. "W. 
 Le jEt^>E. Te 'S Gravenhage : 1823. Svo. — Holl'andische 
 Volkslieder, gesammelt und erl'aulert von Dr. Heinrich 
 Hoffmann. Breslau : 1833. 8vo. 
 
 Barneveld, Grotius, and De Witt; — her schol- 
 ars, Scaliger, Salmasius, and Gronovius ; — her 
 men of science, Leoninus, Aldegonde, and Dou- 
 sa ; — her painters, Rubens, Rembrandt, and 
 Vandyk ; — her poets, Hooft, Vondel, and Cats ; 
 and many more, almost as illustrious in their va- 
 rious spheres of thought and action. Piet Hein's 
 celebrated victory over the Silver Fleet of Spain 
 is but a type of the victories and treasures won 
 by others in the domain of intellect. The names 
 of more than sixty poets adorn the annals of that 
 age. Of the best of these biographical sketches 
 will be given in connection with the extracts 
 from their writings. To these the reader is re- 
 ferred for the history of Dutch poetry during 
 the seventeenth century. 
 
 III. From 1700 to 1775. This is a darker 
 period in the history of Dutch poetry, and by 
 its darkness increases the brilliancy of that 
 which preceded it : 
 
 " O thou vain glory of the human powers, 
 How little green upon thy summit lingers, 
 If 't be not followed by a grosser age ! " 
 
 An English writer pronounces the following 
 summary and severe judgment upon this period : 
 " There is little but weariness now and for 
 some time forward. Rotgans is hardly entitled 
 to be mentioned; nor Langendyk, who seems 
 to have been a joyous creature, but not a very 
 wise one. There is an absolute deluge of 
 rhymesters. Some few eminent men appeared 
 in the field of philology, particularly Ten Kate, 
 whose knowledge of the principal sources of 
 the Dutch tongue enabled him to treat the 
 subject with originality and with success. 
 
 " Perhaps the. only poetical name that ought 
 to be rescued from amidst these obscurities is 
 Poots, the poet of the plough, whom we men- 
 tion more because he was a ploughman, than 
 because we deem him a poet. Of himself he 
 says : 
 
 " : I am a peasant's son, no wealth have I, 
 
 For wanton Fortune turns her back on me ; 
 Even to this hour my hands my food supply. 
 
 Though young. I hailed the light of poetry, 
 With Hooft and Vondel ever in mine eye, 
 Lost in her wastes, and sought, at distance long, 
 To follow her proud swans, and imitate their song.' 
 
 His best pieces are his ' De Maan bv Endy- 
 mion ' (The Moon by Endymion), ' Wachten ' 
 (Watching), and ' Het Landleven ' (Country 
 Life). De Clercq has fancied a resemblance 
 between him and Burns : it goes no further 
 than that they both followed the wain, and 
 both made verses, — Burns, full of nature, 
 beauty, truth, and power, — Poots, usually bom- 
 bastic, mythological, false, and feeble. 
 
 " Holland was next deluged with a flood of 
 translations, imitations, and adaptations of the 
 masterpieces of the French drama ; the effect 
 was to introduce a false and foreign taste, and 
 a determination to sacrifice all nationality on 
 the altar of the unities. A handful of pedants 
 took possession of the whole field of literature. 
 
376 
 
 DUTCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 with their oversettings (overzettingeri), mis- 
 speechifying8 (vertaalingen), and dislocations 
 (verplaatsingen), of the dramatists of France. 
 Individually weak, they tried to become strong 
 by association, and they banded together to bring 
 the histrionic genius of the Seine to preside over 
 
 the Gragts of the Amstel The next step 
 
 in Holland was to make French prose the text of 
 Dutch poetry; the versified translation ofFene- 
 lon's admirable romance occupied no less than 
 twenty years of the life of a man who was the 
 great authority of his day and generation, but 
 who is now forgotten, — Feitama. His transla- 
 tion was ushered into the world with a ' flourish 
 of trumpets ' sufficient to shake the walls of Jeri- 
 cho. The art of puffing was then but imperfectly 
 understood ; yet year after year the progress of 
 the mountain's labor was announced, a thousand 
 minute-guns told mankind the hour of parturi- 
 tion was come, et nascitur — amidst the roar 
 of the artillery — a trumpery brat, that died in 
 childhood, whose story is already in oblivion, 
 and whose name was ' Feitama's Telemachus.' 
 Feitama was a pernicious literary fop, who set- 
 tled all matters of taste in his day, and got 
 round him a circle of worshippers. The delu- 
 sion was soon dissipated, and we need not lin- 
 ger about it. Schim is tasteless, De Marre 
 diffuse, Zweerts altogether worthless ; and Di- 
 dier Smits, whose ' brilliant qualities ' the too 
 laudatory professor too precipitately praises, 
 was a very virtuous citizen, but nothing more. 
 Steenwyk, who was Feitama's favorite follower, 
 published two bombastic epics, in which divers 
 grand allegorical personages tread on the heels 
 of one another in fine confusion."* 
 
 In addition to the names so lightly spoken 
 of here, may be mentioned, as belonging to the 
 same epoch, Lucas Schermer, a poet of great 
 promise, who died at the early age of twenty- 
 one ; — Arnold Hoogvliet, author of " The Pa- 
 triarch Abraham," a poem in twelve cantos; — 
 Willem Swanenburg, author of " The Muses 
 of a Painter" ; — Jaen de Marre, author of the 
 tragedies of " Jaqueline de Baviere " and " Mar- 
 cus Curtius " ; — Philip Sweers, Frans van 
 Steenwijk, Lucas Pater, Balthazar Huydecoper, 
 and Onno van Haren, all of them dramatic 
 writers. Willem van Haren, brother of the 
 last mentioned, also distinguished himself as a 
 poet, and it was to him that Voltaire addressed 
 the ode, beginning, " Demosthenes in the Coun- 
 cil and Pindar on Parnassus " (D&mosthine au 
 conseil et Pindare au Parnasse). To these may 
 be added the names of Lucas Trip, burgomaster 
 of Groningen, and author of " Time-saving of 
 Leisure Hours," which has been designated by 
 the critics, as " one of those gloomy works, 
 which, like Young's 'Night Thoughts,' seem 
 made rather to destroy, than to excite, enjoy- 
 ment"; — Johannes Eusebius Voet, translator of 
 the Psalms; — and Dirk Smits, a custom-house 
 officer at Rotterdam, whose fame not inappro- 
 
 * Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. IV., pp. 57-59. 
 
 priately floats on a poem entitled " The River 
 Rotte " (Rottestroom) , the river whose waters 
 wash the quays of Rotterdam. 
 
 IV. From 1775 to 1795. The most distin- 
 guished poets of this period are Nicolas Simon 
 van Winter, author of "The River Amstel," 
 "The Seasons," a descriptive poem in four 
 cantos, and the tragedies of "Menzikoff " and 
 " Monzongo " ; — his wife, Lucretia Wilhelmi- 
 na van Merken, authoress of several tragedies, 
 " David," an heroic poem in twelve cantos, 
 and " Germanicus," an epic in twenty-four; — 
 her rival, the Baroness Juliana Cornelia de Lan- 
 roy, authoress of the tragedies of " Leo the 
 Great," " The Siege of Haarlem," and " Cle- 
 opatra " ; — and Jan Nomsz, Willem Haver- 
 korn, Pieter Uylenbroek, and Jan Gerard 
 Doovnik, all of them writers for the stage. 
 More distinguished than these, and the harbin- 
 gers of a better epoch, are Hieronimus van 
 Alphen, author of many popular and patriotic 
 songs, poetic meditations, and poems for chil- 
 dren, which are familiar as household words in 
 every family in Holland ; — Jacobus Bellamy, 
 a lyric poet of great tenderness and beauty, 
 who died young; — and Peter Nieuwland, son 
 of a village carpenter, and a lyric poet of great 
 distinction. Many of the poets, who, properly 
 speaking, belong to the next period, and will 
 there be introduced, began their career in this. 
 
 V. From 1795 to the present time. A list of 
 some thirty names constitutes the poetic cata- 
 logue of this period, and completes the sketch 
 of Dutch poetry. The most distinguished among 
 them are Feith, Helmers, Bilderdijk, Tollens, 
 Borger, Da Costa, Klijn, Loots, Van Lennep, 
 Nierstrasz, Kinker, Staring van der Wilden- 
 bosch, Spandaw, Withuis, Loosjes, Van Winter, 
 Simonsz, and Westerman. Several of these will 
 be more particularly noticed hereafter ; and the 
 remainder must be passed over in silence. 
 
 For more extended notices of the literature 
 of Holland the reader is referred to the " Me- 
 moires pour servir a l'Histoire Litteraire des 
 Dix-sept Provinces des Pays Bas," par M. Pa- 
 quot, 3 vols., folio, and 18 vols., 8vo., Loven, 
 1765-70; — " Essai sur l'Histoire de la Litte- 
 rature Neerlandaise," par J. de 'S Gravenweert, 
 Amsterdam, 1830, 8vo. ; — " Precis de l'Histoire 
 Litteraire des Pays Bas," traduit du Hollandais 
 de M. Siegenbeek, par H. S. Lebrocquy, Ghent, 
 1827, 18mo. ; — the sketch by Van Kampen in 
 Eichhorn's " Geschichte der Litteratur," Vol. 
 III., Gottingen, 1812; — " Verhandling van 
 den Heer Willem de Clercq ter beantwoording 
 der vraage, welken invloed heaft vreemde Let- 
 terkunde, &c, gehad op de Nederlandsche Taal 
 en Letterkunde," Amsterdam, 1825, 8vo. ; — 
 and the " Biographisch, Anthologisch en Crit- 
 isch Woordenboek der Nederduitsche Dichters," 
 door P. G. Witsen Geysbeek, 6 vols., Amster- 
 dam, 1821 -27, 8vo. To these may be added 
 the works of Hoffmann, Mone, Le Jeune, and 
 Bowring, cited in the course of this Introduction. 
 
BALLADS. 
 
 THE HUNTER FROM GREECE. 
 
 A. hunter went a-hunting into the forest wide, 
 And naught he found to hunt but a man whose 
 
 arms were tied. 
 •Hunter," quoth he, "a woman is roaming in 
 
 the grove, 
 And to your joyous youth-tide a deadly bane 
 
 shall prove." 
 " What ! should I fear a woman, who never 
 
 feared a man ? " 
 Then to him, while yet speaking, the cruel 
 
 woman ran. 
 She seized his arms, and grasped his horse's 
 
 reins, and hied 
 Full seventy miles, ascending with him the 
 
 mountain's side : 
 The mountains they were lofty, the valleys 
 
 deep and low. 
 Two sucklings dead, one turning upon a spit, 
 
 he saw : 
 "And am I doomed to perish, as I these perish 
 
 see ? 
 Then may I curse my fortune that I a Greek 
 
 should be." 
 " What ! are you, then, from Greece ? — for my 
 
 husband is a Greek ; — 
 And tell me of your parents, — perchance I 
 
 know them, — speak ! " 
 "But should I name them, they may to you be 
 
 all unknown : — 
 My father is the monarch of Greece, and I his 
 
 son ; 
 And Margaret his consort, — my mother, too, 
 
 is she; 
 You well may know their titles, and they my 
 
 parents be." 
 " The monarch of the Grecians, — a comely 
 
 man and gay ; — 
 But should you ne'er grow taller, what boots 
 
 your life, I pray ? " 
 "Why should I not grow taller? I but eleven 
 
 years have seen ; 
 I hope I shall grow taller than trees in the for- 
 est green." 
 " How hope you to grow taller than trees in the 
 
 forest green ? — 
 I have a maiden daughter, a young and graceful 
 
 queen, 
 And on her head she weareth a crown of pearls 
 
 so fine ; 
 But not e'en wooing monarchs should have that 
 
 daughter mine. 
 Upon her breast she beareth a lily and a sword, 
 And even hell's black tenants all tremble at 
 
 her word." 
 
 48 
 
 " You boast so of your daughter, I wish she 'd 
 
 cross my way, — 
 I 'd steal her kisses slyly, and bid her a good day." 
 " I have a little courser that 's swifter than the 
 
 wind ; 
 I '11 lend it to you slyly ; — go, seek, — the 
 
 maiden find." 
 Then bravely on the courser galloped the hunt- 
 er lad : 
 " Farewell ! black hag, farewell ! for your 
 
 daughter is too bad." 
 " O, had I, as this morning, you in my clutches 
 
 back, 
 You dared no-t then have called me — you 
 
 dared not call me ' black.' " 
 She struck the tree in fury with a club-stick 
 
 which she took, 
 Till the trees in the greenwood trembled, and 
 
 all the green leaves shook. 
 
 THE FETTERED NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 " Now I will speed to the Eastern land, for 
 
 there my sweet love dwells, — 
 Over hill and over valley, far over the heather, 
 
 for there my sweet love dwells. 
 And two fair trees are standing at the gates of 
 
 my sweet love : 
 One bears the fragrant nutmeg, and one the 
 
 fragrant clove." 
 " The nutmegs were so round, and the cloves 
 
 they smelt so sweet, 
 I thought a knight would court me, and but a 
 
 mean man meet." 
 The maiden by the hand, by her snow-white 
 
 hand he led, 
 And they travelled far away to where a couch 
 
 was spread ; 
 And there they lay concealed through the lov- 
 ing livelong night, 
 From evening to the morning, till broke the gay 
 
 daylight. 
 "And the sun is gone to rest, and the stars are 
 
 shining clear ; 
 I fain would hide me now in an orchard with 
 
 my dear, 
 And none should enter then my orchard's deep 
 
 alcove, 
 But the proud nightingale that carols high 
 
 above." 
 "We Ml chain the nightingale, — his head unto 
 
 his feet, — 
 And he no more shall chatter of lovers when 
 
 they meet." 
 
 ff2 
 
378 
 
 DUTCH POETRY. 
 
 "I 'm not less faithful now, although in fetters 
 
 bound, 
 And still will chatter on of two sweet lovers' 
 
 wound." 
 
 THE KNIGHT AND HIS SQUIRE. 
 
 A knight and his esquire did stray 
 
 Santio l 
 In the narrow path and the gloomy way. 
 
 JYon weder 
 So quoth the knight, — "Yon tree do thou 
 
 Santio 
 Climb, — bring the turtle from the bough." 
 
 JYon weder 
 " Sir Knight, I dare not ; for the tree 
 
 Santio 
 Is far too light to carry me." 
 
 JYon weder 
 The knight grew grave and stern ; and he 
 
 Santio 
 Mounted, himself, the waving tree. 
 
 JYon weder 
 "My master is fallen dead below ! 
 
 Santio 
 Where are my well earned wages now ? " 
 
 JS'on weder 
 "Your well earned wages? get you all: 
 
 Santio 
 Chariots and steeds are in the stall." 
 
 JYon weder 
 " Chariots and steeds I seek not after, 
 
 Santio 
 But I will have the youngest daughter." 
 
 JYon weder 
 The squire is now a knight ; and siill 
 
 Santio 
 Drives steeds and chariots at his w u. 
 
 JYon weder 
 
 THE THREE MAIDENS. 
 
 There were three maidens wandered forth 
 In the spring-time of the year; 
 
 The hail and the snow fell thick and fast, 
 And all three barefooted were. 
 
 The first of the three was weeping sore ; 
 
 With joy skipped the second there ; 
 The third of those maidens the first did ask, 
 
 " O, how does thy true love fare ? " 
 
 " O, why, and O, wherefore askest thou, 
 
 How does my true love fare ? 
 Three men-at-arms did fall upon him, — 
 
 His life they would not spare." 
 
 i The chorus of this romance is, — 
 
 Santio 
 
 Non weder de kneder de koorde sante jante 
 Iko, kantiko di kmdelaar sti. 
 
 " Did three men-at-arms fall upon him ? 
 
 His life would they not spare? 
 Another lover must kiss you, then; 
 
 To be merry and glad prepare." 
 
 "If another lover should kiss me, then, 
 O, how sad would my poor heart be ! 
 
 Adieu, my father and mother ! 
 Ye never more shall see me 
 
 " Adieu, my father and mother, 
 And my youngest sister dear ! 
 
 And I will to the green linden go, — 
 My true love lieth there." 
 
 DAY IN THE EAST IS DAWNING 
 
 " Day in the east is dawning, 
 
 Light shineth over all ; 
 How little knows my dearest 
 
 What fate shall me befall ! 
 
 " Were every one a friend to me 
 Whom now I count my foe, 
 
 I 'd bear thee far from this countree, 
 My trust, my own true joe ! " 
 
 "Then whither wouldst thou bear me, 
 Thou knight so stout and gay ? " 
 
 "All under the green linden, 
 Darling, we 'd take our way." 
 
 " In my love's arms I 'm lying 
 
 With great honor per fay ; 
 In my love's arms I 'm lying, 
 
 Thou knight so stout and gay." 
 
 "In thy love's arms thou 'rt lying? 
 
 Woe 's me, that is not truth ! 
 Seek under the green linden, — 
 
 There lies he slain forsooth." 
 
 The maiden took her mantle, 
 
 And hastened on her way, 
 Where under the green linden 
 
 Her murdered lover lay. 
 
 " O, liest thou here murdered, 
 
 And bathed in thy blood ! 
 'T is all because of thy high fame, 
 
 Thy noble mind and good. 
 
 " O, liest thou here murdered, 
 
 Who wast my comfort all ! 
 Alas ! how many bitter days 
 
 Must I now weep thy fall ! ' 
 
 The maiden turned her homewards, 
 
 With grief and dolor sore, 
 And when she reached her father's, 
 
 Yclosed was every door. 
 
CATS. — HOOFT. 
 
 379 
 
 " What ! is there no one here within, 
 
 No lord, no man of birth, 
 Who will assist me bury 
 
 This corse in the cold earth? " 
 
 The lords within stood mute and still, 
 
 No help to her they lent ; 
 The maiden turned her back again, 
 
 Loud weeping as she went. 
 
 Then with her hair so yellow 
 She cleansed him from his gore, 
 
 And with her hands so snowy 
 His wounds she covered o'er. 
 
 And with his own white sword 
 A grave for him she made, 
 
 And with her own white arms 
 His corse within it laid. 
 
 And with her hands so snowy 
 Her lover's knell she rang, 
 
 And with her voice so gentle 
 Her lover's dirge she sang. 
 
 " Now to some lonely cloister 
 Straight I '11 myself betake, 
 
 And wear for aye a sable veil, 
 For my own true love's sake.' 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 JACOB CATS. 
 
 Jacob Cats was born in 1577, at Brouwers- 
 haven, in Zeeland. He studied at Leyden, and 
 afterwards held several of the most important 
 offices in the state. He was Ambassador to 
 England, and afterwards, during five years, 
 Grand Pensionary of Holland. He died at his 
 estate in Zargvliet, in 1660. His poems con- 
 sist of fables, songs, allegories, &c. The}' are 
 distinguished for purity and simplicity of style, 
 a rich fancy, and delicate morality. His works, 
 after having been long neglected and almost 
 forgotten, were republished by Bilderdijk and 
 Feith, in nineteen volumes, at Amsterdam, in 
 1790-1800. A large part of his poems ap- 
 peared in German at Hamburg, in eight vol- 
 umes, 1710 — 17. 
 
 THE IVY. 
 
 When ivy twines around a tree, 
 
 And o'er the boughs hangs verdantly, 
 
 Or on the bark, however rough, 
 
 It seems, indeed, polite enough ; 
 
 And, judging from external things, 
 
 We deem it there in friendship clings ; 
 
 But where our weak and mortal eyes 
 
 Attain not, hidden treachery lies : 
 
 'T is there it brings decay unseen, 
 
 While all without seems bright and green ; 
 
 So that the tree, which flourished fair, 
 
 Before its time grows old and bare; 
 
 Then, like a barren log of wood, 
 
 It stands in lifeless solitude : 
 
 For treachery drags it to its doom, 
 
 Which gives but blight, — yet promised bloom. 
 
 Thou, whom the powerful Fates have hurled 
 'Midst this huge forest called the world, 
 Know, that not all are friends whose faces 
 Are habited in courteous graces ; 
 
 But think that 'neath the sweetest smile 
 
 Oft lurk self-interest, hate, and guile ; 
 
 Or that some gay and playful joke 
 
 Is spite's dark sheath, or envy's cloak. 
 
 Then love not each who offers thee, 
 
 In seeming truth, his amity ; 
 
 But first take heed, and weigh with care, 
 
 Ere he thy love and favor share : 
 
 For those, who friends too lightly choose, 
 
 Soon friends and all besides may lose. 
 
 THE STATUE OF MEMNON. 
 
 We read in books of ancient lore, 
 An image stood in days of yore, 
 Which, when the sun with splendor dight 
 Cast on its lips his golden light, 
 Those lips gave back a silver sound, 
 Which filled for hours the waste around : 
 But when again the living blaze 
 Withdrew its music-waking rays, 
 Or passing clouds its splendor veiled, 
 Or evening shades its face concealed, 
 This image stood all silent there, 
 Nor lent one whisper to the air. 
 This was of old. — And even now, 
 The man who lives in fortune's glow 
 Bears off the palm of sense and knowledge, 
 In town and country, court and college ; 
 And all assert, nem. con., whatever 
 Comes from his mouth is vastly clever: 
 But when the glowing sun retires, 
 His reign is o'er, and dimmed his fires, 
 And all his praise like vapor flies, — 
 For who e'er calls a poor man wise ? 
 
 PIETER CORNELIS HOOFT. 
 
 This writer, one of the fathers of the lit- 
 erature of Holland, was born at Amsterdam, 
 
36'„ 
 
 DUTCH POETRY. 
 
 March 16th, 1581. His taste was formed by 
 the study of the ancient classics, and by his 
 travels in Italy. As a literary man, he dis- 
 tinguished himself both in historical compo- 
 sition and in poetry. In the former, Tacitus 
 was his model, and the translation which he 
 published of this great historian holds the rank 
 of a classic. He wrote the "Life of Henry the 
 Fourth," the " History of the House of Medi- 
 ci," and the "History of the Netherlands." 
 The last is considered his most important work. 
 As a poet, he is regarded as the creator of trage- 
 dy and of erotic poetry in Holland. He died 
 at the Hague, May 21, 1647. 
 
 ANACREONTIC. 
 
 Three long years have o'erwhelmed me in 
 sadness, 
 
 Since the sun veiled his vision of gladness: 
 Sorrow be banished, — for sorrow is dreary ; 
 Sorrow and gloom but outweary the weary. 
 
 In my heart I perceive the day breaking ; 
 
 I cannot resist its awaking. 
 
 On my brow a new sun is arisen, 
 And bright is its glance o'er my prison ; 
 Gayly and grandly it sparkles about me, 
 Flowingly shines it within and without me : 
 Why, why should dejection disarm me, — 
 My fears or my fancies alarm me ? 
 
 Laughing light, lovely life, in the heaven 
 Of thy forehead is virtue engraven ; 
 Thy red coral lips, when they breathe an as- 
 senting, 
 To me are a dawn which Apollo is painting; 
 Thy eyes drive the gloom, with their spark- 
 ling, 
 Where sadness and folly sit darkling. 
 
 Lovely eyes, — then the beauties have bound 
 
 them, 
 And scattered their shadows around them ; 
 Stars, in whose twinklings the virtues and 
 
 graces, 
 Sweetness and meekness, all hold their high- 
 places: 
 But the brightest of stars is but twilight, 
 Compared with that beautiful eye-light. 
 
 Fragrant mouth, — all the flowers spring is 
 
 wreathing 
 Are dull to the sweets thou art breathing; 
 The charms of thy song might summon the 
 
 spirit 
 To sit on the ears all-enchanted to hear it: 
 What marvel, then, if, in its kisses, 
 My soul is o'erwhelmed with sweet blisses? 
 
 O, how blest, how divine the employment! 
 
 How heavenly, how high the enjoyment! 
 Delicate lips, and soft, amorous glances, — 
 Kindling, and quenching, and fanning sweet 
 fancies, — 
 
 Now, now to my heart's centre rushing, 
 And now through my veins they are gushing 
 
 Dazzling eyes, that but laugh at our ruin, 
 
 Nor think of the wrongs ye are doing, - — 
 Fountains of gladness and beacons of glory, 
 How do ye scatter the dark mists before ye ! 
 
 Can my weakness your tyranny bridle? 
 
 O, no ! all resistance is idle. 
 
 Ah ! my soul — ah ! my soul is submitted ; 
 
 Thy lips, — thy sweet lips, — -they are fitted 
 With a kiss to dissolve into joy and affection 
 The dreamings of hope and of gay recollection . 
 
 And, sure, never triumph was purer; 
 
 And, sure, never triumph was surer. 
 
 I am bound to your beauty completely, 
 I am fettered and fastened so sweetly ; 
 And blessed are the tones, and the looks, and 
 
 the mind, too, 
 Which my senses control, and my heart is in 
 clined to : 
 While virtue, the holiest and brightest, 
 Has fastened love's fetters the tightest. 
 
 MARIA TESSELSCHADE VISSCHER. 
 
 Op the Visscher family, who were contempo- 
 raries of Hooft, a writer in the "Foreign Quar- 
 terly Review " (Vol. IV., p. 46) remarks as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " Visscher was one of the principal lumina- 
 ries of the most renowned of the Chambers of 
 Rhetoric — In Liefde bloeijnde (Blooming in 
 Love) — of Amsterdam. He published a series 
 of allegories, entitled 'Zinne Peppen ' ; but he 
 did better than this by cultivating the taste of 
 his two daughters, whose names are sung in 
 every variety of flattering homage by almost 
 every Dutch poet of their day and generation. 
 They were highly accomplished ; they render- 
 ed popular the study of other languages ; and, 
 though their literary works are not numerous, 
 they exercised an important and a purifying in- 
 fluence on the compositions of their country 
 men." 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Prize thou the Nightingale, 
 Who soothes thee with his tale, 
 And wakes the woods around ; 
 A singing feather he, — a winged and wander- 
 ing sound : 
 
 Whose tender carolling 
 Sets all ears listening 
 Unto that living lyre 
 Whence flow the airy not<;s his ecstasies inspire : 
 
 Whose shrill, capricious song 
 Breathes like a flute along, 
 With many a careless tone, — 
 Music of thousand tongues, formed by one 
 tongue alone. 
 
VISSCHER. — GROOT. — BRUNE. 
 
 381 
 
 O charming creature rare, 
 Can aught with thee compare ? 
 Thou art all song; thy breast 
 Thrills for one month o' th' year, — is tranquil 
 all the rest. 
 
 Thee wondrous we may call, — 
 Most wondrous this of all, 
 That such a tiny throat 
 Should wake so wide a sound, and pour so loud 
 a note. 
 
 HUIG DE GROOT. 
 
 This great man, known to the world under 
 the name of Hugo Grotius, was born at Delft, 
 April 10th, 1583. After completing his studies, 
 jn which he gained great distinction at an early 
 age, he accompanied Barneveldt, the Dutch 
 ambassador, to France. Returning thence, he 
 commenced the practice of the law, and con- 
 ducted his first cause at the age of seventeen. 
 In his twenty-fourth year, he was appointed 
 Advocate-General. In 1619, he was condemn- 
 ed to perpetual imprisonment in the fortress of 
 _iouvesteijn, for the part he took in the contro- 
 versy between the Remonstrants and their op- 
 ponents, the former of whom, together with 
 Barneveldt, he supported. By the assistance 
 of his wife he made his escape, and took refuge 
 in France, where he received for some time a 
 pension of three thousand livres from Louis 
 the Thirteenth. Through the influence of his 
 enemies, the pension was withdrawn in 1631, 
 and Grotius returned to his native country, re- 
 iving on the friendship of the prince of Orange ; 
 but his enemies proving too powerful for him, 
 he was condemned to perpetual banishment. 
 Soon after this, he accepted the liberal offers of 
 Christina, queen of Sweden, and her celebrat- 
 ed chancellor, Oxenstiern, and, in 1634, re- 
 paired to Stockholm, where he was appointed 
 Councillor of State, and Ambassador to France. 
 He appeared in Paris, in 1635, and discharged 
 the duties of ambassador for ten years with dis- 
 tinguished ability. On his return to Sweden 
 by way of Holland, he met with the most hon- 
 orable reception from his countrymen, who now 
 looked upon him as the glory of his native 
 land. He was received with equal favor and 
 distinction by the queen of Sweden. Wishing 
 to return to his native country, he requested a 
 dismission from the Swedish service. On his 
 way to Holland, he fell sick at Rostock, where 
 he died, August 28th, 1645. 
 
 Grotius was an able statesman and lawyer, a 
 profound theologian, and a most accomplished 
 scholar. His metrical translations from the 
 Greek are executed with admirable skill and 
 fidelity. He is renowned as one of the best of 
 the modern Latin poets. He also wrote Dutch 
 verses, but with less success. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Receive not with disdain this product from 
 my hand, 
 
 mart of all the world ! ^) flower of Nether- 
 
 land ! 
 
 Fair Holland ! let this live, though I may not, 
 with thee ; 
 
 My bosom's queen ! I show e'en now how fer- 
 vently 
 
 1 've loved thee through all change, — thy good 
 
 and evil days, — 
 And love, and still will love, till life itself de- 
 cays. 
 If here be aught on which thou may'st a 
 
 thought bestow, 
 Thank Him without whose aid no good from 
 
 man can flow. 
 If errors meet thy view, remember kindly then 
 What gathering clouds obscure the feeble eyes 
 
 of men ; 
 And rather spare than blame this humble work 
 
 of mine, 
 And think, "Alas ! 't was made — 't was made 
 
 at Louvesteijn." 
 
 JAN DE BRUNE. 
 
 This writer, known under the latinized name 
 of Johannes Brunaeus, was born "n 1585. He 
 was not only a poet, but a statesman, and filled 
 many important offices. He died in 1658. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I lay in gasping agonies, 
 
 And my eyes 
 Were covered by a cloud of death ; 
 
 It seemed as if my spirit hung 
 
 On my tongue, 
 About to vanish with my breath ; 
 
 When Laura, smiling fondness, came, 
 
 And, with shame, 
 Offered her delightful lip, 
 
 Her sweet lip, to which the bee 
 
 Well might flee, 
 Fragrant honey there to sip. 
 
 Enraptured with the sudden bliss 
 
 Which her kiss 
 Gave my heart, when bowed by pain, 
 
 Instantly I felt a light, 
 
 Pure and bright, 
 Kindle new existence then. 
 
 O, may Heaven grant once more that 1 
 
 Thus may lie ! 
 The pangs of death I 'd undergo, 
 
 If lips as blooming and as dear 
 
 Were but near, 
 To cure me with their honey so. 
 
382 
 
 DUTCH POETRY. 
 
 GERBRAND BREDERODE. 
 
 Gerbrand Brederode was born at Amster- 
 dam, March 16th, 1585, and died August 23d, 
 1618. " He was principally celebrated," says 
 Bowring, * "for his comedies, into which he 
 introduced the language of the lower classes of 
 Amsterdam with great effect. It is said that 
 he often attended the fish-market and similar 
 places, to collect materials for his various pie- 
 ces. This is apparent in his 'Moortje' and his 
 ' Spaanschen Brabander.' His poems were 
 published at Amsterdam, in 1622, by Cornelis 
 van der Plasse, under the titles of ' Het Boer- 
 tigh Liedt-Boeck ' (Facetious Song-Book), ' De 
 Groote Bron der Minnen ' (The Great Foun- 
 tain of Love), and ' Aendachtigh Liedt-Boeck' 
 (Meditative Song-Book)." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 PROM THE GREAT FOUNTAIN OP LOVE. 
 
 Canst thou so soon unkindly sever 
 
 My long, long suit from memory, — 
 The precious time now lost for ever, 
 
 The vanished moments passed with thee, 
 In friendliness, in love's caress, 
 In happiness, and converse free from guile, 
 From night till morning, and 'neath twilight's 
 smile ? 
 
 A father's rage and friends' derision 
 
 For thee I Ve borne, when thou wert kind; 
 But they fled by me as a vision 
 
 That fades and leaves no trace behind. 
 O, thus I deemed, when fondly beamed, 
 And purely gleamed, those brilliant eyes, whose 
 
 ray 
 Hath made me linger near thee through the day ! 
 
 How oft those tender hands I 've taken, 
 
 And drawn them to my breast, whose flame 
 Seemed, at their gentle touch, to waken 
 To feelings I dared scarcely name ! 
 I wished to wear a lattice there, 
 Of crystal clear or purest glass, that well 
 Thou might'st behold what tongue could never 
 tell. 
 
 O, could the heart within me glowing 
 
 E'er from its cell have been removed, 
 I had not shrunk, — that heart bestowing 
 On thee, whom I so warmly loved, 
 So longed to wed, so cherished ! 
 Ah ! who could dread that thou wouldst wan- 
 ton be, 
 And so inconstant in thy love to me ? 
 
 Another youth has stolen my treasure, 
 And placed himself upon the throne 
 
 Where late I reigned, supreme in pleasure, 
 And weakly thought it all my own. 
 
 * Batavian Anthology, p. 88. 
 
 What causes now that chilling brow ? 
 Or where didst thou such evil counsel gain, 
 As thus to pride and glory in my pain ? 
 
 What thoughts, too painful to be spoken, 
 Hath falsehood for thy soul prepared, 
 
 When thou survey'st each true-love token, 
 
 And think'st of joys together shared, — 
 
 Of vows we made beneath the shade, 
 
 And kisses paid by my fond lips to thine, 
 
 And given back with murmured sigh to mine ' 
 
 Bethink thee of those hours of wooing, — 
 Of words that seemed the breath of truth. — 
 
 The Eden thou hast made a ruin, — 
 
 My withered hopes and blighted youth ! 
 It wonders me that thou shouldst be 
 
 So calm and free, nor dread the rage that burns 
 
 Within the heart where love to malice turns 
 
 Away, — away, — accursed deceiver ! 
 
 With tears delude the eyes and brain 
 Of him, the fond, the weak believer, 
 
 Who follows now thy fickle train. 
 
 That senseless hind (to whom thou 'rt kind. 
 Not for his mind, but for his treasured ore) 
 Disturbs me not. Farewell ! we meet no more ! 
 
 DIRK RAFAEL KAMPHUYZEN. 
 
 Kamphuyzen was born at Gorkum, in 158b. 
 and died July 9th, 1626. He wrote "Edifying 
 Poems," and a "Paraphrase of the Psalms.' 
 " Kamphuyzen's religious poetry," says Bow 
 ring,* "is superior to any which preceded it 
 There is a pure and earnest feeling throughout. 
 — an intense conviction of truth, and an ele 
 vated devotion. His 'May Morning' is om 
 of the most popular productions of the Dutch 
 poets ; its harmonious versification and its sim- 
 plicity have made it the common source of con 
 solation in distress." 
 
 PSALM cxxxin. 
 
 If there be one whose thoughts delight to wah 
 
 der 
 In pleasure's fields, where love's bright streams 
 meander ; 
 If there be one who longs to find 
 Where all the purer blisses are enshrined, - 
 A happy resting-place of virtuous worth, — 
 A blessed paradise on earth : 
 
 Let him survey the joy-conferring union 
 Of brothers who are bound in fond communion 
 And not by force of blood alone, 
 But by their mutual sympathies are known, 
 - And every heart and every mind relies 
 Upon fraternal, kindred ties. 
 
 * Batavian Anthology, p. 115. 
 
KAMPHUYZEN.— VONDEL. 
 
 383 
 
 O, blest abode, where love is ever vernal, 
 Where tranquil peace and concord are eternal, 
 
 Where none usurp the highest claim, 
 
 But each with pride asserts the other's fame ! 
 
 O, what are all earth's joys, compared to thee, 
 
 Fraternal unanimity? 
 
 E'en as the ointment,whose sweet odors blended, 
 From Aaron's head upon his beard descended ; 
 
 Which hung awhile in fragrance there, 
 
 Bedewing every individual hair, 
 
 And, falling thence, with rich perfume ran o'er 
 
 The holy garb the prophet wore : 
 
 So doth the unity that lives with brothers 
 Share its best bles ings and its joys with others, 
 And makes them seem as if one frame 
 Contained their minds, and they were formed 
 
 the same, 
 And spreads its sweetest breath o'er every 
 
 part, 
 Until it penetrates the heart. 
 
 E'en as the dew, that, at the break of morning, 
 All nature with its beauty is adorning, 
 And flows from Hermon calm and still, 
 And bathes the tender grass on Zion's hill, 
 And to the young and withering herb resigns 
 /The drops for which it pines : 
 
 So are fraternal peace and concord ever 
 The cherishers, without whose guidance never 
 Would sainted quiet seek the breast, — 
 The life, the soul of unmolested rest, — 
 The antidote to sorrow and distress, 
 And prop of human happiness. 
 
 Ah ! happy they whom genial concord blesses ! 
 Pleasure for them reserves her fond caresses, 
 
 And joys to mark the fabric rare, 
 
 On virtue founded, stand unshaken there ; 
 
 Whence vanish all the passions that destroy 
 
 Tranquillity and inward joy. 
 
 Who practise good are in themselves rewarded, 
 For their own deeds lie in their hearts record- 
 ed ; 
 And thus fraternal love, when bound 
 By virtue, is with its own blisses crowned, 
 And tastes, in sweetness that itself bestows, 
 What use, what power, from concord flows. 
 
 God in his boundless mercy joys to meet it; 
 
 His promises of future blessings greet it, 
 And fixed prosperity, which brings 
 Long life and ease beneath its shadowing 
 
 wings, 
 And joy and fortune, that remain sublime 
 Beyond all distance, change, and time. 
 
 JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL. 
 
 Th s poet, one of the most distinguished in 
 Dutch literature, was born at Cologne in 15S7. 
 
 In his childhood, his parents removed to Am- 
 sterdam. He was richly endowed by nature, 
 but his education was defective. When about 
 thirty years old, he learned the Latin and French 
 languages, and then read the works of the an- 
 cients and of the French. He devoted himself 
 wholly to poetry ; his writings include occa- 
 sional poems, satires, tragedies, and translations 
 from the Psalms of David, from Virgil, and from 
 Ovid. His death took place in 1659. 
 
 "He had," says Gravenweert,* "all the in- 
 dependence of the poet in his character, which 
 was often harsh. His epigrams, and an exces- 
 sive freedom of opinion, which caused him to 
 change his religion and to sacrifice his interests 
 to his ideas, involved him in quarrels with 
 Hooft, Cats, Huijgens, and others. He never 
 begged the favor of the powerful. He died at 
 the age of ninety-one years, overwhelmed with 
 infirmities and domestic misfortunes, but cov- 
 ered with imperishable laurels. Vondel was a 
 man of letters, and found this title preferable 
 to all the toys of ambition and of vanity. He 
 lived for immortality, and knew well that a 
 grateful nation would not judge him by the 
 places he had occupied, but by the excellence 
 of his productions. This admirable genius ex- 
 celled in every department; in fugitive poetry 
 as well as in satire, in the ode and the epic, 
 but above all in tragedy. 
 
 " Vondel was buried with pomp ; a medal 
 was struck in honor of him; and a hundred 
 years afterwards, a simple monument was erect- 
 ed to his memory, in one of the churches of 
 Amsterdam, bearing no eulogium but his name. 
 Vondel has had many panegyrists, and some de- 
 tractors, who, either in good faith, or because 
 they wished to create a sensation, have depre- 
 ciated his name and fame, and endeavoured to 
 destroy this idol of Dutch literature. In spite 
 of the defects which criticism has pointed out 
 in his numerous works, the name of Vondel is 
 still honored in Holland, as that of Shakspeare 
 is in England, and all the efforts of envy and of 
 too severe criticism have served only to aug- 
 ment the brightness of a reputation which 
 counts more than two centuries of glory." 
 
 TO GEERAERT VOSSIUS,' 
 
 ON THE LOSS OF HIS SON. 
 
 Why mourn'st thou, Vossius ? why has pain 
 Its furrows to thy pale brow given ? 
 Seek not to hold thy son from heaven ! 
 
 'T is heaven that draws, — resign him, then. 
 
 Yes, — banish every futile tear, 
 
 And offer to its Source above, 
 
 In gratitude and humble love, 
 The choicest of thy treasures here. 
 
 * Essai sur 1'Histoire de la Litterature Nfierlandaise, 
 pp. 73-37. 
 
384 DUTCH 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 We murmur, if the bark should strand : 
 
 Like stars ; and with their playful light, 
 
 But not, when, richly laden, she 
 
 Ere covered with death's cloud of night, 
 
 Comes from the wild and raging sea, 
 
 Transformed the visage to a heaven. 
 
 Within a haven safe to land. 
 
 
 
 Vain are description's feeble powers 
 
 We murmur, if the balm be shed ; 
 
 To number all the infant flowers 
 
 Yes, — murmur for the odor's sake : 
 
 Which faded, died, when scarcely born, — 
 
 But not, whene'er the glass may break, 
 
 Before their opening leaves could greet 
 
 If that which filled it be not fled. 
 
 The wooing air with fragrance sweet, 
 
 
 Or drink the earliest dew of morn ! 
 
 He strives in vain who seeks to stay 
 
 
 The bounding waters in their course, 
 
 So falls the corn beneath the sickle ; 
 
 When hurled from rocks with giant force, 
 
 So shake the leaves, when tempests fickle 
 
 Towards some calm and spacious bay. 
 
 Awake the mountain's voice from thrall. 
 
 
 What can result from blind ambition, 
 
 Thus turns the earthly globe; — though o'er 
 
 When raging with some d _rk suspicion? — 
 
 His infant's corse a father mourn, 
 
 What bard so vile to mourn its fall ? 
 
 Or child bedew its parents' urn, — 
 
 
 Death passes neither house nor door. 
 
 Then, Rachel, haunt not spots once cherished ; 
 
 
 Thy children even as martyrs perished : 
 
 Death, nor for gay and blooming youth 
 
 Those first-loved fruits thatsprangfrom thee, 
 
 Nor peevish age, his stroke defers ; 
 
 From which thy heart was doomed to sever, 
 
 He chains the lips of orators, 
 
 In praise of God, shall bloom for ever, 
 
 Nor cares for wisdom, worth, or truth. 
 
 Unhurt, untouched, by tyranny. 
 
 Blest is the mind, that, fixed and free, 
 
 
 
 To wanton pleasures scorns to yield, 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 And wards, as with a pliant shield, 
 
 The arrows of adversity. 
 
 FROM PALAMEDES. 
 
 
 The thinly sprinkled stars surrender 
 
 
 To early dawn their dying splendor; 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 The shades of night are dim and far, 
 
 
 And now before the morninj-star 
 
 FROM GYSBRECHT VAN AEMSTEL. 
 
 C5 
 
 
 The heavenly legions disappear : 
 
 O Night ! far lovelier than the day ! 
 
 The constellation's ■ charioteer 
 
 How can Herodes bear the ray, 
 
 No longer in the darkness burns, 
 
 Whose consecrated, hallowed glows 
 
 But backward his bright courser turns. 
 
 Rich splendor o'er this darkness spread ? 
 
 Now golden Titan, from the sea, 
 
 To reason's call his pride is dead ; 
 
 With azure steeds comes gloriously, 
 
 Her voice his heart no longer knows. 
 
 And shines o'er woods and dells and downs, 
 
 
 And soaring Ida's leafy crowns. 
 
 By slaughter of the guiltless, he 
 
 O sweetly welcome break of morn ! 
 
 Would raise up guilt and tyranny. 
 
 Thou dost with happiness adorn 
 
 He bids a loud lament awake 
 
 The heart of him who cheerily, 
 
 In Bethlehem and o'er the plain, 
 
 Contentedly, unwearily, 
 
 And Rachel's spirit rise again 
 
 Surveys whatever Nature gives, 
 
 To haunt the desolate field and brake. 
 
 What beauty in her presence lives, 
 
 
 And wanders oft the banks along 
 
 Now wandering east, now wandering west, 
 
 Of some sweet stream with murmuring song 
 
 For her, lone mother, where is rest, 
 
 O, more than regal is his lot, 
 
 Now that her children are no more, — 
 
 Who, in some blest, secluded spot, 
 
 Now that she sees them blood-stained lie, 
 
 Remote from crowded cares and fears, 
 
 Even at their births condemned to die, 
 
 His loved, his cherished dwelling rears ! 
 
 And swords unnumbered red with gore? 
 
 For empty praises never pining, 
 
 
 His wishes to his cot confining, 
 
 She sees the milk, no nurture bringing, 
 
 And listening to each cheerful bird 
 
 Unto their lifeless, pale lips clinging, 
 
 Whose animating song is heard : 
 
 Torn from their mother's breast but late ; 
 
 When morning dews, which Zephyr's sigh 
 
 She marks the stagnant tears reclining, 
 
 Has wafted, on the roses lie, 
 
 Like dew, upon their cold cheeks shining, — 
 
 Whose leaves beneath the pearl-drops bend , 
 
 Poor victims of a ruthless fate ! 
 
 When thousand rich perfumes ascend, 
 
 
 And thousand hues adorn the bowers, 
 
 The brows, now pallid, dimmed, and fading, 
 
 And form a rainbow of sweet flowers, 
 
 Those closed and joyless eyes are shading, 
 Whose rays pure lustre once had given, 
 
 
 i Ursa Major. 
 
V N D E L. 385 
 
 Or bridal robe for Iris made 
 
 Which he, who in his blindness errs, 
 
 From every bud in sun or shade. 
 
 Receives from these, — God's messengers ' 
 
 Contented there to plant or set, 
 
 
 Or snare the birds with crafty net ; 
 
 Near rocks where danger ever lies, 
 
 To grasp his bending rod, and wander 
 
 Through storms of evil auguries 
 
 Beside the banks where waves meander, 
 
 Proceeding from calumnious throats, 
 
 And thence their fluttering tenants take ; 
 
 The exhausted Palamedes floats : 
 
 Or, rising ere the sun 's awake, 
 
 And shipwrecked he must be at last, 
 
 Prepare his steed, and scour the grounds, 
 
 If Neptune do not kindly cast 
 
 And chase the hare with swift-paced hounds; 
 
 Protection round him, and appease 
 
 Or ride, beneath the noontide rays, 
 
 With trident-sway these foaming seas. 
 
 Through peaceful glens and silent ways, 
 
 
 Which wind like Cretan labyrinth ; 
 
 
 
 Or where the purple hyacinth 
 
 
 Is glowing on its bed ; or where 
 
 CHORUS OF BATAVIAN WOMEN. 
 
 The meads red-speckled daisies bear : 
 
 FROM THE BATAVIAN BROTHERS. 
 
 Whilst maidens milk the grazing cow, 
 
 
 And peasants toil behind the plough, 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 Or reap the crops beneath their feet, 
 
 Ours was a happy lot, 
 
 Or sow luxuriant flax or wheat. 
 
 Ere foreign tyrants brought 
 
 Here flourishes the waving corn, 
 
 The servile iron yoke, which bound 
 
 Encircled by the wounding thorn > 
 
 Our necks with humbling slavery to the 
 
 There glides a bark by meadows green ; 
 
 ground. 
 
 And there the village smoke is seen ; 
 
 Once all was confidence and peace ; — the 
 
 And there a castle meets the view, 
 
 just 
 
 Half-fading in the distance blue. 
 
 Might to his neighbour trust. 
 
 How hard, how wretched is his doom 
 
 The common plough turned up the common 
 
 Whom sorrows follow to the tomb, 
 
 land, 
 
 And whom, from morn till quiet eve, 
 
 And Nature scattered joy with liberal hand. 
 
 Distresses pain, and troubles grieve, 
 
 The humble cot of clay 
 
 And cares oppress ! — for these await 
 
 Kept the thick shower, the wind, and hail 
 
 The slave, who, in a restless state, 
 
 away. 
 
 Would bid the form of concord flee, 
 
 Upon the frugal board 
 
 And call his object — liberty : 
 
 No luxuries were stored; 
 
 He finds his actions all pursued 
 
 But 'neath a forest-tree the table stood, — 
 
 By envy or ingratitude. 
 
 A simple plank, — unpolished and rude : 
 
 The robe is honoring, I confess ; 
 
 Our feasts, the wild game of the wood ; 
 
 The cushion has its stateliness ; — 
 
 And curds and cheese our daily food. 
 
 But, 0, they are a burden too ! 
 
 Man, in his early virtues blest, 
 
 And pains spring up, for ever new, 
 
 Slept satisfied on woman's breast, 
 
 Beneath the roof which errors stain, 
 
 Who, modest and confiding, saw 
 
 And where the strife is, — who shall reign. 
 
 In him her lord, and love, and law. 
 
 But he who lives in rural ease 
 
 Then was the stranger and the neighbour, each, 
 
 Avoids the cares that torture these : 
 
 Welcomed with cordial thoughts and honest 
 
 No golden chalices invite 
 
 speech ; 
 
 To quaff Che deadly aconite ; 
 
 And days flowed cheerful on, as days should 
 
 Nor dreads he secret foes, who lurk 
 
 flow, — 
 
 Behind the throne with coward dirk, — 
 
 Unmoved by distant or domestic woe. 
 
 Assassin-friends, — whose murderous blow 
 
 
 Lays all the pride of greatness low. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 No fears his even life annoy, 
 
 Then was no value set on silver things, 
 
 Nor feels he pride, nor finds he joy 
 
 Nor golden stores, nor coin, nor dazzling rings; 
 
 In popularity, — that brings 
 
 They bartered what they had for what they 
 
 A fickle pleasure, and then — stings. 
 
 wanted ; — 
 
 He is not roused at night from bed, 
 
 And sought no foreign shores, — but planted 
 
 With weary eyes and giddy head ; 
 
 Their own low dwellings in their mother- 
 
 At morn, no long petitions vex him, 
 
 land ; 
 
 Nor scrutinizing looks perplex him : 
 
 Raised all by their own hand, 
 
 He has no joy in others' cares; 
 
 And furnished with whatever man requires 
 
 He bears, — and, while he bears, forbears; 
 
 For his moderate desires. 
 
 And from the world he oft retreats 
 
 They had no proud adornings, — were not gilt 
 
 Where learning's gentle smiles he meets. 
 
 Nor sculptured, — nor in crowded cities built; 
 
 He heeds not priestcraft's ban or praise, 
 
 But in wide-scattered villages they spread, 
 
 But scorns the deep anathemas 
 
 Where stand no friendly lamps above the 
 
 49 
 
 head : 
 
 GO 
 
386 
 
 DUTCH POETRY. 
 
 Rough and undecked the simple cot, 
 With the rich show of pomp encumbered 
 not. 
 As when in decorated piles are seen 
 The bright fruits peeping through the foliage 
 
 green ; 
 Bark of the trees and hides of cattle cover 
 The lowly hut, when storms rage fiercely over : 
 Man had not learned the use of stone; 
 Tiles and cement were all unknown ; 
 Some place of shelter dug, — dark, dreary, far, — 
 For the dread hour of danger or of war, 
 When the stray pirate broke on the serene 
 And cheerful quiet of that early scene. 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 No usurer, then, with avarice's burning 
 
 thirst, 
 His fellow-men had cursed. 
 The coarse-wove flax, the unwrought fleece, 
 
 alone, 
 On the half-naked, sturdy limbs were thrown 
 The daughters married late 
 To a laborious fate ; 
 And to their husbands bore a healthy 
 
 race, 
 To take their fathers' place. 
 If e'er dispute or discord dared intrude, 
 'T was soon, by wisdom's voice, subdued : 
 The wisest then was called to reign, 
 The bravest did the victory gain : 
 The proud were made to feel 
 They must submit them to the general 
 weal ; 
 For to the proud and high a given way 
 Was marked, that thence they might not 
 stray : — 
 And thus was freedom kept alive. 
 Rulers were taught to strive 
 For subjects' happiness, — and subjects brought 
 The cheerful tribute of obedient thought ; 
 And 't was indeed a glorious sight, 
 To see them wave their weapons bright : 
 No venal bands, the murderous hordes of fame ; 
 But freedom's sons, — all armed in freedom's 
 name. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 No judge outdealing justice in his hate, 
 Nor in his favor. Wisdom's train sedate 
 Of books, and proud philosophy, 
 And stately speech, could never needed be, 
 While they for virtue's counsellings might 
 
 look 
 On Nature's open book, 
 Where bright and free the Godhead's glory 
 
 falls; — 
 Not on the imprisoning walls 
 Of temples, — for their temple was the wood, — 
 The heavens its arch, — its aisles were soli- 
 tude. 
 And then they sang the praise 
 Of heroes, and the seers of older days. 
 They never dared to pry 
 Into the mysteries of the Deity ; 
 
 They never weighed his schemes, nor judged 
 
 his will, — 
 But saw his works, and loved and praised him 
 
 still ; 
 Obeyed in awe, — kept pure their hearts with- 
 in; 
 For this they knew, — God hates and scourges 
 sin. 
 Some dreams of future bliss were theirs, 
 To gild their joys and chase their cares. 
 And thus they dwelt, and thus they died. 
 With guardian-freedom at their side, 
 The happy tenants of a happy soil, — 
 Till came the cruel stranger to despoil. 
 
 EPODE. 
 
 But, O, that blessed time is past ! 
 
 The strangers now possess our land ; 
 Batavia is subdued, at last, — 
 
 Batavia fettered, ruined, banned ! 
 Yes, — honor, truth have taken flight 
 
 To seats sublimer, thrones more pure. 
 Look, Julius, from thy throne of light, — 
 
 See what thy Holland's sons endure ! 
 Thy children still are proud to claim 
 
 Their Roman blood, their source, from thee ; 
 Friends, brothers, comrades bear the name; — 
 
 Desert them not in misery ! 
 Terror and power and cruel wrong 
 
 Have a free people's bliss undone ; 
 Too harsh their sway, — their rule too long! 
 
 Arouse thee from thy cloudy throne ; 
 And if thou hate disgrace and crime, 
 Recall, recall departed time ! 
 
 CONSTANTIJN HUIJGENS. 
 
 Constantijn Ht/UGENS was born at the 
 Hague, in 1596. He was secretary to the 
 princes of Nassau, and became famous for the 
 universality of his literary acquirements. He 
 had a familiar knowledge of many languages, 
 both ancient and modern. His death took 
 place in 1687. 
 
 Of Huijgens, a writer in the "Foreign Quar 
 terly Review " (Vol. IV., p. 48) says : — " His 
 versification is sometimes harsh and hard. The 
 perplexities of rhyme he could not always 
 unravel, and his Alexandrines are not unfre- 
 quently eked out with expletives, — the curse, 
 be it permitted us to say, of the poetry of Hol- 
 land. The Alexandrines offer a fatal attrac- 
 tion to the indifferent poet. One rhyme in 
 four-and-twenty or six-and-twenty syllables is 
 no great discovery, in a language possessing an 
 immense number of rhyming sounds. Huij- 
 gens wrote in several tongues with facility, and 
 his 'Ledige Uren ' (Leisure Hours) have spe- 
 cimens in Latin, French, and Italian. Not- 
 withstanding some very obvious affectations, he 
 is a writer whose vigor of expression is remark- 
 able. His ' Batava Tempe,' especially, has 
 many very striking passages, — some in very 
 
HUIJGENS. — WESTERBAEN. 
 
 387 
 
 Dad taste, — but very ingenious and emphatic. 
 In De Clercq's estimate of Huijgens we cor- 
 dially agree. He has more originality than 
 most of the Dutch poets, and more variety, al- 
 though he is one of those who are least read. 
 He is frequently obscure from overstrained 
 effort, — infelicitous in his selection of words 
 and images, — and scarcely less so in the choice 
 of the foreign sources from whom he has large- 
 ly borrowed. Huijgens was not merely a lit- 
 erary benefactor to his country. The beautiful 
 road from the Hague to Scheveling, on the 
 left side of which resided old Father Cats, owes 
 its existence to him." 
 
 A KING. 
 
 He 's a crowned multitude ; — his doom is hard ; 
 
 Servant to each, a slave without reward : 
 
 The state's tall roof on which the tempests fall : 
 
 The reckoning-book that bears the debts of all : 
 
 He borrows little, yet is forced to pay 
 
 The most usurious interest day by day: 
 
 A fettered freeman, — an imploring lord, — 
 
 A ruling suppliant, — a rhyming word : 
 
 A lightning-flash, that breaks all bonds asunder, 
 
 And spares what yields, — a cloud that speaks 
 
 in thunder : 
 A sun, in darkness and in day that smites, — 
 A plague, that on the whirlwind's storm alights : 
 A lesser god : a rudder to impel : 
 Targe for ingratitude, and flattery's bell : 
 In fortune praised, — in sorrow shunned ; his lot 
 To be adored, — deserted, — and forgot. 
 His wish a thousand hurry to fulfil ; 
 His will is law, — his law is all men's will: 
 His breath is choked by sweetly sounding lies, 
 And seeming mirth, and cheating flatteries, 
 Which ever waft truth's accents from his ear; 
 And if, perchance, its music he should hear, 
 They break its force, and through the crooked 
 
 way 
 Of their delusions flatter and betray. 
 He knows no love, — its smiles are all forbid- 
 den; 
 He has no friend, — thus virtue's charms are 
 
 hidden ; 
 All round is self, — the proud no friends possess; 
 Life is with them but scorn and heartlessness. 
 He is a suitor forced by fear to wed, 
 And wooes the daughter, though the sire he 
 
 dread, — 
 In this far less than even the lowest slave 
 That fells the tree or cleaves the rising wave. 
 His friends are foes, when tried. Corruption flies 
 O'er his disordered country, when he dies. 
 If long success from virtue's path entice, 
 They will not blend their honor with his vice, 
 But rather shed their tears in that swift stream 
 Against whose might their might is as a dream. 
 His days are not his own, for smiles and sorrow 
 Visit him each : the eventide, the morrow, 
 Deny him rest, — sleep's influence steals not 
 
 o'er him : 
 Wearied he lives, and joy retreats before him. 
 
 Beneath care's sickle all his flowers decay ; 
 His sparkling cup in dulness sinks away. 
 His son on tiptoe stands to seize the crown, 
 Which a few years of woes shall tumble down 
 O gilded thistle ! why should mortals crave 
 
 thee, 
 Who art but bitter medicine when they have 
 
 thee? 
 Or why aspire to state ne'er long possessed, — 
 By dangers ever circled, and no rest ? 
 
 JACOB WESTERBAEN. 
 
 Jacob Westerbaen was born in 1599, and 
 died in 1670. Of an illustrious family, a knight, 
 and Lord of Brantwijck, he preferred the ele- 
 gant leisure of the country to the honors and 
 intrigues of the court. The greater part of his 
 life was passed in retirement at his chateau of 
 Ockenbuvg, which he made the subject of a de- 
 scriptive and didactic poem, after the manner of 
 Thomson's " Seasons " and Delille's " Homme 
 des Champs." He published, also, some love 
 songs, and other fugitive poems, and made trans- 
 lations from Virgil, Terence, and Ovid. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Think not that the dear perfume 
 And the bloom 
 Of those cheeks, divinely glowing, 
 Ever shall remain to thee, 
 While there be 
 None for whom those flowers are blowing. 
 
 By the eglantine be taught 
 How 't is sought 
 For its bloom and fragrance only : 
 Is not all its beauty past, 
 When, at last, 
 On the stem t is hanging lonely ? 
 
 Maidens are like garden bowers 
 Filled with flowers, 
 Which are spring-time's choicest treasure : 
 While the budding leaves they bear 
 Flourish there, 
 They will be a source of pleasure. 
 
 But whene'er the lovely spring 
 
 Spreads her wing, 
 
 And the rose's charms have fleeted; 
 
 Nor those lately valued flowers, 
 
 Nor the bowers, 
 
 Shall with former praise be greeted. 
 
 While Love's beam in woman's eyes 
 Fondly lies, 
 All the heart's best feelings telling, 
 
 Love will come, — a welcome guest, — 
 And her breast 
 Be his own ecstatic dwelling. 
 
388 
 
 DUTCH POETRY. 
 
 But when envious Time takes arms 
 'Gainst her charms, 
 All her youthful graces spurning; 
 Love, who courted beauty's ray, 
 Steals away, 
 Never thinking of returning. 
 
 Maidens ! who man's suit deride, 
 And whose pride 
 Scorns the hearts that bow before ye, 
 From my song this lesson learn : 
 " Be not stern 
 To the lovers who adore ye." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 E'en as a tender rose, 
 
 To which the spring gives birth, 
 Falls when the north wind blows, 
 And withers on the earth : 
 So, when her eye-light throws its glances 
 brightly through me, 
 I sink o'erwhelmed and gloomy. 
 
 E'en as the herb by day 
 
 Its green leaf downwards turns, 
 What time the sun's fierce ray 
 Upon it fiercely burns : 
 So, 'neath the quenchless fire, that from her 
 eyes is shining, 
 I feel myself declining. 
 
 My courage is subdued 
 
 By sorrow's mighty thrill, 
 And so in solitude 
 I linger sadly still ; 
 While her sweet witcheries cast their magic 
 influence round me, 
 And in their chains have bound me. 
 
 JEREMIAS DE DECKER. 
 
 This poet was born at Dordrecht in 1610. 
 His education was carefully superintended by 
 his father, and his, poetical talents were early 
 unfolded. His first poetical work was a trans- 
 lation of the Lamentations of Jeremiah; this 
 was followed by imitations of Horace, Juvenal, 
 Persius, and other Latin classics. He wrote 
 also many original poems. He died at Amster- 
 dam, in 1666. 
 
 TO A BROTHER WHO DIED AT BATAVTA. 
 
 Blessed, though misery-causing, thou ! 
 Who seest not our domestic woe, 
 And hear'st not our funereal plaint; 
 
 But slumberest on thy bed of rest, 
 Stretched in the furthest Orient, 
 
 With Java's sands upon thy breast ! 
 
 Did I not tell thee, broken-hearted, 
 
 Thy doom, — sad doom ! — when last we parted? 
 
 Did I not paint the dangers near ? 
 
 Tell thee what misery would be mine, 
 To leave a father's solemn bier, 
 
 With tottering steps, — to weep o'er thine? 
 
 Long absence brought thee to my sight, 
 In fiery flashes, — lightning bright ; — 
 But, that the thunder might not shock thee, 
 
 Death to his bosom gathered thee ; 
 And now no more the wild winds rock thee, 
 
 And rages now no more the sea. 
 
 When Fortune smiled, he neither bowed 
 To luxury, nor waxed vain and proud ; 
 He was too wise on childish toys 
 
 To fix a heart unstained by guile, 
 Or give to earthly griefs or joys 
 
 The useless tear, the idle smile. 
 
 Upright in all, — of lips sincere ; 
 Of open hand, — disposed to cheer 
 The suppliant, and assist the poor ; 
 
 Willing to lend, — and pleased to pay; 
 And still subduing, more and more, 
 
 The natural frailties of our way. 
 
 A father, tutored to submit 
 
 To all that Heaven deemed right and fit, 
 
 And with a tranquil spirit say, 
 
 While far above earth's changes raised, — 
 "The Lord has given, — he takes away, — 
 
 And be his name for ever praised ! " 
 
 His country's government he ever 
 Cheerfully served, but flattered never : 
 So fully bent in every thought 
 
 Upon his nation's interest, he 
 From every side instruction brought, 
 
 And knowledge, like the Athenian bee. 
 
 A father such as this, — a friend 
 And brother, — have I seen descend 
 Smitten by death ; beneath him years 
 
 Hollowed the tomb's descent ; and slow 
 And silent down the vale of tears 
 
 He sank to where he sleeps below. 
 
 The mouth which words of mirth supplied, 
 At morning's dawn and eventide, 
 Truth gathered from the immortal book, 
 
 Is still for ever : it shall slake 
 Its thirst no more in Eden's brook, 
 
 Nor Zion's sweet refreshment take. 
 
 But, ah ! we are driven by distress 
 
 From bitterness to bitterness ; 
 
 For scarce had sorrow o'er thee strewed 
 
 The dews of sympathy, ere pain 
 Brought all its busy multitude 
 
 Of griefs and woes to wound again : 
 
 And of our house — O, fatal day ! — 
 
 Bore chief and honor both away : 
 
 The wheel was stopped on which it turned, 
 
 And we, a desolate race, were left 
 Alone, — and hopeless there we mourned 
 
 Him, whom remorseless death had reft. 
 
DECKER. 
 
 389 
 
 A father, who in wisdom guided 
 The love that in his love confided . 
 A father, who, upon our heart, 
 
 And in our blood, Heaven's laws did write ; 
 And taught us never to depart 
 
 From virtue's way, — befall what might. 
 
 A father, temperate, wise, and brave, — 
 Who, when the whirlwind and the wave 
 Beat on his bark, could seize the helm, 
 
 And, spite of storm and stream, convey 
 To port, — while billows overwhelm 
 
 A thousand ships that round him lay. 
 
 Those lips, alas ! we loved so well, 
 Whence no ungentle accents fell, — 
 No thoughts but virtue, — have I seen 
 
 Parched with a black, pestiferous hue, 
 And marked the dry and up-scorched skin 
 
 Just spotted with a feverish dew. 
 
 That tongue which oft with us hath poured 
 The song of joy, — and oft adored, — 
 That voice which taught us wisdom's word, 
 
 And Heaven's admonitory will, — 
 In gently breathing tones I heard, — 
 
 And gentler yet, — and then 't was still. 
 
 That bright and noble countenance, 
 Which gleamed with truth in every glance, 
 And made us love it, — 't was so fair 
 
 And so attractive, — soon was wan, 
 And gloom and darkness nestled there : 
 
 'T was pale and sunk and wobegone. 
 
 I saw him sink, — and day by day 
 I marked the progress of decay : 
 His old and venerable head 
 
 Dropped, — and his smiles were dimmed; 
 — at last 
 The death-mist on his crown was spread, 
 
 And our sun's glory veiled and past. 
 
 I saw his hands grow stiff and cold, 
 
 Long used our honor to uphold ; 
 
 His limbs, that long had borne the weight 
 
 Of many a care, then tottering shook, 
 As on he moved with trembling gait, 
 
 And towards the tomb his pathway took. 
 
 And then I saw his corpse conveyed 
 Down to death's lonely paths of shade, 
 Where gloom and dull oblivion reign : 
 
 Even now, even now, that scene I view ; — 
 How could I seek the light again ? — 
 
 How? — mourn I not my sorrows too? 
 
 How valueless is life to me ! 
 
 It seems impossible to be. 
 
 To talk of life, when those are gone 
 
 Who gave us life, is false and vain : 
 O, yes ! I have a heart of stone, — 
 
 For he is gone, and I remain. 
 
 O noble branch of Montpensier ! 
 His name shall be to Memory dear, 
 
 And in Fame's brightest archives stored; 
 
 For not alone his tears he gave, 
 But with his tears his being poured, 
 
 An offering on his father's grave. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! sad heart of mine, 
 Were such a glorious privilege thine, 
 It were indeed a blissful doom ! — 
 
 No ! not a father's cheek to see 
 Damp with the cold dews of the tomb, 
 
 And mingling with mortality. 
 
 But fain with him, in silence deep, 
 Sheltered from all my woes, I 'd sleep, 
 Where, from life's sad and darksome cares, 
 
 Beneath the damp and gloomy ground, 
 My soul his bed of silence shares, 
 
 With peace and solitude around. 
 
 So, freed and far from misery's power, 
 And fears and hopes, the hastening hour 
 Glides now no more away in pain, 
 
 Nor weary nights in sleepless thought ; 
 But, ah ! the lovely dream is vain, — 
 
 My shaken heart deserves it not. 
 
 See, brother ! thou didst leave thy home, 
 And woes like these, far off to roam : 
 Yet other woes pursued thee there ; 
 
 And even across the Indian seas, 
 Sorrow and darkness and despair 
 
 Told their sad tales and miseries. 
 
 But thou hast 'scaped the worst, — thy bed 
 From woe's loud storm hath screened thy head: 
 Thou shouldst have borne thy share, but now 
 
 Thou art above the reach of woe ; 
 And I — a wretched being ! — bow, 
 
 And cry as I was wont to do : — 
 
 "Blessed, though misery-causing, thou ! 
 Who seest not all our sorrows now, 
 And hear'st not our funereal plaint; 
 
 But slumberest on thy bed of rest, 
 Stretched in the furthest Orient, 
 
 With Java's sands upon thy breast ! " 
 
 ODE TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 O, none will deem it a disgrace, 
 
 Or ever with reproaches sting thee, 
 That thy fair brow should bear the trace 
 
 Of all the inward griefs that wring thee ! 
 Without the sun, the pallid moon 
 Would lose her gayest lustre soon : 
 Then who, when wife and husband sever, 
 
 Would marvel that her eyes are dim, 
 Since he is her bright sun for e^er, 
 
 And she a gentle moon to him ? 
 
 The sun that cheered thy life has faded ; 
 
 'T is time for thee to mourn and sigh ; 
 Thy light and splendor now are shaded, 
 
 In dust thy crown and honor lie : 
 And, ah ! thy house, that flourished fair, 
 Seems visited by thy despair, 
 gg2 
 
390 
 
 DUTCH POETRY. 
 
 And mourns like some abode deserted, 
 Or headless trunk in mute decay, 
 
 A land whose ruler has departed, 
 
 A world whose sun has passed away. 
 
 'T is meet that for a season thou 
 
 Shouldst pour the tribute of thy sorrow ; 
 But endless tears, a cheerless brow, 
 
 And woes that hope no joyous morrow, 
 Are trifling, vain, — though sprung from love, — 
 And sinful to thy God above : 
 And if my father's spirit, reigning 
 
 Beyond the earth, can see our grief, 
 Thy never-ceasing, lone complaining 
 
 Will bring him misery, — not relief. 
 
 Too deep for tears, the pangs we feel, — 
 
 For he is gone beyond recalling : 
 But, hark ! what murmured accents steal ? 
 
 What voice upon my ear is falling, 
 And through my mournful spirit flies, 
 As if it came from yonder skies ? 
 O, can it be my father speaking, 
 
 In pity to thy widowed lot, 
 To soothe the heart that now is breaking? 
 
 It is ! — it is ! — dost hear it not ? 
 
 I feel his accents from above, 
 
 Through heart and soul and senses creeping : 
 " My wife ! " he cries, " my sorrowing love ! 
 
 O, why give way to endless weeping, 
 And to despair in weakness bow? 
 O, blam'st thou Heaven, because it now 
 Has opened Eden's glorious portal? 
 
 Think'st thou that death could pardon me .' 
 Ah, no ! all, all on earth is mortal, 
 
 And fades into eternity. 
 
 " I lie in safety and at rest, 
 
 And naught that I behold displeases ; 
 I hear no accents that molest, 
 
 E'en when the North with tempest-breezes 
 Sweeps in its fury o'er the deep, 
 And wakes the ocean from its sleep ; 
 Or when the thunder-cloud is scowling, 
 
 Or lightning rages from the west, 
 I fear not for the tempest's howling, 
 
 But lie in safety and at rest. 
 
 " The journey of my life is o'er, 
 
 From earthly chains has heaven unbound me, 
 And punishment and shame no more 
 
 Can cast their torturing influence round me. 
 And dost thou, dearest, weep for me ? 
 And dost thou mourn that I should be 
 No more on earth ? And art thou sighing 
 
 That I in peace have left a life 
 Which is but one long scene of dying, 
 
 Anxiety, and worrying strife ? 
 
 "Whilst here that brightened visage glows, 
 From which, whene'er my eyes retrace it, 
 
 A stream of joy and luxury flows, 
 Too vast for language to embrace it. 
 
 Here I approach, with forehead bright, 
 
 The majesty of endless light ; 
 
 Light, — whose eternal beam is dwelling 
 
 Where mortal eye can see no way ; 
 Light, — the gay sun as much excelling, 
 
 As he excels morn's faintest ray. 
 
 "Ye men, who wear delusion's chain, 
 
 What madness hath your judgments riven ? 
 Could you a transient glance obtain 
 
 Of all we see and feel in heaven, 
 All earth's delights would seem but care, — 
 Its glory, mist, — its bliss, despair, — 
 Its splendors, slavish melancholy, — 
 
 Its princely mansions, loathsome sties, — 
 Its greatest wisdom, merest folly, — 
 
 And all its riches, vanities ! 
 
 "Then, dearest, be the pomp and state 
 
 Of earth's vain world for ever slighted, 
 And ask of God that still our fate 
 
 May be above again united. 
 We '11 join the bridal scene once more, — 
 A bridal, not, like ours of yore, 
 Earthly and weak, nor long remaining ; 
 
 But heavenly, firm, and without end. — 
 Be comforted, and cease complaining, 
 
 And deem all good that God may send." 
 
 REINIER ANSLO. 
 
 Reinier Anslo was born of wealthy parents, 
 at Amsterdam, in 1622. The greater part of 
 his life was passed in travelling, particularly in 
 Italy, where he became a Catholic, and where 
 most of his poems were written. He died at 
 Perugia, in 1669. His principal works are 
 "The Plague of Naples " and "The Eve of St. 
 Bartholomew"; both of an epic character, and 
 written with great vigor and beauty. 
 
 FROM THE PLAGUE OF NAPLES. 
 
 Where shall we hide us, — he pursuing? 
 What darksome cave, what gloomy ruin ? 
 It matters not, — distress and fear 
 Are everywhere. 
 
 Who now can shield us from the fury 
 That seems upon our steps to hurry ? 
 Our brow exudes a frozen sweat, 
 On hearing it. 
 
 List to that scream ! that broken crying ! 
 Could not the death-gasp hush that sighing ? 
 Are these the fruits of promised peace ? 
 O, wretchedness ! 
 
 E'en as a careless shepherd sleeping, 
 Forgetful of the flocks he 's keeping, 
 Is smitten by the lightning's breath, — 
 The bolt of death : 
 
ANTONIDES VAN DER GOES. 
 
 391 
 
 E'en as the growing mountain-current 
 Pours down the vales its giant torrent, 
 And sweeps the thoughtless flocks away 
 That slumbering lay : 
 
 So were we roused, — so woe descended 
 Before the bridal feast was ended, 
 And sleep hung heavy, — followed there 
 By blank despair. 
 
 JOANNES ANTONIDES VAN DER GOES. 
 
 This famous writer was born at Der Goes, 
 in 1647. He had the good fortune early to gain 
 the esteem of Vondel, who used to call him his 
 son. He took the degree of Doctor in Medicine 
 at the University of Utrecht, and became a suc- 
 cessful practitioner. He died in 1684, at the 
 early age of thirty-seven years. 
 
 The character of Van der Goes is thus sketched 
 in the "Foreign Quarterly Review" (Vol. IV., 
 pp. 56, 57): — " Antonides van der Goes had 
 the enthusiasm, but not the high talents, neces- 
 sary to redeem his country's literature from the 
 affectation and servility into which it was rapidly 
 falling. He expresses his indignation at the 
 corrupting influence of the French in the fol- 
 lowing words, in a letter to his friend Oudaan : — 
 
 " ' What turbulent spirit rules the land, and stains 
 With its pollution Holland's patriot plains, 
 Poisons our pens, infects the very air, 
 Long ere we know the hideous monster 'a there ? 
 For unperceived it rears a monarch's head, 
 Insults our language, and confers, instead, 
 The bastard speech, the wantonness, of Gaul.' 
 
 "Antonides followed Vondel, as far as he 
 was able. His principal work is his poem on 
 the River Y. There is an episode, — where the 
 spirit of the Peruvians, Ataliba, appeals to the 
 Hollanders in the waters of the tropics, implor- 
 ing them to avenge the tyranny of the Span- 
 iards, — which has been much praised. The idea 
 is obviously borrowed from Camoens's ' Ada- 
 mastor ' ; but Antonides's creation is at an infinite 
 distance from that huge and sublime creation, 
 that mass of intellectual granite rolling about 
 amidst the storms of the Cape, tormented by 
 mortal passions, and shipwrecked in more than 
 mortal disappointment. Antonides's 'Bellona' 
 was received with great enthusiasm ; it sang the 
 triumphs of Holland over England. Sad sub- 
 jects these for song ; the triumphs pass away, 
 but not the hatred ; and the malignant passions, 
 awakened for the purposes of an hour, remain 
 behind to torment many generations. A very 
 acute author (Witsen Geysbeek), who has late- 
 ly published an edition of the ' Ystroom,' places 
 Antonides at the head of all the poets of the 
 seventeenth century. He was the favorite child 
 of Vondel's affection. The effect of his works 
 is much diminished by his mythological machin- 
 ery, but there are very few compositions which 
 can be read with such a sustained pleasure as 
 
 his ' River Y.' Hoogstraten wrote the life of 
 Antonides, which is placed at the head of his 
 works." 
 
 OVERTHROW OF THE TURKS BY VICE-ADMIRAL 
 W1LLEM JOSEPH. 
 
 Algiers, that on the midland sea 
 
 Rules o'er her bloody pirate-horde, 
 Sees now her crown in jeopardy, 
 
 And drops her cruel robber-sword. 
 The coast of Barbary, terrified, 
 
 Trembles beneath the conquerors' sway ; 
 Our heroes on her waters ride, 
 
 While the fierce bandits, in dismay, 
 And mad with plunder and with ire, 
 Are smothered in a sea of fire. 
 
 Thrice had the sun from the orient verge 
 
 Into his golden chariot sprung; 
 From the rain-clouds his rays emerge, 
 
 With brightest glory round him flung: 
 The northern winds are roused, — the Turk 
 
 Is borne along ; — in vain he tries, 
 While terrors in his bosom lurk, 
 
 To 'scape our glance: — in vain he flies. 
 He may not fly, — for he is bound 
 In his pursuers' toils around. 
 
 Ye rapine vultures of the sea, 
 
 Haste, haste before the storm and stream ; 
 Stretch out your pinions now, and be 
 
 The fearful, flying flock ye seem ! 
 No '. ye shall not escape, — for we 
 
 Have hemmed you in on every side ; 
 Your crescent now looks mournfully, 
 
 And fain her paling horns would hide. 
 But no ! but no ! ye shall be driven 
 From earth and ocean, as from heaven. 
 
 No ! terror shakes the Afric strand, 
 
 The Moor perceives his glory wane ; 
 The madman glares with fiery brand, 
 
 As glares the heaven above the main. 
 The cannons rattle to the wind ; 
 
 Black, noisome vapors from the waves 
 The bright-eyed sun with darkness blind ; 
 
 And Echo shouts from Nereus' caves, 
 As if, with rage and strength immortal, 
 Salmoneus shook hell's brazen portal. 
 
 How should they stand against the free, — 
 
 The free, — the brave, — whom Ocean's pride 
 Hath loved to crown with victory, 
 
 Yet victory never satisfied ? 
 The Amstel's thunders roar around, 
 
 While the barbarians clamor loud, 
 And, scattered on their native ground, 
 
 The base retire before the proud ; 
 While their sea-standards, riven and torn, 
 Are but the noisy tempest's scorn. 
 
 There twice three ships submit them, — led 
 By their commander. — Ocean 's freed 
 
 From its old tyrants, — and in dread, 
 On the wide waters when they bleed, 
 
392 
 
 DUTCH POETRY. 
 
 From that inhospitable shore 
 
 Upon the mingled flame and smoke 
 
 Looks the heart-agitated Moor, 
 
 Whose power is lost, and riven his yoke : 
 
 He stamps and curses, as he sees 
 
 How his fear-stricken brother flees. 
 
 O, ye have earned a noble meed, 
 
 Brave Christian heroes! — the reward 
 Of virtue. Gratitude shall speed 
 
 Your future course : ye have unbarred 
 The prison-doors of many a slave, 
 
 Whom heathen power had bound, — and 
 these 
 In memory's shrines your names shall have ; 
 
 And this shall be your stainless praise, — 
 Leaving sweet thoughts, — as seamen ride 
 From land to land o'er favoring tide. 
 
 JAN VAN BROEKHUIZEN. 
 
 Jan van Broekhuizen, better known among 
 scholars by the Latinized name of Janus Brouk- 
 husius, was born at Amsterdam, in 1649. When 
 young, he lost his father; and, much against his 
 own inclination, was placed by his guardian 
 with an apothecary, " his genius cramped over 
 a pestle and mortar." At this time he wrote 
 verses, which gained some applause; and sub- 
 sequently entering the military service, he sail- 
 ed, in 1674, to the West Indies, as a marine, 
 under the celebrated Admiral De Ruyter. In 
 the autumn of the same year, he returned to 
 Utrecht, where he became acquainted with 
 several scientific men. Here, in 1684, he pub- 
 lished an edition of his poems. He afterwards 
 received a military appointment at Amsterdam, 
 where he remained till the peace of Ryswick, 
 when he retired from the service with the rank 
 of Captain. He was an editor, as well as an 
 author, and published editions of several of the 
 classics, with critical notes. He died in 1707. 
 The best edition of his poems is that of Am- 
 sterdam, 1711, quarto. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I sigh, lament, and moan, 
 
 Whene'er I am alone ; 
 And, O, my eyes in bitterness complain, 
 Which dared to gaze on her who caused my pain ! 
 At daybreak, and when night draws nigh, 
 Clorinda still dwells in my memory : 
 Yes, — there the lovely image is enshrined, 
 Whose power I feel for ever in my mind. 
 
 My dreams are never free 
 
 From this sad slavery : 
 All other thoughts love in oblivion drowns. 
 My heart throbs fluttering, fearful of her frowns; 
 Her eye of light, her lip of rose, 
 Her dulcet voice, her cheeks, where beauty 
 glows, 
 
 Are snares which lure the bosom that relies, 
 And wound the soul that trusts them, through 
 the eyes. 
 
 Then go, my eyes, and crave 
 
 Some pity for her slave : 
 But let your mission unobtrusive be, 
 Your language tempered with humility. 
 She will not scorn the heart. that brings 
 Its love to her, and round her mercy clings. 
 But if she do not listen to your prayer, 
 Despise her heart, — self-love alone is there. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Beyond the Rhine, in solitudes and snows, 
 Through every starless night and cheerless 
 
 day, 
 I muse, and waste myself in thought away, 
 And breathe my sighs to where the Amstel 
 
 flows. 
 My spring of life is hastening to its close, 
 The sun of youth emits its latest ray, 
 While grief asserts its most ungentle sway ; 
 And toils I bear, but toils without repose. 
 But, O, my past enjoyment, life, and light ! 
 How soon would sorrow take its hurried flight, 
 And every thought that pains my breast depart, 
 If thou wert present when my spirits pine ! 
 For thou wouldst bring, with those sweet 
 eyes of thine, 
 A summer in the land, — a heaven within my 
 heart. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 The morning hour, its brightness spreading, 
 In more than common lustre rose; 
 And o'er day's portals sparkling snows 
 
 And corals, gems of gold, was shedding. 
 
 The moon grew paler, paler yet, — 
 And night, her gloomy face averting, 
 Rolled slowly up her misty curtain, — 
 
 And star by star in twilight set. 
 
 Closed are the thousand eyes of heaven, 
 And light shines brighter forth from one ; 
 And, lo ! the bee comes forth alone, 
 
 To rob the rose and thyme till even. 
 
 The lordly lion wakes the wood 
 
 With mighty roar; his eyeball flashes ; 
 He shakes his mane, his tail he lashes ; 
 
 His loud voice breaks the solitude. 
 
 Away, thou monarch, brave, unshaken ! 
 Endymion, when he hears thy cries, 
 Far from the woods in terror flies, 
 
 And leaves his old abode forsaken. 
 
 He finds his mistress on the mead, 
 
 Who, where the shady boughs are twining, 
 Upon the greensward is reclining, 
 
 And counts the flocks that round her feed. 
 
BROEKHUIZEN.— SMITS. — BILDERDI JK. 
 
 393 
 
 How gayly comes that maiden straying, 
 Before the sheep, that fawn and play ! 
 All light and smiles, — like dawning day, 
 
 When o'er the ocean's bosom playing. 
 
 The lambkin, youthful as the grass, 
 As white as snow, as soft as roses. 
 Now at her tarrying feet reposes, 
 
 And now beside her loves to pass. 
 
 The feathered choir, with songs of pleasure, 
 Salute the sun, whose glowing ray 
 Is shining on their plumage gay, 
 
 And glads their thousand-chorus measure. 
 
 What art can equal the sweet notes 
 
 Of their wild lays in grief and sadness ? 
 What hand can wake such tones of gladness 
 
 As flow from their untutored throats ? 
 
 The peasant, with the dawn beginning, 
 Now yokes the oxen to the ploughs ; 
 And peasant-girls, with laughing brows, 
 
 Sing gay and cheerily while spinning. 
 
 A varied sound and fitful light 
 
 On dreams and silence are encroaching ; 
 
 The sun in glory is approaching 
 To wake to day the slumbering night. 
 
 The lover, who with passion smarted, 
 And sighed his soul at Chloris' feet, 
 Starts when he finds the night's deceit, 
 
 And Chloris with his dream departed. 
 
 The busy smith, with naked arms, 
 
 Whom sparks and blasts and flames environ, 
 
 Beats sturdily the glowing iron, 
 Which the loud-hissing water warms. 
 
 Come, let us rise and wander, dear one ! 
 
 Our taper's flame is faint and dead, 
 
 The morning ray is on our bed ; 
 Come, let us rise and wander, fair one ! 
 
 Come, rouse, beloved ! let us rove 
 
 Where 'neath our welcomed steps are growing 
 
 Roses and lilies, fair and glowing 
 As those upon thy cheeks, my love ! 
 
 DIRK SMITS. 
 
 Dirk Smits was born at Rotterdam, in 1702. 
 Gravenweert* describes his character as fol- 
 lows: — "Nature alone formed him. He was 
 employed in some small occupations in the cus- 
 toms, and struggled all his life against the ine- 
 qualities of fortune. Several of his pieces are 
 still cited, as models of an agreeable and easy 
 style. All his productions are full of grace and 
 feeling, and every lover of letters knows the 
 ' Song of the Cradle,' and the ' Funeral Wreath 
 
 * Litterature Neerlandaise, p. 130. 
 SO 
 
 for my Daughter.' In most of his poems, a grav- 
 ity nearly approaching to melancholy reigns ; 
 and, whether it be the influence of climate or 
 national character, this tone predominates in 
 the good poets of Holland ; it is this which 
 they have generally seized the best." 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 
 
 A host of angels flying, 
 
 Through cloudless skies impelled, 
 Upon the earth beheld 
 
 A pearl of beauty lying, 
 Worthy to glitter bright 
 In heaven's vast halls of light. 
 
 They saw, with glances tender, 
 An infant newly born, 
 O'er whom life's earliest morn 
 
 Just cast its opening splendor: 
 Virtue it could not know, 
 Nor vice, nor joy, nor woe. 
 
 The blest angelic legion 
 
 Greeted its birth above, 
 
 And came, with looks of love, 
 From heaven's enchanting region ; 
 
 Bending their winged way 
 
 To where the infant lay. 
 
 They spread their pinions o'er it, — 
 That little pearl which shone 
 With lustre all its own, — 
 
 And then on high they bore it, 
 Where glory has its birth; — 
 But left the shell on earth. 
 
 WILLEM BILDERDIJK. 
 
 Willem Bilderdijk, renowned as a jurist, 
 an accomplished scholar, and a poet, was born 
 at Amsterdam, September 7th, 1756. He re- 
 ceived a careful education. He studied at the 
 University of Leyden, where he devoted him- 
 self to jurisprudence under the direction of the 
 learned Van der Keessel. He left his country 
 when the French occupied it, went to Bruns- 
 wick, and afterwards to London, where he 
 delivered lectures on law, poetry, and litera- 
 ture, which were numerously attended. In 
 1806, he returned to Holland. At the begin- 
 ning of the reign of Louis Bonaparte, Bilderdijk 
 was selected by him to be his teacher in the 
 Dutch language. After having resided in vari- 
 ous places, he established himself in Haarlem 
 in 1827, where he died, December 18th, 1831. 
 
 His feelings were strong and impetuous. He 
 was " a good hater"; and his expressions of 
 literary and national animosity were often vio- 
 lent and overcharged. Speaking of the French 
 language, he says : 
 
 "Begone! thou bastard tongue, so base, so broken, 
 By human jackals and hyenas spoken ; 
 
394 
 
 DUTCH POETRY. 
 
 Formed for a race of infidels, and fit 
 
 To laugh at truth and skepticize in wit ! 
 
 What stammering, snivelling sounds, which scarcely dare 
 
 Through nasal channels to salute the ear, 
 
 Yet, helped by apes' grimaces and the devil, 
 
 Have ruled the world, and ruled the world for evil I " 
 
 One of his principal literary quarrels was 
 with Siegenbeek, on the orthography of the 
 Dutch language. During this controversy, he 
 wrote a poetical pasquinade, entitled " Dance 
 round a Coffin," in which he represents his 
 enemies as dancing round his dead body, and 
 rejoicing, that, their great schoolmaster and ty- 
 rant being dead, they can corrupt the language 
 at their pleasure. The following are a few 
 stanzas of this poem. 
 
 Now Bilderdijk, the dread, 
 Is dead ! 
 
 Now his mouth is shut, 
 Now his pen and fingers still ! 
 Now has Marsyas his will ! 
 
 Faithful fellow-croakers, 
 Bilderdijk is dead and gone, 
 And our kingdom and our throna 
 
 Shall no more be shaken ! 
 
 Now again, with crash 
 And dash. 
 
 Bastardize our language ; 
 Metre, tone, and common sense 
 Banish from the land far hence ! 
 
 Hurrah, poetasters ! 
 Lay the pure Hollandish by, 
 And forward with your Moffery,! 
 
 Modern-style schoolmasters ! 
 
 Kwik-kwak-kwak! and Rik- 
 Kik-kik ! 
 
 Now is the time for gladness ! 
 Spring, then, merrily plunge and splash! 
 Knights of the puddle, dive and dash 
 
 In the muddy river ! 
 Far and wide is holyday, 
 Bilderdijk no more shall bray, 
 
 Our throne stand? fast for ever ! 
 
 Bilderdijk was one of the most learned and 
 voluminous writers of Holland. His published 
 works fill more than one hundred octavo vol- 
 umes, and there are more behind in manuscript. 
 
 His character is strikingly delineated by Rob- 
 ert Southey, in his " Epistle to Allan Cunning- 
 ham " (Works, Vol. III., pp. 311, 312). 
 
 '"And who is Bilderdijk? ' methinks thou sayest. 
 A ready question ; yet which, trust me, Allan, 
 "Would not be asked, had not the curse that came 
 From Babel clipped the wings of Poetry. 
 Napoleon asked him once, with cold, fixed look, 
 ' Art thou, then, in the world of letters known?' 
 ' I have deserved to be,' the Hollander 
 Replied, meeting that proud imperial look 
 With calm and proper confidence, and eye 
 As little wont to turn away abashed 
 Before a mortal presence. He is one 
 Who hath received upon his constant breast 
 The sharpest arrows of adversity ; 
 Whom not the clamors of the multitude, 
 Demanding, in their madness and their might, 
 Iniquitous things, could shake in his firm mind ; 
 Nor the strong hand of instant tyranny 
 
 1 Germanisms. 
 
 From the straight path of duty turn aside : 
 
 But who, in public troubles, in the wreck 
 
 Of his own fortunes, in proscription, exile, 
 
 Want, obloquy, ingratitude, neglect, 
 
 And what severer trials Providence 
 
 Sometimes inflicteth, chastening whom it loves, — 
 
 In all, through all, and over all, hath borne 
 
 An equal heart, as resolute toward 
 
 The world, as humbly and religiously 
 
 Beneath his Heavenly Father's rod resigned. 
 
 Right-minded, happy-minded, righteous man, 
 
 True lover of his country and his kind ; 
 
 In knowledge, and in inexhaustive stores 
 
 Of native genius, rich ; philosopher, 
 
 Poet, and sage. The language of a state 
 
 Inferior in illustrious deeds to none, 
 
 But circumscribed by narrow bounds, and now 
 
 Sinking in irrecoverable decline, 
 
 Hath pent within its sphere a name wherewith 
 
 Europe should else have rung from side to side." 
 
 Gravenweert * says of him, " This extra- 
 ordinary genius is not only the greatest poet 
 that Holland has produced, but he is one of 
 her first grammarians and most distinguished 
 scholars. Destined to the profession of an ad- 
 vocate, besides being an excellent lawyer, he 
 became a scholar, theologian, physician, critical 
 historian, astronomer, antiquary, draftsman, and 
 engineer, and acquired a thorough knowledge 
 of nearly all the modern languages, as well as 
 of the Hebrew, Arabic, and Persian, the most 
 brilliant pieces in which he translated and imi- 
 tated, but with a spirit which gives them an in- 
 imitable color. Bilderdijk excels in every spe- 
 cies of poetry, tragedy alone excepted ; in this 
 he has been able to equal neither the ancients, 
 nor the French triumvirate, nor Shakspeare, nor 
 Schiller, nor Vondel ; yet, excepting these great 
 models, he bears a comparison with all that 
 Europe has produced." 
 
 ODE TO BEAUTY. 
 
 Child of the Unborn ! dost thou bend 
 
 From Him we in the day-beams see, 
 Whose music with the breeze doth blend? 
 
 To feel thy presence is to be. 
 Thou, our soul's brightest effluence, — thou 
 Who in heaven's light to earth dost bow, 
 
 A spirit 'midst unspiritual clods, — 
 Beauty ! who bear'st the stamp profound 
 Of Him, with all perfection crowned, 
 
 Thine image, — thine alone, — is God's. 
 
 How is thine influence o'er us spread, 
 
 That in thy smile we smile and play? 
 How art thou woven with life's thread ? 
 
 Thou consciousness of greatness! say, 
 Art thou a spirit of the breeze, 
 Which our awakening vision sees, 
 
 That grasps our hand, and pours a flood 
 Of glory, and, with thought more high 
 Than mortal thoughts can magnify, 
 
 Stirs with heaven's warmth our icy blood : 
 
 * Litterature Neerlandaise, pp. 18S, 189. 
 
BILDERDIJK. 
 
 395 
 
 Thou dazzling, driving, despot power, 
 
 Mortality before thee kneels; 
 Thou wert not born in earthly hour, 
 
 Whose breath the tomb with glory fills: 
 No ! thee the Almighty's hand did mould 
 Out of the morning-beams of gold 
 
 Which burst on heaven when earth was 
 made, — 
 He plumed and he perfumed thy wings, 
 And bade thee brood o'er mortal things, 
 
 And in thy smiles his smile conveyed. 
 
 How shall I catch a single ray 
 
 Thy glowing hand from nature wakes, — 
 Steal from the ether-waves of day 
 
 One of the notes thy world-harp shakes, — 
 Escape that miserable joy, 
 Which dust and self with darkness cloy, 
 
 Fleeting and false, — and, like a bird, 
 Cleave the air-path, and follow thee 
 Through thine own vast infinity, 
 
 Where rolls the Almighty's thunder-word ? 
 
 Perfect thy brightness in heaven's sphere, 
 
 Where thou dost vibrate in the bliss 
 Of anthems ever echoing there ! 
 
 That, that is life, — not this, — not this : 
 There in the holy, holy row, 
 And not on earth, so deep below, 
 
 Thy music unrepressed may speak ; 
 Stay, shrouded, in that holy place ; — 
 Enough that we have seen thy face, 
 
 And kissed the smiles upon thy cheek. 
 
 We stretch our eager hands to thee, 
 
 And for thine influence pray, in vain ; 
 The burden of mortality 
 
 Hath bent us 'neath its heavy chain ; — 
 And there are fetters forged by art, 
 And science cold hath chilled the heart, 
 
 And wrapped thy godlike crown in night ; 
 On waxen wings they soar on high, 
 And when most distant deem thee nigh, — 
 
 Thev quench thy torch, and dream of 
 light. 
 
 They dare, in their presumptuous pride, — 
 
 They, — miserable clods of clay ! — 
 Thy glorious influence to deride, 
 
 And laws to make, thy course to sway ; 
 They, — senseless stones, and brainless 
 
 things, — 
 Would point thy course, unplume thy wings, 
 
 And lower thee to their littleness; 
 They, — fools unblushing, — vile and vain, — 
 Would God, would truth, would thee con- 
 strain, 
 
 Their Midas' idols to caress. 
 
 See there the glory of the earth ! 
 
 See there, how laurel wreaths are spread ! 
 See the base souls, in swinish mirth, 
 
 Worship the gold round Titan's head ! 
 They tyrants will not crush, — not they ! 
 The despot gods of heathen-sway,— 
 
 The imps that out of darkness start : 
 No ! these they raise; — but stamp, if thou 
 To their vile bidding will not bow, 
 
 Their iron foot upon thy heart. 
 
 No! proud provokers ! no! unhushed 
 
 My song shall flow, my voice shall sound, 
 And, till the world — till you — are crushed, 
 
 Sing God, truth, beauty's hymns around • 
 I will denounce your false pretence, 
 For holiness find eloquence, 
 
 While genuine beauty sits beside; — 
 Crawl in the mire, ye mushroom crews ! 
 Lo ! I am fed with heavenly dews 
 
 That nourish spirits purified. 
 
 Child of the Unborn ! joy ! for thou 
 
 Shinest in everv heavenly flame, 
 Breathest on all the winds that blow, 
 
 While self-conviction speaks thy name : 
 O, let one glance of thine illume 
 The longing soul that bids thee come, 
 
 And make me feel of heaven, like thee ! 
 Shake from thy torch one blazing drop, 
 And to my soul all heaven shall ope, 
 
 And I — dissolve in melody ! 
 
 THE ROSES. 
 
 I saw them once blowing, 
 Whilst morning was glowing; 
 
 But now are their withered leaves strewed o'er 
 the ground, 
 For tempests to play on, 
 For cold worms to prey on, — 
 
 The shame of the garden that triumphs around. 
 
 Their buds, which then flourished, 
 With dew-drops were nourished, 
 
 Which turned into pearls as they fell from or 
 high ; 
 Their hues are now banished, 
 Their fragrance all vanished, 
 
 Ere evening a shadow has cast from the sky. 
 
 I saw, too, whole races 
 
 Of glories and graces 
 Thus open and blossom, but quickly decay, 
 
 And smiling and gladness, 
 
 In sorrow and sadness, 
 Ere life reached its twilight, fade dimly away. 
 
 Joy's light-hearted dances 
 
 And Melody's glances 
 Are rays of a moment, — are dying when born : 
 
 And Pleasure's best dower 
 
 Is naught but a flower, — 
 A vanishing dew-drop, — a gem of the mora. 
 
 The bright eye is clouded, 
 
 Its brilliancy shrouded, 
 Our strength disappears, — we are helpless and 
 lone : 
 
 No reason avails us, 
 
 And intellect fails us, 
 Life's spirit is wasted, and darkness comes on. 
 
396 
 
 DUTCH POETRY. 
 
 H. TOLLENS. 
 
 Tollens was Dorn at Rotterdam, in 1778. 
 He received a classical education, and also de- 
 voted himself much to the modern languages. 
 He showed early an inclination for poetry. His 
 first attempts appeared in 1802, and gave an 
 earnest of his future distinction. In 1806, he 
 gained a prize by his well known poem entitled 
 "The Death of Egmont and Horn." A collec- 
 tion of his poems was published in 1808. Since 
 then, a long series of works has appeared from 
 his indefatigable pen, which have had an im- 
 mense circulation. He still lives to enjoy the 
 honors which his admiring countrymen have 
 awarded him. Gravenweert* calls him " one 
 of the greatest Dutch authors in descriptive 
 poetry, the ballad, and the sweet, graceful, and 
 moral kind which delineates the events of pri- 
 vate life." 
 
 SUMMER MORNING'S SONG. 
 
 Up, sleeper ! dreamer ! up ! for now 
 There 's gold upon the mountain's brow, — 
 There 's light on forests, lakes, and meadows, — 
 The dew-drops shine on floweret-bells, — 
 The village clock of morning tells. 
 Up, men ! out, cattle ! for the dells 
 And dingles teem with shadows. 
 
 Up ! out ! o'er furrow and o'er field ! 
 The claims of toil some moments yield 
 For morning's bliss, and time is fleeter 
 
 Than thought ; — so out ! 't is dawning yet ; 
 Why twilight's lovely hour forget ? 
 For sweet though be the workman's sweat, 
 The wanderer's sweat is sweeter. 
 
 Up ! to the fields ! through shine and stcrur ! 
 What hath the dull and drowsy hour 
 So blest as this, — the glad heart leaping 
 To hear morn's early songs sublime? 
 See earth rejoicing in its prime ! 
 The summer is the waking time, 
 The winter time for sleeping. 
 
 O, fool ! to sleep such hours away, 
 While blushing nature wakes to day, 
 On down, through summer mornings snoring ! 
 'T is meet for thee, the winter long, 
 When snows fall fast and winds blow strong, 
 To waste the night amidst the throng, 
 Their vinous poisons pouring. 
 
 The very beast that crops the flower 
 Hath welcome for the dawning hour ; 
 Aurora smiles, — her beckonings claim thee. 
 Listen ! — look round ! — the chirp, the hum, 
 Song, low, and bleat, — there 's nothing 
 
 dumb, — 
 All love, all life ! Come ! slumberers, come ! 
 The meanest thing shall shame thee. 
 
 * Litterature Nfierlandaise, p. 226. 
 
 We come, — we come, — our wanderings take 
 Through dewy field, by misty lake, 
 And rugged paths, and woods pervaded 
 By branches o'er, by flowers beneath, 
 Making earth odorous with their breath ; 
 Or through the shadeless gold-gorze heath, 
 Or 'neath the poplars shaded. 
 
 Were we of feather or of fin, 
 How blest, to dash the river in, 
 Thread the rock-stream as it advances, — 
 Or, better, like the birds above, 
 Rise to the greenest of the grove, 
 And sing the matin song of love 
 Amidst the highest branches ! 
 
 O, thus to revel, thus to range, 
 I 'II yield the counter, bank, or change ; 
 The business crowds, all peace destroying , 
 The toil, with snow that roofs our brains ; 
 The seeds of care, which harvests pains ; 
 The wealth, for more which strives and strains, 
 Still less and less enjoying ! 
 
 O, happy, who the city's noise 
 Can quit for nature's quiet joys, 
 Quit worldly sin and worldly sorrow; 
 No more 'midst prison-walls abide, 
 But in God's temple vast and wide 
 Pour praises every eventide, 
 Ask mercies every morrow ! 
 
 No seraph's flaming sword hath driven 
 That man from Eden or from heaven, 
 From earth's sweet smiles and winning features; 
 For him, by toils and troubles tossed, 
 By wealth and wearying cares engrossed, — 
 For him, a paradise is lost, 
 But not for happy creatures. 
 
 Come, — though a glance it may be, — come, 
 Enjoy, improve ; then hurry home, 
 For life's strong urgencies must bind us. 
 Yet mourn not; morn shall wake anew, 
 And we shall wake to bless it too. 
 Homewards ! — the herds that shake the dew 
 We '11 leave in peace behind us. 
 
 WINTER EVENING'S SONG. 
 
 The storm- winds blow both sharp and sere, 
 
 The cold is bitter rude ; 
 Thank Heaven, with blazing coals and wood 
 
 We sit in comfort here ! 
 The trees as whitest down are white, 
 
 The river hard as lead. 
 Sweet mistress ! why this blank to-night? 
 There 's punch so warm, and wine so bright 
 
 And sheltering roof and bread. 
 
 And if a friend should pass this way, 
 
 We give him flesh and fish ; 
 And sometimes game adorns the dish • 
 
 It chances as it may. 
 
TOLLENS. 
 
 39? 
 
 And every birthday festival, 
 
 Some extra tarts appear, 
 An extra glass of wine for all, — 
 While to the child, or great or small, 
 
 We drink the happy year. 
 
 Poor beggars, all the city through 
 
 That wander ! — pity knows 
 That if it rains, or hails, or snows, 
 
 No difference 't is to you. 
 Your children's birthdays come, — no throng 
 
 Of friends approach your door ; 
 'T is a long suffering, sad as long : 
 No fire to warm, — to cheer, no song, — 
 
 No presents for the poor. 
 
 And should not we far better be, 
 
 We far more blest than they ? 
 Our winter hearth is bright and gay, 
 
 Our wine-cups full and free; 
 And we were wrought in finer mould, 
 
 And made of purer clay: 
 God's holy eyes, that all behold, 
 Chose for our garments gems and gold, — 
 
 And made them rags display. 
 
 I ? better I ? O, would 't were so ! 
 
 I am perplexed in sooth ; 
 I wish, I wish you 'd speak the truth ; 
 
 You do not speak it, — no ! 
 Who knows — I know not — but that vest 
 
 That 's pieced and patched all through, 
 May wrap a very honest breast, 
 Of evil purged, by good possessed, 
 
 Generous, and just, and true? 
 
 And can it be ? Indeed it can, 
 
 That I so favored stand ; 
 And he, the offspring of God's hand, 
 
 A poor, deserted man. 
 And then I sit to muse ; I sit 
 
 The riddle to unravel ; 
 I strain my thoughts, I tax my wit ; 
 The less my thoughts can compass it, 
 
 The more they toil and travel. 
 
 And thus, and thus alone, I see, 
 
 When poring o'er and o'er, 
 That I can give unto the poor, 
 
 But not the poor to me : 
 That, having more than I require, 
 
 That more I 'm bound to spread, 
 Give from my hearth a spark of fire, 
 Drops from my cup, and feed desire 
 
 With morsels of my bread. 
 
 And thus I found, that, scattering round 
 
 Blessings in mortal track, 
 The riddle ceased my brains to rack, 
 
 And my torn heart grew sound. 
 The storm-winds blow both sharp and sere, 
 
 The cold is bitter rude; 
 Come, beggar, come, our garments bear, 
 A portion of our dwelling share, 
 
 A morsel of our food. 
 
 List, boys and girls ! the hour is late, 
 
 There 's some one at the door; 
 Run, little ones ! the man is poor ; — 
 
 Who first unlocks the gate? 
 What do I hear ? Run fast, run fast ! 
 
 What do I hear so sad ? 
 'T is a poor mother in the blast, 
 Trembling, — I heard her as she passed, - 
 
 And weeping o'er her lad. 
 
 I thank thee, Source of every bliss, 
 
 For every bliss I know ; 
 I thank thee, thou didst train me so 
 
 To learn thy way in this : 
 That wishing good, and doing good, 
 
 Is laboring, Lord, with thee ; 
 That charity is gratitude ; 
 And piety, best understood, 
 
 A sweet humanity. 
 
 JOHN A' SCHAFFELAAR. 
 
 When high the flame of discord rose, 
 
 And o'er the country spread, 
 When friends were changed to deadliest foes, 
 
 And nature's feelings fled: 
 
 When doubtful questions of debate 
 
 Disturbed the public mind, 
 And all, impelled by furious hate, 
 
 Forgot their kin and kind : 
 
 When foreign armies, helmed and plumed, 
 
 Were hurrying to our strand, 
 And fierce internal fires consumed 
 
 The heart of Netherland : 
 
 Then flourished John a' SchafFelaar, — 
 
 A hero bold was he, 
 Renowned for glorious deeds of war, 
 
 And feats of chivalry. 
 
 Let him who would Rome's Curtius name 
 
 Give SchafFelaar his due, 
 Who was, though lauded less by fame, 
 
 The nobler of the two. 
 
 Secluded virtue fairest shines, 
 
 No flattery dims its rays; 
 While virtue on a throne declines, 
 
 And fades beneath its praise. 
 
 You ask me once again to sing, — 
 
 And I have yet the will ; 
 And whilst my lyre retains a string, 
 
 'T will sound for Holland still. 
 
 When Utrecht saw her sons appear 
 
 Her bishop to depose, 
 And all with musket and with spear 
 
 Against his vassals rose : 
 
 When Amersfoort had sworn to shield, 
 
 Defend him, and obey ; 
 And Barneveldt had made it yield, 
 
 And wrested him away : 
 
398 
 
 DUTCH POETRY. 
 
 Then flourished John a' Schaffelaar, — 
 
 A hero bold was he, 
 Renowned for glorious deeds of war, 
 
 And feats of chivalry. 
 
 Up, up the steepest tower he went, 
 
 With eighteen men to aid, 
 And from the lofty battlement 
 
 A deadly havoc made. 
 
 He dares their fire, which threatens death, 
 
 And gives it back again ; 
 And showers of bullets fall beneath, 
 
 As thick as winter's rain. 
 
 Erect he stands, — no vain alarm, 
 
 No fear of death appalls; 
 And many a foeman, by his arm, 
 
 Drops from the castle-walls. 
 
 But courage must be crushed, at last, 
 
 In such unequal fight : 
 The best and bravest blood flows fast, 
 
 And quenches glory's light. 
 
 Fearfully rolls the tempest there, 
 And vengeance breathes around; 
 
 The thunder bursts and rends the air, 
 And shrieks along the ground. 
 
 The castle rocks at every blow 
 
 Upon its giant frame ; 
 The raging fire ascends, and, lo ! 
 
 The tower is wrapped in flame. 
 
 "Your will? " cried John a' Schaffelaar, 
 " Your will ? my comrades true ! 
 
 Though thoughts of self are banished far, 
 I still can mourn for you." 
 
 " O, yield to them ! give up the tower ! " 
 
 To Schaffelaar they call ; 
 " We cannot now withstand their power ; 
 
 Yield, or we perish all. 
 
 " The flames are round ns, and our fate 
 
 Is certain," was the cry; 
 " Then yield, O, yield, ere 't is too late ! 
 
 Amid the smoke we die." 
 
 " We yield it, then," the hero cried, 
 
 " We yield it to your might, 
 We bow our stubborn necks of pride, 
 
 Ye conquerors in the fight ! " 
 
 " No ! No ! " exclaimed the furious crowd, 
 
 " A ransom we require ; 
 A ransom, quick! " they called aloud, 
 
 " Or perish in the fire ! " 
 
 " What is your wish ? — no more we war," 
 
 They cry to those without. 
 " We would have John a' Schaffelaar," 
 
 ihe furious rabble shout. 
 
 "Never ! by Heaven ! — we yield him not," 
 
 They cry, as with one voice ; 
 " If death must be our leader's lot, 
 
 We '11 share it, and rejoice ! " 
 
 " Hold ! on your lives ! " with lifted hand 
 
 Said Schaffelaar the free ; 
 " Whoe'er opposes their demand 
 
 Is not a friend to me. 
 
 " Mine was the attempt, — be mine the fate, 
 
 Since we in vain withstood ; 
 On me alone would fall the weight 
 
 Of all your guiltless blood. 
 
 "The flames draw nearer, — all is o'er, — 
 
 And here I may not dwell; 
 Give me your friendly hands once more, — 
 
 For ever fare ye well ! " 
 
 He rushes from his trusty men, 
 
 Who would in vain oppose, 
 And from the narrow loophole then 
 
 He springs amid his foes. 
 
 " Here have ye John a' Schaffelaar, - 
 
 No longer battle wage, — 
 Divide and banquet, hounds of war! 
 
 And satisfy your rage. 
 
 "Now sheathe your swords, and bear afar 
 
 The muskets that we braved ; 
 Here have ye John a' Schaffelaar; — 
 
 My comrades true are saved." 
 
 His limbs were writhing on the ground 
 
 In death's convulsive thrill ; 
 The blood-drops that are shed around 
 
 With shame his foemen fill. 
 
 The sounds of war no more arise, 
 
 And banished is the gloom ; 
 But glory's wreath, which never dies, 
 
 Surrounds the hero's tomb. 
 
 Let him who would Rome's Curtius name 
 
 Give Schaffelaar his due, 
 Who was, though lauded less by fame, 
 
 The nobler of the two. 
 
 BIRTHDAY VERSES. 
 
 Restless Time, who ne'er abidest ' 
 Driver, who life's chariot guidest 
 O'er dark hills and vales that smile ' 
 Let me, let me breathe awhile : 
 Whither dost thou hasten? say ! — 
 Driver, but an instant stay. 
 
 What a viewless distance thou, 
 Still untired, hast travelled now ! 
 Never tarrying, — rest unheeding, — 
 Over thorns and roses speeding, — 
 Through lone places unforeseen, — 
 Cliff and vast abyss between ! 
 
BORGER. 
 
 399 
 
 Five-and-twenty years thou 'st passed, 
 Thundering on unchecked and fast, 
 And, though tempests burst around, 
 Stall nor stay thy coursers found : 
 I am dizzy, faint, oppressed, — 
 Driver ! for one moment rest. 
 
 Swifter than the lightning flies, 
 
 All things vanish from my eyes ; 
 
 All that rose so brightly o'er me, 
 
 Like pale mist-wreaths, fade before me; 
 
 Every spot my glance can find 
 
 Thy impatience leaves behind. 
 
 Yesterday thy wild steeds flew 
 O'er a spot where roses grew; 
 These I sought to gather blindly, 
 But thou hurriedst on unkindly : 
 Fairest buds I trampled, lorn, 
 And but grasped the naked thorn. 
 
 Driver ! turn thee quickly back 
 On the selfsame beaten track : 
 I, of late, so much neglected, 
 Lost, forgot, contemned, rejected, 
 That I still each scene would trace: — 
 Slacken thy bewildering pace ! 
 
 Dost thou thus impetuous drive, 
 
 That thou sooner may'st arrive 
 
 Safe within the hallowed fences 
 
 Where delight — where rest commences? 
 
 Where, then, dost thou respite crave? 
 
 All make answer, "At the grave." 
 
 There, alas ! and only there, 
 Through the storms that rend the air, 
 Doth the rugged pathway bend : 
 There all pains and sorrows end ; 
 There repose's goal is won : — 
 Driver ! ride, in God's name, on ! 
 
 ELIAS ANNE BORGER. 
 
 Borger, well known as a Dutch theologian, 
 was born February 26th, 1785, at Joure, in 
 Friesland. In 1800, he resorted to the Uni- 
 versity of Leyden, where he studied theology, 
 and took the degree of Doctor, in 1807. In the 
 same year, he was appointed Teacher of Biblical 
 Exegesis in the University ; in 1813, he was 
 made Professor Extraordinary, and in 1815, 
 Professor Ordinary. In 1817, he left the theo- 
 logical faculty and became Professor of History. 
 He died, October 12th, 1820. His poems are 
 of an elegiac character. 
 
 ODE TO THE RHINE. 
 
 In the Borean regions stormy 
 
 There 's silence, — battling hail and rain 
 Are hushed. The calm Rhine rolls before me, 
 
 Unfettered from its winter chain. 
 
 Its streams their ancient channels water, 
 And thousand joyous peasants bring 
 The flowery offerings of the spring 
 
 To thee, Mount Gothard's princely daughter . 
 Monarch of streams, from Alpine brow, 
 
 Who, rushing, whelm'st with inundations, 
 
 Or, sovereign-like, divid'st the nations ; 
 Lawgiver all-imperial, thou ! 
 
 I have had days like thine, unclouded, — 
 Days passed upon thy pleasant shore ; 
 
 My heart sprung up in joy unshrouded, — 
 Alas ! it springs to joy no more. 
 
 My fields of green, my humble dwelling, 
 Which love made beautiful and bright, 
 To me, — to her, — my soul's delight, — 
 
 Seemed monarchs' palaces excelling, 
 When, in our little happy bower, 
 
 Or 'neath the starry vault at even, 
 
 We walked in love, and talked of heaven, 
 And poured forth praises for our dower. 
 
 But now I could my hairs well number, 
 
 But not the tears my eyes which wet : 
 The Rhine will to their cradle-slumber 
 
 Roll back its waves, ere I forget, — 
 Forget the blow that twice hath riven 
 
 The crown of glory from my head. 
 
 God ! I have trusted, — duty-led, 
 'Gainst all rebellious thoughts have striven, 
 
 And strive, — and call thee Father, — still 
 Say all thy will is wisest, kindest, — 
 Yet, — twice, — the burden that thou bindest 
 
 Is heavy, — I obey thy will ! 
 
 At Katwyk, where the silenced billow 
 
 Thee welcomes, Rhine, to her own breast, 
 
 There, with the damp sand for her pillow, 
 I laid my treasure in its rest. 
 
 My tears shall with thy waters blend them : 
 Receive those briny tears from me, 
 And, when exhaled from the vast sea, 
 
 To her own grave in dew-drops send them, — 
 A heavenly fall of love for her. 
 
 Old Rhine ! thy waves 'gainst sorrow steel them : 
 
 O, no ! man's miseries, — thou canst feel them : — 
 Then be my grief's interpreter. 
 
 And greet the babe, which earth's green bosom 
 
 Had but received, when she who bore 
 That lovely undeveloped blossom 
 
 Was struck by death, — the bud, — the flower. 
 I forced my daughter's tomb, — her mother 
 
 Bade me, — and laid the slumbering child 
 
 Upon that bosom undefined. 
 Where, where could T have found another 
 
 So dear, so pure ? 'T was wrong to mourn, 
 When those so loving slept delighted : 
 Should I divide what God united ? 
 
 I laid them in a common urn. 
 
 There are who call this earth a palace 
 
 Of Eden, who on roses go; — 
 I would not drink again life's chalice, 
 
 Nor tread again its paths of woe : 
 
400 
 
 DUTCH POETRY. 
 
 I joy at day's decline, — the morrow 
 Is welcome. In its fearful flight, 
 I count, and count with calm delight, 
 
 My five-and-thirty years of sorrow 
 Accomplished. Like this river, years 
 
 Roll. Press, ye tombstones, my departed 
 
 Lightly, and o'er the broken-hearted 
 
 Fling your cold shield, and veil his tears. 
 
 DA COSTA. 
 
 Da Costa belongs to the school of Bilder- 
 dijk. A writer in the " Westminster Review " 
 (Vol. X., p. 43) says of this poet : — " His pro- 
 ductions have none of the ordinary defects of 
 those of his master, — they are all smooth and 
 polished, without those irregularities which so 
 often destroy the charm of Bilderdijk's compo- 
 sitions. Da Costa, full of the pride of his Jew- 
 ish ancestry, was some years ago converted to 
 the Christian faith. Intense emotions, — pro- 
 found and anxious studies, — the struggles of 
 doubts and fears, — produced a state of mind 
 which then often gave vent to its mingled emo- 
 tions in language wonderfully eloquent and 
 harmonious." 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO A HYMN ON PROVIDENCE. 
 
 When Homer fills his fierce war-trump of glory, 
 And wakes his mighty lyre's harmonious 
 word, 
 
 Whose soul but thrills enraptured at the story, 
 As thrilled old Ilium's ruins, when they heard ? 
 
 Maeonian Swan ! that shakes the soul, when 
 loudly 
 Rushing, — or melts the heart in strains sub- 
 lime; 
 Strong as the arm of Hector, lifted proudly, — 
 Sweet as his widow's tears, in watching-time ! 
 
 Though still thy strains song's glorious crown 
 inherit, 
 
 Though age to age kneel lowly at thy shrine, 
 Yet, (O, forgive me, — venerable spirit!) 
 
 Thou leav'st a void within this heart of mine. 
 
 My country is the land of sunbeams, — Heaven 
 Gave me no cradle in the lukewarm West ; 
 
 The glow of Libyan sands by hot winds driven 
 Is like the thirst of song within my breast. 
 
 What is this fray to me, — these battle-noises 
 Of mortals led by weak divinities? 
 
 I must hear higher notes and holier voices, — 
 Not the mere clods of beauteous things, like 
 these. 
 
 What are these perished vanities ideal 
 
 Of thee, — old Grecian bard, — and follow- 
 ing throng ? 
 Heaven, heaven, must wake the rapturous and 
 the real, 
 The sanctified, the sacred soul of song. 
 
 Can they do this, the famed Hellenic teachers, 
 Or Northern bards ? O, no ! 't is not for 
 them; 
 'T is for the inspired, the God-anointed preach- 
 ers, — 
 The holy prophets of Jerusalem ! 
 
 O privileged race ! sprung forth from chosen 
 fathers, — 
 The son of Jesse, and his fragrant name ! 
 Within my veins thy holy life-blood gathers, 
 And tracks the sacred source from whence it 
 came. 
 
 Angelic Monarch's son! the great Proclaimer, 
 The great Interpreter of God's decree ! 
 
 Herald, at once, of wrath, and the Redeemer! 
 Announcing hopes, — announcing agony ! 
 
 The seraphs sing their " Holy, holy, holy," 
 
 Greeting the Godhead on his awful throne; 
 And earth repeats heaven's song, — though far 
 and lowly, — 
 Poured, 'midst the brightness of the dazzling 
 One, 
 
 By safety-girded angels. Hallowed singers ! 
 
 Yours is the spirit's spiritual melody ; 
 Touch now the sacred lyre with mortal fingers, — 
 
 Aspirers ! earth is gazing tremblingly. 
 
 My heart springs up, — its earthly bonds would 
 sever, 
 
 Upon the pulses of that hymn to mount; 
 My lips are damp with the pale blights of fever 
 
 And my hot blood grows stagnant at its fount. 
 
 My Father ! give me breath, and thought, and 
 power ! 
 My heart shall heave with your pure, hal- 
 lowed words ; 
 Hear ! if ye hear, the loud-voiced psalm shall 
 shower 
 From east to west its vibrating accords. 
 
 Inspire ! if ye inspire, the glad earth, reeling 
 With rapture, shall God's glory echo round; 
 
 And God-deniers, low in ashes kneeling, 
 Blend their subjected voices in the sound. 
 
 O, if my tongue can sing the Lord of ages, 
 The Ruler, the Almighty, King of kings; 
 
 He who the flaming seraphim engages, 
 
 His watchers, — while he makes the clouds 
 his wings ! 
 
 Spread, spread your pinions, — spread your loft- 
 iest pinions, 
 
 Spirit of song, for me, — for me ! — in vain 
 To the low wretchedness of earth's dominions 
 
 I seek your heavenly, upward course to rein ! 
 
 Wake, lyre ! break forth, ye strings ! — let rap- 
 ture's current 
 Soar, swell, surprise, gush, glow ! — thou 
 heart, be riven ! 
 Pour, pour, the impassioned, overflowing torrent 
 The hymns are hymns of heaven ! 
 
DA COSTA. — KINKER. 
 
 401 
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 On the seventh day reposing, lo ! the great 
 Creator stood, 
 
 Saw the glorious work accomplished, — saw 
 and felt that it was good ; 
 
 Heaven, earth, man and beast have being, day 
 and night their courses run, — 
 
 First creation, — infant manhood, — earliest Sab- 
 bath, — it is done. 
 
 On the seventh day reposing, Jesus filled his 
 sainted tomb, 
 
 From his spirit's toil retreating, while he broke 
 man's fatal doom ; 
 
 'T was a new creation bursting, brighter than 
 the primal one, — 
 
 'T is fulfilment, — reconcilement, — 't is re- 
 demption, — it is done. 
 
 KINKER. 
 
 " Kinker is one of the most remarkable men 
 in Holland ; his writings are tainted with the 
 mysticisms of the Kant school, — but he is evi- 
 dently a man of genius and erudition, whose 
 power and influence would be much greater if 
 he could see his way, which nobody can, through 
 the mists and clouds of a philosophy which is 
 darkness with a few sparks of light; — a phi- 
 losophy perplexing alike by its incumbrance of 
 phrase and its vagueness of conception, — a 
 sort of moral opium, exciting for a while, and 
 then leaving the mind distressed and perplexed. 
 This confusion of ideas, conveyed in a very 
 energetic phraseology, is found even in the 
 poetry of Kinker. In truth, his verses are fre- 
 quently unintelligible, though they leave the 
 impression, that, if we could but understand 
 them, they would be very fine. The same 
 tone of mind gives a too common harshness 
 even to his versification, though no man can 
 discourse more fitly than he on the prosody 
 and harmony of language. Yet it would seem 
 as if bis art produced his hard verses, for most 
 >f his off-hand and numerous pieces are smooth 
 and flowing. His verses to Haydn are striking, 
 and his ' Adieu to the Y and the Amstel,' on 
 his removal to Liege, is among the best of mod- 
 ern compositions." * 
 
 VIRTUE AND TRUTH. 
 
 Goodness and truth require no decoration; 
 
 They, in and through themselves, are great 
 and fair : 
 All ornament is supererogation, 
 
 Giving false coloring and fictitious air. 
 
 Foreign Quarterly Review, Vol. IV., p. 73. 
 61 
 
 Beauty is virtue's image, truth's best light, — 
 Virtue and truth its representatives ; 
 
 'T is the grand girdle, that, with radiance bright, 
 To both, — in all that are, — their lustre gives. 
 
 To its sublime control all evil bows, 
 Or sneaks away, subjected to its reign ; 
 
 O'er each defect a garb of mystery throws, 
 Or seeks her midnight nakedness again. 
 
 Error must be the lot of mortal kind, 
 
 But virtue, in life's night, man's guide may 
 be; 
 For man's dim eye, so weak, — 't is almost 
 blind, — 
 Scarce looks through mist-damps of mortality. 
 
 Vain is endeavour ! — true ; but that endeavour, 
 
 It goodness, truth, and virtue testifies; 
 Struggles and fails, but fails through weakness 
 
 ever, 
 Yet, failing, pours out light on darkened eyes. 
 
 Ye vainly dream, obscurers of the earth, 
 That all is tending downwards to its fall; 
 
 Vain are your scoffs on manhood, and man's 
 worth, 
 And that great tendency which governs all. 
 
 In vain, with fading and offensive flowers, 
 Ye hide the chains of mental tyranny : 
 
 The unhealthy spirit, lured to treacherous bow- 
 ers, 
 May joy in its free-chosen slavery; 
 
 Call what is incomplete, degenerate ; 
 
 God's children, bastards ; and its curses throw 
 At all who bend not at its temple-gate, 
 
 Nor to night's image kneel in worship low 
 
 We see in the unfinished, tottering, frail, 
 A slowly, surely, sweetly working leaven, 
 
 And in the childish dreams of life's low vale, 
 The faint, but lovely, shadowings-forth of 
 heaven. 
 
 We sink not, sacred ones ! but fluttering tend, — 
 Though weak, we tend towards God : the 
 word we hear, 
 
 Audibly bidding us uprise, and wend 
 
 Our way above man's feebleness and fear. 
 
 An idle toil is slumbering man's poor fate, 
 And duty neither lovely looks, nor true; 
 
 God's mandate seems despotic, — desolate 
 His doings, — and his voice terrific too. 
 
 Yet duty is but deeds of loveliness, 
 
 And truth is power to make the prisoner free , 
 And him, whose self-forged chains his spirit press, 
 
 No effort shall arouse from slavery. 
 
 What 's true and good demands no decoration ; 
 
 It, in and through itself, is great and fair : 
 All ornament is supererogation, 
 
 Giving false coloring and fictitious air. 
 
 HU2 
 
402 
 
 DUTCH POETRY. 
 
 LOOTS. 
 
 Of Loots and his productions, the writer in 
 the "Foreign Quarterly Review " already cited 
 (Vol. IV., p. 72) remarks: "His ' Taal' (Lan- 
 guage), and ' Schilderkunst ' (Painting), have 
 some very fine passages ; and his ' Beurs van 
 Amsterdam,' too, must not be passed over. He 
 has frequently an original air, though wild and 
 jtrange, and wants that cultivation which clas- 
 sical studies give. His portrait of De Ruyter is 
 prettily drawn." 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Soul of living music ! teach me, 
 Teach me, floating thus along ! 
 
 Love-sick warbler! come and reach me 
 With the secrets of thy song ! 
 
 How thy beak, so sweetly trembling, 
 On one note long lingering tries, — 
 
 Or, a thousand tones assembling, 
 Pours the rush of harmonies ! 
 
 Or, when rising shrill and shriller, 
 
 Other music dies away, 
 Other songs grow still and stiller, — 
 
 Songster of the night and day ! 
 
 Till, — all sunk to silence round thee, — 
 Not a whisper, — not a word, — 
 
 Not a leaf-fall to confound thee, — 
 Breathless all, — thou only heard. — 
 
 Tell me, — thou who failest never, 
 Minstrel of the songs of spring! 
 
 Did the world see ages ever, 
 When thy voice forgot to sing? 
 
 Is there in your woodland history 
 Any Homer whom ye read ? 
 
 Has your music aught of mystery? 
 Has it measure, cliff, and creed ? 
 
 Have ye teachers, who instruct ye, 
 Checking each ambitious strain; 
 
 Learned parrots to conduct ye, 
 When ye wander, back again ? 
 
 Smiling at my dreams, I see thee, — 
 Nature, in ber chainless will, 
 
 Did not fetter thee, but free thee, — 
 Pour thy hymns of rapture still ! 
 
 Plumed in pomp and pride prodigious, 
 Lo ! the gaudy peacock nears ; 
 
 But his grating voice, so hideous, 
 
 Shocks the soul, and grates the ears. 
 
 Finches may be trained to follow 
 
 Notes which dexterous arts combine ; 
 
 But those notes sound vain and hollow, 
 When compared, sweet bird, with thine. 
 
 Classic themes no longer courting, 
 Ancient tongues I '11 cast away, 
 
 And, with nightingales disporting, 
 Sing the wild and woodland lay. 
 
 WITHUIS. 
 
 Withuis is one of the living poets of Hol- 
 land. The following piece gives a very favor- 
 able idea of his powers. 
 
 ODE TO TIME. 
 
 Ye paint me old ! and why ? ye fools short- 
 sighted ! 
 And doth my speed eld's frozen blood betray ? 
 Methinks the storm-wind is not swifter-flighted ; 
 The rapid lightning scarce o'ertakes my way. 
 Ye think your hurrying thoughts perchance 
 
 outrun me : 
 Go, race with sunbeams, — when they have 
 outdone me, 
 Talk of my age, — I fly more swift than they. 
 
 Ye call me gray ! Now try me. I '11 confound yo 
 With youth's most vigorous arm. One glance 
 — but one — 
 O'er the huge tombs of vanished time, around 
 
 ye,— 
 
 Mountains of ruins piled by me alone: 
 I did it; — I smote, yesterday, — to-morrow, 
 I wait to smite, — your cities, — you : go, borrow 
 
 Safety and strength, — they shall avail you 
 none. 
 
 Eternity was mine, — and still eternal 
 
 I hold my course, — God's being is my stay, — 
 
 I saw worlds fashioned by his word supernal : 
 I saw them fashioned, — saw them pass away. 
 
 I bear upon my cheeks unfading roses ; 
 
 Man sees me, as he flits, — and, fool ! supposes 
 I have my grave, and limits to my sway. 
 
 Take from my front the white locks folly fancies : 
 
 My hair is golden, and my forehead curled, — 
 
 My youth but sports with years, — fire are my 
 
 glances, — 
 
 My brow resists the wrinklings of the world. 
 
 Not for the scythe alone my hand was shapen: 
 
 'T was made to crush; — give me the club, — 
 
 that weapon 
 
 Oft hath my power in awful moments hurled. 
 
 But give me, too, the hour-glass, — ever raining 
 
 Exhaustless streams untired, — for I am he 
 Who pours forth gems and gold, and fruits un 
 draining, 
 And treasures ever new. Or can it be 
 For desolation only ? Do not new drops 
 Of dew in summer fervors follow dew-drops ? 
 Fresh flowers replace each flower that 'a 
 crushed by me. 
 
 I, the destroyer, do it, — without measure, 
 I fill creation's cup of joy, — man's lot, 
 That vibrates restlessly 'twixt pain and pleasure, 
 
 Determine, — in my youth his years forgot, 
 Worlds crumble, — virtue mounts to heaven, — 
 
 no sleeping 
 In dust for me, — but, with bright angels keeping 
 God's throne, with God I dwell, and oerish 
 not. 
 
FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 After the Roman Conquest, the Latin be- 
 came the prevalent language of Gaul. It was 
 not the elegant and nervous Roman of the Au- 
 gustan age, for the existence of the Latin lan- 
 guage in its purity was limited to a single cen- 
 tury, from the days of the last Scipio Africanus 
 to' those of Augustus.* The "Attic Nights" of 
 the grammarian Aulus Gellius bears witness to 
 its corruption at Rome ; infinitely greater must 
 have been its corruption in the wide-spread 
 territories of the Roman provinces. t 
 
 Towards the middle of the fourth century, 
 the Franks, after repeated forays and ravages 
 in the territories of the Gaul, obtained a firm 
 foothold, and established themselves to the 
 westward of the Rhine. From this point they 
 gradually widened the circle of their territory, 
 until it reached the fertile borders of the Seine. 
 In the latter half of the succeeding centurv, the 
 victorious arms of Clovis triumphed over Alaric 
 the Visigoth, who had crossed the Pyrenees 
 from Spain, and pillaged the luxuriant provin- 
 ces of the South. Thus a large portion of the 
 Gallic territory passed under the sceptre of the 
 Franks ; and the throne of the French mon- 
 archy was established. Instead of promulgat- 
 ing an entirely new code of Jaws, the Franks 
 received in part those of the conquered people. 
 These laws, as well as all public acts and doc- 
 uments, were in Latin, and continued to be so 
 for centuries; though the court language of the 
 Franks was the Franctheuch, called also the 
 Tliiotigue, or Tudesque. The Latin was thus 
 preserved in public records, and in the ceremo- 
 nies of the church ; whilst with the people it 
 was daily losing ground, and becoming more 
 and more corrupt. It was gradually affected 
 by the dialects of the North, till at length a 
 new vulgar dialect was formed, called the Ro- 
 mance Language, or the Roman Rustic ; a name 
 given to it, because the Latin words and idioms 
 predominated in its composition, and because it 
 was the language of the peasantry and the 
 lower classes of society. 
 
 In the days of Charlemagne, we find that 
 the Latin had become obsolete with the great 
 mass of the people. It no longer existed, save 
 in statutes and contracts, in the homilies of 
 pious fathers, in ghostly diptychs, and the 
 
 * YelleUis Paterculus, speaking of Cicero, says, "De- 
 lectari ante eum paucissimis. mirari veram neminem pos- 
 sis, nisi aut ab illo visum, aut qui ilium viderit." 
 
 + Specimens of the popular Latin of the seventh and 
 ninth centuries may be found in three battle-songs give-i 
 by Grimm in the ,; Altdeutsche "VSlder," Vol. II., p. 31 
 
 legends of saints. By a canon of the third 
 council of Tours, held in 813, one year before 
 the death of Charlemagne, it was ordered, jat 
 the bishops should select certain homilies of 
 the Fathers to be read in the churches, and 
 that they should cause them to be translated 
 into the Roman Rustic and into Tudesque, in 
 order that the people might understand them.* 
 
 Of the prevalence of the Roman Rustic in 
 the eighth century, as the popular or vulgar 
 language, throughout the southern dominions of 
 Charlemagne, that is, throughout the South of 
 France, a part of Spain, and nearlv all Italy, 
 there is ample evidence. The Tudesque, how- 
 ever, continued to he the court language. In 
 order to reduce it to fixed rules and principles, 
 and to facilitate the acquisition of it, Charle- 
 magne composed a grammar. With feelings of 
 national pride he endeavoured to improve and 
 extend it, hoping that he might one day publish 
 his laws and edicts in his own maternal tongue, 
 and that it would become the language of his 
 realm. In this he was disappointed. The peo- 
 ple were better pleased with the accents of 
 their own unpolished jargon, than with the still 
 ruder dialect of the North ; and thus the Roman 
 Rustic grew stronger day by day, and at length 
 succeeded in completely dethroning the Tu- 
 desque. 
 
 The most ancient monument of the Roman 
 Rustic, now existing, is the " Serment de Louis 
 le Germanique." This document is an oath of 
 defensive alliance between Louis of Germany 
 and Charles the Bold of France, against the 
 dangerous and ambitious projects of their elder 
 brother, Lothaire. It was made at Strasburg, 
 in the year bl'2. 
 
 Toward the .'lose of the ninth century, the 
 Roman Rustic became the court language of the 
 king of Aries in Provence, and was called the 
 Roman Provencal, or the Langue oVOc. At a 
 later period, it was enriched and perfected by the 
 poems of the Troubadours. During the twelfth 
 and thirteenth centuries, it was in great repute, 
 not only in France, but in Spain and Italy ; and 
 every one, who has made himself at all familiar 
 with the structure of the Troubadour poetry, 
 must be fully persuaded of the richness and 
 flexibility of a language, which afforded such a 
 redundancy of similar sounds, and was mould- 
 ed into such a variety of forms. 
 
 Whilst the Roman Rustic had been thus 
 perfected in the South of France, in the prov- 
 
 * Memoires de l'Academie des Inscriptions et Belles 
 Lettres. Tome xvii., p. 173. 
 
404 
 
 FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 inces north of the Loire it had been gradually 
 transformed into a new dialect. This change 
 seems to have commenced about the close of the 
 ninth century. Upon this subject, Cazeneuve 
 writes thus : " Yet this Langue Romaine under- 
 went in a short time a notable change ; for, 
 as languages generally follow the fortunes of 
 states, and lose their purity as these decline, 
 when the crown of Germany was separated 
 from that of France, the court of our kings 
 •vas removed from Aix-la-Chapelle to Paris ; 
 anv. as this city was situated near the frontier 
 of the German territory, and consequently at a 
 distance from the Gaule Narbonnoise, where the 
 Roman Rustic, or Langue Romaine, was spoken, 
 there was imperceptibly formed at the French 
 court, and in the neighbouring provinces, a 
 third language, which still retained the name 
 of Romaine, but in the course of time became 
 totally different from the ancient Langue Ro- 
 maine, which, however, remained in its purity 
 in the provinces south of the Loire ; and since 
 the people north of the Loire expressed affirma- 
 tion by the word Oui, and those south of it, by 
 the word Oc, France was d'vided into the land 
 of the Langue a" Oui, or Fiench, and the land 
 of the Langue d'Oc, or Provencal."* This 
 northern Romance dialect was also called the 
 Roman Walton, or Walloon Romance, from the 
 appellation of Waelches or Wallons, given by 
 the Germans to the inhabitants of the North of 
 France. 
 
 This Roman Wallon soon ripened into a 
 language, and at the commencement of the 
 tenth century ^became the court dialect of Wil- 
 liam Longue-Epee, duke of Normandy. The 
 most ancient monument of this language, now 
 existing, is to be found in the laws of William 
 the Conqueror, who died in the year 10S7. 
 After this period, the Roman Wallon was called 
 French. 
 
 Speaking of his native language, Montaigne, 
 who flourished in the latter half of the sixteenth 
 century, says: "There is stuff enough in our 
 language, but there is a defect in fashioning it ; 
 for there is nothing that might not be made 
 out of our terms of hunting and war, which is 
 a fruitful soil to borrow from ; and the forms of 
 speaking, like herbs, improve and grow strong- 
 er by being transplanted. I find it sufficiently 
 abounding, but not sufficiently pliable and vig- 
 orous ; it quails under a powerful conception ; 
 if ) - ou would maintain the dignity of your style, 
 you will oft perceive it to flag and languish 
 under you." t 
 
 This opinion of the merits and defects of the 
 French language, as it existed in the days of 
 Montaigne, is to a certain extent just, when 
 applied to its present character. Its chief char- 
 
 * See Raynouard. Choix des Poesies Originates des 
 Troubadours. Tome I., p. xxvj. The custom of naming 
 a language from its affirmative particle was a general one. 
 The Italian was called the Langue de Si, and the German, 
 the Langue de Ya. 
 
 t Essays. Book III., Ch. V. 
 
 acteristics are ease, vivacity, precision, perspi- 
 cuity, and directness. It is superior to all the 
 other modern languages in colloquial elegance ; 
 and those who are conversant with the genteel 
 comedy of the French stage, and have frequent- 
 ed the theatrical exhibitions of the French 
 metropolis, must have been struck with the 
 vast superiority of the French language over 
 the English, in its adaptation to the purposes 
 of conversation and the refinement of its fa- 
 miliar dialogue. It possesses a peculiar point 
 and antithesis in the epigram, a spirited ease in 
 songs, and great sweetness and pathos in ballad- 
 writing. But in the higher walks of tragic and 
 epic poetry it feebly seconds the high-aspiring 
 mind. The sound but faintly echoes to the 
 sublime harmony of thought; and the imagina- 
 tion, instead of being borne upward, on sound- 
 ing wings, stoops to the long accustomed rhyme, 
 like a tired falcon to the hood and jesses on a 
 lady's wrist.* 
 
 The dialects of the French language may be 
 divided into two great branches or families : 1. 
 the dialects of the Langue d'Oil, in the North, 
 and 2. those of the Langue d'Oc, in the South. 
 A line drawn from the mouth of the Gironde 
 eastward to Savoy in Switzerland divides them 
 geographically. The principal dialects of the 
 North are : 1. The Poitevin ; 2. The Sainton- 
 geois ; 3. The Burgundian; 4. The Franc-Com- 
 tois ; 5. The Lorrain ; 6. The Picard ; 7. The 
 Walloon. The principal dialects of the South 
 are : 1. The Gascon ; 2. The Perigourdin ; 3. 
 The Limousin ; 4. The Languedocien ; 5. The 
 Provencal ; 6. The Dauphinois. These prin- 
 cipal dialects have numerous subdivisions, more 
 or less distinctly marked, amounting in all to 
 seventy or eighty. Specimens of all these may 
 be found in a work entitled " Melanges sur les 
 Langues, Dialectes et Patois," t in which will 
 be found the parable of the Prodigal Son in one 
 hundred dialects, nearly all of them French. 
 The Bas-Breton, a Celtic dialect, is spoken in 
 Lower Brittany, or the Basse-Bretagne ; and the 
 Basque, in a portion of the Basses-Pyrenees. 
 
 Some of the Southern dialects are soft and 
 musical. Those of the North have greater 
 harshness. In many of them there are amus- 
 ing perversions of words ; as, for example, in 
 the Lorrain, infection for affection ; engendri 
 
 * For a more complete history of the French language, 
 the reader is referred to the Histoire de la Langue Fran- 
 chise, par M. Henri: Paris: 2 vols. 8vo.; — Revolutions 
 de la Langue Francaise, by the Abbe Ravalliere, in the 
 first volume of Les Poesies du Roy de Navarre : Paris : 
 1742 ; — Origine et Formation de la Langue Romaine, par 
 M. Raynouard, in his Choix des Poesies des Troubadours: 
 Paris: 6 vols. 8vo. 1816-21. 
 
 t Melanges sur les Langues, Dialectes et Patois, renfer- 
 mant. entre autres, une collection de versions de la Parabole 
 de l'Enfant Prodigue en cent idiomes en Patois differens, 
 presque tous de France. Paris: 1831. 8vo. — See also, on 
 this subject, Champollion-Figeac, Nouvelles Recherches 
 sur les Patois. Paris: 1809. 12mo ; — Oberluj, Essai sur 
 le Patois Lorrain des environs du Comte du Ban de la 
 Roche. Strasbourg: 1775. 12mo. 
 
FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 405 
 
 for heriti, as " II a engendri son pere " ; bru- 
 taliti for plurality, as " II a ete elu &. la brutalild 
 des voix." Most of the dialects have their 
 literature ; consisting mainly of popular songs 
 and Christmas carols. The name of Pierre 
 Goudelin, the Gascon, is well known in the 
 annals of song ; and, at the present day, many 
 a traveller on the banks of the Garonne stops 
 at the town of Agen, to be shaved by the Trou- 
 badour-Barber. * 
 
 The history of French poetry may be conve- 
 niently divided into the following periods : — 
 I. From the earliest times to 1300. II. From 
 1300 to 1500. III. From 1500 to 1650. IV. 
 From 1650 to 1700. V. From 1700 to 1800. 
 VI. From 1800 to the present time. 
 
 I. From the earliest times to 1300. To this 
 period belong the Jongleurs, the Trouveres, 
 and the Troubadours, t The Jongleurs were in 
 France what the Gleemen were in England. 
 They were wandering minstrels, who sang at 
 the courts of kings and princes the heroic 
 achievements of their ancestors. They may be 
 traced back as far as the tenth century ; but at 
 a later day they degenerated into mimes and 
 mountebanks. The Jongleur of the twelfth 
 century became the Juggler of the fifteenth. 
 
 To the Jongleurs and Trouveres are to be 
 referred the old rhymed romances, or Chan- 
 sons de Geste, if not as they now exist, at least 
 in their original form. The three great divisions 
 of these romances are : 1. The Romances of 
 Charlemagne and his Twelve Peers ; 2. The 
 Romances of Arthur and the Round Table, and 
 of the St. Grail ; and, 3. The Miscellaneous 
 Romances. 
 
 Speaking of these ancient Chansons de Geste, 
 
 * The following are among the most important works in 
 the literature of the French dialects. 
 
 GuiBarozai. Noei Borguignon. Dijon: 1776. 12mo. 
 
 Kecueil de Poetes Gascons. Amsterdam : 1700. 2 vols. 
 8vo. Containing the works of Goudelin of Toulouse, Sieur 
 Lesage of Montpellier, and Sieur Michel of Nismes. 
 
 Pierre Goudelin. Las Obros augmentados d'uno nou- 
 belo Floureto. Toulouse: 1643. 4to. 
 
 Augie Gaillard. Toutos las Obros. Paris : 1583. 8vo. 
 
 Poesies en Patois du Dauphine. Grenoble : 1840. 12mo. 
 
 Gros. Recueil de Pouesies prouvencalos. Marseille: 
 1763. 8vo. 
 
 f On the Jongleurs and Trouveres, see the following 
 works. 
 
 Aebe de la Rue. Essais Historiques sur les Bardes, 
 les Jongleurs et les Trouveres Normands et Anglo-Nor- 
 mands. 3 vols. Caen: 1934. 8vo. 
 
 De RoatJEFORT. De l'Etat de la Po6sie Francoise dans 
 les XHe et Xllle Siecles. Paris : 1S21. Svo. 
 
 Fauchet. Recueil de l'Origine de la Langue et Poesie 
 Francoise, Ryme et Romans. Paris : 1581. 4to. 
 
 Barbazan. Fabliaux et Contes des Poetes Francois des 
 XL, XII., XIII., XIV. etXVe Siecles. 4 vols. Paris : 1808. 
 8vo. 
 
 Aoguis. Les Poetes Francois, depuis le XHe Siecle 
 jusqu'a Malherbe. 6 vols. Paris : 1824. 8vo. 
 
 Van Hasselt. Essai sur 1'Histoire de la Poesie Fran- 
 caise en Belgique. Bruxelles : 1838. 4to. 
 
 Sismondi. Historical View of the Literature of the South 
 of Europe. Translated by Thomas Roscoe, Esq. 2 vols. 
 New YorK : 1827. 8vo. 
 
 many of which are anonymous and of uncertain 
 date, M. Paulin Paris* remarks: — 
 
 " We possessed in former times great epic 
 poems, which, for four centuries, constituted the 
 principal study of our fathers. And during that 
 period, all Europe, — Germany, England, Spain, 
 and Italy, — having nothing of the kind to boast 
 of, either in their historic recollections or in 
 their historic records, disputed with each other 
 the secondary glory of translating and imitating 
 them. 
 
 " Even amid the darkness of the ninth and 
 tenth centuries, the French still preserved the 
 recollection of an epoch of great national glory. 
 Under Charlemagne, they had spread their con- 
 quests from the Oder to the Ebro, from the Bal- 
 tic to the Sicilian Sea. Mussulmans and Pagans, 
 Saxons, Lombards, Bavarians, and Batavians, 
 — all had submitted to the yoke of France, all 
 had trembled at the power of Charles the Great. 
 Emperor of the West, King of France and Ger- 
 many, restorer of the arts and sciences, wise 
 lawgiver, great converter of infidels, — how 
 many titles to the recollection and gratitude of 
 posterity ! Add to this, that, long before his 
 day, the Franks were in the habit of treasuring 
 up in their memory the exploits of their ances- 
 tors ; that Charlemagne himself, during his 
 reign, caused all the heroic ballads, which cele- 
 brated the glory of the nation, to be collected 
 together; and, in fine, that the weakness of his 
 successors, the misfortunes of the times, and the 
 invasions of the Normans, must have increased 
 the national respect and veneration for the illus- 
 trious dead, — and you will be forced to con- 
 fess, that, if no poetic monuments of the ninth 
 century remained, we ought rather to conjec- 
 ture that they had been lost, than that they 
 had never existed. 
 
 "As to the contemporaneous history of those 
 times, it offers us, if I may so speak, only the 
 outline of this imposing colossus. Read the 
 Annals of the Abbey of Fulde and those of 
 Metz, Paul the Deacon, the continuator of 
 Fredegaire, and even Eginhart himself, and you 
 will there find registered, in the rapid style of 
 an itinerary, the multiplied conquests of the 
 French. The Bavarians, the Lombards, the 
 Gascons revolt; — Charles goes forth to subdue 
 the Bavarians, the Lombards, and the Gascons. 
 Witikind rebels ten times, and ten times Charles 
 passes the Rhine and routs the insurgent aTmy ; 
 and there the history ends. Nevertheless the 
 emperor had his generals, his companions in 
 glory, his rivals in genius; but in all history 
 
 * In the Introductory Letter prefixed to " Li Roman de 
 Berthe aus grans pies." Paris : 1832. This is the first of a 
 series of the Romances of the Twelve Peers. The following 
 works have since been published in continuation: — Nos. 
 II., III., Roman de Garin le Loherain, 2 vols, ; IV., Parise 
 la Duchesse ; V., VI., Chansons de Saxons; VII., Raoul 
 de Cambray ; VIII., IX., La Chevalerie Ogier de Dane- 
 marche, 2 vols. The whole of M. Paris's introductory letter 
 may be found translated in the " Select Journal of Foreign 
 Periodical Literature." Boston: 1833. Vol. I., pp. 125-152. 
 
406 
 
 FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 we find not a whisper of their services ; hard- 
 ly are their names mentioned. It has been left 
 to the popular ballads, barren as they are of all 
 historic authority, to transmit to posterity the 
 proofs of their ancient renown. 
 
 " But although these ancient Chansons de 
 Geste, or historic ballads, fill up the chasms of 
 true history, and clothe with flesh the meagre 
 skeleton of old contemporaneous chroniclers, 
 yet you must not thence conclude that I am 
 prepared to maintain the truth of their nar- 
 ratives. Far from it. Truth does not reign 
 supreme on earth ; and these romances, after 
 all, are only the expression of public opinion, 
 separated by an interval of many generations 
 from that whose memory they transmit to us. 
 But to supply the want of historians, each great 
 epoch in national history inspires the song of 
 bards ; and when the learned and the wise 
 neglect to prepare the history of events which 
 they themselves have witnessed, the people 
 prepare their national songs ; their sonorous 
 voice, prompted by childish credulity and a free 
 and unlimited admiration, echoes alone through 
 succeeding ages, and kindles the imagination, 
 the feelings, the enthusiasm of the children, by 
 proclaiming the glory of the fathers. Thus Ho- 
 mer sang two centuries after the Trojan war; 
 and thus arose, two or three centuries after the 
 death of Charlemagne, all those great poems 
 called the ' Romances of the Twelve Peers.' " 
 
 After speaking of the metre of these poems, 
 which, like the old Spanish ballads, are mono- 
 rhythmic, that is, preserving the same rhyme or 
 assonance for a strophe of many consecutive 
 lines, he goes on to say : " After an attentive 
 examination of our ancient literature, it is im- 
 possible to doubt, for a moment, that the old 
 monorhyme romances were set to music, and 
 accompanied by a viol, harp, or guitar ; and 
 yet this seems hitherto to have escaped obser- 
 vation. In the olden time no one was esteemed 
 a good minstrel, whose memory was not stored 
 with a great number of historic ballads, like 
 those of ' Roncesvalles,' ' Garin le Loherain,' 
 and ' Gerars de Roussillon.' It is not to be 
 supposed that any one of these poems was ever 
 recited entire ; but as the greater part of them 
 contained various descriptions of battles, hunt- 
 ing adventures, and marriages, — scenes of the 
 court, the council, and the castle, — the audi- 
 ence chose those stanzas and episodes which 
 best suited their taste. And this is the reason 
 why each stanza contains in itself a distinct and 
 complete narrative, and also why the closing 
 lines of each stanza are in substance repeated 
 at the commencement of that which immedi- 
 ately succeeds. 
 
 " In the poem of ' Gerars de Nevers ' I find 
 the following curious passage. Gerars, betrayed 
 by his mistress and stripped of his earldom of 
 Nevers by the duke of Metz, determines to 
 revisit his ancient domains. To avoid detec- 
 tion and arrest, he is obliged to assume the 
 guise of a minstrel. 
 
 " 'Then Gerars donned a garment old, 
 And round his neck a viol hung, 
 For cunningly he played and sung. 
 
 Steed he had none ; so he was fain 
 To trudge on foot o'er hill and plain, 
 Till Nevers' gate he stood before. 
 There merry burghers full a score, 
 Staring, exclaimed in pleasant mood: 
 " This minstrel cometh for little good ; 
 I wene, if he singeth all day long, 
 No one will listen to his song." ' 
 
 " In spite of these unfavorable prognostics, 
 Gerars presents himself before the castle of the 
 duke of Metz. 
 
 " ' Whilst at the door he thus did wait, 
 
 A knight came through the courtyard gate, 
 Who bade the minstrel enter straight, 
 And led him to the crowded hall, 
 That he might play before them all. 
 The minstrel then full soon began, 
 In gesture like an aged man, 
 But with clear voice and music gay, 
 The song of "Guillaume au cornez." 
 Great was the court in the hall of Loon, 
 The tables were full of fowl and venison, 
 On flesh and fish they feasted every one; 
 But Guillaume of these viands tasted none, 
 Brown crusts ate he, and water drank alone. 
 When had feasted every noble baron, 
 The cloths were removed by squire and scullion. 
 Count Guillaume then with the king did thus reason: — 
 " What thinketh now," quoth he, "the gallant Char- 
 Ion'!* 
 Will he aid me against the prowes of Mahon ? " 
 Quoth Loeis, "We will take counsel thereon ; 
 To-morrow in the morning shalt thou conne, 
 If aught by us in this matter can be done." 
 Guillaume heard this, — black was he as carbon, 
 He louted low, and seized a baton, 
 And said to the king, "Of your fief will I none, 
 I will not keep so much as a spur's iron ; 
 Your friend and vassal I cease to be anon ; 
 But come you shall, whether you will or non." 
 Thus full four verses sang the knight, 
 For their great solace and delight.' " 
 
 The limits of this Introduction prevent us 
 from going much into detail upon the writings 
 of the Jongleurs and Trouveres. We can do no 
 more than enumerate some of their most famous 
 romances. These are, 1. Of Charlemagne and 
 his Twelve Peers : " Charlemagne," " Ogier 
 le Danois," "Garin de Lorraine," "Guillaume 
 d'Aquitaine." 2. Of the Round Table: "Le 
 Brut d'Angleterre," "L'Atre Perilleux," "Mer- 
 lin," " Meliadus " ; and of the St. Grail • " Tris- 
 tan," "Lancelot du Lac," "Perceval le Gal- 
 lois." 3. Miscellaneous Romances : " Guy de 
 Warwick," " Beuves de Hanstone," "Robert- 
 le-Diable," "Roman du Rou," " Haveloc le 
 Danois," " Le Roi Horn," " Ypomedon," " Pro- 
 thesilatls," two " Romans du Renard," and 
 eight, of which Alexander is the hero. 
 
 The Trouveres differed from the Jongleurs 
 in not being minstrels ; they did not sing the 
 songs they wrote. They were poets, not ballad- 
 singers ; and often accused the Jongleurs of 
 appropriating their works. In return, they avail- 
 
 * Charlemagne. 
 
FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 40? 
 
 sd themselves of the ballads of the Jongleurs ; 
 and many of the romances of chivalry, which 
 in their present form come from the pens of 
 distinguished Trouveres, had an earlier origin 
 and a ruder form among the Jongleurs. The 
 greater part of the writings of the Trouveres are 
 epic in their character, consisting of romances, 
 fabliaux, and tales. There are no traces of 
 lyric compositions, properly so called, till about 
 the commencement of the thirteenth century. 
 Their taste for song- writing is probably to be 
 attributed to the influence of the Troubadours. 
 Their songs are marked by graceful simplicity, 
 which is their greatest merit. 
 
 Among the Trouveres existed poetic societies, 
 for the recital of songs, and the distribution of 
 prizes. These were known under the names of 
 Chambres de Rhitorique, Cours d' Amour, Puys 
 d' Amour, and Puys Verts. They were called 
 Puys from the Latin Podium, the judges of the 
 meeting being seated upon an elevated platform. 
 The earliest mentioned Puy is that of Valen- 
 ciennes, in the year 1229.* As early as the 
 days of Robert Wace, there existed at Caen, in 
 Normandy, the Puy de la Conception de la 
 Vierge, in imitation of the Puys d'Amour. 
 Here these poets sang the beauty of the Dame 
 des Cieux, instead of the praises of an earthly 
 lady-love. The prizes were palms, golden 
 rings, and plumes of silver, t It was not, how- 
 ever, till the following centurv that these con- 
 frtries flourished in all their glorv. 
 
 While the Jongleurs and Trouveres were fill- 
 ing the North of France with their romances 
 and fabliaux, in the accents of the Langue d'Oil, 
 the Troubadours of the South poured forth their 
 songs of love upon a balmier air, and in the 
 more melodious numbers of the Langue d'Oc. 
 Their poems are almost entirely lyrical. Only 
 four Provencal romances are in existence, and 
 one of these is in prose, t They called their 
 art Le Gai Saber, ami La Gaia Sciencia. Many 
 of the Troubadours sang their own songs ; oth- 
 ers were poets onlv, and not minstrels. These 
 had Jongleurs to sing their songs. 
 
 From a well written article in an English 
 review, § we take the following passage, on 
 the character of the Troubadour poetry. 
 
 " An essential characteristic of this poetry is, 
 that it is addressed rather to the fancv, than to 
 the hearts of its hearers. The love which inspir- 
 ed the bosom of the Troubadour partook of the 
 same character as the poetry which emanated 
 from its existence. It was essentially a poetical 
 passion, that is, a passion indulged in less from 
 the operation of natural feelings, than from the 
 advantages it presented in its poetical uses. The 
 poet selected, for the object of his songs, the 
 lady whom he deemed most worthy of that 
 
 * See Tan Hasselt. Poesie Franijaise en Belgique. 
 p. 126. 
 
 t De la Rue. Vol. II., p. 173. 
 
 1 Gerars de Roussillon, Jaufr£ the son of Dovon, Ferabras. 
 and. in prose, Philomena. 
 
 5 Foreign Quarterly Review, Tol. SH., pp. 173, 174. 
 
 honor, — sometimes the daughter, frequently the 
 wife, of the noble under whose roof he resided. 
 Inferiority of condition on the side of the poet 
 was no bar to his claim to a requital of his af- 
 fections, for his genius and his talent might en- 
 title him to take rank with the highest. The 
 marriage vow, on the part of the lady, was no 
 bar to the advances of the poet, for a serious 
 and earnest passion rarely existed between the 
 parties. But according to the usages of the 
 times, every noble beauty must muster in her 
 train some admiring poet, — every bard was 
 obliged to select some fair object of devotion, 
 whom he might enshrine in Ii is verses, and 
 glorify before the world ; and both parties were 
 well content to dignify the cold-blooded rela- 
 tionship, in which they stood to each other, by 
 the hallowed name of love. That the head, 
 and not the heart, was most frequently the 
 source of this simulated affection, is shown by 
 the fact, that we find, in cases where the chosen 
 fair one was living in single blessedness, the 
 poetical wooings of her imaginative adorer rare- 
 ly terminated in the prose of marriage. There 
 were instances, certainlv, of such events result- 
 ing from these poetical connections, but they 
 were few ; not so those in which the married 
 fair, who woke the poet's lyre, broke the silken 
 bonds of matrimony, and made returns some- 
 what more than Platonic to the herald of her 
 charms. The connection between the parties 
 frequently degenerated into intrigue, but rarely 
 elevated itself into a noble and virtuous attach- 
 ment. 
 
 "That a passion, so essentially artificial in 
 its origin, should eive rise to equally artificial 
 forms for its avowal, was to be expected. Ac- 
 cordingly, we find the amatory poetry of the 
 Troubadours distinguished more for delicacy of 
 expression, than fervency of thought, — for a 
 pleasing application of well known images, rath- 
 er than a readv coinage of new and appropriate 
 ones. The feelings of the poet were evinced 
 rather in the constancy, than in the ardor of 
 his homage. ' From morn till noon, from noon 
 till dewy eve,' he was expected to mark his 
 devotion to his mistress, bv harping variations 
 on one endless theme, — her beauty and his love. 
 In the execution of this task, he was not con- 
 fined to one style of composition, but might 
 choose the Chant or the Chanson, the Son or 
 the Sonet, the Alba or the Serena, or, in fact, 
 whichsoever of the many 'set forms of speech' 
 he thought best adapted to record his sufferings, 
 or display his genius. Such is the general 
 character of this branch of Troubadour poetry ; 
 there are exceptions certainlv, exhibiting both 
 fervor and sincerity, and in a high degree ; but 
 in these cases the sentiments to which they 
 have given expression appear to have been the 
 result of real, and not of counterfeit emotions. 
 The Planhs, or songs written upon the death 
 of a mistress, generally display the pathos and 
 tenderness which such an event might be ex- 
 pected to call forth." 
 
JOS 
 
 FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 The Troubadours, as well as the Trouveres, 
 had their Courts of Love, commencing as far 
 back as the twelfth century ; and continuing 
 till as late as the close of the fourteenth. At 
 those courts ladies of high degree presided. 
 There was the court of Ermengarde, viscount- 
 ess of Narbonne, there was the court of Queen 
 Eleonore, and many others. Before them ques- 
 tions of love and gallantry were debated, and by 
 them judgment was pronounced. These ques- 
 tions were decided in conformity with the Code 
 of Love, of which the following are some of 
 the Articles. 
 
 "Marriage is no legitimate excuse for not 
 having a lover. 
 
 "Love must always increase or diminish. 
 
 " Every lover turns pale in the presence of 
 his mistress. 
 
 "At the sudden appearance of his mistress, 
 the heart of the lover trembles. 
 
 " A lover is always timid. 
 
 "Little sleepeth and eateth he who is ha- 
 rassed by the thoughts of love. 
 
 " Love can deny nothing unto love. 
 
 " Nothing prevents a woman from being loved 
 by two men, nor a man from being loved by 
 two women." * 
 
 The following are specimens of the questions 
 and decisions in these courts. 
 
 Question. " Can true love exist between 
 husband and wife ? " 
 
 Judgment of the countess of Champagne. 
 " We hereby declare and affirm, by the tenor 
 of these presents, that love cannot exercise its 
 power over husband and wife, &c, <fec. 
 
 " Let this decision, which we have pro- 
 nounced with extreme prudence, and by the 
 advice and consent of a great number of other 
 ladies, be for you of constant and irrefragable 
 verity. Thus decided, in the year 1174, the 
 3d day of the kalends of May, indiction Vile." 
 
 Question. "A knight was enamoured of a 
 lady already engaged ; but she promised him 
 her love, if it ever happened that she should 
 lose the affection of her lover. Shortly after, 
 the lady and her lover were married. The 
 knight claimed the love of the young bride ; 
 she refused, pretending she had not lost the 
 affection of her lover." 
 
 Judgment. This case being brought before 
 Queen Eleonore, she decided thus : " We dare 
 not set aside the decision of the countess of 
 Champagne, who, by a solemn judgment, has 
 pronounced that true love cannot exist between 
 husband and wife. We therefore decide that 
 the aforementioned lady accord the love she 
 promised." t 
 
 * Raynouard. II., cv. 
 
 t Raynouard, II., cvii. The reader will there find a 
 sketch of the Courts of Love, drawn chiefly from the "Livre 
 ie l'Art d'aimer, et de la Reprobation de l'Amour," by 
 the chaplain Andre, a writer of the twelfth century. In 
 the fifteenth century, the Courts of Love and their de- 
 cisions were ridiculed by Martial de Paris, in his ''Arrets 
 d'Amours." An amusing notice of this book, with ex- 
 
 The songs of the Troubadours died away 
 amid the discords of the wars of the Albigenses, 
 during the thirteenth century. In the follow- 
 ing century, in 1323, a few poets of Toulouse 
 were accustomed to meet together in the gar- 
 dens of the Augustine monks, for an acade- 
 my, which they called La Sobregaya Compan- 
 hia dels Sept Trohadors de Tolosa. In 1324, 
 this society, in connection with the Capitouls, 
 or chief magistrates of Toulouse, established the 
 Jeux Floraux, or Floral Games, which are still 
 in existence. A golden violet was offered as a 
 prize for the best poem in the Provencal lan- 
 guage ; and on the first of May, in the gardens 
 of the Augustine convent, and in the presence 
 of a vast multitude, the poems of the rival can- 
 didates were read, and the prize was awarded to 
 Arnaud Vidal, who was straightway declared 
 Doctor in the Gay Science. In 1355, the 
 number of prizes was increased to three : a 
 golden violet for the best song; a silver eglan- 
 tine for the best pastoral ; and a flor de gang, 
 or flower of joy, the yellow acacia blossom, for 
 the best ballad. * 
 
 tracts, may be found in the "Retrospective Review," Yol. 
 V.. pp. 70 -86, from which we take the following cases. 
 
 "This was an action brought by the plaintiff, a lover, 
 against the defendant, to whom he was attached, for refus- 
 ing to dance with him. The declaration staled, that on, 
 &c, at. &c. the plaintiff had requested the said defendant 
 to dance, which she, without any reasonable cause in that 
 behalf, refused to do, alleging a certain frivolous excuse. 
 That afterwards the said plaintiff did again, with great 
 earnestness, humbly request the said defendant to dance a 
 few steps with him, to save him, the said plaintiff, from 
 being laughed at by certain persons then and there present, 
 which she also refused to do. And he averred that he had, 
 on divers occasions, moved to the said defendant, and taken 
 off his hat. whenever he, the said plaintiff, met her. Yet, 
 although the said defendant well knew that he was stricken 
 with and loved her, she nevertheless wholly disdained ana 
 refused to speak to him, the said plaintiff; or if at any time 
 the said defendant said, ' How d' ye do ? ' to the said plain- 
 tiff, it was with a toss of the head of her, the said defendant. 
 The declaration concluded in the usual manner." 
 
 " An action was brought by a young married lady against 
 her husband, for not allowing her to wear a gown and a 
 bonnet made in the newest fashion. The pleadings ran to a 
 considerable length, and the Court declared that the matter 
 should be referred to two milliners, who should report there- 
 on ; and if any thing objectionable were found in the fash- 
 ion of the gown and bonnet, the Court directed that the ref- 
 erees should call in the assistance of two ladies, on the part 
 of the plaintiff, and two on the part of the defendant, to as- 
 sist them in their judgment." 
 
 " An action was brought by the plaintiff against the de- 
 fendant, for having pricked him with a pin, whilst she was 
 giving him a kiss. The defendant denied ever having given 
 the plaintiff a kiss, but, on the contrary, said that the plain- 
 tiff had taken it ; and she said that the wound, if any, had 
 happened only by mischance and accident. Certificates 
 from several surgeons were produced of the nature and ex- 
 tent of the wound, and the Court sentenced the defendant 
 to kiss the wound at all reasonable times, until it was heal- 
 ed, and to find linen for plasters." 
 
 * On the Troubadours and their poetry, see the following 
 works. 
 
 Raynouard. Choix des Poesies Originales des Trouba- 
 dours. 6 vols. Paris: 1816-21. 
 
 Crescimbeni. Vite de' Poeti Provenzali. Translate! 
 
FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 409 
 
 To this period is to be referred, also, the first 
 trace of the French drama. It began in the 
 Miracles and Mystires of the Jongleurs, the rep- 
 resentation of which can be traced as far back 
 as the close of the eleventh century. The Mi- 
 racles were founded on the legends of saints, 
 and the Myste'res on the Old and New Tes- 
 taments. The earliest play now extant is, how- 
 ever, of a much later date, and will be noticed 
 in the history of the next period. 
 
 II. From 1300 to 1500. The most popular 
 poem of this period — the poem which seems 
 to have been to the French what the " Divina 
 Commedia " was to the Italians, and which 
 fully satisfied the romantic and poetic taste of 
 the age — was the " Romaunt of the Rose." 
 It was commenced in the latter part of the thir- 
 teenth century by Guillaume de Lorris, and fin- 
 ished in the first part of the fourteenth by Jean 
 de Meun. This was by no means a poetic age. 
 Next to Meun, the writers most worthy of 
 mention are, Jean Froissart, better known as a 
 chronicler than as a poet ; Christine de Pise; 
 Alain Chartier ; Charles, duke of Orleans ; 
 Francois Villon ; Jean Regnier, and Martial de 
 Paris. From the writings of these authors, and 
 of several others, extracts will be given. 
 
 Though some traces of the drama have been 
 discovered as far back as the close of the eleventh 
 century, the history of the French theatre be- 
 gins, properly speaking, with the fifteenth. At 
 this period, certain pilgrims, returning from the 
 Holy Land, formed themselves into the Con- 
 frfrie de la Passion. In 1402, they received 
 the permission of Charles the Sixth to establish 
 themselves at Paris, and accordingly opened 
 their theatre in the Hopital de la Trinite. Their 
 stage was filled with several scaffolds, or dtab- 
 lies, the highest of which represented heaven, 
 and the lower, different parts of the scene. Be- 
 neath, in the place of the modern trap-door, 
 hell was represented by the jaws of a dragon, 
 which opened and shut for the entrances and 
 exits of the devils. At the sides were seats for 
 the actors, most of whom seem never to have 
 left the stage. Here was represented the cele- 
 brated " Mystere de la Passion," divided into 
 four journees,* or days; as the play was con- 
 tinued for successive days. In the first journee 
 there are thirty-two scenes and eighty-seven 
 characters; in the second, twenty-five scenes 
 and one hundred characters; in the third, sev- 
 
 from the French of Notredame. In Vol. II. of the Istoria 
 della Volgar Poesia. 6 vols. Venezia : 1730-31. 4to. 
 
 Millot. Histoire Litteraire dea Troubadours. 3 vols. 
 Paris: 1774. l2mo. 
 
 Schlegel. Observations sur la Langue et la Litterature 
 Provencales. Paris: 1818. 8vo. 
 
 Diez. Die Poesie der Troubadours. Zwickau: 1826. 8vo. 
 
 Diez. Leben und Werke der Troubadours. Zwickau : 
 1829. 8vo. 
 
 * The word Jornada is still preserved in the Spanish 
 drama, though the French journee has given place to the 
 word acte. It originally indicated the portion of a, play 
 acted in one day. 
 
 52 
 
 enteen scenes and eighty-seven characters; and 
 in the fourth, twelve scenes and one hundred 
 and five characters. The following scenes ot 
 this play are from Roscoe's translation of Sis- 
 mondi.* 
 
 "Saint John enters into a long discourse, 
 and we can only account for the patience with 
 which our forefathers listened to these tedious 
 harangues, by supposing that their fatigue was 
 considered by them to be an acceptable offering 
 to the Deity ; and that they were persuaded, 
 that every thing, which did not excite them to 
 laughter or tears, was put down to the account 
 of their edification. The following scene in 
 dialogue, in which Saint John undergoes an 
 interrogation, displays considerable ability. 
 
 ABYAS. 
 
 Though fallen be man's sinful line, 
 
 Holy prophet ! it is writ, 
 
 Christ shall come to ransom it, 
 
 And by doctrine and by sign 
 
 Bring them to his grace divine. 
 
 Wherefore, seeing now the force 
 
 Of thy high deeds, thy grave discourse, 
 
 And virtues shown of great esteem, 
 
 That thou art he we surely deem. 
 
 SAINT JOHN. 
 
 I am not Messiah, — no ! 
 At the feet of Christ I bow. 
 
 ELYACHIM. 
 
 "Why, then, wildly wanderest thou 
 Naked in this wilderness? 
 Say ! what faith dost thou profess 1 
 And to whom thy service paid? 
 
 EANNANYAS. 
 
 Thou assemblest, it is said, 
 
 In these lonely woods, a crowd 
 
 To hear thy voice proclaiming loud, 
 
 Like that of our most holy men. 
 
 Art thou a king in Israel, then ? 
 
 Know'st thou the laws and prophecies ? 
 
 Who art thou ? say ! 
 
 NATHAN. 
 
 Thou dost advise 
 Messiah is come down below. 
 Hast seen him ? Say, how dost thou know ? 
 Or art thou he ? 
 
 SAINT JOHN. 
 
 I answer, No ! 
 
 * Historical View of the Literature of the South of Eu- 
 rope, Vol. I., pp. 179-184. In the first volume of the " His- 
 toire du Theatre Francais" (15 vols. Paris: 12mo.), an 
 analysis, with extracts, is given of this Mystery, and of 
 those of the Conception and the Resurrection. These three 
 Mysteries have been published together, "as played at Paris 
 in the year of grace, 1507. " The whole title is, " Le Mystere 
 de la Conception et Nativite de la glor'u^ise Vierge Marie, 
 avec le Mariage d'icelle, la Nativite, Passion, Resurrection 
 et Assencion de Nostre-Sauveur etRedempteur Jesu-Christ, 
 jouee a Paris l'an de grace mil cinq cens et sept ; imprimee 
 audict lieu, pour Jehan Petit, Geuffroy de Marnef et Mi 
 chel le Noir, Libraires-Jurez en l'Universite de Paris, de 
 mourans en la grant rue P. Jacques." 
 
 In the second volume of the " Histoire du Theatre Fran 
 cais " may be found a chronological cataloguo of the othei 
 Mysteries of the fifteenth century. 
 
410 
 
 FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 NACHOR. 
 
 Who art thou 1 Art Elias, then ? 
 Perhaps Elias ? 
 
 SAINT JOHN. 
 
 No! 
 
 BANNANYAS. 
 
 Again, 
 Who art thou ? what thy name ? Express ! 
 For never, surely, shall we guess. 
 Thou art the prophet. 
 
 SAINT JOHN. 
 
 I am not. 
 
 ELYACHIM. 
 
 Who and what art thou ? Tell us what ; 
 That true answer we may bear 
 To our lords, who sent us here 
 To learn thy name and mission. 
 
 SAINT JOHN. 
 
 Ego 
 
 Vox clamantis in deserto : 
 
 A voice, a solitary cry, 
 
 In the desert paths am I. 
 
 Smooth the paths, and make them meet 
 
 For the great Redeemer's feet, 
 
 Him, who, brought by our misdoing, 
 
 Comes for this foul world's renewing. 
 
 " The result of this scene is the conversion 
 of the persons to whom Saint John addresses 
 himself. They eagerly demand to be baptized, 
 and the ceremony is followed by the baptism 
 of Jesus himself. But the versification is not 
 so remarkable as the stage directions, which 
 transport us to the very period of these Gothic 
 representations. 
 
 " ' Here Jesus enters the waters of Jordan, 
 all naked, and Saint John takes some of the 
 water in his hand and throws it on the head of 
 Jesus ' 
 
 SAINT JOHN. 
 
 Sir, you now baptized are, 
 As it suits my simple skill, 
 Not the lofty rank you fill : 
 Unmeet for such great service I , 
 
 Yet my God, so debonair, 
 All that 's wanting will supply 
 
 " ' Here Jesus comes out of the river Jordan, 
 and throws himself on his knees, all naked, 
 before paradise. Then God the Father speaks, 
 and the Holy Ghost descends, in the form of a 
 white dove, upon the head of Jesus, and then 
 returns into paradise : — and note that the words 
 of God the Father be very audibly pronounced, 
 and well sounded in three voices ; that is to 
 say, a treble, a counter-treble, and a counter- 
 bass, all in tune : and in this way must the fol- 
 lowing lines be repeated : — 
 
 ( Hie est Jilius metes dilectus, 
 
 In quo mihi bene complacui. 
 C'estui-ci est mon fils am6 Jesus, 
 Que bien me plaist, ma plaisance est en lui.' 
 
 " As this Mystery was not only the model of 
 subsequent tragedies, but of comedies likewise, 
 we must extract a few verses from the dialogues 
 of the devils, who fill all the comic parts of the 
 drama. The eagerness of these personages to 
 
 maltreat one another, or, as the original ex 
 presses it, a se torchonner (to give one another 
 a wipe), always produced much laughter in the 
 
 assembly. 
 
 BERITH. 
 
 Who he is I cannot tell, — 
 
 This Jesus ; but I know full well, 
 
 That, in all the worlds that be, 
 
 There is not such a one as he. 
 
 Who it is that gave him birth 
 
 I know not, nor from whence on earth 
 
 He came, or what great devil taught him ; 
 
 But in no evil have I caught him, 
 
 Nor know I any vice he hath. 
 
 SATAN. 
 
 Haro ! but you make me wroth, 
 When such dismal news I hear. 
 
 BERITH. 
 
 Wherefore so ? 
 
 SATAN. 
 
 Because I fear 
 He will make my kingdom less. 
 Leave him in the wilderness, 
 And let us return to hell, 
 To Lucifer our tale to tell, 
 And to ask his sound advice. 
 
 BERITH. 
 
 The imps are ready in a trice ; 
 Better escort cannot be. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Is it Satan that I see, 
 
 And Berith, coming in a passion? 
 
 ASTAROTH. 
 
 Master, let me lay the lash on. 
 Here 's the thing to do the deed. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Please to moderate your speed 
 To lash behind and lash before ye, 
 Ere you hear them tell their story, 
 Whether shame they bring, or glory. 
 
 "As soon as the devils have given an ac- 
 count to their sovereign of their observations 
 and their vain efforts to tempt Jesus, Astaroth 
 throws himself upon them with his imps, and 
 lashes them back to earth from the infernal re- 
 gions." 
 
 The success of the Confririe de la Passion 
 inspired the Clercs de la Bazosche, or Students 
 of the Inns of Court, already an incorporated 
 society, with their king, chancellor, and other 
 high dignitaries, to represent plays. But as the 
 Confrerie de la Passion had by law the exclu- 
 sive right to the Miracles and Mysteries, the 
 clerks invented Moralites, or allegorical plays, 
 and Farces. The most renowned of these is 
 " La Farce de Maistre Pierre Pathelin," * first 
 performed in 1480, and still held in high esteem 
 as a characteristic specimen of French fun. 
 
 During the thirteenth century, was formed a 
 third dramatic corps, who, being lovers of mirth 
 and frolic, took the merry name of Les Enfans 
 sans Souci. Their leader bore the title of Prince 
 des Sots, and the plays were called Sotises, and 
 
 * A neat edition of this famous farce was published at 
 Paris, in 1723. 
 
FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 411 
 
 were filled with the follies of the time, and 
 sometimes with personal satire.* 
 
 III. From 1500 to 1650. This is a far more 
 brilliant epoch than that which preceded it. 
 It embraces the names of Rabelais and Mon- 
 taigne in prose, and of Marot and Malherbe in 
 poetry. It commences with the reign of Francis 
 the First, who was surnamed the Father of Let- 
 ters. The better to understand how much this 
 monarch contributed to the cultivation of his 
 native tongue, it should be borne in mind, that 
 until his day all public acts and documents were 
 published in Latin, and that to him belongs the 
 praise of having abolished this ancient usage, 
 and ordered that " doresnavent tous arrets soient 
 prononces, enregistres et delivris aux parties en 
 langage materncl Francois, et non aultrement." 
 This elevated the character of the language, and 
 gave a fresh impulse to its advancement. The 
 new encouragement given to literature, and the 
 new honors paid to literary men, seconded this 
 impulse ; and during the single reign of this 
 munificent monarch, the French language made 
 as much progress in ease and refinement, as it 
 has made from that day to the present. Pre- 
 eminent among the names of those authors 
 who were instrumental in effecting the im- 
 provement stands that of Clement Marot, the 
 most celebrated of all the ancient worthies of 
 French poetry. Surrounded by the elegance 
 and refinement of the French court, and guided 
 by the counsels of his friend and preceptor, 
 Jehan Lemaire, he applied himself assiduously 
 to the cultivation of his native tongue, and to 
 establishing for it those rules and principles 
 which would give it permanence and precision, 
 but which all previous writers had entirely dis- 
 regarded. " Marot," says M. Auguis, in his 
 "Discourse upon the Origin and Progress of 
 the Poetic Language of France," "had but one 
 course to pursue; to leave the imitation of every 
 other language, and seek for the genius of our 
 own within itself: and this he did. The as- 
 perity of its terminations and connections was 
 the fatal quicksand of our grammar ; he ad- 
 hered to those words and turns of expression 
 which had been smoothed by the constant attri- 
 tion of good usage. He treasured up and em- 
 ployed every pleasing rhyme and easy-flowing 
 phrase which by chance had fallen from the 
 pens of more ancient writers ; but it was in the 
 cultivated and refined conversations of ladies 
 of high rank, that he acquired the most delicate 
 perception of the true harmony of language ; 
 it was from the natural beauty of their expres- 
 sions, and the vivacity, clearness, and melody 
 of their periods, that he drew his own honeyed 
 sweetness, and learned the true character of our 
 language. This was all which at that period 
 could be done; and it was doing much, to teach 
 the future scholar that the genius of the French 
 
 * For a full account of the Clercs de la Bazosche, and 
 1he Enfans sans Souci. the reader is referred to the " His- 
 •loire du Theatre Francais," Vol. II., pp. 78, 198. 
 
 language consists in its ease, its vivacity, its 
 precision, and, above all, in its perspicuity and 
 directness."* 
 
 About the middle of the sixteenth century, 
 the poet Ronsard, thinking the language poor 
 and feeble, conceived the design of enriching 
 it with phrases from the Greek and Latin : 
 
 "Et sa muse, en Francois, parla Grec et Latin." 
 This was like equipping the graceful limbs of 
 a ballet-dancer in a ponderous suit of antique 
 armor. Ronsard was called the Prince of the 
 French Poets. He gathered around him a soci- 
 ety of friends and admirers, who assumed the 
 name of the Pleiades. The principal star in 
 this constellation was Ronsard himself. The 
 other six were Joachim du Bellay, Antoine de 
 Balf, Pontus ( de Thyard, Remi Belleau, Jean 
 Dorat, and Etienne Jodelle, whose tragedy of 
 "Cleopatra," formed on the classic model, took 
 the place of the old Mysteries and Moralities, 
 and began a new era in the French drama. 
 The grace of the language began to yield 
 beneath the weight of this scholastic jargon ; 
 when fortunately a superior mind appeared, to 
 rescue literature from the ill effects of this 
 perverted taste. This was Malherbe ; who 
 so strenuously asserted the rights of his native 
 tongue against all foreign usurpation, that he 
 gained at court the appellation of the Tyrant of 
 Words and Syllables. It is related of him, that, 
 but an hour before his death, his father-confes- 
 sor, speaking to him of the felicity of the life 
 beyond the grave, expressed himself in lan- 
 guage so vulgar and incorrect, that the dying 
 poet exclaimed, "Say no more of it; your pit- 
 iful style will disgust me with it." 
 
 Malherbe is regarded by the French as the 
 father of their poetry. To him belongs the 
 glory of having first developed the full power 
 of the French language in many of the various 
 branches of poetic composition. " Beauty of 
 expression and imagery," says Auguis, " rapidity 
 of movement and sublimity of ideas, enthusi- 
 asm, number, cadence, all are to be found in 
 his beautiful odes. No one knew better than 
 he the effects of harmony ; no one possessed a 
 more exquisite taste, or a more delicate ear. 
 Grief and sensibility find beneath his pen ex- 
 pressions naives and pathetic, and the form of 
 versification follows naturally the emotions of 
 the soul. We are filled with astonishment and 
 admiration, when we compare his noble lan- 
 guage with the barbarous style of the disciples 
 of Ronsard. Thus was ushered in the brilliant 
 age of Louis the Fourteenth." t 
 
 * Poetes Francois. Discours Preliminaire. I., 20. 
 
 t Poetes Franijois, VI., 53. This work contains selec- 
 tions from the writings of two hundred and seventy-Uvo 
 authors, sixty-six of whom are Troubadours. At the close 
 of the work is a list of poets before Malherbe, from whose 
 writings no extracts are given. These are two hundred and 
 eighty-eight Troubadours, one hundred and seventy-three 
 Trouveres, and four hundred and fifty-four early French po- 
 ets. This makes in all one thousand one hundred and eighty- 
 seven poets before the middle of the seventeenth century. 
 
412 
 
 FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 The poets and versifiers of this period are 
 very numerous, amounting in all to one hundred 
 and thirty-seven. Extracts from the writings 
 of all of these may be found in the collection 
 of Aug>jis. Among them are several royal 
 authors Francis the First, Henry the Second, 
 Charles the Ninth, Henry the Fourth, and his 
 mother, Jeanne d'Albret ; Marie Stuart, and 
 Marguerite de Navarre. 
 
 IV. From 1650 to 1700. The age of Louis 
 the Fourteenth is one of the most brilliant in 
 history ; illustrious by its reign of seventy-two 
 years, its eighty-seven marshals, and its three 
 hundred and seventy authors.* The reign of 
 this monarch has been called "a satire upon 
 despotism." His vanity was boundless ; his 
 magnificence equally so. The palaces of Mar- 
 ly and Versailles are monuments of his royal 
 pride. Equestrian statues, and his figure on 
 one of the gates of Paris, represented as a 
 naked Hercules, with a club in his hand and a 
 flowing wig on his head, are monuments of his 
 self-esteem. 
 
 His court was the home of etiquette and the 
 model of all courts. " It seemed," says Vol- 
 taire, " that Nature at that time took delight in 
 producing in France the greatest men in all the 
 arts ; and of assembling at court the most beau- 
 tiful men and women that had ever existed. 
 But the king bore the palm away from all his 
 courtiers, by the grace of his figure, and the 
 majestic beauty of his countenance. The no- 
 ble and winning sound of his voice captivated 
 the hearts that his presence intimidated. His 
 carriage was such as became him and his rank 
 only, and would have been ridiculous in any 
 other. The embarrassment he inspired in those 
 who spoke with him flattered in secret the 
 self-complacency with which he recognized his 
 own superiority. The old officer who became 
 agitated and stammered in asking a favor from 
 him, and, not being able to finish his discourse, 
 exclaimed, ' Sire, I do not tremble so before 
 your enemies ! ' had no difficulty in obtaining 
 the favor he asked." t 
 
 All about him was pomp and theatrical show. 
 He invented a kind of livery which it was 
 held the greatest honor to wear ; a blue waist- 
 coat, embroidered with gold and silver; — a 
 mark of royal favor. To all around him he 
 was courteous ; towards women chivalrous. 
 He never passed even a chambermaid without 
 touching his hat ; and always stood uncovered 
 in the presence of a lady. When the disap- 
 pointed duke of Lauzun insulted him by break- 
 ing his sword in his presence, he raised the 
 window, and threw his cane into the court- 
 yard, saying, " I never should have forgiven 
 myself, if I had struck a gentleman." 
 
 He seems, indeed, to have been a strange 
 
 * Prefixed to Voltaire's "Siecle de Louis XIV.," is a 
 catalogue of these authors, with a word or two of comment 
 on each. 
 
 t Siec. !e Louis XIV., ch. 25 
 
 mixture of magnanimity and littleness; — his 
 gallantries veiled always in a show of decency; 
 severe, capricious, fond of pleasure, — hardly less 
 fond of labor. One day, we find him dashing 
 from Vincennes to Paris in his hunting-dress, 
 and, standing in his great boots, with a whip in 
 his hand, dismissing his parliament, as he would 
 a pack of hounds. The next, he is dancing in 
 the ballet of his private theatre, in the character 
 of a gypsy, and whistling or singing scraps of 
 opera songs ; and then parading at a military 
 review, or galloping at full speed through the 
 park of Fontainebleau, hunting the deer in a 
 calash drawn by four ponies. Towards the 
 close of his life, he became a devotee. " It is 
 a very remarkable thing," says Voltaire, "that 
 the public, who forgave him all his mistresses, 
 could not forgive him his father-confessor." He 
 outlived the respect of his subjects. When he 
 lay on his death-bed, — those godlike eyes, 
 that had overawed the world, now grown dim 
 and lustreless, — - his courtiers left him to die 
 alone, and thronged about his successor, the 
 duke of Orleans. An empiric gave him an 
 elixir, which suddenly revived him. He ate 
 once more, and it was said he would recover. 
 The crowd about the duke of Orleans dimin- 
 ished very fast. "If the king eats a second 
 time, I shall be left all alone," said he. But 
 the king ate no more. He died like a philoso- 
 pher. To Madame de Maintenon lie said, " I 
 thought it was more difficult to die ! " and to 
 his domestics, " Why do you weep ? Did you 
 think I was immortal? " 
 
 Of course, the character of the monarch 
 stamped itself upon the society about him. 
 The licentious court made a licentious city. 
 Yet everywhere external decency and decorum 
 prevailed. The courtesy of the old school 
 held sway. Society, moreover, was pompous 
 and artificial. There were pedantic scholars 
 about town, and learned women, and Prtcieuses 
 Ridicules, and Euphuism. With all its great- 
 ness, it was an effeminate age. 
 
 The old city of Paris, which lies in the 
 Marais, was once the court end of the town. 
 It is now entirely deserted by wealth and fash- 
 ion. Travellers, even, seldom find their way 
 into its broad and silent streets. But sightly 
 mansions, and garden walls, over which tall, 
 shadowy trees wave to and fro, speak of a more 
 splendid age ; when proud and courtly ladies 
 dwelt there, and the frequent wheels of gay 
 equipages chafed the now grass-grown pave- 
 ments. 
 
 In the centre of this part of Paris, within 
 pistol-shot of the Boulevard St. Antoine, stands 
 the Place Royale ; the Little Britain of Paris. 
 Old palaces, of a quaint and uniform style, with 
 a low arcade in front, run quite round the 
 square. In its centre is a public walk, with 
 trees, an iron fence, and an equestrian statue of 
 Louis the Thirteenth. It was here that mon- 
 arch held his court. But there is no sign of a 
 court now. Under the arcade are shops and 
 
FRENCH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 413 
 
 fruit-stalls, and in one corner site a cobbler, 
 seemingly as old and deaf as the walls around 
 him. Occasionally you get a glimpse through 
 a grated gate into spacious gardens, and a large 
 flight of steps leads up into what was once a 
 royal palace and is now a tavern. 
 
 Not far off is the Rue des Tournelles; and 
 the house is still standing, in which lived and 
 loved that Aspasia of the seventeenth century, 
 — the celebrated Ninon de l'Enclos. From the 
 Boulevard you look down into the garden 
 where her illegal and ill-fated son, on discover- 
 ing that the object of his passion was his own 
 mother, put an end to his miserable life. Not 
 very remote from this is the house once occu- 
 pied by Madame de Sevigne. You are shown 
 the very cabinet where she composed those 
 letters which beautified her native tongue, and 
 " make us love the very ink that wrote them." 
 In a word, you are here in the centre of the 
 Paris of the seventeenth century ; the gay, the 
 witty, the licentious city, which in Louis the 
 Fourteenth's time was like Athens in the age 
 of Pericles. And now all is changed to soli- 
 tude and silence. The witty age, with its 
 brightness and licentious heat, all burnt out, — 
 puffed into darkness by the breath of Time. 
 Thus passes an age of libertinism, and bloody, 
 frivolous wars, and fighting bishops, and devout 
 prostitutes, and "factious beaux esprits, impro- 
 vising epigrams in the midst of seditions, and 
 madrigals on the field of battle." 
 
 Westward from this quarter, near the Seine 
 and the Louvre, stood the famous Hotel de 
 Rambouillet, the court of euphuism and false 
 taste. Here Catherine de Vivonne, marchion- 
 ess of Rambouillet, gave her assthetical soirees 
 in her bedchamber, and she herself in bed, 
 among the curtains and mirrors of a gay alcove. 
 The master of ceremonies was the lady's cava- 
 lier servente, and bore the title of the Mcoviste. 
 He did the honors of the house, and directed 
 the conversation ; and such was the fashion of 
 the day, that no evil tongue soiled with malig- 
 nant whisper the fair fame of the precieuses, as 
 the ladies of the society were called. 
 
 Into this bedchamber came all the noted 
 literary personages' of the day : Corneille, Mal- 
 herbe, Bossuet, Flechier, La Rochefoucault, 
 Balzac, Bussy-Rabutin, Madame de Sevigne, 
 Mademoiselle de Scuderi, and others of less 
 note, though hardly less pretension. They 
 paid their homage to the marchioness under 
 the titles of ArtMnice, Eracinihe, and CarintMe, 
 anagrams of the name of Catherine. There, 
 as in the Courts of Love of a still earlier age, 
 were held grave dissertations on frivolous 
 themes, — and all the metaphysics of love and 
 the subtilties of exaggerated passion were dis- 
 cussed with most puerile conceits and vapid 
 sentimentality. " We saw, not long since," 
 says La Bruycre, " a circle of persons of the 
 two sexes, united by conversation and mental 
 sympathy. They left to the vulgar the art of 
 speaking intelligibly. One obscure expression 
 
 brought on another still more obscure, which 
 in turn was capped by something truly enig- 
 matical, attended with vast applause. With 
 all this so-called delicacy, feeling, and refine- 
 ment of expression, they at length went so far, 
 that they were neither understood by others, 
 nor could understand themselves. For these 
 conversations one needed neither good sense, 
 nor memory, nor the least capacity ; only esprit, 
 and that not of the best, but a counterfeit kind, 
 made up chiefly of fancy." 
 
 The chief poets of this period are Corneille, 
 Moliere, Racine, La Fontaine, Boileau, Jean 
 Baptiste Rousseau, Benserade, Chapelle, Chau- 
 lieu, La Fare, Quinault, Thomas Corneille, Cre- 
 billon, and Fontenelle. In addition to an im- 
 mense amount of dramatic, lyric, satiric, and 
 epistolary poems, this period produced five un- 
 successful epics ; namely, the " Clovis " of Dem- 
 arets; the "Pucelle, ou la France Delivree," 
 of Chapelain ; the " Alaric, ou Rome Vaincue," 
 of George de Scuderi ; the " St. Louis, ou la 
 Sainte Couronne Reconquise," of Le Moine ; 
 and finally, another " Clovis," by St. Didier. 
 
 V. • From 1700 to 1800. This is the age of 
 Voltaire, Jean Jacques Rousseau, and the En 
 cyclopedists, Diderot and D'Alembert. Vol- 
 taire stands at the head of the French epic poets, 
 and, as a tragic writer, next to Corneille and 
 Racine. His is the greatest name of this period. 
 After him, in the list of poets, may be men- 
 tioned Ducis, Chenier, Piron, Louis Racine, 
 Parny, Colardeau, Dorat, St. Lambert, Delille, 
 Florian, and Gresset. 
 
 VI. From 1800 to the present time. The 
 writings of Chateaubriand, like a bridge, ex- 
 tending from century to century, connect the 
 literature of the last period with that of the 
 present. He belongs, however, chiefly to the 
 past. He writes " new books with an old faith " ; 
 and this faith is not the popular faith of the day. 
 
 The principal poets of this period are Mille- 
 voye, Delavigne, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, Be- 
 ranger, Barbier, De Musset, De Vigny, Madame 
 Tastu, and Madame Desbordes-Valmore. 
 
 For a further history of French poetry, see 
 the following works. " Histoire Litteraire de 
 la France," 17 vols., Paris, 1733-1832; a 
 very learned and elaborate work, commenced 
 by monks of St. Maur, and continued by mem- 
 bers of the Institute. It brings the history of 
 French literature down to the thirteenth centu- 
 ry. — " Geschichte der Poesie und Beredsam- 
 keit," von Friedrich Bouterwek, Vols. V. and 
 VI., GSttingen, 1806, 8vo. — " Cours de Litte- 
 rature Francaise," par A. F. Villemain, 6 vols., 
 Paris, 1840, Svo. — " Lycee, ou Cours de Li- 
 terature Ancienne et Moderne," par J. F. de La 
 Harpe, 17 vols., Paris, An VII., 8vo. — " Frag- 
 mens du Cours de Litterature,'' Paris, 1808; 
 and "Tableau Historique de l'Etat et des Pro- 
 gres de la Litterature Frangaise depuis 1789 "; 
 par M. J. de Chenier. 
 
 ii 2 
 
FIRST PERIOD. -CENTURIES XIL, XIII. 
 JONGLEURS, TROUVERES, AND TROUBADOURS. 
 
 I. — CHANSONS DE GESTE, LAIS, LEGENDS, AND FABLIAUX. 
 
 DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN. 
 
 PROM THE CHANSON DE ROLAND. 
 
 The archbishop, whom God loved in high de- 
 gree. 
 
 Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free ; 
 
 And then his cheek more ghastly grew and 
 wan, 
 
 And a faint shudder through his members ran. 
 
 Upon the battle-field his knee was bent; 
 
 Brave Roland saw, and to his succour went, 
 
 Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced, 
 
 And tore the shining haubert from his breast; 
 
 Then raising in his arms the man of God, 
 
 Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. 
 
 " Rest, Sire," he cried, — "for rest thy suffering 
 needs." 
 
 The priest replied, " Think but of warlike deeds ! 
 
 The field is ours ; well may we boast this strife ! 
 
 But death steals on, — there is no hope of life; 
 
 In paradise, where the almoners live again, 
 
 There are our couches spread, — there shall we 
 rest from pain." 
 
 Sore Roland grieved ; nor marvel I, alas ! 
 
 That thrice he swooned upon the thick green 
 grass. 
 
 When he revived, with a loud voice cried he, 
 
 " O Heavenly Father ! Holy Saint Marie ! 
 
 Why lingers death to lay me in my grave ? 
 Beloved France ! how have the good and brave 
 Been torn from thee and left thee weak and 
 
 poor ! " 
 Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o'er 
 His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow, 
 " My gentle friend ! — what parting full of woe ! 
 Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see ; — 
 Whate'er my fate, Christ's benison on thee ! 
 Christ, who did save from realms of woe be- 
 neath 
 The Hebrew prophets from the second death." 
 Then to the paladins, whom well he knew, 
 He went, and one by one unaided drew 
 To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore; — 
 No heart had he to smile, — but, weeping sore, 
 He blessed them in God's name, with faith that 
 
 he 
 Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity. 
 
 The archbishop, then, — on whom God's beni- 
 son rest ! — 
 Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast ; — 
 His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore, 
 And many a wound his swollen visage bore. 
 
 Slow beats his heart, — his panting bosom 
 
 heaves, — 
 Death comes apace, — no hope of cure relieves. 
 Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and 
 
 prayed 
 That God, who for our sins was mortal made, — 
 Born of the Virgin, — scorned and crucified, — 
 In paradise would place him by his side. 
 
 Then Turpin died in service of Charlon, 
 In battle great and eke great orison ; 
 'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion ; — 
 God grant to him his holy benison ! 
 
 ROMAN DU ROU. 
 
 Robert Wace, the author of this romance, 
 was one of the most distinguished Trouvcres 
 of the twelfth century. He was born in the 
 island of Jersey ; the date of his birth and death 
 are uncertain. For a long time he resided 
 in the city of Caen, where he devoted him- 
 self to the composition of romances, of which 
 he wrote many, as he himself declares : — 
 
 " De Romanz faire m'entremis, 
 Mult en escris et mult en fis." 
 
 Only two of them have reached our day. The 
 first of these is " Le Brut d'Angleterre," so 
 called from Brutus, son of Ascanius, and grand- 
 son of iEneas, and first king of the Britons. It 
 gives the history of the kings of Great Britain, 
 from the sack of Troy to the end of the seventh 
 century. Geoffrey of Monmouth translated it 
 from the original Armorican, or British, into 
 Latin prose, and Wace turned it into French 
 verse. Robert de Brune translated part of it 
 into English in the fourteenth centurv ; and a 
 new prose translation has lately appeared in 
 England. The work is in great part fabulous; 
 and is a romance, rather than a history. It de- 
 scribes the Round Table, and the sports and 
 tourneys of King Arthur's court ; and may he 
 regarded as the fountain-head of the romances 
 of the Round Table. It had immense populari- 
 ty in its day. 
 
 The "Roman du Rou," so called from Rollo, 
 is a poetic chronicle of the dukes of Normandy. 
 It is in two parts ; the first written in Alexan- 
 drines ; the second, in octo-syllabic verse. 
 
 A few other poems by Wace have been pre- 
 served, but these are the most important. 
 
CHANSONS DE GESTE, LAIS, LEGENDS, AND FABLIAUX. 415 
 
 DUKE WILLIAM AT ROUEN. 
 
 FBOM THE ROMAN DO ROU. 
 
 Then Duke William was right sorrowful, and 
 
 strength and power had none, 
 For he thought that in the battel he should 
 
 well-nigh stand alone ; 
 He knew not who would fight for him, or who 
 
 would prove a foe : 
 " Why should we linger here?" quoth he, — 
 
 " I into France will go." 
 Then said Boten, — "Duke William, thou hast 
 
 spoke a coward's word ; — 
 What ! fly away at once, ere thou hast wielded 
 
 lance or sword ? 
 Think'st thou I e'er will see thee fly ? Thou 
 
 talk'st quite childishly. 
 Summon thy men, prepare for fight, and have 
 
 good heart in thee ; 
 Perjured thy foemen are, and they shall surely 
 
 vanquished be." 
 " Boten," said William, " how can I prepare 
 
 me for the fight ? 
 Rioulf can bring four well armed men for every 
 
 single wight 
 I can command ; — I sure shall die, if I against 
 
 him go." 
 "That thou 'rt a coward," said Boten, " Saint 
 
 Fiacre well doth know ; 
 But, by the faith which firm I hold to the Son 
 
 of God, I say, 
 Whoe'er should do as thou deserves sound 
 
 beating in the fray ; 
 For thou wilt neither arm nor fight, but only 
 
 run away." 
 "Mercie ! " cried William, "see ye not how 
 
 Riouif me sieges here? 
 And my perjured knights are all with him ; 
 
 must it not cost me dear ? 
 And they all hate me unto death, and round 
 
 encompass me; 
 I never can, by my soul I swear, drive them 
 
 from this countrie ; 
 I must forsake it, and to France right speedily 
 
 I '11 flee." 
 Then spake Bernart, — " Duke, know this well, 
 
 we will not follow thee. 
 Too much of ill these men have wrought, but 
 
 a day will surely come 
 For payment, and we '11 pay them well. When 
 
 erst we left our home 
 In Denmark, and to this land came, we gained 
 
 it by our might ; 
 But thou to arm thee art afraid, and dar'st not 
 
 wage the fight. 
 Go, then, to France, enjoy thyself, a wretched 
 
 caitiff wight ; 
 No love of honest praise hast thou, no prayer 
 
 will e'er avail thee. 
 O wicked one ! why shouldst thou fear that 
 
 God will ever fail thee ? 
 Rollo, like bold and hardy chief, this land by 
 
 his good sword won ; 
 And thou wouldst do even as he did, wert thou 
 
 indeed his son ! " 
 
 " Bernart," said William, " well, methinks, thou 
 
 hast reviled me, 
 Offence enow to me hast given, enow of vil- 
 
 lainye ; 
 But thou shalt see me bear myself even as a 
 
 man right wode ; 
 Whoe'er will come and fight with me shall see 
 
 my will is good. 
 Boten, good friend," said he, "Bernart, now list 
 
 to me, I pray ; 
 No longer hold me evil one, nor coward, from 
 
 this day ; 
 Call my men unto the battle-field; I pledge my 
 
 word, and know, 
 That, henceforth, for the strife of swords ye 
 
 shall not find me slow." 
 
 Then all did rush to arms, and all with equal 
 
 spirit came ; 
 And, fully armed, thrice haughtily defiance did 
 
 proclaim 
 To Rioulf and his vassals, who the challenge 
 
 heard with glee, 
 And flung it back to William, who returned it 
 
 joyfully. 
 Full harnessed was he now, and toward his 
 
 foemen blithe he ran; 
 " God be our aid ! " he shouted, and rushed on 
 
 like a giant man. 
 Ye never saw such heavy blows as Duke Wil- 
 liam gave that day ; 
 For when the sword was in his grasp, scant 
 
 need of leech had they 
 Who felt its edge ; and vain were lance and 
 
 brand 'gainst him, I trow ; 
 For when Duke William struck them down, 
 
 joy had they never moe. 
 'T was blithe to see how he bore himself, like 
 
 a wild bull, 'mid the fight, 
 And drove his foemen left and right, all flying 
 
 with sore affright ; 
 For truly he did pay them off, and with a right 
 
 good will. 
 
 Now when Rioulf saw his vassals there, lying 
 
 all cold and still 
 Upon the field, while William's men boldly 
 
 maintained their ground, 
 He seized his good steed's bridle-rein, and 
 
 madly turned him round, 
 And stayed not to prick and spur, till near a 
 
 wood he drew ; 
 Then, fearing that Duke William's men did 
 
 even yet pursue, 
 His hauberk, lance, and trusty sword away he 
 
 gladly threw, 
 That more swiftly he might speed along; — but 
 
 though he was not caught, 
 Scarce better fate that gallant fight unto bold 
 
 Rioulf brought ; 
 For there he died, heart-broke, I ween, with 
 
 shame and mickle woe, 
 And his corpse was after in the Seine (do not 
 
 all that story know ?) 
 
416 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 Found floating on the rising tide. So the vic- 
 tory was won, 
 
 And far and wide was the story spread of the 
 deeds the duke had done." 
 
 RICHARD'S ESCAPE. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 " And now, fair Sir," said Osmont, " I pray you, 
 
 sickness feign, 
 And keep your bed, nor eat, nor drink ; but, 
 
 as in bitter pain, 
 Groan loudly, sigh, and moan, and then at last, 
 
 as near your end, 
 Pray that a priest, to housel ye, the king at least 
 
 may send ; 
 And bear ye warily in all, for I do trust that ye, 
 By God's aid, even yet shall 'scape from this 
 
 captivity." 
 " This will I do," said Richard, " even as ye 
 
 counsel me." 
 
 And well did Richard act the part that Os- 
 mont taught; 
 
 He kept his bed, nor ate, nor drank, and thus 
 so low was brought, 
 
 That his flesh was soft and sallow, his visage 
 deadly pale ; 
 
 For so well acted he his part, that all thought 
 his life must fail. 
 
 But when King Louis heard of it, his woe was 
 scant, 1 trow ; 
 
 For he thought Duke Richard's heritage to his 
 eldest son would go. 
 
 Then Osmont made loud sorrow, and mourned 
 and wept full sore : 
 
 " Alas, Sire Richard ! one so mild and courte- 
 ous never more 
 
 Shall we behold ! — Ay, 't was alone for thy 
 goodly heritage 
 
 That Louis snatched thee from thy friends, and 
 at such tender age 
 
 A captive deemed thee, — O, his hate but from 
 thy lands arose ! 
 
 Alas ! that our rich Normandie should make so 
 many foes ! — 
 
 O, what will Bernart say, who watched thy 
 tender infancy, 
 
 That thou here shouldst die, not in the town 
 of thy nativity ? — 
 
 O God ! look down, for only thou our failing 
 hope can raise ! 
 
 Thou know'st how well beloved he was, how 
 worthy of all praise 
 
 And honor too ; O, there was none ever belov- 
 ed as he ! " 
 
 Now when the warders heard Osmont mourn- 
 ing so bitterly, 
 
 They doubted not but Richard then upon his 
 death-bed lay; 
 
 And others thought so too, and each did to the 
 other say 
 
 That Richard's spirit certainly was passing swift 
 awav. 
 
 Now it came to pass that night the king at 
 
 supper sat, 
 And they who guarded Richard most carelessly 
 
 of late 
 Kept watch and ward, for well they thought he 
 
 was so weak and low, 
 That, save unto his burial, abroad he ne'er 
 
 would go ; 
 For how could he live long who never spoke, 
 
 or tasted food ? 
 And wherefore else should Osmont weep and 
 
 be so sad of mood ? 
 Then when good Osmont saw the watch right 
 
 from the door depart, 
 His steeds he caused ydight to be, in readiness 
 
 to start ; 
 Then he hastened to Duke Richard's bed, and 
 
 bade him swift uprise ; 
 Then in a truss of rushes green hides him from 
 
 prying eyes, 
 And binds and cords the bundle well ; bids his 
 
 menye mount and ride; 
 In a churchman's gown he wraps himself, nor 
 
 heeds what may betide, 
 So Richard 's safe ; then, last of all, he follows 
 
 his menye ; — 
 The night was dark, and that was well, for no 
 
 need of light had he. 
 Soon as outside the walls they came, Duke 
 
 Richard they unbound, 
 And brought to him as gallant steed as ever 
 
 stepped on ground ; 
 Right glad was he to mount, I ween, right glad 
 
 were they also, 
 And off they set, and spurred well, for they 
 
 had far to go. 
 O, when Duke Richard seized the rein, a joy- 
 ful one was he ! 
 But, whether he rode fast or no, ye need not 
 
 ask of me. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LITTLE BIRD. 
 
 In days of yore, at least a century since, 
 
 There lived a carle as wealthy as a prince : 
 
 His name I wot not ; but his wide domain 
 
 Was rich with stream and forest, mead and plain 
 
 To crown the whole, one manor he possessed 
 
 In choice delight so passing all the rest, 
 
 No ca-stle burgh or city might compare 
 
 With the quaint beauties of that mansion rare 
 
 The sooth to say, I fear my words may seem 
 
 Like some strange fabling, or fantastic dream, 
 
 If, unadvised, the portraiture I trace, 
 
 And each brave pleasure of that peerless place 
 
 Foreknow ye, then, by necromantic might 
 
 Was raised this paradise of all delight. 
 
 A good knight owned it first ; he, bowed with 
 
 age, 
 Died, and his son possessed the heritage ; 
 But the lewd stripling, all to riot bent, — 
 His chattels quickly wasted and forespent, — 
 
CHANSONS DE GESTE, LAIS, LEGENDS, AND FABLIAUX. 417 
 
 Was driven to see this patrimony sold 
 To the base carle of whom I lately told : 
 Ye wot right well there only needs be sought 
 One spendthrift heir, to bring great wealth to 
 
 naught. 
 A lofty tower and strong, the building stood 
 'Midst a vast plain surrounded by a flood ; 
 And hence one pebble-paved channel strayed, 
 That compassed in a clustering orchard's shade : 
 ~T was a choice, charming plat ; abundant round, 
 Flowers, roses, odorous spices clothed the 
 
 ground ; 
 Unnumbered kinds; and all profusely showered 
 Such aromatic balsam, as they flowered, 
 Their fragrance might have stayed man's part- 
 ing breath, 
 And chased the hovering agony of death. 
 The sward one level held; and close above, 
 Tall, shapely trees their leafy mantles wove, 
 All equal growth, and low their branches came, 
 Thickset with goodliest fruits of every name. 
 In midst, to cheer the ravished gazer's view, 
 A gushing fount its waters upward threw, 
 Thence slowly on with crystal current passed, 
 And crept into the distant flood at last; 
 But nigh its source a pine's umbrageous head 
 Stretched far and wide, in deathless verdure 
 
 spread, 
 Met with broad shade the summer's sultry gleam, 
 And through the livelong year shut out the beam. 
 Such was the scene ; — yet still the place was 
 
 blessed 
 With one rare pleasure passing all the rest : 
 A wondrous bird, of energies divine, 
 Had fixed his dwelling in the tufted pine; 
 There still he sat, and there with amorous lay 
 Waked the dim morn and closed the parting 
 
 dav : 
 Matched with these strains of linked sweetness 
 
 wrought, 
 The violin and full-toned harp were naught; 
 Of power they were with new-born joy to move 
 The cheerless heart of long-desponding love ; 
 Of power so strange, that, should they cease to 
 
 sound, 
 And the blithe songster flee the mystic ground, 
 That goodly orchard's scene, the pine-tree's 
 
 shade, 
 Trees, flowers, and fount, would all like vapor 
 
 fade. 
 " Listen, listen to my lay ! " 
 
 Thus the merry notes did chime, 
 " All who might)' love obey, 
 
 Sadly wasting in your prime, 
 Clerk and laic, grave and gay ! 
 
 Yet do ye, before the rest, 
 Gentle maidens, mark me tell ! 
 
 Store my lesson in your breast : 
 Trust me, it shall profit well : 
 
 Hear and heed me, and be blessed ! " 
 So sang the bird of old ; but when he spied 
 The carle draw near, with altered tone he 
 
 cried, — 
 " BacK, river, to thy source ! and thee, tall tower, 
 Thee, castle strong, may gaping earth devour ' 
 
 Bend down your heads, ye gaud}' flowers, and 
 
 fade ! 
 And withered be each fruit-tree's mantling 
 
 shade ! 
 Beneath these beauteous branches once were 
 
 seen 
 Brave gentle knights disporting on the green, 
 And lovely dames ; and oft these flowers among 
 Stayed the blithe bands, and joyed to hear my 
 
 song ; 
 Nor would they hence retire, nor quit the grove, . 
 Till many a vow were passed of mutual love : 
 These more would cherish, those would more 
 
 deserve 
 Cost, courtesy, and arms, and nothing swerve. 
 O, bitter change ! for master now we see 
 A faitour villain carle of low degree; 
 Foul gluttony employs his livelong day, 
 Nor heeds nor hears he my melodious lay." 
 
 So spake the bird ; and, as he ceased to sing, 
 Indignantly he clapped his downy wing, 
 And straight was gone; — but no abasement 
 
 stirred 
 In the clown's breast at his reproachful word : 
 Bent was his wit alone by quaint device 
 To snare, and sell him for a passing price. 
 So well he wrought, so craftily he spread 
 In the thick foliage green his slender thread, 
 That, when at eve the little songster sought 
 His wonted spray, his heedless foot was caught. 
 " How have I harmed you ? " straight he 'gan 
 
 to cry, 
 " And wherefore would you do me thus to die ? " 
 "Nay, fear not," quoth the clown, "for death 
 
 or wrong ; 
 I only seek to profit by thy song ; 
 I '11 get thee a fine cage, nor shalt thou lack 
 Good store of kernels and of seeds to crack; — 
 But sing thou shalt; for if thou play'st the 
 
 mute, 
 I '11 spit thee, bird, and pick thy bones to boot.' 
 " Ah, woe is me ! " the little thrall replied, 
 " Who thinks of song, in prison doomed to bide ? 
 And, were I cooked, my bulk might scarce af- 
 ford 
 One scanty mouthful to my hungry lord." 
 
 What may I more relate? The captive wight 
 Assayed to melt the villain all he might; 
 And fairly promised, were he once set free, 
 In gratitude to teach him secrets three : 
 Three secrets, all so marvellous and rare, 
 His race knew naught that might with these 
 
 compare. 
 The carle pricked up his ears amain ; he 
 
 loosed 
 The songster thrall, by love of gain seduced. 
 Up to the summit of the pine-tree's shade 
 Sped the blithe bird, and there at ease he stayed, 
 And tricked his plumes full leisurely, I trow, 
 Till the carle claimed his promise from below. 
 "Right gladly," quoth the bird; "now grow 
 
 thee wise : 
 All human prudence few brief lines comprise . 
 First, then, lest haply in the event it fail, 
 Yield not a ready faith to every tale." 
 
418 
 
 TRENCH POETRY. 
 
 "Is this thy secret? " quoth the moody elf, — 
 " Keep, then, thy silly lesson for thyself; 
 I need it not." " Howbe, 't is not amiss 
 To prick thy memory with advice like this ; 
 But late, meseems, thou hadst forgot the lore ; 
 Now may'st thou hold it fast for evermore. 
 Mark next my second rule, and sadly know, 
 What 's lost, 't is wise with patience to forego." 
 The carle, though rude of wit, now chafed 
 
 amain ; 
 He felt the mockery of the songster's strain. 
 " Peace," quoth the bird ; " my third is far the 
 
 best ; 
 Store thou the precious treasure in thy breast : 
 What good thou hast, ne'er lightly from thee cast." 
 He spoke, and twittering fled away full fast. 
 Straight, sunk in earth, the gushing fountain 
 
 dries ; 
 Downfall the fruits; the withered pine-tree dies; 
 Fades all the beauteous plat, so cool, so green, 
 Into thin air, and never more is seen. 
 
 Such was the meed of avarice : — bitter cost ! 
 The carle, who all would gather, all has lost. 
 
 PARADISE. 
 
 FROM LE VOYAGE DE SAINT BRANDAN. 
 
 Issuing from the darkness, see, 
 With joyful hearts, right gratefully, 
 Beyond the cloud that bright wall rise, 
 That round engirdleth paradise. 
 A lofty wall was it, and high, 
 Reaching as though 't would pierce the sky, — 
 All battlemented, — but no tower, 
 Breastwork, nor palisade, — for power 
 Of foe was never dreaded there. 
 And snowy white beyond compare 
 Its hue ; and gems most dazzling to sight, 
 In inlay work, that wall bedight; 
 For it was set with chrysolite, 
 And many a rich gem flashing light; 
 Topaz and emerald fair to see, 
 Carbuncle and chalcedony, 
 And chrysoprase, sardonyx fair, 
 Jasper and amethyst most rare, 
 Gorgeously shining, jacinth too, 
 Crystal and beryl, clear to view, — 
 Each to the other giving brightness. 
 
 Right toward the port their course they hold ; 
 But other dangers, all untold, 
 Were there ; before the gate keep guard 
 Dragons of flaming fire, dread ward ! 
 Right at the entrance hung a brand 
 Unsheathed, turning on either hand 
 With innate wisdom ; they might well 
 Bear it, for 't was invincible, — 
 And iron, stone, ay, adamant, 
 Against its edge had strength full scant. 
 But, lo ! a fair youth came to meet them, 
 And with meek courtesy did greet them, 
 For he was sent by Heaven's command 
 To give them entrance to that land; 
 
 So sweetly he his message gave, 
 
 And kissed each one, and bade the glaive 
 
 Retain its place ; the dragons, too, 
 
 He checked, and led them safely through, 
 
 And bade them rest, now they had come 
 
 At last unto that heavenly home ; 
 
 For they had now, all dangers past, 
 
 To certain glory come at last. 
 
 And now that fair youth leads them on, 
 Where paradise in beauty shone; 
 And there they saw the land all full 
 Of woods and rivers beautiful, 
 And meadows large besprent with flowers, 
 And scented shrubs in fadeless bowers, 
 And trees with blossoms fair to see, 
 And fruit also deliciously 
 Hung from the boughs ; nor brier, nor thorn, 
 Thistle, nor blighted tree forlorn 
 With blackened leaf, was there, — for spring 
 Held aye a year-long blossoming ; 
 And never shed their leaf the trees, 
 Nor failed their fruit; and still the breeze 
 Blew soft, scent-laden from the fields. 
 Full were the woods of venison ; 
 The rivers of good fish each one, 
 And others flowed with milky tide, — 
 No marvel all things fructified. 
 The earth gave honey, oozing through 
 Its pores, in sweet drops like the dew; 
 And in the mount was golden ore, 
 And gems, and treasure wondrous store. 
 There the clear sun knew no declining, 
 Nor fog nor mist obscured his shining ; 
 No cloud across that sky did stray, 
 Taking the sun's sweet light away; 
 Nor cutting blast, nor blighting air, — 
 For bitter winds blew never there ; 
 Nor heat, nor frost, nor pain, nor grief, 
 Nor hunger, thirst, — for swift relief 
 From every ill was there ; plentie 
 Of every good, right easily, 
 Each had according to his will, 
 And aye they wandered blithely still 
 In large and pleasant pastures green, 
 O, such as earth hath never seen ! 
 And glad was Brandan, for their pleasure 
 So wondrous was, that scant in measure 
 Their past toils seemed ; nor could they rest, 
 But wandered aye in joyful quest 
 Of somewhat fairer, and did go 
 Hither and thither, to and fro, 
 For very joy fulness. And now 
 They climb a mountain's lofty brow, 
 And see afar a vision rare 
 Of angels, — I may not declare 
 What there they saw, for words could ne'er 
 The meaning tell ; and inelodie 
 Of that same heavenly company, 
 For joy that they beheld them there, 
 They heard, but could not bear its sweetness, 
 Unless their natures greater meetness 
 To that celestial place had borne, — 
 But they were crushed with joy. "Return, 
 Said they, — "we may not this sustain."' 
 Then spoke the youth in gentle strain : 
 
CHANSONS DE GESTE, LAIS, LEGENDS, AND FABLIAUX. 419 
 
 " O Brandan, God unto thine eyes 
 Hath granted sight of paradise ; 
 But know, it glories hath more bright 
 Than e'er have dazed thy mortal sight; 
 One hundred thousand times more fair 
 Are these abodes ; but thou couldst ne'er 
 The view sustain, nor the ecstasy 
 Its meanest joys would yield to thee : 
 For thou hast in the body come ; 
 But, when the Lord shall call thee home, 
 Thou, fitted then, a spirit free 
 From weakness and mortality, 
 Shalt aye remain, no fleeting guest, 
 But taking here thine endless rest. 
 And while thou still remain'st below, 
 That Heaven's high favor all may know, 
 Take hence these stones, to teach all eyes 
 That thou hast been in paradise." 
 
 Then Brandan worshipped God, and took 
 Of paradise a farewell look. 
 The fair youth led them to the gate; 
 They entered in the ship, and straight 
 The signal 's made, the wind flows free, 
 The sails are spread, and o'er the sea 
 They bound ; but swift and blithe, I trow, 
 Their homeward course ; for where was foe, 
 Of earth or hell, 'gainst them to rise, 
 Who were returned from paradise ? 
 
 Nor shield of bark, nor steel, nor lance, 
 Aught may ward the dire mischance. 
 When he slumbers, when he sleeps, 
 Still on head his helm he keeps; 
 Other pillow fits not him, 
 Stern of heart and stout of limb. 
 Broken swords, and spears that fail, 
 And the shattered hauberk's mail, 
 These compose the warrior's treat 
 Of poignant sauce or comfits sweet; 
 And dust he quaffs in fields of death, 
 And quaffs the panting courser's breath 
 When the lusty chase he tries, 
 On foot o'er hill and dale he hies; 
 Lion, rutting hart, or bear, 
 He joys to seek and slaughter there. 
 Wealth to all throughout the land 
 Wide he deals with lavish hand. 
 
 THE GENTLE BACHELOR. 
 
 What gentle bachelor is he, 
 Sword-begot in fighting-field, 
 Rocked and cradled in a shield, 
 Whose infant food a helm did yield? 
 On lion's flesh he makes his feast; 
 Thunder lulls him to his rest; 
 His dragon-front doth all defy, 
 His lion-heart, and libbard-eye, 
 His teeth that like boar's tushes are, 
 His tiger-fierceness, drunk with war. 
 Ponderous as a mace, his fist 
 Down descends where'er it list, — 
 Down, with bolt of thunder's force, 
 Bears to earth both knight and horse. 
 Keener far than falcon's sight, 
 His eye pervades the clouds of fight; 
 And at tourneys 't is his play 
 To change the fortune of the day, 
 Wielding well his helpful arm, 
 Void of fear, as naught might harm. 
 O'er the seas to English ground, 
 Be some rare adventure found, 
 Or to Jura's mount, he hies; 
 These are his festivities. 
 In the fields of battle joined, 
 Like to straws before the wind, 
 All his foes avoid his hand; 
 None that deadly brunt may stand. 
 Him in joust may no man see 
 But still with foot from stirrup free, . 
 Knight and courser casting down 
 Oft with mortal dint o'erthrown ; 
 
 THE PRIEST WHO ATE MULBERRIES. 
 
 Ye lordings all, come lend an ear ; 
 It boots ye naught to chafe or fleer, 
 
 As overgrown with pride : 
 Ye needs must hear Dan Guerin tell 
 What once a certain priest befell, 
 
 To market bent to ride. 
 
 The morn began to shine so bright, 
 When up this priest did leap full light 
 
 And called his folk around : 
 He bade them straight bring out his mare, 
 For he would presently repair 
 
 Unto the market-ground. 
 
 So bent he was on timely speed, 
 
 So pressing seemed his worldly need, 
 
 He weened 't were little wrong 
 If pater-nosters he delayed, 
 And cast for once they should be said 
 
 E'en as he rode along. 
 
 And now with tower and turret near 
 Behold the city's walls appear, 
 
 When, as he turned aside, 
 He chanced in evil hour to see 
 All hard at hand a mulberry-tree 
 
 That spread both far and wide. 
 
 Its berries shone so glossy black, 
 The priest his lips began to smack, 
 
 Full fain to pluck the fruit; 
 But, woe the while ! the trunk was tall, 
 And many a brier and thorn did crawl 
 
 Around that mulberry's root. 
 
 The man, howbe, might not forbear, 
 But reckless all he pricked his mare 
 
 In thickest of the brake ; 
 Then climbed his saddle-bow amain, 
 And tiptoe 'gan to stretch and strain 
 
 Some nether bough to take. 
 
120 FRENCH 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 A nether bough he raught at last ; 
 
 By this were come the remnant rout; 
 
 He with his right hand held it fast, 
 
 With passing toil they plucked him out, 
 
 And with his left him fed : 
 
 And slowly homeward led : 
 
 His sturdy mare abode the shock, 
 
 But, all s9 tattered in his hide, 
 
 And bore, as steadfast as a rock, 
 
 Long is he fain in bed to bide, 
 
 The struggling overhead. 
 
 But little less than dead. 
 
 So feasted long the merry priest, 
 Nor much bethought him of his beast 
 
 
 
 Till hunger's rage was ended ; 
 Then, "Sooth!" quoth he, "whoe'er should 
 
 
 THE LAND OF COKAIGNE. 
 
 cry, 
 'What ho, fair sir ! ' in passing by, 
 
 Well I wot 't is often told, 
 
 Would leave me here suspended." 
 
 Wisdom dwells but with the old ; 
 
 
 Yet do I, of greener age, 
 
 Alack ! for dread of being hanged, 
 
 Boast and bear the name of sage: 
 
 With voice so piercing shrill he twanged 
 
 Briefly, sense was ne'er conferred 
 
 The word of luckless sound, 
 
 By the measure of the beard. 
 
 His beast sprang forward at the cry, 
 
 List, — for now my tale begins, — 
 
 And plumb the priest dropped down from 
 
 How, to rid me of my sins, 
 
 high 
 
 Once I journeyed far from home 
 
 Into the brake profound. 
 
 To the gate of holy Rome : 
 
 
 There the Pope, for my offence, 
 
 There, pricked and .pierced with many a 
 
 Bade me straight, in penance, thence 
 
 thorn, 
 
 Wandering onward, to attain 
 
 And girt with brier, and all forlorn, 
 
 The wondrous land that hight Cokaigne- 
 
 Naught boots him to complain : 
 
 Sooth to say, it was a place 
 
 Well may ye ween how ill bested 
 
 Blessed with Heaven's especial grace; 
 
 He rolled him on that restless bed, 
 
 For every road and every street 
 
 But rolled and roared in vain : 
 
 Smoked with food for man to eat : 
 
 
 Pilgrims there might halt at will, 
 
 For there algates he must abide 
 
 There might sit and feast their fill, 
 
 The glowing noon, the eventide, 
 
 In goodly bowers that lined the way, 
 
 The livelong night and all ; 
 
 Free for all, and naught to pay. 
 
 The whiles with saddle swinging round, 
 
 Through that blissful realm divine 
 
 And bridle trailing on the ground, 
 
 Rolled a sparkling flood of wine ; 
 
 His mare bespoke his fall 
 
 Clear the sky, and soft the air, 
 
 
 For eternal spring was there ; 
 
 O, then his household shrieked for dread, 
 
 And all around, the groves among, 
 
 And weened at least he must be dead ; 
 
 Countless dance and ceaseless song. 
 
 His lady leman swooned : 
 
 
 Eftsoons they hie them all to look 
 
 But the chiefest, choicest treasure, 
 
 If haply in some dell or nook 
 
 In that land of peerless pleasure, 
 
 His body might be found. 
 
 Was a well, to saine the sooth, 
 
 
 Cleped the living well of youth. 
 
 Through all the day they sped their quest; 
 
 There, had numb and feeble age 
 
 The night fled on, they took no rest; 
 
 Crossed you in your pilgrimage, 
 
 Returns the morning hour : 
 
 In those wondrous waters pure 
 
 When, lo ! at peeping of the dawn, 
 
 Laved awhile you found a cure ; 
 
 It chanced a varlet boy was drawn 
 
 Lustihead and youth appears 
 
 Nigh to the mulberry-bower. 
 
 Numbering now but twenty years. 
 
 
 Woe is me, who rue the hour ! 
 
 The woful priest the help descried : 
 
 Once I owned both will and power 
 
 " 0, save my life ! my life ! " he cried, 
 
 To have gained this precious gift ; 
 
 " Enthralled in den profound ! 
 
 But, alas ! of little thrift, 
 
 0, pluck me out, for pity's sake, 
 
 From a kind, o'erflowing heart, 
 
 From this inextricable brake, 
 
 To my fellows to impart 
 
 Begirt with brambles round ! " 
 
 Youth, and joy, and all the lot 
 
 
 Of this rare, enchanted spot, 
 
 " Alas, my lord ! my master dear ! 
 
 Forth I fared, and now in vain 
 
 What ugly chance hath dropped thee here? " 
 
 Seek to find the place again. 
 
 Exclaimed the varlet youth. 
 
 Sore regret I now endure, — 
 
 " 'T was gluttony," the priest replied, 
 
 Sore regret beyond a cure. 
 
 "With peerless folly by her side : 
 
 List, and learn from what is passed, 
 
 But help me straight, for ruth ! " 
 
 Having bliss, to hold it fast. 
 
CHANSONS DE GESTE, LAIS, LEGENDS, AND FABLIAUX. 421 
 
 THE LAY OF BISCLAVERET. 
 
 Marie de France, the author of this and 
 thirteen other lays, was one of the most popu- 
 lar writers of the thirteenth century. She has 
 been called the Sappho of her age. Of her his- 
 tory nothing is known, save that she was born 
 in France, and passed the greater part of her 
 life in England. 
 
 When lays resound, 't would ill beseem 
 Bisclaveret were not a theme : 
 Such is the name by Bretons sung, 
 And Garwal 1 in the Norman tongue; — 
 A man of whom our poets tell, — 
 To many men the lot befell ! — 
 Who in the forest's secret gloom 
 A wolf was destined to become. 
 
 This savage monster in his mood 
 
 Roams through the wood in search of blood, 
 
 Nor man nor beast his rage will spare, 
 
 When wandering near his hideous lair. 
 
 Of such an one shall be my lay, — 
 
 A legend of Bisclaveret. 
 
 In Brittany a knight was known, 
 
 Whose virtues were a wonder grown : 
 
 His form was goodly, and his mind 
 
 With truth endued, with sense refined : 
 
 Valiant, and to his lord sincere, 
 
 And by his neighbours held most dear. 
 
 His lady was of fairest face, 
 
 And seemed all goodness, truth, and grace. 
 
 They lived in mutual love and joy, 
 
 Nor could one thought their peace annoy, 
 
 Save that, three days each week, the knight 
 
 Was absent from his lady's sight, 
 
 Nor knew she where he made repair; 
 
 In vain all questions and all care. 
 
 One evening, as they sat reclined, 
 And rest and music soothed his mind, 
 With winning smiles and arts she strove 
 To gain the secret from his love. 
 "Ah ! is it well," she softly sighed, 
 " Aught from this tender heart to hide ? 
 Fain would I urge, but cannot bear 
 That thy dear brow a frown should wear, 
 Else would I crave so small a boon : 
 'T is idly asked, and granted soon." 
 The gentle knight that lady pressed, 
 And drew her closer to his breast : 
 "What is there, fairest love," he cried, 
 " I ever to thy wish denied ? 
 What may it be I vainly muse 
 That thou couldst ask, and I refuse ? " 
 
 i Garwal is a corruption of the Teutonic Wer-wolf or 
 English Were-wolf, the same as the /.uxai'Spaiw-oc of the 
 Greeks, Man-wolf, Loup-garou, a man who has the power 
 of transforming himself into a wolf. It does not appear 
 that this word, Garwal, has continued in Normandy to our 
 time ; neither is that of Bisclaveret found among Bretons, 
 who stil/ say Denbleis (Man-wolf). 
 
 " Gramercy," said the artful dame, 
 
 " My kindest lord, the boon I claim. 
 
 O, in those days, to sorrow known, 
 
 When left by thee in tears alone, 
 
 What fears, what torments wound my heart, 
 
 Musing in vain why thus we part ! 
 
 If I should lose thee ! if no more 
 
 The evening should thy form restore ! — 
 
 O, 't is too much ! I cannot bear 
 
 The pangs of such continued care ! 
 
 Tell me, where go'st thou ? — who is she 
 
 Who keeps my own dear lord from me ? 
 
 For 't is too plain, thou lov'st me not, 
 
 And in her arms I am forgot ! " 
 
 "Lady," he said, "by Heaven above, 
 
 No deed of mine has wronged thy love. 
 
 But, were the fatal secret thine, 
 
 Destruction, death, perchance were mine." 
 
 Then pearly tears that lady shed, 
 
 And sorrow bowed her lovely head ; 
 
 And every grace, and art, and wile, 
 
 Each fond caress, each gentle smile, 
 
 She lavished on her lord, who strove 
 
 In vain against her seeming love, 
 
 Till all the secret was revealed, 
 
 And not the slightest thought concealed : 
 
 "Know, then, a truth which shuns the day, 
 
 I am a foul Bisclaveret ! 
 
 Close sheltered in my wild retreat, 
 My loathsome food I daily eat, 
 And, deep within yon hated wood, 
 I live on rapine and on blood ! " 
 
 Faint grew that pale and lovely dame, 
 
 A shudder crept o'er all her frame ; 
 
 But yet she urged her questions still, 
 
 Mindless but of her eager will, 
 
 To know if, ere the change was made, 
 
 Clothed or unclad he sought the shade. 
 
 " Unclad, in savage guise I range, 
 
 Till to my wolfish shape I change." 
 
 " Where are thy vestments then concealed ? ' 
 
 "That, lady, may not be revealed, — 
 
 For, should I lose them, or some eye 
 
 Where they are hid presume to pry, 
 
 Bisclaveret I should remain, 
 
 Nor ever gaze on thee again, 
 
 Till he who caused the fetal harm 
 
 Restored them and dissolved the charm." 
 
 "Alas!" she said, "my lord, my life, 
 
 Am I not thine, thy soul, thy wife ? 
 
 Thou canst not doubt me, yet I feel 
 
 I die if thou the truth conceal. 
 
 Ah ! is thy confidence so small, 
 
 That thou shouldst pause, nor tell me all? " 
 
 Long, long she strove, and he denied ; 
 
 Entreaties, prayers, and tears were tried, 
 
 Till, vanquished, wearied, and distressed, 
 
 He thus the fatal truth confessed : 
 
 " Deep in the forest's awful shade 
 
 Has chance a frightful cavern made; 
 
 A ruined chapel moulders near, 
 
 Where oft is shed my secret tear : 
 
422 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 There, close beside a hollow stone, 
 With rank and bushy weeds o'ergrown, 
 My garments lie, till I repair, 
 My trial past, to seek them there." 
 
 The lady heard the wondrous tale, 
 
 Her cheek now flushed, now deadly pale ; 
 
 And many a day and fearful night, 
 
 Pondered with horror and affright. 
 
 Fain would she the adventure try, 
 
 Whose thought drove slumber from her eye. 
 
 She dared not seek the wood alone, — 
 
 To whom, then, could she make it known ? 
 
 A knight there was, whose passion long 
 Had sought the hapless lord to wrong; 
 But coldly from his vows she turned, 
 And all his feigning ardor spurned. 
 Yet now, a prey to evil's power, 
 She sought him, in a luckless hour, 
 And swore a deadly oath of love, 
 So he would the adventure prove : 
 The wood's recess, the cave, the stone, 
 All to his willing ear made known ; 
 And bade him seize the robes with speed, 
 And she should be the victor's meed. 
 
 Thus man, by too much trust betrayed, 
 Too often is a victim made ! 
 
 Great search was made the country round, 
 But trace was none, nor tidings found ; 
 All deemed the gallant knight was dead, — 
 And his false dame again was wed. 
 
 Scarce had the year attained an end, 
 
 The king would to the greenwood wend, 
 
 Where, 'midst the leafy covert lay 
 
 The fierce and fell Bisclaveret. 
 
 Soon as the hounds perceive the foe, 
 
 Forward at once with yells they go; 
 
 The hunters urge them on amain, 
 
 And soon the Garwal had been slain, 
 
 But, springing to the monarch's knee, 
 
 Seemed to implore his clemency : 
 
 His stirrup held, embraced his feet, 
 
 And urged his suit with gestures meet. 
 
 The king, with wondering pity moved, 
 
 His hunters called, his hounds reproved : 
 
 " 'T is strange," he said ; " this beast, indeed, 
 
 With human reason seems to plead. 
 
 Who may this marvel clearly see ? — 
 
 Call off the dogs, and set him free ; 
 
 And, mark me, let no subject dare 
 
 To touch his life which thus I spare. 
 
 Let us away, nor more intrude 
 
 On this strange creature's solitude ; 
 
 And from this time I 'II come no more 
 
 This forest's secrets to explore." 
 
 The king then rode in haste away; 
 
 But, following still, Bisclaveret 
 
 Kept ever closely by his side ; 
 
 Nor could the pitying monarch chide, 
 
 But led him to his castle fair, 
 
 Whose goodly towers rose high in air 
 
 There staid the Garwal, and apace 
 Grew dearer in the monarch's grace, 
 And all his train he bade beware, 
 To tend and to entreat him fair; 
 Nor murmured they, — for, though unbound 
 He still was mild and gentle found. 
 Couched at his master's feet he lay, 
 And with the barons loved to stay; 
 Whene'er the king abroad would werid, 
 Still with him went his faithful friend : 
 In hall or bower, at game or feast, 
 So much he loved the gallant beast. 
 
 It chanced the king proclaimed a court, 
 Where all his barons made resort ; 
 Not one would from the presence stay, 
 But came in rich and bright array ; 
 Among them, he who with his wife 
 Had practised on the Garwal's life. 
 He, all unconscious, paced along 
 Amidst that gay and gallant throng, 
 Nor deemed his steps that fatal day 
 Watched by the sad Bisclaveret. 
 With sudden bound on him he flew, 
 And towards him by his fangs he drew; 
 Nor would have spared him, but the king, 
 With angry words and menacing, 
 Forbade the vengeance which had straight 
 Dealt to the trembling wretch his fate. 
 Much marvel all, and wondering own 
 He ne'er before so fell was known : 
 Why single out this knight from all ? 
 Why on him thus so fiercely fall ? 
 In much amaze each went his way, 
 But pondered on it many a day. 
 
 The king next eve the forest sought, 
 Where first Bisclaveret was caught, 
 There to forget the toils of state 
 That on a monarch's splendor wait. 
 The guilty wife, with false intent 
 And artful wiles, to meet him went, 
 Apparelled in her richest guise, 
 To draw on her admiring eyes: 
 Rich presents brought she in her train, 
 And sought an audience to gain. 
 When she approached Bisclaveret, 
 No power his vengeance could allay : 
 With hideous howl he darted forth 
 Towards the fair object of his wrath, 
 And soon her false but beauteous face 
 Of deadly fury bore the trace : 
 All rush to stanch the dreadful wound, 
 And blows and shouts assail him round. 
 
 Then spoke a learned and reverend sage, 
 Renowned for wisdom, gray with age : 
 " Sire, let the beast receive no wrong ; 
 Has he not here been harboured long, 
 And never, even in sport, been seen 
 To show or cruelty or spleen ? 
 This lady and her lord alone 
 The fury of his ire have known. 
 Twice has the lady been a wife; — 
 How her first lord was reft of life, 
 
CHANSONS DE GESTE, LAIS, LEGENDS, AND FABLIAUX. 42b 
 
 For whom each baron sorrows still, 
 
 Breeds in my mind some fear of ill. 
 
 Question the wounded dame, and try 
 
 If we may solve this mystery ; 
 
 I know, by long experience taught, 
 
 Are wondrous things in Bretagne wrought." 
 
 The king the sage advice approved, 
 
 And bade the lady be removed, 
 
 And captive held till she should tell 
 
 All that her former lord befell : 
 
 Her guilty spouse they seek with speed, 
 
 And to a separate dungeon lead. 
 
 'T was then, subdued by pain and fear, 
 
 The fearful tale she bade them hear ; 
 
 How she her lord sought to betray, 
 
 And stole his vestments where they lay, 
 
 So that for him the hope were vain 
 
 To gain his human form again. 
 
 Her deed of treachery displayed, 
 
 All pause, with anxious thought dismayed ; 
 
 Then each to each began to say, 
 
 " It is the beast Bisclaveret ! " 
 
 Soon are the fatal vestments brought, — 
 
 Straight is the hapless Garwal sought ; 
 
 Close in his sight the robes they place, 
 
 But, all unmoved, and slow his pace, 
 
 He heeds not as he passes by, 
 
 Nor casts around a curious eye. 
 
 All marvel, save the sage alone, — 
 
 The cause is to his prescience known : 
 
 " Hope not," he said, " by means so plain 
 
 The transformation to obtain. 
 
 Deep shame and grief the act attend, 
 
 And secrecy its aid must lend ; 
 
 And to no vulgar mortal eye 
 
 'T is given to view this mystery. 
 
 Close, then, each gate, — be silence round, — 
 
 And let a hollow stone be found ; 
 
 Choose ye a solitary room, — 
 
 Shade each recess with deepest gloom ; 
 
 Spread forth the robes, — let none intrude, — 
 
 And leave the beast to solitude." 
 
 All that the sage advised was done. 
 And now the shades of night were gone, 
 When towards the spot, with eager haste, 
 The king and all his barons passed : 
 There, when they oped the guarded door, 
 They saw Bisclaveret no more, — 
 But on a couch, in slumber deep, 
 Beheld the uncharmed knight asleep ! 
 
 With shouts of joy the halls resound ; 
 The news soon spreads the country round ; 
 No more condemned to woe and shame, 
 He wakes to life, to joy, and fame ! 
 Admired, caressed, 'midst hosts of friends, 
 At once his lingering torment ends. 
 His lands restored, his foes o'erthrown, 
 Their treacherous arts to all made known : 
 The guilty pair condemned to fly 
 To banishment and infamy. 
 
 'T is said their lineage to all time 
 
 Shall bear a mark that speaks their crime ; 
 
 Deep wounds and scars their faces grave, 
 
 Such as the furious Garwal gave. 
 
 And well in Brittany is known 
 
 The wondrous tale my lay has shown ; 
 
 Nor shall the record fade away, 
 
 That tells us of Bisclaveret. 
 
 FROM THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE. 
 
 Towards the middle of the thirteenth centu- 
 ry, flourished Guillaume de Lorris, whom Marot 
 called the French Ennius. French literature 
 owes to his genius the commencement of " The 
 Romaunt of the Rose," a poem remarkable for 
 the brilliant fancy and easy versification it dis- 
 plays, and still more remarkable as standing 
 preeminent above all others of its time. 
 
 " The Romaunt of the Rose " is an allegorical 
 poem, in which sacred history is mingled with 
 fable, and the morals of a licentious age are 
 satirized with unsparing severity. The main 
 subject is the art of love ; or, as the author 
 informs us, at the commencement of the work, 
 " Ce est li Rommanz de la Roze, 
 Ou I'art d'amors est tote enclose." 
 
 The death of Guillaume de Lorris is sup- 
 posed to have taken place about the year 1261. 
 Forty years after, "The Romaunt of the Rose " 
 was completed by Jean de Meun. To this 
 man has been yielded the palm not only of 
 being the greatest poet, but likewise of being 
 one of the most learned men of his age. He 
 died about the year 1320. Having been the 
 scourge of the hypocrisy of the priests during 
 his life, one of his last acts was a practical sat- 
 ire upon their cupidity. In his will he be- 
 queathed to a convent of Dominican friars a 
 large chest, which was not to be opened till 
 after the death of the testator. Supposing, from 
 its great weight, that it was full of valuable 
 effects, they gave the poet an honorable burial 
 in their convent. No sooner were the funeral 
 obsequies over, than they opened the strong- 
 box with eager curiosity, and found it full, not 
 of money and precious articles, but of large 
 squares of slate, covered with inexplicable math- 
 ematical figures and diagrams. 
 
 The limits of this work render it impossible 
 to give extracts from that part of " The Ro- 
 maunt of the Rose " of which Meun was the 
 author. Many portions of it are very beautiful ; 
 particularly the description of the Loves of the 
 Golden Age, when 
 
 " Les oyseaux en leur latin 
 S'estudient chascun matin." 
 
 Within my twentie yeere of age, 
 When that love taketh his courage 
 Of younge folke, I wente soone 
 To bed, as I was wont to doone • 
 
424 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 And fast I slept : and in sleeping, 
 Me meice such a swevening, 1 
 That liked me wondrous wele : 
 But in that sweven is never a dele 2 
 That it n'is 3 afterward befall, 
 Right as this dreame woll tell us all. 
 
 Now this dreame woll I rime aright, 
 To make your heartes gay and light: 
 For love it prayeth, and also 
 Commaundeth me, that it be so. 
 
 And if there any aske me, 
 Whether that it be he or she, 
 How this booke which is here 
 Shall hatte, 4 that I rede 6 you here : 
 It is the Romaunt of the Rose, 
 In which all the art of love I close. 
 
 The matter faire is of to make : 
 God graunt me in gree 6 that she it take 
 For whom that it begonnen 7 is : 
 And that is she that hath ywis 8 
 So mokel prise, 9 and thereto she 
 So worthie is beloved to be, 
 That she wel ought, of prise and right, 
 Be cleped Rose of everie wight. 
 That it was May me thoughte tho, 10 
 It is five yere or more ago, 
 That it was May, thus dreamed me, 
 In time of love and jolitie, 
 That all thing ginneth waxen gay : 
 For there is neither buske " nor hay 
 In May, that it n'ill 12 shrouded bene, 
 And it with newe leves wrene : 13 
 These woodes eke recoveren grene, 
 That drie in winter ben to sene, 
 And the erth waxeth proud withall, 
 For swote 14 dewes that on it fall, 
 And the poore estate forget, 
 In which that winter had it set: 
 And than 15 become the ground so proude, 
 That it wol have a newe shroude, 
 And maketh so queint his robe and faire, 
 That it had hewes an hundred paire, 
 Of grasse and floures, of Inde and Pers, 
 And many hewes full divers : 
 That is the robe I mean ywis, 
 Through which the ground to praisen is. 
 
 The birdes, that han left hir 16 song, 
 While they han sufFred cold full strong, 
 In wethers grille, 17 and derke to sight, 
 Ben in May, for the sunne bright, 
 So glad, that they shew, in singing, 
 That in hir heart is such liking, 
 That they mote singen and ben light : 
 Than doth the nightingale her might 
 To maken noyse and singen blithe : 
 Than is blisfull many a sithe, 18 
 
 1 Dreaming. s Much praise. 
 
 2 Never a bit, nothing at all. i" Then. 
 
 3 For nt is, is not. J1 Bush. 
 
 4 Be named. 12 For ne will, will not. 
 
 5 Advise, explain. 13 Covered. 
 
 6 Pleasure, good will; to 14 Sweet. 
 take in gree, to take in good 15 Then. 
 part. 16 Their. 
 
 1 Begun. 17 Dreadful, horrible. 
 
 8 Certainly. is Time. 
 
 The chelaundre, 19 and the popingaye: 
 Than younge folke entenden 20 aye, 
 For to ben gay and amorous, 
 The time is then so savorous. 21 
 
 Harde is his heart that loveth nought 
 In May, whan all this mirth is wrought, 
 Whan he may on these braunches here 22 
 The smalle birdes singen clere 
 Hir blisfull swete song piteous, 
 And in this season delitous : 
 When love afRrmeth all thing, 
 Me thought one night, in my sleeping 
 Right in my bed full readyly, 
 That it was by the morrow 23 early, 
 And up I rose, and gan me cloth, 
 Anone I wysshe 24 mine hondes 25 both, 
 A silver needle forth I drow 
 Out of an aguiler 26 queint ynow, 
 And gan this needle thread anone, 
 For out of towne me list to gone, 
 The sound of birdes for to heare 
 That on the buskes singen cleare, 
 In the swete season that lefe is : 
 With a thred basting my slevis, 
 Alone I went in my playing, 
 The smal foules song hearkening, 
 That payned hem 27 full many a paire 
 To sing on bowes blossomed faire : 
 Jolife 28 and gay, full of gladnesse, 
 Toward a river gan I me dresse, 29 
 That I heard renne 30 faste by, 
 For fairer playeng 31 none saw 1 
 Than playen me by the rivere : 
 For from an hill, that stood there nere, 
 Come downe the stream full stifFe and bold, 
 Clere was the water, and as cold 
 As any well is, sooth to saine, 32 
 And somedele lasse 33 it was than Saine, 
 But it was straiter, weleaway, 
 And never saw I, ere that day, 
 The water that so wele liked me, 
 And wonder 34 glad was I to se 
 That lusty 35 place, and that rivere : 
 And with that water, that ran so clere, 
 My face I wysshe, tho saw I wele 
 The bottome ypaved 36 everidele 3T 
 With gravel, full of stones shene : 3S 
 The meadowes softe, sote, 39 and grene, 
 Beet right upon the water side: 
 Full clere was than the morowe tide, 
 And full attempre 40 out of drede : 41 
 Tho gan I walken thorow the mede, 
 Downward aye, in my playing, 
 The rivers side coosting. 
 
 1 9 Goldfinch. 
 
 20 Listen to, attend. 
 
 21 Sweet, pleasant. 
 
 22 Hear. 
 
 23 In the morning. 
 
 24 Washed. 
 
 25 Hands. 
 
 26 Needle-case. 
 
 27 Pained themselves, that 
 is, took great pains or trouble. 
 
 28 Joyful. 
 
 29 To address, turn towards. 
 
 30 Run. 
 
 31 Enjoyment, enjoying. 
 
 32 To say the truth. 
 
 33 Somewhat less. 
 
 34 Wonderfully, very. 
 
 35 Pleasant. 
 
 36 Paved. 
 
 37 Entirely, every part. 
 
 38 Bright, beautiful. 
 
 39 Sweet. 
 
 40 Temperate. 
 
 41 Without doubt. 
 
LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUVERES. 
 
 42(S 
 
 II. — LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUVERES. 
 
 LE CHATELAIN DE COUCY. 
 
 The Chatelain de Coucy lived towards the 
 end of the twelfth century. His passion for the 
 Dame de Fayel, and its tragical result, are very 
 characteristic of the age. Learning that his 
 mistress was about to accompany her husband 
 to the Holy Land, he took the cross to follow 
 her. The husband, informed of the feelings of 
 his wife towards Coucy, forbade her departure. 
 The Chatelain distinguished himself by his 
 valor at Ascalon and Caesarea ; but having been 
 dangerously wounded, he left the war, to see 
 once more the object of his love. He died on 
 the homeward passage ; but before breathing 
 his last, he charged his squire to embalm his 
 heart, and to convey it to his mistress. The 
 squire was intercepted by the jealous lord, who 
 ordered his cook to prepare the heart and serve 
 it up for his wife. The Dame de Fayel, in- 
 formed by her barbarous husband that she had 
 just eaten the heart of her lover, died of de- 
 spair. This tradition is the subject of a beau- 
 tiful ballad by Uhland. The proud device of 
 the family of De Coucy was, 
 "Ne prince je suis, 
 
 Ni comte aussi, 
 
 Mais le Sire de Coucy." 
 
 My wandering thoughts awake to love anew, 
 
 And bid me rise to sing the fairest fair 
 That e'er before the world of beauty knew, 
 
 That e'er kind Nature made her darling care : 
 And when, entranced, on all her charms I muse, 
 All themes but that alone my lays refuse; 
 Each wish my soul can form is hers alone, — 
 My heart, my joys, my feelings all her own ! 
 
 Since first my trembling heart became a prey, 
 
 I have no power to turn me back again ; 
 At once I yield me to that passion's sway, 
 
 Nor idly seek its impulse to restrain. 
 If she, who is all sweetness, truth, and joy, 
 Were cold or fickle, were she proud or coy, 
 I might my tender hopes at once resign : 
 But not, thank Heaven ! so sad a lot is mine ! 
 
 If aught I blame, 't is my hard fate alone, — 
 
 Not those soft eyes, those gentle looks of thine, 
 On which I gazed till all my peace was gone ! 
 
 Not at their dear perfection I repine, — 
 I cannot blame that form, all winning grace, 
 That fairy hand, that lip, that lovely face ; 
 All I can beg is that she love me more, 
 That I may live still longer to adore ! 
 
 Yes, all I ask of thee, O lady dear, 
 
 Is but what purest love may hope to find ; 
 
 And if thine eyes, whose crystal light so clear 
 Reflects thy thoughts, be not to me unkind, 
 54 
 
 Well may'st thou see, by every mournful lay, 
 
 By all I ever look, or sigh, or say, 
 
 That I am thine, devoted to thy will, 
 
 And, 'midst my sadness, fondly thank thee stil* 
 
 I thank thee, even for these secret sighs, 
 
 For all the mournful thoughts that on thee 
 dwell; 
 For as thou bad'st them in my bosom rise, 
 Thou canst revive their sweetest hopes as 
 well, — 
 The blissful remedy for all my woe 
 In those dear eyes, that gentle voice, I know: 
 Should Fate forbid my soul to love thee more, 
 My life, alas ! would with my grief be o'er. 
 
 To thee my heart, my wishes, I resign : 
 I am thine own, — O lady dear, be mine ! 
 
 The first approach of the sweet spring 
 
 Returning here once more, — 
 The memory of the love that holds 
 
 In my fond heart such power, — 
 The thrush again his song essaying, — 
 The little rills o'er pebbles playing, 
 
 And sparkling as they fall, — 
 
 The memory recall 
 Of her on whom my heart's desire 
 Is, shall be, fixed till I expire. 
 
 With every season fresh and new 
 
 That love is more inspiring : 
 Her eyes, her face, all bright with joy, — 
 
 Her coming, her retiring, — 
 Her faithful words, — her winning ways, — 
 That sweet look, kindling up the blaze 
 
 Of love, so gently still, 
 
 To wound, but not to kill, — 
 So that when most I weep and sigh, 
 So much the higher springs my joy. 
 
 HUGUES D'ATHIES. 
 
 Hug0es d'Athies lived in the latter half of 
 the twelfth century. He held the office of Grand 
 Panetier, or Pantler, in the household of Philip 
 Augustus, and afterwards of Louis the Eighth. 
 
 Fool ! who from choice can spend his hours 
 Sowing the barren sand with flowers ; — 
 And yet more weak, more foolish you, 
 Who see-k a fickle fair to woo. 
 
 No certain rule her course presents ; 
 Quickly she loves, as quick repents : 
 Her smiles shall naught but grief confer 
 On him who vainly trusts in her. 
 jj2 
 
426 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 The valiant knight her love may boast, 
 But soon shall rue his labor lost ; 
 His fate the mariner's shall be, 
 Braving untoward gales at sea. 
 
 Fit wooer he for such an one 
 The flatterer, with his wily tongue, 
 Who knows the way, by shrewd address, 
 To crown his purpose with success. 
 
 THIBAUD DE BLAZON 
 
 Thibaud de Blazon lived early in the thir- 
 teenth century. He was attached to the ser- 
 vice of Thibaud, the poetical king of Navarre, 
 and wrote twenty-seven songs. 
 
 I am to blame ! — Why should I sing ? 
 
 My lays 't were better to forget ; 
 Each day to others joy may bring, — 
 
 They can but give to me regret ! 
 Love makes my heart so full of woe, 
 
 That naught can please or soothe me more, 
 Unless the cruel cause would show 
 
 Less coldness than I found of yore. 
 Yet wherefore all my cares repeat ? 
 Love's woes, though painful, still are sweet. 
 I am to blame ! 
 
 I am to blame! — Was I not born 
 
 To serve and love her all my life ? 
 Although my recompense is scorn, 
 
 And all my care with pain is rife, — 
 Yet should I die, nor ever know 
 
 What 't is to be beloved again ; 
 At least, my silent life shall show 
 
 How patiently I bore my chain. 
 Then wherefore all my griefs repeat ? 
 Love's woes, though painful, still are sweet. 
 I am to blame ! 
 
 THIBAUD, KING OF NAVARRE. 
 
 This prince was born in 1201, a few months 
 after the death of his father, Thibaud the Third, 
 count of Champagne. During his minority, his 
 states were governed by Blanche of Navarre, 
 his mother. He was educated at the court of 
 Philip Augustus. In 1234, he succeeded his 
 maternal uncle, Sancho, as king of Navarre, 
 and, in 1239, embarked for the East, to take 
 part in the crusade. On his return from this 
 expedition two years after, he devoted himself 
 to the government of his dominions, and made 
 himself deeply beloved by his subjects. He 
 cultivated literature, filled his court with those 
 who were distinguished in poetry, and loaded 
 them with benefits. His poetical talent pro- 
 cured him the name of the Song-maker. He 
 died at Pampeluna, in 1253. His works were 
 published by La Ravalliere, in two volumes, 
 12mo., Paris, 1742. 
 
 Lady, the fates command, and I must go, — 
 
 Leaving the pleasant land so dear to me : 
 Here my heart suffered many a heavy woe ; 
 
 But what is left to love, thus leaving thee ? 
 Alas ! that cruel land beyond the sea ! 
 
 Why thus dividing many a faithful heart, 
 Never again from pain and sorrow free, 
 
 Never again to meet, when thus they part? 
 
 I see not, when thy presence bright I leave, 
 
 How wealth, or joy, or peace can be my 
 lot; 
 Ne'er yet my spirit found such cause to grieve 
 
 As now in leaving thee ; and if thy thought 
 Of me in absence should be sorrow-fraught, 
 
 Oft will my heart repentant turn to thee, 
 Dwelling, in fruitless wishes, on this spot, 
 
 And all the gracious words here said to me. 
 
 O gracious God ! to thee I bend my knee, 
 
 For thy sake yielding all I love and prize ; 
 And O, how mighty must that influence be, 
 
 That steals me thus from all my cherished 
 joys ! 
 Here, ready, then, myself surrendering, 
 
 Prepared to serve thee, I submit; and ne'er 
 To one so faithful could I service bring, 
 
 So kind a master, so beloved and dear. 
 
 And strong my ties, — my grief unspeakable ! 
 
 Grief, all my choicest treasures to resign ; 
 Yet stronger still the affections that impel 
 My heart toward Him, the God whose love 
 is mine. 
 That holy love, how beautiful ! how strong ! 
 Even wisdom's favorite sons take refuge 
 there ; 
 'T is the redeeming gem that shines among 
 Men's darkest thoughts, — for ever bright and 
 fair. 
 
 GACE BRULEZ. 
 
 Gace Brulez, called in some of the manu- 
 scripts Gaste Ble, flourished in the first half of 
 the thirteenth century. He was the friend of 
 Thibaud, and one of the most pleasing poets of 
 his age. Most of his songs, amounting to sev- 
 enty-nine in number, are addressed to a lady 
 whose name is not given. Some of them were 
 attributed to the kins of Navarre. 
 
 The birds, the birds of mine own land 
 
 I heard in Brittany; 
 And as they sung, they seemed to me 
 The very same I heard with thee. 
 And if it were indeed a dream, 
 Such thoughts they taught my soul to frame, 
 That straight a plaintive number came, 
 
 Which still shall be my song, 
 Till that reward is mine which love hath prom- 
 ised long. 
 
LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUVERES. 
 
 427 
 
 RAOUL, COMTE DE SOISSONS. 
 
 Raoul de Soissons was a contemporary and 
 friend of Thibaud, king of Navarre, who gives 
 him, in his songs, the title of Sire de Vertus. 
 A similar taste for poetry bound them in the 
 closest friendship. Raoul de Soissons is sup- 
 posed to be the same as Henri de Soissons, who 
 followed St. Louis to the Holy Land, was taken 
 prisoner at the battle of Massura in 1250, and 
 composed verses on his captivity. 
 
 Ah ! beauteous maid, 
 
 Of form so fair ! 
 Pearl of the world, 
 
 Beloved and dear ! 
 How does my spirit eager pine 
 But once to press those lips of thine !- 
 Yes, beauteous maid, 
 
 Of form so fair ! 
 Pearl of the world, 
 
 Beloved and dear ! 
 
 And if the theft 
 
 Thine ire awake, 
 A hundred fold 
 
 I 'd give it back, — 
 Thou beauteous maid, 
 
 Of form so fair ! 
 Pearl of the world, 
 
 Beloved and dear ! 
 
 JAQUES DE CHISON. 
 
 This poet lived about the middle of the thir- 
 teenth century. He composed songs full of 
 grace and feeling, and is considered one of the 
 most distinguished bards of this period ; but 
 nothing further is known of his life. 
 
 When the sweet days of summer come at last, 
 And leaves and flowers are in the forest 
 springing ; 
 When the cold time of winter 's overpast, 
 And every bird his own sweet song is singing; 
 Then will I sing, 
 And joyous be, 
 Of careless heart, 
 Elate and free ; 
 For she, my lady sweet and sage, 
 Bids me, as ever wont, engage 
 In joyful mood to be. 
 
 Nor is it yet the spirit of the season, — 
 
 The summer time, — that makes my song so 
 
 gay; 
 
 But softer thoughts, and yet a sweeter reason, — 
 Love, — that o'er all my happy heart hath 
 
 sway ; 
 
 That with delight my soul will ceaseless turn 
 Toward her I ween of all the world the best : 
 
 And if my songs be sweet, well may they learn 
 Sweetness from her whose love my heart has 
 blest. 
 
 And since that love is rightfully my boon, 
 
 Well may I hold her chief within my soul, 
 Who helps my numbers, gives me song and tune, 
 
 And her own grace diffuses o'er the whole. 
 For when I think of those dear eyes of hers, 
 
 Whence the bright light of love is ever break- 
 ing, 
 Delight and hope that happy thought confers, 
 
 And I am blest beyond the power of speaking. 
 
 DOETE DE TROIES. 
 
 This poetess is mentioned in the "Bible 
 Guyot de Provins," as having been present at 
 the court of the Emperor Conrad, at Mentz. 
 
 "De Troye la bele Doete 
 Y chantait cette chansonette, 
 ' Quant revient la saison 
 Que l'herbe reverdoie.' " 
 
 When comes the beauteous summer time, 
 
 And grass grows green once more, 
 And sparkling brooks the meadows lave 
 
 With fertilizing power; 
 And when the birds rejoicing sing 
 
 Their pleasant songs again, 
 Filling the vales and woodlands gay 
 
 With their enlivening strain; — 
 Go not at eve nor morn, fair maids, 
 
 Unto the mead alone, 
 To seek the tender violets blue, 
 
 And pluck them for your own ; 
 For there a snake lies hid, whose fangs 
 
 May leave untouched the keel, 
 But not the less, — O, not the less, 
 
 Your hearts his power shall feel ! 
 
 BARBE DE VERRUE. 
 
 This lady is said to have received her name 
 from a Comte de Verrue, by whom she was 
 adopted. The romance of " Aucassin et Nico- 
 lette " is attributed to her. 
 
 The wise man sees his winter close 
 Like evening on a summer day ; 
 
 Each age, he knows, its roses bears, 
 Its mournful moments and its gay. 
 
 Thus would I dwell with pleasing thought 
 Upon my spring of youthful pride ; 
 
 Yet, like the festive dancer, glad 
 To rest in peace at eventide. 
 
428 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 The gazing crowds proclaimed me fair, 
 Ere, autumn-touched, my green leaves fell : 
 
 And now they smile, and call me good; — 
 Perhaps I like that name as well. 
 
 On beauty bliss depends not ; then 
 
 Why should I quarrel with old Time ? 
 
 He marches on : — how vain his power 
 With one whose heart is in its prime ! 
 
 Though now, perhaps, a little old, 
 Yet still I love with youth to bide; 
 
 Nor grieve I, if the gay coquettes 
 Seduce the gallants from my side. 
 
 And I can joy to see the nymphs 
 
 For favorite swains their chaplets twine, 
 
 In gardens trim, and bowers so green, 
 With flowerets sweet and eglantine. 
 
 I love to see a pair defy 
 
 The noontide heat in yonder shade ; 
 To hear the village song of love 
 
 Sweet echoing through the woodland glade. 
 
 I joy, too, — though the idle crew 
 
 Mock somewhat at my lengthened tale, — 
 
 To see how lays of ancient loves 
 The listening circle round regale. 
 
 They fancy time for them stands still, 
 
 And pity me my hairs of gray ; 
 And smile to hear how once their sires 
 
 To me could kneeling homage pay. 
 
 And I, too, smile, to gaze upon 
 These butterflies in youth elate, 
 
 So heedless, sporting round the flame 
 
 Where thousand such have met their fate. 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF THE 
 LOVE. 
 
 PARADISE OF 
 
 The romance entitled " The Paradise of 
 Love," from which the following song is taken, 
 belongs to the thirteenth century. An abridg- 
 ment of it was published by Le Grand d'Aussy, 
 and a free translation by Mr. Way. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! 
 Thou merry lark ! 
 Reckless thou how I may pine ! 
 
 Would but love my vows befriend, 
 To my warm embraces send 
 That sweet fair one, 
 Brightest, dear one, 
 Then my joy might equal thine. 
 
 Hark! hark! 
 Thou merry lark ! 
 Reckless thou how I may pine ! 
 Let love, tyrant, work his will, 
 Plunging me in anguish still : 
 Whatsoe'er 
 May be my care, 
 True shall bide this heart of mine. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! 
 
 Thou merry lark ! 
 Reckless thou what griefs are mine ! 
 Come, relieve my heart's distress ; 
 Though, in truth, the pain is less, 
 
 That she frown, 
 
 Than if unknown 
 She for whom I ceaseless pine. 
 
 Hark! hark! 
 
 Thou merry lark ! 
 Reckless thou how I may pine ! 
 
 III. — LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 
 
 GUILLAUME, COMTE DE POITOU. 
 
 Guillaume IX., Comte de Poitou, and Due 
 d'Aquitaine, commonly called William, Count 
 of Poictiers, was born in 1071. He is thought 
 to be the oldest of the Troubadours whose 
 works have been preserved. He was distin- 
 guished by the beauty of his person, his ex- 
 quisite voice, and his bravery. He died in 
 1122. His remaining pieces, nine in number, 
 are marked by facility and elegance of versi- 
 fication ; but several of them are rather licen- 
 tious in their character. 
 
 Anew I tune my lute to love, 
 
 Ere storms disturb the tranquil hour, 
 
 For her who strives my truth to prove, 
 My only pride and beauty's flower, — 
 
 But who will ne'er my pain remove, 
 
 Who knows and triumphs in her power. 
 
 I am, alas! her willing thrall ; 
 
 She may record me as her own ; 
 Nor my devotion weakness call, 
 
 That her I prize, and her alone. 
 Without her can I live at all, 
 
 A captive so accustomed grown ? 
 
 What hope have I, O lady dear? 
 
 Do I, then, sigh in vain for thee? 
 And wilt thou, ever thus severe, 
 
 Be as a cloistered nun to me ? 
 Methinks this heart but ill can bear 
 
 An unrewarded slave to be ! 
 
 Why banish love and joy thy bowers, — 
 Why thus my passion disapprove, — 
 
 When, lady, all the world were ours, 
 If thou couldst learn, like me, to lover 
 
LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 
 
 429 
 
 PIERRE ROGIERS. 
 
 This Troubadour lived about the middle of 
 the twelfth century. He was canon of Cler- 
 mont, but, not finding the monastic life agreea- 
 ble to his taste, he renounced it for the pursuits 
 of poet and courtier. He was attracted to the 
 court of Ermengarde, the daughter and heiress 
 of Aimeri II., Vicomte de Narbonne. He be- 
 came the poetical, and perhaps the real, lover 
 of this princess, and celebrated her in his 
 poems under the name of Tort-rCavetz. He 
 was dismissed from her court on account of 
 the malicious comments of the gossips, and re- 
 tired to that of Rambaud d'Orange. Afterwards, 
 he lived successively at the courts of Alphonso 
 the Second, king of Aragon, and of Raimond 
 the Fifth, count of Toulouse. At length he 
 wholly withdrew from the world, and entered 
 the monastery of Grammont, where he died. 
 
 Who has not looked upon her brow 
 Has never dreamed of perfect bliss • 
 
 But once to see her is to know 
 What beauty, what perfection, is. 
 
 Her charms are of the growth of heaven, 
 She decks the night with hues of day : 
 
 Blest are the eyes to which 't is given 
 On her to gaze the soul away ! 
 
 GEOFFROI RUDEL. 
 
 Geoffroi Rudel, prince of Blaye, near Bor- 
 deaux, lived in the last half of the twelfth cen- 
 tury. He was the friend and favorite of Geof- 
 frey Plantagenet, the elder brother of Richard 
 Coeur-de-Lion, and resided some time at the 
 court of England. It was during this period 
 of his life that he fell desperately in love with 
 a certain countess of Tripoli, whose beauty, 
 grace, and munificent hospitality were cele- 
 brated by the pilgrims and crusaders, returning 
 from the Holy Land. The story is gracefully 
 told by Mrs. Jameson, in the "Loves of the 
 Poets," pp. 26, 27. 
 
 "These reports of her beauty and her benefi- 
 cence, constantly repeated, fired the susceptible 
 fancy of Rudel : without having seen her, he 
 fell passionately in love with her, and, unable 
 to bear any longer the torments of absence, he 
 undertook a pilgrimage to visit this unknown 
 lady of his love, in company with Bertrand 
 d'Allamanon, another celebrated Troubadour of 
 those days. He quitted the English court in 
 spite of the entreaties and expostulations of 
 Prince Geoffrey Plantagenet, and sailed for the 
 Levant. But so it chanced, that, falling griev- 
 ously sick on the voyage, he lived only till his 
 vessel reached the shores of Tripoli. The 
 countess, being told that a celebrated poet had 
 just arrived in her harbour, who was dying for 
 
 her love, immediately hastened on board, and, 
 taking his hand, entreated him to live for her 
 sake. Rudel, already speechless, and almost 
 in the agonies of death, revived for a moment 
 at this unexpected grace ; he was just able to 
 express, by a last effort, the excess of his grati- 
 tude and love, and expired in her arms. There- 
 upon, the countess wept bitterly, and vowed 
 herself to a life of penance for the loss she had 
 caused to the world. She commanded that the 
 last song which Rudel had composed in her 
 honor should be transcribed in letters of gold, 
 and carried it always in her bosom ; and his 
 remains were enclosed in a magnificent mauso- 
 leum of porphyry, with an Arabic inscription, 
 commemorating his genius and his love for her." 
 
 Around, above, on every spray, 
 
 Enough instructers do I see, 
 To guide my unaccustomed lay, 
 
 And make my numbers worthy thee : 
 Each field and wood and flower and tree, 
 
 Each bird whose notes with pleasure thrill, 
 As, warbling wild at liberty, 
 
 The air with melody they fill. 
 How sweet to listen to each strain ! 
 But, without love, how cold, how vain ! 
 
 The shepherds love the flocks they tend, 
 Their rosy children sporting near; 
 
 For them is joy that knows no end, 
 And, O, to me such life were dear ! 
 
 To live for her I love so well, 
 
 To seek her praise, her smile to win, — 
 But still my heart with sighs must swell, 
 
 My heart has still a void within ! 
 
 Far off those towers and castles frown 
 Where she resides in regal state, 
 
 And I, at weary distance thrown, 
 Can find no solace in my fate. 
 
 Why should I live, since hope alone 
 Is all to my experience known ? 
 
 GAUCELM FAIDIT. 
 
 This Troubadour was born in the latter part 
 of the twelfth, or not far from the beginning of 
 the thirteenth, century. Nostradamus gives 
 1220 as the date of his death ; but there exists 
 a poem, attributed to him, on the death of Bea- 
 trix, countess of Provence, who died in 1260. 
 Having lost his fortune by play, he embraced 
 the profession of Jongleur, and, after the death 
 of Richard Cceur-de-Lion, travelled from place 
 to place many years, seeking his fortune. Fifty 
 two pieces of his poetry have been preserved. 
 
 And must thy chords, my lute, be strung 
 To lays of woe so dark as this ? 
 
 And must the fatal truth be sung, — 
 The final knell of hope and bliss, — 
 
430 
 
 FRENCH POETRY 
 
 Which to the end of life shall cast 
 
 A gloom that will not cease, 
 Whose clouds of woe, that gather fast, 
 Each accent shall increase? 
 Valor and fame are fled, since dead thou art, 
 England's King Richard of the Lion Heart! 
 
 Yes, — dead ! — whole ages may decay, 
 
 Ere one so true and brave 
 Shall yield the world so bright a ray 
 
 As sunk into thy grave ! 
 Noble and valiant, fierce and bold, 
 
 Gentle and soft and kind, 
 Greedy of honor, free of gold, 
 
 Of thought, of grace, refined : 
 Not he by whom Darius fell, 
 
 Arthur, or Charlemagne, 
 With deeds of more renown can swell 
 
 The minstrel's proudest strain ; 
 For he of all that with him strove 
 
 The conqueror became, 
 Or by the mercy of his love, 
 
 Or the terror of his name. 
 
 I marvel, that, amidst the throng 
 Where vice has sway so wide, 
 
 To any goodness may belong, 
 Or wisdom may abide ; 
 
 Since wisdom, goodness, truth must fall, 
 
 And the same ruin threatens all ! 
 
 I marvel why we idly strive 
 
 And vex our lives with care, 
 Since even the hours we seem to live 
 
 But death's hard doom prepare. 
 Do we not see, that, day by day, 
 
 The best and bravest go ? 
 They vanish from the earth away, 
 
 And leave regret and woe. 
 Why, then, since virtue, honor, cannot save, 
 Dread we ourselves a sudden, early grave ? 
 
 O noble king ! O knight renowned ! 
 
 Where now is battle's pride, 
 Since, in the lists no longer found, 
 
 With conquest at thy side, 
 Upon thy crest and on thy sword 
 
 Thou show'dst where glory lay, 
 And sealed, even with thy slightest word, 
 
 The fate of many a day ? 
 
 Where now the open heart and hand 
 
 All service that o'erpaid, 
 The gifts that of a barren land 
 
 A smiling garden made? 
 And those whom love and honest zeal 
 
 Had to thy fate allied, 
 Who looked to thee in woe and weal, 
 
 Nor heeded aught beside : 
 The honors thou couldst well allow 
 
 What hand shall now supply ? 
 What is their occupation now? 
 
 To weep thy loss, — and die ! 
 
 The haughty pagan now shall raise 
 
 The standard high in air, 
 Who lately saw thy glory's blaze, 
 
 And fled in wild despair. 
 
 The Holy Tomb shall linger long 
 
 Within the Moslem's power, 
 Since God hath willed the brave and strong 
 
 Should wither in an hour. 
 O, for thy arm on Syria's plain, 
 To drive them to their tents again ! 
 
 Has Heaven a leader still in store 
 
 That may repay thy loss, 
 Those fearful realms who dares explore, 
 
 And combat for the Cross ? 
 Let him — let all — remember well 
 
 Thy glory and thy name, — 
 Remember how young Henry fell, 
 
 And Geoffrey, old in fame ! 
 
 O, he, who in thy pathway treads, 
 
 Must toil and pain endure ; 
 His head must plan the boldest deeds, 
 
 His arm must make them sure ! 
 
 GU1LLAUME DE CABESTAING. 
 
 Cabestaing, one of the Troubadours of the 
 twelfth century, Chatelain of the Comte de Rous- 
 sillon, was the chevalier of the Dame Sermonde, 
 the wife of Raimond de Chateau Roussillon, a 
 powerful seigneur, especially celebrated for his 
 ferocity. He became jealous of the poet, and 
 shut his wife up in a tower, subjecting her to 
 the most savage treatment; and resolved to take 
 summary vengeance upon the poet, who had 
 written a song upon the lady's imprisonment. 
 He attacked the Troubadour at a distance from 
 the chateau, cut off his head, and tore out his 
 heart. The latter he caused to be dressed and 
 served up to his wife, — a favorite punishment, 
 it would seem, with the jealous lords of the 
 Middle Ages. She ate it, unconscious of what 
 it was. "Do you know that meat? " said the 
 barbarian. "No, but I have found it very 
 good." "No doubt, no doubt," responded the 
 grim husband, and thereupon showed her Ca- 
 bestaing's head. At this horrible sight, Ser- 
 monde exclaimed, " Yes, barbarian, I have found 
 it delicious, and it is the last thing I shall ever 
 eat." Scarcely had she spoken these words, 
 when Raimond fell upon her, sword in hand ; 
 she fled, threw herself from a balcony, and was 
 killed by the fall. 
 
 No, never since the fatal time 
 
 When the world fell for woman's crime, 
 
 Has Heaven in tender mercy sent — 
 All preordaining, all foreseeing — 
 
 A breath of purity that lent 
 Existence to so fair a being ! 
 Whatever earth can boast of rare, 
 
 Of precious, and of good, — 
 Gaze on her form, 't is mingled there, 
 
 With added grace endued. 
 
LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 
 
 431 
 
 Why, why is she so much above 
 
 All others whom I might behold, — 
 Whom I, unblamed, might dare to love, 
 To whom my sorrows might be told ? 
 O, when I see her, passing fair, 
 I feel how vain is all my care : 
 I feel she all transcends my praise, 
 I feel she must contemn my lays: 
 I feel, alas ! no claim have I 
 To gain that bright divinity ! 
 Were she less lovely, less divine, 
 Less passion and despair were mine. 
 
 LA COMTESSE DE PROVENCE. 
 
 Beatrix de Savoie, wife of Raimond Beren- 
 ger, the last count of Provence, lived in the 
 first half of the thirteenth century. Only one 
 of her pieces has been preserved, — the lines 
 addressed to her husband. She was a friend 
 and protector of the poets, who repaid her 
 beneficence by their praises. 
 
 I fain would think thou hast a heart, 
 Although it thus its thoughts conceal, 
 
 Which well could bear a tender part 
 In all the fondness that I feel ; 
 
 Alas ! that thou wouldst let me know, 
 
 And end at once my doubts and woe ! 
 
 It might be well that once I seemed 
 
 To check the love I prized so dear ; 
 But now my coldness is redeemed, 
 
 And what is left for thee to fear ? 
 Thou dost to both a cruel, wrong ; 
 
 Should dread in mutual love be known i 
 Why let my heart lament so long, 
 
 And fail to claim what is thine own ? 
 
 THE MONK OF MONTAUDON. 
 
 This person, whose real name is unknown, 
 lived in the latter half of the thirteenth century. 
 He became monk of the abbey of Orlac, and 
 afterwards prior of Montaudon. Becoming dis- 
 satisfied with the monastic life, he obtained 
 permission to visit the court of Alphonso the 
 Third, king of Aragon, from whom he re- 
 ceived the lordship of Puy-Sainte-Marie, a fief 
 which he held for a long time, but finally lost 
 by some unexplained change in his fortunes. 
 He then traversed Spain, and was everywhere 
 received with honor and loaded with benefits 
 by the great. Finally, he obtained the priory 
 of Villefranche, in Roussillon, whither he re- 
 tired and died. 
 
 I love the court by wit and worth adorned, 
 A man whose errors are abjured and mourned, 
 My gentle mistress by a streamlet clear, 
 Pleasure, a handsome present, and good cheer. 
 
 I love fat salmon, richly dressed, at noon ; 
 I love a faithful friend both late and soon. 
 
 I hate small gifts, a man that 's poor and proud, 
 
 The young who talk incessantly and loud ; 
 
 I hate in low-bred company to be, 
 
 I hate a knight that has not courtesy. 
 
 I hate a lord with arms to war unknown, 
 
 I hate a priest or monk with beard o'ergrown ; 
 
 A doting husband, or a tradesman's son, 
 
 Who apes a noble, and would pass for one. 
 
 I hate much water and too little wine ; 
 
 A prosperous villain, and a false divine ; 
 
 A niggard lout who sets the dice aside ; 
 
 A flirting girl all frippery and pride ; 
 
 A cloth too narrow, and a board too wide ; 
 
 Him who exalts his handmaid to his wife, 
 
 And her who makes her groom her lord for life ; 
 
 The man who kills his horse with wanton speed, 
 
 And him who fails his friend in time of need. 
 
 CLAIRE D'ANDUZE. 
 
 The history of this poetess is quite unknown. 
 She probably belonged to the noble family of 
 Bernard, baron of Anduze, one of the most 
 powerful seigneurs in Provence. Only one piece 
 of her poetry has been preserved. 
 
 They who may blame my tenderness, 
 And bid me dote on thee no more, 
 
 Can never make my love the less, 
 
 Or change one hope I formed before ; 
 
 Nor can they add to each endeavour, 
 
 Each sweet desire, to please thee ever ! 
 
 If any my aversion raise, 
 
 On whom my angry looks I bend, 
 Let him but kindly speak thy praise, 
 
 At once I hail him as my friend. 
 
 They whom thy fame and worth provoke, 
 Who seek some fancied fault to tell, 
 
 Although with angels' tongues they spoke, 
 Their words to me would be a knell. 
 
 ARNAUD DANIEL. 
 
 This celebrated person is often mentioned 
 by the Italian poets. The testimonies of Dante, 
 Petrarch, Pulci, and Ariosto would seem to 
 place him, at least in early fame, at the head 
 of the Provencal poets. He was born of poor 
 but noble parents, at the castle of Ribeyrac, 
 in Perigord, and was, according to a Proven- 
 cal authority cited by Raynouard (Vol. V., p. 
 31), at one time a resident at the court ot 
 Richard, king of England. He was celebrated 
 as the poet of love. Raynouard says, " There 
 remains a positive proof of the existence of 
 
432 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 a romance by Arnaud Daniel, namely, that of 
 'Lancelot du Lac,' — a German translation of 
 which was made towards the end of the thir- 
 teenth century by Ulrich von Zatchitschoven, 
 who names Arnaud Daniel as the original au- 
 thor." 
 
 When leaves and flowers are newly springing, 
 
 And trees and boughs are budding all, 
 In every grove when birds are singing, 
 And on the balmy air is ringing 
 
 The marsh's speckled tenants' call ; 
 Ah ! then I think how small the gain 
 
 Love's leaves and flowers and fruit may be, 
 And all night long I mourn in vain, 
 
 Whilst others sleep, from sorrow free. 
 
 If I dare tell ! — if sighs could move her ! — 
 How my heart welcomes every smile ! 
 
 My Fairest Hope ! I live to love her, 
 Yet she is cold or coy the while. 
 
 Go thou, my song, and thus reprove her : 
 And tell her, Arnaud breathes alone 
 To call so bright a prize his own ' 
 
 BERNARD DE VENTADOUR. 
 
 Bernard de Ventadotjr was born at Ven- 
 tadour, in Limosin, in the latter half of the 
 twelfth century. Though belonging to an in- 
 ferior station, the elegance of his figure, the 
 sweetness of his voice, and the brilliancy of 
 his imagination, gained him the favor of Eblis 
 the Second, viscount of Ventadour, and of the 
 viscountess, his beautiful wife, whom he cele- 
 brated in his songs. The jealousy of the vis- 
 count was at length aroused, and he caused 
 his wife to be imprisoned. The Troubadour, 
 learning the cause of the harsh treatment which 
 his benefactress had received, withdrew to the 
 court of Eleanor of Guienne, wife of Henry, 
 duke of Normandy, by whom he was received 
 with distinguished favor. He celebrated this 
 princess in many of his songs, having, despite 
 his first love, become deeply enamored of an- 
 other. After her departure for England with 
 the duke, Bernard lived at the court of Rai- 
 mond the Fifth, count of Toulouse, until the 
 death of that prince in 1194; he then entered 
 the abbey of Dalon, in Limosin, where he soon 
 after died. 
 
 When I behold the lark upspring 
 
 To meet the bright sun joyfully, 
 How he forgets to poise his wing, 
 
 In his gay spirit's revelry, — 
 Alas ! that mournful thoughts should spring 
 
 E'en from that happy songster's glee ! 
 Strange, that such gladdening sight should bring 
 
 Not joy, but pining care, to me ! 
 
 I thought ray heart had known the whole 
 
 Of love, but small its knowledge proved; 
 For still the more my longing soul 
 
 Loves on, itself the while unloved: 
 She stole my heart, myself she stole, 
 
 And all I prized from me removed ; 
 She left me but the fierce control 
 
 Of vain desires for her I loved. 
 
 All self-command is now gone by, 
 
 E'er since the luckless hour when she 
 Became a mirror to my eye, 
 
 Whereon I gazed complacently : 
 Thou fatal mirror ! there I spy 
 
 Love's image ; and my doom shall be, 
 Like young Narcissus, thus to sigh, 
 
 And thus expire, beholding thee ! 
 
 FOULQUES DE MARSEILLE. 
 
 Foulques de Marseille, the son of a mer 
 chant, lived in the latter half of the twelfth 
 century. Finding himself, at the death of his 
 father, possessed of a sufficient fortune, he surren- 
 dered himself wholly to his passion for poetry, 
 and was successively received at the courts of 
 Richard the First, king of England, of Rai- 
 mond the Fifth, count of Toulouse, and of 
 Barral, viscount of Marseilles. He preferred 
 the last, on account of a passion he had con- 
 ceived for Alazals de Roquemartia, Barral's 
 wife, who listened to his songs with pleasure, 
 but finally, in a fit of jealousy, quarrelled 
 with him and banished him from the court 
 of Marseilles. He resided afterwards at the 
 court of William the Eighth, lord of Montpel- 
 lier. 
 
 After losing most of his protectors, Foulques 
 took the order of Citeaux, became abbe of Ter- 
 ronet, afterwards of Toulouse, and, in 1205, 
 bishop of Toulouse. He was deeply concerned 
 in the bloody wars against the Albigenses. 
 
 I would not any man should hear 
 The birds that sweetly sing above, 
 Save he who knows the power of love ■ 
 For naught beside can soothe or cheer 
 
 My soul, like that sweet harmony ; 
 Or like herself, who, yet more dear, 
 Hath greater power my soul to move 
 Than songs or lays of Brittany. 
 
 In her I joy and hope ; yet ne'er 
 Too daring would my spirit prove ; 
 For he who highest soars above 
 Feels but his fall the more severe : 
 Then what shall I a gainer be, 
 If on her lips no smile appear? 
 
 Shall I in cold despair still love ? — 
 O, yes ! in patient constancy. . 
 
LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 
 
 433 
 
 BERTRAND DE BORN. 
 
 This warrior and Troubadour flourished in 
 the latter half of the twelfth century. He was 
 viscount of Hautefort, in Perigueux. " He first 
 celebrated," says Mrs. Jameson,* " Eleanor Plan- 
 tagenet, the sister of his friend and brother in 
 arms and song, Richard Cceur-de-Lion ; and 
 we are expressly told that Richard was proud 
 of the poetical homage rendered to the charms 
 of his sister by this knightly Troubadour, and 
 that the princess was far from being insensible 
 to his admiration. Only one of the many songs 
 addressed to Eleanor has been preserved ; from 
 which we gather, that it was composed by Ber- 
 trand in the field, at a time when his army was 
 threatened with famine, and the poet himself 
 was suffering from the pangs of hunger. Elea- 
 nor married the duke of Saxony, and Bertrand 
 chose for his next love the beautiful Maenz de 
 Montagnac, daughter of the viscount of Turenne, 
 and wife of Talleyrand de Perigord. The lady 
 accepted his service, and acknowledged him 
 as her knight ; but evil tongues having at- 
 tempted to sow dissension between the lovers, 
 Bertrand addressed to her a song, in which he 
 defends himself from the imputation of incon- 
 stancy, in a style altogether characteristic and 
 original. The warrior poet, borrowing from 
 the objects of his daily cares, ambition, and 
 pleasure, phrases to illustrate and enhance the 
 expression of his love, wishes 'that he may 
 lose his favorite hawk in her first flight ; that 
 a falcon may stoop and bear her off, as she sits 
 upon his wrist, and tear her in his sight, if the 
 sound of his lady's voice be not dearer to him 
 than all the gifts of love from another; — that 
 he may stumble with his shield about his neck; 
 that his helmet may gall his brow ; that his 
 bridle may be too long, his stirrups too short ; 
 that he may be forced to ride a hard-trotting 
 horse, and find his groom drunk when he ar- 
 rives at his gate, if there be a word of truth in 
 the accusations of his enemies; — that he may 
 not have a denier to stake at the gaming-table, 
 and that the dice may never more be favorable 
 to him, if ever he had swerved from his faith ; 
 — that he may look on like a dastard, and see 
 his lady wooed and won by another ; that 
 the winds may fail him at sea; that in the 
 battle he may be the first to fly, if he who has 
 slandered him does not lie in his throat'; and 
 so on through seven or eight stanzas. 
 
 " Bertrand de Born exercised in his time a 
 fatal influence on the counsels and politics of 
 England. A close and ardent friendship existed 
 between him and young Henry Plantagenet, 
 the eldest son of our Henry the Second ; and 
 the family dissensions which distracted the Eng- 
 lish court, and the unnatural rebellion of Henry 
 and Richard against their father, were his work. 
 It happened, some time after the death of Prince 
 
 * Memoirs of the Loves of the Poets, pp. 30-32. 
 55 
 
 Henry, that the king of England besieged Ber- 
 trand de Born in one of his castles : the resist- 
 ance was long and obstinate, but at length the 
 warlike Troubadour was taken prisoner and 
 brought before the king, so justly incensed 
 against him, and from whom he had certainly 
 no mercy to expect. The heart of Henry was 
 still bleeding with the wounds inflicted by his 
 ungrateful children, and he saw before him, 
 and in his power, the primary cause of their 
 misdeeds and his own bitter sufferings. Ber- 
 trand was on the point of being led out to 
 death, when by a single word he reminded the 
 king of his lost son, and the tender friendship 
 which had existed between them. The chord 
 was struck which never ceased to vibrate in 
 the parental heart of Henry ; bursting into 
 tears, he turned aside, and commanded Ber- 
 trand and his followers to be immediately set 
 at liberty ; he even restored to Bertrand his 
 castle and his lands, ' in the name of his dead 
 son.' " 
 
 Bertrand de Born terminated his career in a 
 monastery, where he had assumed the habit of 
 the order of Citeaux. 
 
 In the " Inferno," Dante assigns to Bertrand 
 de Born a horrible punishment: — 
 
 " Without doubt 
 I saw, and yet it seems to pass before me, 
 A headless trunk, that even as the rest 
 Of the sad flock paced onward. By the hair 
 It bore the severed member, lantem-wise 
 Pendent in hand, which looked at us, and said, 
 ' Woe 's me ! ' The spirit lighted thus himself; 
 And two there were in one, and one in two. — 
 How that may be, he knows who ordereth so. 
 "When at the bridge's foot direct he stood, 
 His arm aloft he reared, thrusting the head 
 Full in our view, that nearer we might hear 
 The words which thus it uttered : ' Now behold 
 This grievous torment, thou who breathing goest 
 To spy the dead ; behold, if any else 
 Be terrible as this. And that on earth 
 Thou may'st hear tidings of me. know that I 
 Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John 
 The counsel mischievous. Father and son 
 I set at mutual war.' " 
 
 Inferno, Canto XXVTTI. 
 
 Lady, since thou hast driven me forth, 
 
 Since thou, unkind, hast banished me 
 (Though cause of such neglect be none), 
 Where shall I turn from thee ' 
 Ne'er can I see 
 Such joy as I have seen before, 
 If, as I fear, I find no more 
 Another fair; — from thee removed, 
 I '11 sigh to think I e'er was loved. 
 
 And since my eager search were vain, 
 
 One lovely as thyself to find, — 
 A heart so matchlessly endowed, 
 Or manners so refined, 
 So gay, so kind, 
 So courteous, gentle, debonair, — 
 I '11 rove, and catch from every fair 
 
 KK 
 
434 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 Some winning grace, and form a whole, 
 To glad — till thou return — my soul. 
 
 The roses of thy glowing cheek, 
 
 Fair Sembelis, I '11 steal from thee; 
 That lovely smiling look I '11 take; 
 Yet rich thou still shalt be, 
 In whom we see 
 All that can deck a lady bright : 
 And your enchanting converse, light, 
 Fair Elis, will I borrow too, 
 That she in wit may shine like you. 
 
 And from the noble Chales I 
 
 Will beg that neck of ivory white, 
 And her fair hands of loveliest form 
 I '11 take ; and speeding, light, 
 My onward flight, 
 Earnest, at Roca Choart's gate, 
 Fair Agnes I will supplicate 
 To grant her locks, more bright than those 
 Which Tristan loved on Yseult's brows. 
 
 And, Audiartz, though on me thou frown, 
 
 All that thou hast of courtesy 
 I '11 have, — thy look, thy gentle mien, 
 And all the unchanged constancy 
 That dwells with thee. 
 And, Miels de Ben, on thee I '11 wait 
 For thy light shape, so delicate, 
 That in thy fairy form of grace 
 My lady's image I may trace. 
 
 The beauty of those snow-white teeth 
 
 From thee, famed Faidit, I Ml extort, 
 The welcome, affable, and kind, 
 
 To all the numbers that resort 
 Unto her court. 
 And Bels Miraills shall crown the whole, 
 With all her sparkling flow of soul ; 
 Those mental charms that round her play, 
 For ever wise, yet ever gay. 
 
 The beautiful spring delights me well, 
 
 When flowers and leaves are growing ; 
 And it pleases my heart to hear the swell 
 Of the birds' sweet chorus flowing 
 In the echoing wood ; 
 And I love to see, all scattered around, 
 Pavilions, tents, on the martial ground ; 
 
 And my spirit finds it good 
 To see, on the level plains beyond, 
 Gay knights and steeds caparisoned. 
 
 It pleases me, when the lancers bold 
 
 Set men and armies flying ; 
 And it pleases me, too, to hear around 
 
 The voice of the soldiers crying ; 
 And joy is mine, 
 When the castles strong, besieged, shake, 
 And walls uprooted totter and crack ; 
 And I see the foetnen join, 
 On the moated shore all compassed round 
 With the palisade and guarded mound. 
 
 Lances, and swords, and stained helms, 
 And shields, dismantled and broken, 
 On the verge of the bloody battle-scene, 
 The field of wrath betoken ; 
 
 And the vassals are there, 
 And there fly the steeds of the dying and dead ; 
 And where the mingled strife is spread, 
 
 The noblest warrior's care 
 Is to cleave the foeman's limbs and head, — 
 The conqueror less of the living than dead. 
 
 I tell you that nothing my soul can cheer, 
 
 Or banqueting, or reposing, 
 Like the onset cry of " Charge them ! " rung 
 
 From each side, as in battle closing, 
 Where the horses neigh, 
 And the call to " Aid ! " is echoing loud ; 
 And there on the earth the lowly and proud 
 
 In the fosse together lie ; 
 And yonder is piled the mangled heap 
 Of the brave that scaled the trench's steep. 
 
 Barons, your castles in safety place, 
 
 Your cities and villages too, 
 Before ye haste to the battle-scene ! 
 
 And, Papiol, quickly go, 
 
 And tell the Lord of " Oc and No " ' 
 That peace already too long hath been ! 
 
 ARNAUD DE MARVEIL. 
 
 This Troubadour belonged to the latter 
 half of the twelfth century. He was born at 
 the Chateau deMarveil, in the diocese of P6ri- 
 gord. He was a handsome man, sang well, 
 composed well, and read romances agreeably 
 These advantages secured him a favorable re- 
 ception from the Comtesse de Burlas, the daugh- 
 ter of Raimond the Fifth, and wife of Roger 
 the Second, surnamed Taillefer, viscount ot 
 Beziers. AdelaYde de Burlas, the object of his 
 passion and the subject of his song, accepted 
 his homage, and retained him as her chevalier; 
 but the jealousy of Alphonso, the king of Cas- 
 tile, caused his dismission, and he retired to 
 the court of Guillaume, the lord of Montpellier 
 
 O, how sweet the breeze of April, 
 
 Breathing soft, as May draws near ; 
 While, through nights serene and gentle, 
 
 Songs of gladness meet the ear : 
 Every bird his well known language 
 
 Warbling in the morning's pride, 
 Revelling on in joy and gladness 
 
 By his happy partner's side ! 
 
 When around me all is smiling, 
 
 When to life the young birds spring, 
 
 Thoughts of love I cannot hinder 
 Come, my heart inspiriting: 
 
 Lion. 
 
 "Yes and No," — a title designating Richard Cceur-de 
 
LYRIC POEMS OF THE TROUBADOURS. 
 
 435 
 
 Nature, habit, both incline me 
 In such joys to bear my part; 
 
 With such sounds of bliss around me, 
 Who could wear a saddened heart ? 
 
 Fairer than the far-famed Helen, 
 
 Lovelier than the flowerets gay : 
 Snow-white teeth, and lips truth-telling, 
 
 Heart as open as the day, 
 Golden hair, and fresh, bright roses; — 
 
 Heaven, that formed a thing so fair, 
 Knows that never yet another 
 
 Lived, who could with her compare. 
 
 PIERRE VIDAL. 
 
 Pierre Vidae belongs to the close of the 
 twelfth and the beginning of the thirteenth 
 century. He had a fine voice and a lively 
 imagination ; but bis vanity sometimes passed 
 into insanity. Passionately devoted to the la- 
 dies, he fancied that they all fell in love with 
 him at the first sight. Alazal's, the wife of 
 Barral, viscount of Marseilles, was for a time 
 the theme of his songs ; but a little piece of 
 presumption on his part excited the lady's ire, 
 and the gallant Troubadour saw fit to withdraw 
 from the court. He followed Richard to the 
 Holy Land, and married a woman of the island 
 of Cyprus, who pretended to be the niece of the 
 emperor of the East. He assumed the ensigns of 
 royalty, claiming the empire as his inheritance. 
 Meantime the wrath of Alazals had been appeas- 
 ed, and on his return he was graciously received. 
 He was deeply afflicted by the death of Rai- 
 mond the Seventh, count of Toulouse, wore 
 mourning, let his beard and hair grow, made 
 his servants do the same, and cropped the ears 
 and tails of his horses. 
 
 The idea of conquering the Oriental empire 
 returned to Pierre Vidal, towards the end of 
 his life ; he revisited the East in pursuance of 
 this project, and died two years after his return, 
 in 1229. 
 
 Of all sweet birds, I love the most 
 
 The lark and nightingale ; 
 For they the first of all awake, 
 
 The opening spring with songs to hail. 
 
 And I, like them, when silently 
 
 Each Troubadour sleeps on, 
 Will wake me up, and sing of love 
 
 And thee, Vierna, fairest one ! 
 
 The rose on thee its bloom bestowed, 
 
 The lily gave its white, 
 And nature, when it planned thy form, 
 
 A model framed of fair and bright. 
 
 For nothing, sure, that could be given, 
 
 To thee hath been denied ; 
 That there each thought of love and joy 
 
 Ii bright perfection might reside. 
 
 PIERRE D'AUVERGNE. 
 
 This poet was born of humble parents, in 
 the diocese of Clermont. He belonged to the 
 first part of the thirteenth century. His person- 
 al advantages, and his talent for poetry, gained 
 him the favor of the most powerful lords and 
 the most beautiful ladies of the age. His suc- 
 cess turned his head; and he did not hesitate 
 to call himself the first poet in the world. He 
 finally retired to a cloister, where he died. 
 
 Go, nightingale, and find the beauty I adore ; 
 My heart to her outpour : 
 
 Bid her each feeling tell, 
 
 And bid her charge thee well 
 To say that she forgets me not. 
 
 Let her not stay thee there, 
 
 But come and quick declare 
 The tidings thou hast brought ; 
 For none beside so dear have I, 
 And long for news from none so anxiously. 
 
 Away the bird has flown ; away 
 Lightly he goes, inquiring round, — 
 " Where shall that lovely one be found ? " 
 
 And, when he sees her, tunes the lay ; 
 That lav which sweetly sounds afar, 
 Oft heard beneath the evening star. 
 
 " Sent by thy true love, lady fair," he sings, 
 
 "I come to sing to thee. 
 
 And what sweet song shall be 
 His glad reward, when, eager, up he springs 
 
 To meet me as I come 
 
 On weary pinion home ? 
 
 Sweet lady ! let me tell 
 
 Kind words to him who loves thee well. 
 And why these cold and keen delays? 
 Love should be welcomed, while it stays; 
 It is a flower that fadeth soon ; 
 O, profit, lady, by its short-lived noon ! " 
 
 Then that enchanting fair in accents sweet re- 
 plied, — 
 "Thy faithful nightingale 
 Has told his pleasant tale; 
 And he shall tell thee how, by absence tried, 
 Here, far from thee, my love, I rest ; 
 For long thy stay hath been. 
 Such grief had I foreseen, 
 Not with my love so soon hadst thou been blest. 
 Here, then, for thee I wait ; 
 With thee is joy and mirth, 
 And nothing here on earth 
 With thee can e'er compete. 
 
 "True love, like gold, is well refined; 
 
 And mine doth purify my mind : 
 
 Go, then, sweet bird, and quickly say, 
 
 And in thy most bewitching way, 
 
 How well I love. — Fly ! haste thee on ! 
 
 Why tarriest thou? — What! not yet gone?" 
 
436 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 GIRAUD DE BORNEIL. 
 
 Giraud de Borneil belongs to the latter half 
 of the thirteenth century. The Provencal au- 
 thority cited by Raynouard (Vol. V. p. 166) 
 says, that Giraud was born of humble parentage 
 in Limosin, but that he was skilled in letters, 
 and of good natural powers ; that he could 
 "trobaire" better than any of those who pre- 
 ceded or followed him ; for which reason he 
 was called the Master of the Troubadours. 
 He was held in high honor by powerful men, 
 and by the ladies, on account of his poems. 
 "During the winter," says the same writer, 
 "he went to school and learned; and all the 
 summer he visited the courts, and carried with 
 him two singers, who sang his songs. He would 
 not marry, and all that he gained he gave to 
 his poor parents and to the church of the town 
 where he was born, which church bore the 
 name of Saint Gervasi." He died in 1278. 
 
 Companion dear ! or sleeping or awaking, 
 Sleep not again ! for, lo ! the morn is nigh, 
 
 And in the east that early star is breaking, 
 The day's forerunner, known unto mine eye. 
 The morn, the morn is near. 
 
 Companion dear ! with carols sweet I '11 call 
 thee; 
 Sleep not again ' I hear the birds' blithe song 
 Loud in the woodlands; evil may befall thee, 
 And jealous eyes awaken, tarrying long, 
 Now that the morn is near. 
 
 Companion dear forth from the window look- 
 ing, 
 Attentive mark the signs of yonder heaven ; 
 Judge if aright I read what they betoken : 
 Thine all the loss, if vain the warning given. 
 The morn, the morn is near. 
 
 Companion dear ! since thou from hence wert 
 straying, 
 Nor sleep nor rest these eyes have visited ; 
 My prayers unceasing to the Virgin paying, 
 That thou in peace thy backward way might 
 tread. 
 The morn, the morn, is near. 
 
 Companion dear ! hence to the fields with me ! 
 
 Me thou forbad'st to slumber through the night, 
 And I have watched that livelong night for thee; 
 
 But thou in song or me hast no delight, 
 And now the morn is near. 
 
 ANSWER. 
 
 Companion dear ! so happily sojourning, 
 
 So blest am I, I care not forth to speed : 
 Here brightest beauty reigns, her smiles adorn- 
 ing 
 Her dwelling-place, — then wherefore should 
 I heed 
 The morn or jealous eyes ? 
 
 TOMIERS. 
 
 Tomiers is mentioned in connection with 
 Palazis by the Provencal historian quoted by 
 Raynouard. They were cavaliers of Tarascon 
 " esteemed and beloved by good cavaliers, and 
 by the ladies." Tomiers endeavoured by his 
 verse to rouse the South of France against the 
 cruelty of the court in the wars of the Albigen- 
 ses. 
 
 I 'll make a song shall utter forth 
 
 My full and free complaint, 
 To see the heavy hours pass on, 
 
 And witness to the feint 
 Of coward souls, whose vows were made 
 In falsehood, and are yet unpaid. 
 Yet, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
 Strong in the hope of succours near. 
 
 Yes ! full and ample help for us 
 
 Shall come, — so trusts my heart; 
 God fights for us, and these our foes, 
 
 The French, must soon depart : 
 For on the souls that fear not God, 
 Soon, soon shall fall the vengeful rod. 
 Then, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
 Strong in the hope of succours near. 
 
 And hither they believe to come, — 
 
 The treacherous, base crusaders ! — 
 But e'en as quickly as they come, 
 
 We '11 chase those fierce invaders : 
 Without a shelter they shall fly 
 Before our valiant chivalry. 
 Then, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
 Strong in the hope of succours near. 
 
 And e'en if Frederic, on the throne 
 
 Of powerful Germany, 
 Submit the cruel ravages 
 Of Louis' hosts to see, 
 Yet, in the breast of England's king 
 Wrath deep and vengeful shall upspring, 
 Then, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
 Strong in the hope of succours near. 
 
 Not much those meek and holy men — 
 
 The traitorous bishops — mourn, 
 Though from our hands the sepulchre 
 
 Of our dear Lord be torn : 
 More tender far their anxious care 
 For the rich plunder of Belcaire. 
 But, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
 Strong in the hope of succours near. 
 
 And look at our proud cardinal, 
 
 Whose hours in peace are passed ; 
 Look at his splendid dwelling-place 
 
 (Pray Heaven it may not last !) — 
 He heeds not, while he lives in state, 
 What ills on Damietta wait. 
 But, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
 Strong in the hope of succoi rs near. 
 
FROISSART. 
 
 43? 
 
 I cannot think that Avignon 
 
 Will lose its holy zeal, — 
 
 In this our cause so ardently 
 
 Its citizens can feel. 
 Then shame to him who will not hear 
 In this our glorious cause his share ! 
 And, noble Sirs, we will not fear, 
 Strong in the hope of succours neEfr. 
 
 RICHARD CCEUR-DE-LION. 
 
 The name and exploits of this chivalrous 
 monarch are so well known in history, poetry, 
 and romance, that only the principal dates in 
 his life need to be mentioned here. He was 
 the son of Henry the Second and Eleanor of 
 Guienne, and was born in 1157. He joined his 
 Drothers in a rebellion against his father, on 
 whose death he succeeded to the throne of 
 England. Soon after, he engaged in the crusade, 
 having taken the cross previously to his acces- 
 sion to the throne. He embarked at Acre, in 
 October, 1192, to return to England, but was 
 wrecked on the coast of Istria, near Aquileia. 
 He then attempted to pass through Germany in 
 disguise, but was discovered near Vienna, ar- 
 rested, and, by order of Leopold, duke of Aus- 
 tria, thrown into prison, and afterwards trans- 
 ferred to the Emperor Henry the Sixth. He 
 was, at length, liberated, on the payment of a 
 large ransom, and arrived in England in March, 
 1194. He died in April, 1199, in consequence 
 of a wound he had received in the siege of the 
 castle of Chalus. 
 
 Richard had assembled around him the prin- 
 cipal Troubadours of his age, before he ascended 
 the English throne. He was himself a poet of 
 no small distinction, and during the reverses of 
 
 his life found his solace in composition. The 
 romantic story of the place of his imprisonment 
 being discovered by the minstrel Blonde), his 
 faithful page, is well known. 
 
 No captive knight, whom chains confine, 
 Can tell his fate, and not repine ; 
 Yet with a song he cheers the gloom 
 That hangs around his living tomb. 
 Shame to his friends ! — the king remains 
 Two years unransomed and in chains. 
 
 Now let them know, my brave barons, 
 English, Normans, and Gascons, 
 Not a liege-man so poor have I, 
 That I would not his freedom buy. 
 I will not reproach their noble line, 
 But chains and a dungeon still are mine. 
 
 The dead, — nor friends nor kin have they ! 
 Nor friends nor kin my ransom pay ! 
 My wrongs afflict me, — yet far more 
 For faithless friends my heart is sore. 
 O, what a blot upon their name, 
 If I should perish thus in shame ! 
 
 Nor is it strange I suffer pain, 
 
 When sacred oaths are thus made vain, 
 
 And when the king with bloody hands 
 
 Spreads war and pillage through my lands. 
 
 One only solace now remains, — 
 
 I soon shall burst these servile chains. 
 
 Ye Troubadours, and friends of mine, 
 Brave Chail, and noble Pensauvine, 
 Go, tell my rivals, in your song, 
 This heart hath never done them wrong. 
 He infamy — not glory — gains, 
 Who strikes a monarch in his chains. 
 
 SECOND PERIOD.-CENTURIES XIV., XV. 
 
 JEAN FROISSART. 
 
 This eminent chronicler was born at Va- 
 lenciennes, about the year 1337. He was 
 destined for the church, but his love of poe- 
 try, travelling, and adventure soon withdrew 
 him for a time from an ecclesiastical career. 
 At the age of twenty, he began his history of 
 the wars of his time. Crossing over to Eng- 
 land, he was favorably received by Philippe 
 de Hainault, the queen of Edward the Third. 
 After revisiting France, he returned to Eng- 
 land, and was appointed secretary to the queen, 
 in whose service he continued five years, dur- 
 ing which time he composed many poems. 
 Froissart's passion for adventure, and the desire 
 to visit the scenes of his history, led him to 
 
 undertake numerous journeys, in the course of 
 which he became known to the most distin- 
 guished persons of his age. The precise date 
 of his death is unknown, but it must have 
 happened after the year 1400, as he mentions 
 some of the events of this year. 
 
 Though Froissart is much better known as 
 a historian than as a poet, yet his poetical pro- 
 ductions are numerous. They remain, how- 
 ever, mostly in manuscript, in the Bibliotheque 
 Royale, at Paris. 
 
 TRIOLET. 
 Take time while yet it is in view, 
 
 For fortune is a fickle fair : 
 Days fade, and others spring anew ; 
 Then take the moment still in view. 
 kk2 
 
438 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 What boots to toil and cares pursue ? 
 
 Each month a new moon hangs in air: 
 Take, then, the moment still in view, 
 
 For fortune is a fickle fair. 
 
 VIRELAY. 
 
 Too long it seems ere I shall view 
 The maid so gentle, fair, and true, 
 
 Whom loyally I love: 
 
 Ah ! for her sake, where'er I rove, 
 All scenes my care renew ! 
 I have not seen her, — ah, how long ! 
 Nor heard the music of her tongue ; 
 Though in her sweet and lovely mien 
 Such grace, such witchery, is seen, 
 
 Such precious virtues shine : 
 My joy, my hope, is in her smile, 
 And I must suffer pain the while, 
 
 Where once all bliss was mine. 
 Too long it seems ! 
 
 O tell her, love ! — the truth reveal, 
 Say that no lover yet could feel 
 
 Such sad, consuming pain : 
 While banished from her sight, I pine, 
 And still this wretched life is mine, 
 
 Till I return again. 
 She must believe me, for I find 
 So much her image haunts my mind, 
 
 So dear her memory, 
 That, wheresoe'er my steps I bend, 
 The form my fondest thoughts attend 
 
 Is present to my eye. 
 Too long it seems ! 
 
 Now tears my weary hours employ, 
 Regret and thoughts of sad annoy, 
 
 When waking or in sleep ; 
 For hope my former care repaid, 
 In promises at parting made, 
 
 Which happy love might keep. 
 O, for one hour my truth to tell, 
 To speak of feelings known too well, 
 
 Of hopes too vainly dear ! 
 But useless are my anxious sighs, 
 Since fortune my return denies, 
 
 And keeps me lingering here. 
 Too long it seems ! 
 
 RONDEL. 
 
 Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of 
 mine ? 
 Naught see I fixed or sure in thee ! 
 I do not know thee, — nor what deeds are thine : 
 Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of 
 mine ? 
 Naught see I fixed or sure in thee ! 
 
 Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine? 
 
 Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me : 
 Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of 
 mine ? 
 
 Naught see I permanent or sure in thee ! 
 
 CHRISTINE DE PISAN. 
 
 This poetess was born about the year 1363, 
 at Venice. Her father removed to Paris, when 
 she was five years old ; being summoned thither 
 by Charles the Fifth, who gave him a place 
 in his council. She was brought up at court 
 and at the age of fifteen married Etienne du 
 Castel. Her husband died, leaving her with 
 three children. She sought to console her grief 
 by reading the books left her by her father and 
 her husband, and thus was led to become an 
 author herself. Lord Salisbury, pleased with 
 the intellectual graces of Christine, took her 
 eldest son with him to England, to educate him 
 there ; and Henry of Lancaster, after his ac- 
 cession to the English throne, endeavoured to 
 attract her to his court, but she preferred re- 
 maining in France. She was a person of rare 
 intellect and exquisite beauty. The date of her 
 death is unknown. 
 
 RONDEL. 
 
 I live in hopes of better days, 
 
 And leave the present hour to chance 
 Although so long my wish delays, 
 
 And still recedes as I advance : 
 Although hard fortune, too severe, 
 
 My life in mourning weeds arrays, 
 Nor in gay haunts may I appear, 
 
 I live in hopes of better days. 
 
 Though constant care my portion prove, 
 By long endurance patient grown, 
 
 Still with the time my wishes move, 
 Within my breast no murmur known 
 
 Whate'er my adverse lot displays, 
 
 I live in hopes of better days. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HER FATHER. 
 
 A mourning dove, whose mate is dead, — 
 A lamb, whose shepherd is no more, — 
 Even such am I, since he is fled, 
 Whose loss I cease not to deplore : 
 Alas ! since to the grave they bore 
 My sire, for whom these tears arc shed, 
 What is there left for me to love, — 
 
 A mourning dove? 
 
 O, that his grave for me had room, 
 
 Where I at length might calmly rest ! 
 For all to me is saddest gloom, 
 
 All scenes to me appear unblest ; 
 And all my hope is in his tomb, 
 To lay my head on his cold breast, 
 Who left his child naught else to love ! 
 
 A mourning dove ! 
 
 ALAIN CHARTIER. 
 
 Alain Chahtier belonged to a distinguished 
 family of Bayeux, in Normandy. He was jorn 
 
CHARTIER. 
 
 439 
 
 about 1386, and was educated at the University 
 of Paris. He was well received at court, and 
 became secretary successively to Charles the 
 Sixth and Charles the Seventh. He enjoyed 
 the highest consideration as a poet during his 
 life. He is one of those to whom the French 
 language is most indebted, and he has been 
 called the Father of French Eloquence. His 
 works are numerous, both in prose and verse. 
 Among the best of them is "La Belle Dame 
 ans Mercy," in the old English translation of 
 which, attributed to Chaucer, the poet says : 
 
 " My charge was this, to translate by and by 
 (All thing forgiue, as part of my pennance) 
 A book, called ' La Bel Dame sans Mercy,' 
 Which Maister Aleine made of remembrance, 
 Cheefe secretarie with the king of France." 
 
 Pasquier devotes a whole chapter to the " Mots 
 Dorez et Belles Sentences de Maistre Alain 
 Chartier." Alain died at Avignon, in 1449. 
 
 FROM LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY. 
 
 The bordes were spred in right little space, 
 
 The ladies sat each as hem ' seemed best, 
 There were no deadly seruants in the place, 
 
 But chosen men, right of the goodliest: 
 And some there were, perauenture most fresh- 
 est, 
 
 That saw their judges full demure, 
 Without semblaunt, either to most or lest, 
 
 Notwithstanding they had hem vnder cure. 
 
 Emong all other, one I gan espy, 
 
 Which in great thought ful often came and 
 went, 
 As one that had been rauished vtterly: 
 
 In his language not greatly dilligent, 
 His countenance he kept with great turment, 
 
 But his desire farre passed his reason, 
 For euer his eye went after his entent, 
 
 Full many a time, whan it was no season. 
 
 To make chere sore himselfe he pained, 
 
 And outwardly he fained great gladnesse, 
 To sing also by force he was constrained, 
 
 For no pleasaunce, but very shamefastnesse: 
 For the complaint of his most heauinesse 
 
 Came to his voice, alway without request, 
 Like as the soune of birdes doth expresse, 
 
 Whan they sing loud in frithe or in forrest. 
 
 Other there were that serued in the hall, 
 
 But none like him, as after mine aduise, 2 
 For he was pale, and somwhat lean withall, 
 
 His speech also trembled in fearfull wise, 
 And euer alone, but whan he did seruise, 
 
 All blacke he ware, and no deuise but plain : 
 Me thought by him, a3 my wit could suffise, 
 
 His herte was nothing in his own demain. 3 
 
 i Them 
 
 2 Observation 
 
 3 Control. 
 
 To feast hem all he did his dilligence, 
 
 And well he coud, right as it seemed mc, 
 But euermore, whan he was in presence, 
 
 His chere was done, it nolde 4 none other be : 
 His schoolemaister had such aucthorite, 
 
 That, all the while he bode still in the place 
 Speake coud he not, but upon her beautie 
 
 He looked still with a right pitous face. 
 
 With that his head he tourned at the last 
 
 For to behold the ladies euerichone, 5 
 But euer in one he set his eye stedfast 
 
 On her which his thought was most vpon, 
 For of his eyen the shot 6 I knew anone, 
 
 Which fearful was, with right humble re 
 quests : 
 Than to my self I said, by God alone, 
 
 Such one was I, or that I saw these jests. 
 
 Out of the prease he went full easely 
 
 To make stable his heauie countenance, 
 And wote ye well, he sighed wonderly 
 
 For his sorrowes and wofull remembrance : 
 Than in himselfe he made his ordinance, 
 
 And forthwithall came to bring in the messe 
 But for to judge his most wofull pennance, 
 
 God wote it was a pitous entremesse. 7 
 
 After dinner anon they hem auanced 
 
 To daunce aboue the folke euerichone, 
 And forthwithall, this heauy man he danced, 
 
 Somtime with twain, and somtime with one 
 Unto hem all his chere was after one, . 
 
 Now here, now there, as fell by auenture, 
 But euer among he drew to her alone 
 
 Which he most dread 8 of liuing creature. 
 
 To mine aduise good was his purueiance, 9 
 
 Whan he her chose to his maistresse alone, 
 If that her herte were set to his pleasance, 
 
 As much as was her beauteous person : 
 For who so euer setteth his trust vpon 
 
 The report of the eyen, withouten more, 
 He might be dead, and grauen vnder stone, 
 
 Or euer he should his hertes ease restore. 
 
 In her failed nothing that I coud gesse, 
 
 One wise nor other, priuie nor apert, 10 
 A garrison she was of all goodlinesse, 
 
 To make a frontier for a louers herte : 
 Right yong and fresh, a woman full couert, 
 
 Assured wele of port, and eke of chere, 
 Wele at her ease withouten wo or smert, 
 
 All vnderneath the standerd of dangere. 
 
 To see the feast it wearied me full sore, 
 For heauy joy doth sore the herte trauaile : 
 
 Out of the prease I me withdrow therefore, 
 And set me downe alone behind a traile, 11 
 
 4 For ne wold, would not. 
 s Every one. 
 
 6 Glance. 
 
 7 JSntremet, a dish served 
 between the courses. 
 
 8 Feared. 
 
 s Foresight, providence. 
 '0 Secret nor public. 
 n Trellis. 
 
440 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 Full of leaues, to see a great meruaile, 
 
 With greene wreaths ybounden wonderly, 
 
 The leaues were so thicke withouten faile, 
 That throughout no man might me espy. 
 
 To this lady he came full courtesly, 
 
 Whan he thought time to dance with her a 
 trace, 12 
 Set in an herber, 13 made full pleasantly, 
 
 They rested hem fro thens but a little space : 
 Nigh hem were none of a certain compace, 14 
 
 But onely they, as farre as I coud see : 
 Saue the traile, there I had chose my place, 
 
 There was no more between hem two and 
 
 I heard the louer sighing wonder sore, 
 
 For aye the more the sorer it him sought, 
 His inward paine he coud not keepe in store, 
 
 Nor for to speake so hardie was he nought, 
 His leech was nere, the greater was his thoght, 
 
 He mused sore to conquer his desire : 
 For no man may to more pennance be broght 
 
 Than in his heat to bring him to the fire. 
 
 The herte began to swell within his chest, 
 
 So sore strained for anguish and for paine, 
 That all to peeces almost it to brest, 
 
 Whan both at ones so sore it did constraine, 
 Desire was bold, but shame it gan refraine, 
 
 That one was large, the other was full close : 
 No little charge was laid on him, certaine, 
 
 To keepe such werre, and haue so many 
 lose. 
 
 Full oftentimes to speak himself he pained, 
 
 But shamefastnesse and drede said euer nay, 
 Tet at the last, so sore he was constrained, 
 
 Whan he full long had put it in delay, 
 To his lady right thus than gan he say, 
 
 With dredeful voice, weeping, half in a 
 rage: 
 " For me was purueyed an vnhappy day, 
 
 Whan I first had a sight of your visage ! " 
 
 CHARLES DORLEANS. 
 
 Charles, Duke of Orleans, was born May 
 26, 1391. From his earliest years, he devoted 
 himself to poetry and eloquence. He was 
 made prisoner at the battle of Agincourt, and 
 taken to England, where he remained twenty- 
 five years; and during this long period of cap- 
 tivity consoled himself by the study of poetry 
 and letters. He returned to France in 1440, 
 and married Marie de Cleves, niece of Philip 
 the Good, duke of Burgundy. He died, greatly 
 regretted, January 8, 1467. His poems are 
 distinguished by delicacy of sentiment and 
 graceful simplicity of style ; and his versifica- 
 tion is free and flowing. 
 
 12 Turn, or measure. 
 
 13 Arbour. 
 
 i* Compass, circle, distance. 
 
 RONDEL. 
 
 Hence away, begone, begone, 
 Carking care and melancholy ! 
 Think ye thus to govern me 
 
 All my life long, as ye have done ? 
 That shall ye not, I promise ye: 
 Reason shall have the mastery. 
 
 So hence away, begone, begone, 
 Carking care and melancholy ! 
 
 If ever ye return this way, 
 
 With your mournful company, 
 
 A curse be on ye, and the day 
 
 That brings ye moping back to me ! 
 
 Hence away, begone, I say, 
 Carking care and melancholy ! 
 
 RENOUVEAU. 
 
 Now Time throws off his cloak again 
 Of ermined frost, and cold and rain, 
 And clothes him in the embroidery 
 Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. 
 With beast and bird the forest rings, 
 Each in his jargon cries or sings; 
 And Time throws off his cloak again 
 Of ermined frost, and cold and rain. 
 
 River, and fount, and tinkling brook 
 Wear in their dainty livery 
 Drops of silver jewelry ; 
 
 In new-made suit they merry look ; 
 
 And Time throws off his cloak again 
 
 Of ermined frost, and cold and rain. 
 
 RENOUVEAU. 
 
 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 naught both late and early, 
 Is banished afar by the new-born year, 
 When thy merry step draws near 
 
CHARLES D'ORLEANS. — SURVILLE. 
 
 441 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I stood upon the wild seashore, 
 
 And marked the wide expanse ; 
 My straining eyes were turned once more 
 
 To long loved, distant France : 
 I saw the sea-bird hurry by 
 
 Along the waters blue ; 
 I saw her wheel amid the sky, 
 And mock my tearful, eager eye, 
 
 That would her flight pursue. 
 
 Onward she darts, secure and free, 
 And wings her rapid course to thee ! 
 O, that her wing were mine, to soar, 
 And reach thy lovely land once more ! 
 O Heaven ! it were enough, to die 
 
 In my own, my native home, — 
 One hour of blessed liberty 
 
 Were worth whole years to come ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Wilt thou be mine ? dear love, reply, - 
 Sweetly consent, or else deny : 
 Whisper softly, none shall know, — 
 Wilt thou be mine, love? — ay or no? 
 
 Spite of fortune, we may be 
 Happy by one word from thee : 
 Life flies swiftly ; ere it go, 
 Wilt thou be mine, love ? — ay or no? 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O, let me, let me think in peace ! 
 
 Alas ! the boon I ask is time ! 
 My sorrows seem awhile to cease, 
 
 When I may breathe the tuneful rhyme. 
 Unwelcome thoughts and vain regret 
 
 Amidst the busy crowd increase; 
 The boon I ask is to forget ; — 
 
 O, let me, let me think in peace ! 
 
 For sometimes in a lonely hour 
 Past happiness my dream recalls; 
 
 And, like sweet dews, the freshening shower 
 Upon my heart's sad desert falls. 
 
 Forgive me, then, — the contest cease, — 
 
 O, let me, let me think in peace ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Heaven ! 't is delight to see how fair 
 
 Is she, my gentle love ! 
 To serve her is my only care, 
 
 For all her bondage prove. 
 Who could be weary of her sight? 
 
 Each day new beauties spring : 
 Just Heaven, who made her fair and bright, 
 
 Inspires me while I sing. 
 
 In any land where'er the sea 
 
 Bathes some delicious shore, 
 Where'er the sweetest clime may be 
 
 The south wind wanders o'er, 
 56 
 
 'T is but an idle dream to say 
 With her may aught compare : 
 
 The world no treasure can display 
 So precious and so fair. 
 
 CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE. 
 
 Marguerite-Eleonore-Clotilde de Val 
 lon Chalvs, afterwards Madame de Surville, 
 was born at the Chateau de Vallon, in Langue- 
 doc, in the year 1405. She inherited from her 
 mother a taste for poetry and letters, which 
 manifested itself at a very early age. When 
 eleven years old, she translated an ode of 
 Petrarch with so much skill and grace, that 
 Christine de Pisan, after having read it, ex- 
 claimed, "I must yield to this child all my 
 rights to the sceptre of Parnassus." In 1421, 
 she married Berenger de Surville, a young and 
 gallant knight, with whom she was passionately 
 in love. Seven years -after the marriage, her 
 husband fell at the siege of Orleans; after this, 
 she occupied herself with the education of 
 young females who possessed poetical talents. 
 Among them are mentioned Sophie de Lyonna 
 and Juliette de Vivarez. The poems of Clo- 
 tilde excited the admiration of Charles of Or- 
 leans, who made them known to Margaret of 
 Scotland, the wife of Louis the dauphin. This 
 princess, unable to draw Clotilde from the re- 
 tirement in which she had lived since her hus- 
 band's death, sent her a crown of artificial lau- 
 rel, surmounted by twelve pearls with golden 
 studs and silver leaves, and the device, " Mar 
 garet* of Scotland, to the Margaret of Helicon.' 
 The date of Clotilde's death is uncertain. She 
 must have lived beyond the age of ninety, as 
 she celebrated the victory gained by Charles 
 the Eighth over the Italian princes at Fornovo. 
 
 The genuineness of the poems which pass 
 under the name of Clotilde has been impugned 
 on very strong grounds. The statement is, that 
 they remained unknown until 1782, when one 
 of her descendants, Joseph-Etienne de Surville, 
 discovered them while searching the archives 
 of his family ; that he studied the language ani 1 
 deciphered the handwriting ; that on his emi 
 gration, in 1791, he left the original manuscript 
 behind him, and that it perished, with many 
 other family documents, in the flames; that 
 after his death (he was shot as a returned emi- 
 grant in 1798), copies of several of the pieces 
 passed from the hands of his widow to the 
 publisher, Vanderbourg. 
 
 THE CHILD ASLEEP. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 * Marguerite, i. e. the Pearl. 
 
442 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 Upon that tender eye, my little friend, 
 
 Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to 
 me ' 
 I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; — 
 'T is 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! — Un- 
 close 
 
 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 be- 
 guile! 
 
 O, when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, 
 Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? 
 
 FRANCOIS VILLON. 
 
 This distinguished poet and rogue was born 
 at Paris, in 1431. His parents were poor, but 
 found the means of sending him to school. His 
 dissipation and profligacy, however, hindered 
 him from deriving much benefit from his stud- 
 ies. On entering the world, he connected him- 
 self with the most abandoned young men of the 
 capital, and though he often repented of his 
 graceless way of life, he soon returned to his 
 ancient practices, alleging that fortune had giv- 
 en him no other means of satisfying his wants; 
 
 " For hunger makes the wolf desert the wood." 
 He was at length brought to trial for a grave 
 offence, and condemned to be hanged, with five 
 of his associates. His gayety did not desert him 
 in this awkward situation. He wrote his own 
 epitaph, and composed a ballad for himself and 
 his companions in misfortune, in anticipation of 
 their being carried, after execution, to Montfau- 
 con. He acknowledged, however, that " the 
 play did not please him "; and, upon an appeal 
 to the parliament, the sentence of condemna- 
 tion was set aside, and his punishment com- 
 muted to banishment. He took great credit to 
 himself for having had the presence of mind to 
 utter the words, " I appeal " ; it was, in his 
 opinion, the finest thing he had ever said. 
 
 After having escaped this danger, he retired 
 to Saint-Genou, but the warning failed to make 
 him change his course of life. He was again 
 arrested for some new offence, and thrown into 
 prison, where he remained three months, until 
 the intervention of Louis the Eleventh procured 
 his liberation. After this, according to Rabelais, 
 
 he retired to England, where he enjoyed the 
 protection of Edward the Fourth. He probably 
 died in Paris about the end of the fifteenth, or 
 the beginning of the sixteenth century 
 
 THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES. 
 
 Tei/l me now in what hidden way is 
 
 Lady Flora the lovely Roman 1 
 Where 's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, 
 
 Neither of them the fairer woman ? 
 
 Where is Echo, beheld of no man, 
 Only heard on river and mere, — 
 
 She whose beauty was more than human 1 . . 
 But where are the snows of yester-year? 
 
 Where 's Heloise, the learned nun, 
 For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, 
 
 Lost manhood and put priesthood on ? 
 (From love he won such dule and teen !) 
 And where, I pray you, is the Queen 
 
 Who willed that Buridan should steer 
 
 Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine ? . 
 
 But where are the snows of yester-year? 
 
 White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, 
 With a voice like any mermaiden, — 
 
 Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, 
 
 And Ermengarde the lady of Maine, — 
 And that good Joan whom Englishmen 
 
 At Rouen doomed and burned her there, — 
 Mother of God, where are they then ? . . . 
 
 But where are the snows of yester-year 1 
 
 Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, 
 
 Where they are gone, nor yet this year, 
 
 Except with this for an overword, — 
 
 But where are the snows of yester-year 1 
 
 MARTIAL DE PARIS, DIT D'AU- 
 
 VERGNE. 
 
 This author, who takes rank among the best 
 writers of his age, was born at Paris, about the 
 year 1440. For the long period of forty years, 
 he held the office of Procureur to the parlia- 
 ment. As an author, he was chiefly known by 
 fifty-one " Arrets d'Amours," the idea of which 
 was suggested by the poems of the Troubadours. 
 These were written in prose, but preceded and 
 followed by verses. But the work which 
 gained him the most reputation was a histor- 
 ical poem on Charles the Seventh, extending 
 to between six and seven thousand verses in 
 various measures. Other pieces also have been 
 attributed to him. He died May 13th, 1508. 
 
 THE ADVANTAGES OF ADVERSITY. 
 
 The prince, who fortune's falsehood knows, 
 With pity hears his subjects' woes, 
 And seeks to comfort and to heal 
 Those griefs the prosperous cannot feel. 
 
 i See the reign of Louis the Tenth for an account of 
 Marguerite of Burgundy and her proceedings. 
 
MARTIAL DE PARIS. — CRETIN. — I SAURE. 
 
 443 
 
 Warned by the dangers he has run, 
 He strives the ills of war to shun, 
 Seeks peace, and with a steady hand 
 Spreads truth and justice through the land. 
 
 When poverty the Romans knew, 
 Each honest heart was pure and true; 
 But soon as wealth assumed her reign, 
 Pride and ambition swelled her train. 
 
 When hardship is a monarch's share, 
 And his career begins in care, 
 'T is sign that good will come, though late, 
 And blessings on the future wait. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Dear the felicity, 
 
 Gentle, and fair, and sweet, 
 Love and simplicity, 
 
 When tender shepherds meet: 
 Better than store of gold, 
 Silver and gems untold, 
 Manners refined and cold, 
 
 Which to our lords belong. 
 We, when our toil is past, 
 Softest delight can taste, 
 While summer's beauties last, 
 
 Dance, feast, and jocund song ; 
 And in our hearts a joy 
 No envy can destroy. 
 
 GUILLAUME CRETIN. 
 
 Guileaume Dubois, surnamed Cretin, flour- 
 ished in the latter half of the fifteenth century, 
 and the beginning of the sixteenth. He was 
 born at Nanterre, near Paris, and lived under 
 Charles the Eighth, Louis the Twelfth, and 
 Francis the First, the last of whom employed 
 him to write the history of France. The work, 
 embracing five folio volumes of French verse, 
 is among the manuscripts of the Bibliotheque 
 du Roi. The history commences with the tak- 
 ing of Troy, and extends to the end of the 
 second race. He wrote a vast number of other 
 works ; among them are songs, ballads, ron- 
 deaux, laments, quatrains, &c, a collection of 
 which was published in 1527. His death took 
 place about 1525. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Love is like a fairy's favor, 
 
 Bright to-day, but faded soon ; 
 If thou lov'st and fain wouldst have her, 
 
 Think what course will speed thee on. 
 For her faults if thou reprove her, 
 
 Frowns are ready, words as bad ; 
 If thou sigh, her smiles recover, — 
 
 But be gay. and she is sad. 
 
 If with stratagems thou try her, 
 All thy wiles she soon will find ; 
 
 The only art, unless thou fly her, 
 Is to seem as thou wert blind. 
 
 CLEMENCE ISAURE. 
 
 This poetess was born in 1464, near Tou- 
 louse. She was endowed by nature with beau- 
 ty and genius. Having lost her father when 
 she was only five years old, she was educated 
 in seclusion ; but near her garden, there lived 
 a young Troubadour, Raoul, who fell in love 
 with her, and made his passion known in songs. 
 She replied with flowers, according to her lov- 
 er's petition : — 
 
 " Vbus avez inspire 1 mes vers, 
 Qu'une fleur soit ma recompense." 
 Her lover having fallen in battle, Isaure re- 
 solved to take the veil ; but first renewed the 
 Floral Games, Jeux Floraux, which had been 
 established by the Troubadours, but had long 
 been forgotten. To this institution she devoted 
 her whole fortune. Having fixed on the first of 
 May for the distribution of the prizes, she wrote 
 an ode on Spring, which acquired for her the 
 surname of the Sappho of Toulouse. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The tender dove amidst the woods all day 
 Murmurs in peace her long continued strain, 
 
 The linnet warbles his melodious lay, 
 
 To hail bright Spring and all her flowers again 
 
 Alas ! and I, thus plaintive and alone, 
 
 Who have no lore but love and misery, — 
 
 My only task, — to joy, to hope unknown, — 
 Is to lament my sorrows and to die ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Fair season ! childhood of the year! 
 Verse and mirth to thee are dear ; 
 Wreaths thou hast, of old renown, 
 The faithful Troubadour to crown. 
 
 Let us sing the Virgin's praise, 
 Let her name inspire our lays ; 
 She, whose heart with woe was riven, 
 Mourning for the Prince of Heaven ! 
 
 Bards may deem — alas ! how wrong ! ■ 
 That they yet may live in song: 
 Well I know the hour will come, 
 When, within the dreary tomb, 
 Poets will forget my fame, 
 And Clemence shall be but a name ! 
 
 Thus may early roses blow, 
 
 When the sun of spring is bright; 
 
 But even the buds that fairest glow 
 Wither in the blast of night. 
 
444 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 THIRD PERIOD.-FROM 1500 TO 1650. 
 
 MELLIN DE SAINT-GELAIS. 
 
 Mellin de Saint-Gelais, son of the poet 
 Octavien de Saint-Gelais, was born in 1491. 
 He received a careful education, being destined 
 to the ecclesiastical profession. Francis the 
 First granted him the abbey of Notre-Dame-des- 
 Reclus, and appointed him Almoner to Henry 
 the Second, then dauphin ; and when this 
 prince mounted the throne, Mellin became his 
 librarian. He died in 1558. 
 
 The works of this poet consist of epistles, 
 rondeaux, ballads, sonnets, quatrains, epitaphs, 
 elegies, &c. He translated parts of Ovid, and 
 wrote imitations of Bion and Ariosto. 
 
 HUITAIN. 
 
 Go, glowing sighs, my soul's expiring breath, 
 
 Ye who alone can tell my cause of care ; 
 If she I love behold unmoved my death, 
 
 Fly up to heaven, and wait my coming there ! 
 But if her eye, as ye believe so fain, 
 
 Deign with some hope our sorrow to supply, 
 Return to me, and bring my soul again, — 
 
 For I no more shall have a wish to die. 
 
 MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, REINE DE 
 NAVARRE. 
 
 Margaret, or Marguerite, the famous queen 
 of Navarre, was born at Angouleme, in 1492. 
 She was married to the duke of Alen^on, in 
 1509, and, being left a widow in 1525, was 
 again married to Henri d'Abret, king of Na- 
 varre. She was fond of study, prepared Mys- 
 teries for representation from the Scriptures, 
 and wrote a work called " The Mirror of the 
 Sinful Soul " ; but she is best known in litera- 
 ture by a collection of stories, called " Hepta- 
 meron, ou Sept Journees de la Reyne de Na- 
 varre." She died in 1549. A collection of 
 her poems and other pieces appeared in 1547, 
 under the title of " Marguerites de la Margue- 
 rite des Princesses." Several editions have 
 since been published. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER, FRANCIS 
 THE FIRST. 
 
 'T is done ! a father, mother, gone, 
 A sister, brother, torn away, 
 
 My hope is now in God alone, 
 
 Whom heaven and earth alike obey. 
 
 Above, beneath, to him is known, — 
 
 The world's wide compass is his own. 
 
 I love, — but in the world no more, 
 Nor in gay hall, or festal bower; 
 
 Not the fair forms I prized before, — 
 But Him, all beauty, wisdom, power, 
 
 My Saviour, who has cast a chain 
 
 On sin and ill, and woe and pain ! 
 
 I from my memory have effaced 
 
 All former joys, all kindred, friends ; 
 
 All honors that my station graced 
 I hold but snares that fortune sends : 
 
 Hence ! joys by Christ at distance cast, 
 
 That we may be his own at last ! 
 
 FRANCOIS I. 
 
 Francois I., king of France, whose love 
 and support of learning procured him the ap- 
 pellation of the Father of Literature, was born 
 at Cognac, in 1494. He ascended the throne 
 in 1515. The political and military events of 
 his reign, which occupy a large space in the 
 history of France, are foreign to the purpose 
 of this work. He established the Royal College, 
 and laid the foundation of the Library at Paris. 
 He introduced into France the remains of an- 
 cient literature, which the revival of learning 
 was just recalling to the notice of the world. 
 He was also a powerful protector of the arts and 
 sciences. 
 
 EPITAPH ON FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 
 
 s 
 
 Beneath this tomb De Foix's fair Frances lies, 
 On whose rare worth each tongue delights to 
 dwell ; 
 And none, while fame her virtue deifies, 
 
 Can with harsh voice the meed of praise re- 
 pel. 
 In beauty peerless, in attractive grace, 
 
 Of mind enlightened, and of wit refined ; 
 With honor, more than this weak tongue can 
 trace, 
 The Eternal Father stored her spotless mind. 
 Alas ! the sum of human gifts how small ! 
 Here nothing lies, that once commanded all ! 
 
 EPITAPH ON AGNES SOREL. 
 
 Here lies entombed the fairest of the fair : 
 To her rare beauty greater praise be given, 
 
 Than holy maids in cloistered cells may share, 
 Or hermits that in deserts live for heaven ! 
 
 For by her charms recovered France arose, 
 
 Shook off her chains, and triumphed o'er her 
 foes. 
 
MAROT. — HENRI II. 
 
 44b 
 
 CLEMENT MAROT. 
 
 This celebrated epigrammatist and lyrical 
 poet was born at Cahors, in 1505. He was a 
 page of Margaret of France, and afterwards ac- 
 companied Francis the First to the Netherlands. 
 He was present in the battle of Pavia, where 
 he was wounded and taken prisoner. Being 
 thrown into prison on his return to Paris, on a 
 suspicion of favoring Calvinism, he employed 
 his time in recasting the " Romance of the Rose." 
 After his liberation from prison, he fled to Italy, 
 and thence to Geneva, where he became a dis- 
 ciple of Calvin; but soon recanting his profes- 
 sion of faith, returned to Paris. He left France 
 once more and visited Turin, where he died in 
 1544. One of his chief works is his translation 
 of the Psalms, made in connection with Beza. 
 He had a lively fancy, much wit, and wrote 
 in a simple but epigrammatic style, which the 
 French have called the Style Marotique. 
 
 FRIAR LUBIN. 
 
 To gallop off to town post-haste, 
 
 So oft, the times I cannot tell ; 
 To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced, — 
 
 Friar Lubin will do it well. 
 But a sober life to lead, 
 
 To honor virtue, and pursue it, 
 That 's a pious, Christian deed, — 
 
 Friar Lubin cannot do it. 
 
 To mingle, with a knowing smile, 
 
 The goods of others with his own, 
 And leave you without cross or pile, 
 
 Friar Lubin stands alone. 
 To say 't is yours is all in vain, 
 
 If once he lays his finger to it ; 
 For as to giving back again, 
 
 Friar Lubin cannot do it. 
 
 With flattering words and gentle tone, 
 
 To woo and win some guileless maid, 
 Cunning pander need you none, — 
 
 Friar Lubin knows the trade. 
 Loud preacheth he sobriety, 
 
 But as for water, doth eschew it ; 
 Your dog may drink it, — but not he; 
 
 Friar Lubin cannot do it. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 When an evil deed 's to do, 
 Friar Lubin is stout and true ; 
 Glimmers a ray of goodness through it, 
 Friar Lubin cannot do it. 
 
 TO ANNE. 
 
 When thou art near to me, it seems 
 As if the sun along the sky, 
 
 Though he awhile withheld his beams, 
 Burst forth in glowing majesty : 
 
 But like a storm that lowers on high, 
 Thy absence clouds the scene again; — 
 
 Alas ! that from so sweet a joy 
 
 Should spring regret so full of pain ! 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 This dear resemblance of thy lovely face, 
 
 'T is true, is painted with a master's care , 
 But one far better still my heart can trace, 
 
 For Love himself engraved the image there. 
 Thy gift can make my soul blest visions share ; 
 
 But brighter still, dear love, my joys would 
 shine, 
 Were I within thy heart impressed as fair, 
 
 As true, as vividly, as thou in mine ! 
 
 HUITAIN. 
 
 I am no more what I have been, 
 
 Nor can regret restore my prime ; 
 My summer years and beauty's sheen 
 
 Are in the envious clutch of Time. 
 Above all gods I owned thy reign, 
 
 O Love ! and served thee to the letter ■ 
 But, if my life were given again, 
 
 Methinks I yet could serve thee better. 
 
 TO DIANE DE POITIERS. 
 
 Farewell ! since vain is all my care, 
 
 Far, in some desert rude, 
 I 'II hide my weakness, my despair ■ 
 
 And, 'midst my solitude, 
 I '11 pray, that, should another move thee, 
 He may as fondly, truly love thee. 
 
 Adieu, bright eyes, that were my heaven ! 
 
 Adieu, soft cheek, where summer blooms 
 Adieu, fair form, earth's pattern given, 
 
 Which Love inhabits and illumes ! 
 Your rays have fallen but coldly on me : 
 One far less fond, perchance, had won ye ! 
 
 HENRI II. 
 
 This able and energetic prince was born at 
 St. Germain-en-Laye, March 31st, 1518. He 
 ascended the throne at the age of twenty-nine, 
 made many changes in the government, re- 
 formed abuses, and developed the resources of 
 the kingdom. He was a lover of poetry, and, 
 under the inspiration of his passion for the beau- 
 tiful Diane de Poitiers, wrote pieces of consid- 
 erable merit. After an active and important 
 reign of twelve years, Henri died of a wound 
 he had received in a tournament, from the 
 Comte de Montgomery, captain of the Scot- 
 tish guard. 
 
446 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 TO DIANE DE POITIERS. 
 
 More constant faith none ever swore 
 To a new prince, O fairest fair, 
 
 Than mine to thee, whom I adore, 
 
 Which time nor death can e'er impair ! 
 
 The steady fortress of my heart 
 
 Seeks not with towers secured to be, 
 The lady of the hold thou art, 
 
 For 't is of firmness worthy thee : 
 No bribes o'er thee can victory obtain, 
 A heart so noble treason cannot stain ! 
 
 PIERRE DE RONSARD. 
 
 This person, whose name is one of the most 
 celebrated in the early literature of France, was 
 born, in 1524, at the Chateau de la Poissoniere, 
 in the province of Vendome. He was sent to 
 Paris, at the age of nine years, to the College 
 de Navarre, but soon afterwards entered the 
 service of the duke of Orleans, as page. James 
 Stuart, king of Scotland, who had arrived 
 in France to marry Marie de Lorraine, took 
 Ronsard with him, on his return to Scotland. 
 He remained three years in Great Britain, after 
 which he returned to France and was employ- 
 ed by the duke of Orleans. Having become 
 deaf, he withdrew from public life, and devoted 
 himself to literary pursuits at the College de 
 Coqueret. His early poetical pieces had an 
 astonishing success. He was crowned at the 
 Floral Games, and declared by a decree of the 
 magistrates of Toulouse to be the French poet. 
 These honors excited the ire of Mellin de Saint- 
 Gellais, and the court was divided between 
 the two literary factions. The dispute was de- 
 cided by Francis the First in favor of Ronsard. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the enthusiasm which 
 the pedantic and affected style of this writer ex- 
 cited. Men of the highest rank, scholars of the 
 most distinguished learning, vied with each 
 other in heaping encomiums upon his genius 
 and his poetry. His works consoled the un- 
 happy Mary Stuart in her imprisonment, and 
 she presented to him a silver Parnassus, in- 
 scribed with the words, — 
 
 " A Ronsard, I'Apollon de la source des Muses " : 
 To Ronsard, the Apollo of the Muses' spring; 
 
 and Chastelard, her unfortunate lover, when he 
 lost his head, desired no other viaticum than the 
 verses of Ronsard. De Thou compared him to 
 the greatest writers of antiquity, and pronoun- 
 ced him the most accomplished poet that had 
 appeared since Horace and Tibullus. Old Pas- 
 quier says of him, in the eighth book of his 
 " Recherches," "I do not think that Rome ever 
 produced a greater poet than Ronsard." 
 
 But the affectations of his style made it im- 
 possible that his popularity should long continue. 
 "His Muse," says Boileau, "in French spoke 
 Greek and Latin " ; in fact, his language was 
 
 an absurd and unintelligible jargon, the ele- 
 ments of which were drawn from every quarter. 
 He says of himself, — 
 
 " Je fis de nouveaux mots, 
 Pen condamnay de vieux." 
 The writer of his life in the " Biographic 
 Universelle " says: "He affected so much eru- 
 dition in his verses, and even in his books of 
 ' Loves,' that his mistresses found it necessary, 
 in order to understand him, to resort to the dan- 
 gerous aid of foreign commentators." His nu- 
 merous works, embracing almost every species 
 of composition, have been several times pub- 
 lished. He was the originator of the French 
 Pleiades ; the satellites, chosen by himself, were 
 Joachim du Bellay, Antoine de Ba'if, Pontus de 
 Thyard,Remi Belleau, Jean Dorat, and Etienne 
 Jodelle. He fell into a premature decrepitude, 
 brought on by excesses, and died at his priory 
 of Saint-Come, near Tours, in 1585. 
 
 TO HIS LYRE. 
 
 golden lyre, whom all the Muses claim, 
 And Phcebus crowns with uncontested fame, 
 My solace in all woes that Fate has sent ! 
 At thy soft voice all nature smiles content, 
 The dance springs gayly at thy jocund call, 
 And with thy music echo bower and hall. 
 
 When thou art heard, the lightnings cease to 
 
 play, 
 
 And Jove's dread thunder faintly dies away ; 
 Low on the triple-pointed bolt reclined, 
 His eagle droops his wing, and sleeps resigned, 
 As, at thy power, his all-pervading eye 
 Yields gently to the spell of minstrelsy. 
 
 To him may ne'er Elysian joys belong, 
 Who prizes not, melodious lyre, thy song! 
 Pride of my youth, I first in France made 
 
 known 
 All the wild wonders of thy godlike tone; 
 
 1 tuned thee first, — for harsh thy chords I found, 
 And all thy sweetness in oblivion bound : 
 
 But scarce my eager fingers touch thy strings, 
 When each rich strain to deathless being springs. 
 
 Time's withering grasp was cold upon thee 
 
 then, 
 And my heart bled to see thee scorned of men; 
 Who once at monarchs' feasts, so gayly dight, 
 Filled all their courts with glory and delight. 
 
 To give thee back thy former magic tone, 
 The force, the grace, the beauty all thine own, 
 Through Thebes I sought, Apulia's realm ex- 
 plored, 
 And hung their spoils upon each drooping chord. 
 
 Then forth, through lovely France, we took our 
 
 way, 
 And Loire resounded many an early lay 
 I sang the mighty deeds of princes frig? 
 And poured the exulting song of victory. 
 
RONSARD. — BELLAV. 
 
 447 
 
 He, who would rouse thy eloquence divine, 
 In camps or tourneys may not hope to shine. 
 Nor on the seas behold his prosperous sail, 
 Nor in the fields of warlike strife prevail. 
 
 But thou, my forest, and each pleasant wood 
 Which shades my own Vendome's majestic 
 
 flood, 
 Where Pan and all the laughing nymphs repose ; 
 Ye sacred choir, whom Bray's fair walls in- 
 close, 
 Ye shall bestow upon your bard a name 
 That through the universe shall spread his fame, 
 His notes shall grace, and love, and joy inspire, 
 And all be subject to his sounding lyre ! 
 Even now, my lute, the world has heard thy 
 
 praise, 
 Even now the sons of France applaud my lays: 
 Me, as their bard, above the rest they choose. 
 To you be thanks, O each propitious Muse, 
 That, taught by you, my voice can fitly sing, 
 To celebrate my country and my king ! 
 
 O, if I please, O, if my songs awake 
 
 Some gentle memories for Ronsard's sake, 
 
 If I the harper of fair France may be, 
 
 If men shall point and say, " Lo ! that is he ! " 
 
 If mine may prove a destiny so proud 
 
 That France herself proclaims my praise aloud, 
 
 If on my head I place a starry crown, 
 
 To thee, to thee, my lute, be the renown ! 
 
 LOVES. 
 
 Mv sorrowing Muse, no more complain ' 
 
 'T was not ordained for thee, 
 While yet the bard in life remain, 
 The meed of fame to see. 
 The poet, till the dismal gulf be past, 
 Knows not what honors crown his name at last. 
 Perchance, when years have rolled away, 
 My Loire shall be a sacred stream, 
 My name a dear and cherished theme, 
 And those who in that region stray 
 Shall marvel such a spot of earth 
 Could give so great a poet birth. 
 Revive, my Muse ! for virtue's ore 
 In this vain world is counted air, 
 But held a gem beyond compare 
 When 't is beheld on earth no more : 
 Rancor the living seeks, — the dead alone 
 Enjoy their fame, to envy's blights unknown. 
 
 TO MARY STUART. 
 
 All beauty, granted as a boon to earth, 
 That is, has been, or ever can have birth, 
 Compared to hers, is void, and Nature's care 
 Ne'er formed a creature so divinely fair. 
 
 In spring amidst the lilies she was born, 
 And purer tints her peerless face adorn ; 
 And though Adonis' blood the rose may paint, 
 Beside her bloom the rose's hues are faint : 
 
 With all his richest store Love decked her eyes 
 The Graces each, those daughters of the skies, 
 Strove which should make her to the world 
 
 most dear, 
 And, to attend her, left their native sphere. 
 
 The day that was to bear her far away, — 
 Why was I mortal to behold that day ? 
 O, had I senseless grown, nor heard, nor seen ' 
 Or that my eyes a ceaseless fount had been, 
 That I might weep, as weep amidst their bowers 
 The nymphs, when winter winds have cropped 
 
 their flowers, 
 Or when rude torrents the clear streams deform, 
 Or when the trees are riven by the storm ! 
 Or rather, would that I some bird had been 
 Still to be near her in each changing scene, 
 Still on the highest mast to watch all day, 
 And like a star to mark her vessel's way : 
 The dangerous billows past, on shore, on sea, 
 Near that dear face it still were mine to be ! 
 
 O France ! where are thy ancient champions 
 
 gone, — 
 Roland, Rinaldo ? — is there living none 
 Her steps to follow and her safety guard, 
 And deem her lovely looks their best reward, — 
 Which might subdue the pride of mighty Jove 
 To leave his heaven, and languish for her love? 
 No fault is hers, but in her royal state, — 
 For simple Love dreads to approach the great; 
 He flies from regal pomp, that treacherous snare, 
 Where truth unmarked may wither in despair. 
 
 Wherever destiny her path may lead, 
 Fresh-springing flowers will bloom beneath her 
 
 tread, 
 All nature will rejoice, the waves be bright, 
 The tempest check its fury at her sight, 
 The sea be calm : her beauty to behold, 
 The sun shall crown her with his rays of gold, — 
 Unless he fears, should he approach her throne, 
 Her majesty should quite eclipse his own. 
 
 JOACHIM DU BELLAY. 
 
 This writer was born about the year 1525. 
 He early enjoyed high consideration at court, 
 partly through the influence of his kinsman, the 
 Cardinal du Bellay. His contemporaries called 
 him the French Ovid ; for he composed Latin 
 poems in the style of Ovid, and in his French 
 verses endeavoured to catch the lightness and 
 grace of the Ovidian manner. Bellay was ona 
 of the Pleiades. He died in 1560. 
 
 FROM THE VISIONS. 
 
 I. 
 
 It was the time, when rest, soft sliding downe 
 
 From heavens hight into mens heavy eyes, 
 
 In the forgetful nes of sleepe doth drowne 
 
 The carefull thoughts of mortall miseries , 
 
448 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 Then did a ghost before mine eyes appeare, 
 On that great rivers banck, that runnes by 
 Rome; 
 Which, calling me by name, bad me to reare 
 My lookes to heaven, whence all good gifts 
 do come, 
 And crying lowd, "Lo! now beholde," quoth 
 hee, 
 " What under this great temple placed is : 
 Lo, all is nought but flying vanitee ! " 
 
 So I, that know this worlds inconstancies, 
 Sith onely God surmounts all times decay, 
 In God alone my confidence do stay. 
 
 ii. 
 
 On high hills top I saw a stately frame, 
 
 An hundred cubits high by iust assize, 1 
 With hundreth pillours fronting faire the same, 
 
 All wrought with diamond after Dorick wize : 
 Nor brick nor marble was the wall in view, 
 
 But shining christall, which from top to base 
 Out of her womb a thousand rayons 2 threw, 
 
 One hundred steps of Afrike golds enchase : 
 Golde was the parget 3 ; and the seeling bright 
 
 Did shine all scaly with great plates of golde; 
 The floore of iasp and emeraude was dight. 
 
 O, worlds vainesse ! Whiles thus I did behold, 
 An earthquake shooke the hill from lowest seat, 
 And overthrew this frame with mine great. 
 
 m. 
 Then did a sharped spyre of diamond bright, 
 
 Ten feete each way in square, appeare to mee, 
 Iustly proportion'd up unto his hight, 
 
 So far as archer might his level see : 
 The top thereof a pot did seeme to beare, 
 
 Made of the mettall which we most do hon- 
 our ; 
 And in this golden vessel couched weare 
 
 The ashes of a mightie emperour : 
 Upon foure corners of the base were pight, 4 
 
 To beare the frame, foure great lyons of gold ; 
 A worthy tombe for such a worthy wight. 
 
 Alas ! this world doth nought but grievance 
 hold! 
 I saw a tempest from the heaven descend, 
 Which this brave monument with flash did rend. 
 
 I saw raysde up on yvorie pillowes tall, 
 
 Whose bases were of richest mettalls warke, 
 The chapters alabaster, the fryses christall, 
 
 The double front of a triumphall arke : 
 On each side purtraid was a Victorie, 
 
 Clad like a nimph, that winges of silver weares, 
 And in triumphant chayre was set on hie 
 
 The auncient glory of the Romaine peares. 
 No worke it seem'd of earthly craftsmans wit, 
 
 But rather wrought by his owne industry, 
 That thunder-dartes for love his syre doth fit. 
 
 Let me no more see faire thing under sky, 
 Sith that mine eyes have seene so faire a sight 
 With sodain fall to dust consumed quight. 
 
 i Measure. 
 2 Beams, rays. 
 
 3 Varnish, plaster. 
 
 4 Placed. 
 
 Then was the faire Dodcmian tree far seene 
 
 Upon seaven hills to spread his gladsome 
 gleame, 
 And conquerours bedecked with his greene, 
 
 Along the bancks of the Ausonian streame : 
 There many an auncient trophee was addrest, 
 
 And many a spoyle, and many a goodly show, 
 Which that brave races greatnes did attest, 
 
 That whilome from the Troyan blood did flow. 
 Ravisht I was so rare a thing to vew ; 
 
 When, lo ! a barbarous troupe of clownish 
 fone 5 
 The honour of these noble boughs down threw: 
 
 Under the wedge I heard the tronck to grone ; 
 And, since, I saw the roote in great disdaine 
 A twinne of forked trees send forth againe. 
 
 I saw a wolfe under a rockie cave 
 
 Noursing two whelpes ; I saw her litle ones 
 In wanton dalliance the teate to crave, 
 
 While she her neck wreath'd from them for 
 the nones G : 
 I saw her raunge abroad to seeke her food, 
 And, roming through the field with greedie 
 rage, 
 T' embrew her teeth and clawes with lukewarm 
 blood 
 Of the small heards, her thirst for to asswage : 
 I saw a thousand huntsmen, which descended 
 Downe from the mountaines bordring Lom- 
 bardie, 
 That with an hundred speares her flank wide 
 rended : 
 I saw her on the plaine outstretched lie, 
 Throwing out thousand throbs in her owne 
 
 soyle ; 
 Soone on a tree uphang'd I saw her spoyle. 
 
 JEAN DORAT. 
 
 Jean Dorat was born early in the sixteenth 
 century, in Limosin. He belonged to an 
 ancient family, whose name, Dinemandy, he 
 changed, cuphonia causd, into Dorat. After 
 having completed his studies in the college of 
 Limoges, he went to Paris, where he soon found 
 protectors. Francis the First made him pre- 
 ceptor of his pages ; but after this, he served 
 three years in the army of the dauphin. In 
 1560, he was appointed Professor of Greek in 
 the College Royal. He was one of the Plei- 
 ades. In the decline of life, he exposed him- 
 self to the pleasantries of his friends by a second 
 marriage. The object of his choice was a very 
 young woman, the daughter of a pastry-cook; 
 and it wa3 said that her whole dowry was a 
 pigeon-pie, which the bridegroom and his friends 
 ate on the wedding-day. Dorat died at Paris, 
 in 1588. 
 
 5 Foes. 
 
 6 For the nonce, for the occasion. 
 
DORAT. — LABE. 
 
 449 
 
 TO CATHERINE DE MEDICIS, REGENT. 
 
 If faithful to five kings I 've been, 
 And forty years have filled the scene, 
 Till learning's stream a torrent grows, 
 And France with knowledge overflows, 
 While fame is ours from shore to shore, 
 For ancient and for modern lore ; 
 Methinks, if I deserve such fame, 
 And nations thus applaud my name, 
 'T will sound but ill that men should say, 
 "Beneath the Regent Catherine's sway, — 
 Patron of arts, of wits the pride, — 
 Of want and famine Dorat died ! " 
 
 LOUISE LABE. 
 
 Louise Labe, la belle cordi&re, was born at 
 Lyons, in 1526. She was well educated in 
 music and the languages, and was trained to rid- 
 ing and other bodily exercises. She formed the 
 singular design of serving in the army, and 
 was actually present, under the name of Cap- 
 tain Lois, at the siege of Perpignan. She af- 
 terwards devoted herself to literature and po- 
 etry, and, having married a rich rope-maker, 
 Ennemond Perrin, was enabled to gratify her 
 literary tastes. Her many accomplishments, and 
 the charms of her conversation, attracted to her 
 house the most cultivated and agreeable society 
 of Lyons; and the street where she resided bore 
 her name. Her works, consisting of a dialogue 
 in prose, entitled " Dispute between Love and 
 Folly," three elegies, and twenty-four sonnets, 
 first appeared in 1556. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 While yet these tears have power to flow 
 
 For hours for ever past away ; 
 While yet these swelling sighs allow 
 
 My faltering voice to brecthe a lay ; 
 While yet my hand can touch the chords, 
 
 My tender lute, to wake thy tone ; 
 While yet my mind no thought affords, 
 
 But one remembered dream alone, 
 I ask not death, whate'er my state : 
 But when my eyes can weep no more, 
 
 My voice is lost, my hand untrue, 
 And when my spirit's fire is o'er, 
 
 Nor can express the love it knew, 
 Come, Death, and cast thy shadow o'er my fate ! 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 The captive deer pants not for freedom more, 
 Nor storm-beat vessel striving for the shore, 
 Than I thy blest return from day to day, 
 Counting each moment of thy long delay ; 
 Alas ! I fondly fixed my term of pain, 
 The day, the hour, when we should meet again : 
 But, O, this long, this dismal hope deferred 
 Has shown my trusting heart how much it erred ! 
 57 
 
 thou unkind, whom I too much adore, 
 What meant thy promise, dwelt on o'er and o'er? 
 Could all thy tenderness so quickly fade ? 
 
 So soon is my devotion thus repaid ? 
 
 Dar'st thou so soon to her be faithless grown, 
 
 Whose thoughts, whose words, whose soul, are 
 
 all thine own ? 
 Amidst the heights of rocky Pau thy way 
 Perchance has been by fortune led astray, 
 Some fairy form thy wandering path has crossed, 
 And I thy wavering, careless heart have lost ; 
 And in that beautiful and distant spot, 
 My hopes, my love, my sorrow, are forgot ! 
 
 If it be so, — if I no more am prized, 
 Cast from thy memory like a toy despised, 
 
 1 marvel not with love that pity fled, 
 And all that told of me and truth is dead. 
 
 O, how I loved thee ! — how my thoughts and 
 
 fears 
 Have dwelt on thee, and made my moments 
 
 years ! 
 Yet, let me pause, — have I not loved too well, 
 Far more than even this breaking heart can tell ? 
 Have we not loved so fondly, that to change 
 Were most impossible, most wild, most strange ? 
 No : all my fond reliance I renew, 
 And will believe thee more than mortal true. 
 Thou 'rt sick! — thou 'rt suffering! — Heaven 
 
 and I away !' 
 Thou 'rt in some hostile clime condemned to 
 
 stay ! 
 Ah, no ! ah, no ! Heaven knows too well my care, 
 And how I weary every saint with prayer; 
 And it were hard, if constancy like mine 
 Gained not protection from the hosts divine. 
 It cannot be ! thy mind, too lightly moved, 
 Forgets in change and absence how we loved , 
 While I, in whose sad heart no change can be, 
 Contented suffer, and implore for thee ! 
 O, when I ask kind Heaven to make thee blest, 
 No crime, methinks, is lurking in my breast; 
 Save, when my soul should all be given to prayer, 
 I fondly pause, and find thy image there ! 
 
 Twice has the moon her new-born light received 
 Since thy return was promised and believed : 
 Yet silence and oblivion shroud thee still, 
 Nor know I of thy fortune, good or ill. 
 Though for another I am dead to thee, 
 She scarce, methinks, 1 can boast of fame like 
 
 me, — 
 If in my form those charms and graces shine, 
 Which, some have said, the world esteems as 
 
 mine. 
 Alas ! with idle praise they crowned my name : 
 Who can depend upon the breath of fame ? 
 Yet not in France alone the trump is blown : 
 Even to the Pyrenees and Calpe flown, 
 Where the loud sea washes that frowning shore, 
 Its echo wakes above the billows' roar; 
 Where the broad Rhine's majestic waters flow, 
 In the fair land where thou art roaming now ; 
 And thou hast told to my too willing ear, 
 That gifted spirits held my glory dear. 
 
450 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 Take thou the prize which all have sought to 
 
 gain, 
 Stay thou where others plead to stay in vain, 
 And, O, believe none may with me compare ! 
 I say not she, my rival, is less fair, 
 But that so firm her passion cannot prove ; 
 Nor thou derive such honor from her love. 
 For me are feasts and tourneys without end, 
 The noble, rich, and brave for me contend ; 
 Yet I, regardless, turn my careless eye, 
 And scarce for them have words of courtesy. 
 In thee my good and ill alike reside, 
 In thee is all, — without thee, all is void ; 
 And, having thee alone, when thou art fled, 
 All pleasure, all delight, all hope, is dead ! 
 And still to dream of happiness gone by, 
 And weep its loss, is now my sad employ ! 
 Gloomy despair so triumphs o'er my mind, 
 Death seems the sole relief my woes can find, 
 And thou the cause ! — thy absence, mourned 
 
 in vain, 
 Thus keeps me lingering in unpitied pain : 
 Not living, — for this is not life, condemned 
 To the sharp torment of a love contemned ! 
 
 Return ! return ! if still one wish remain 
 To see this fading form yet once again : 
 But if stern Death, before thee, come to claim 
 This broken heart and this exhausted frame, 
 At least in robes of sorrow's hue appear, 
 And follow to the grave my mournful bier ; 
 There, on the marble, pallid as my cheek, 
 These graven words my epitaph shall speak: — 
 "By thee love's early flame was taught to glow, 
 And love consumed her heart who sleeps below : 
 The secret fire her silent ashes keep, 
 Till by thy tears the flame is charmed to sleep ! " 
 
 REMI BELLEAU. 
 
 This writer was born at Nogent-le-Rotrou, 
 in 1528. The Marquis d'Elbeuf took him early 
 under his protection, and yitrusted to him the 
 education of his son. Ronsard called him the 
 Painter of Nature. Besides various original 
 works, he translated portions of the Old Testa- 
 ment, the Odes of Anacreon, and the " Phe- 
 nomena " of Aratus; but his most singular pro- 
 duction is a macaronic poem, entitled " Dicta- 
 men Metrificum de Bello Huguenotico." Belleau 
 was one of the Pleiades. He died at Paris, in 
 1577. 
 
 THE PEARL. 
 
 PROM THE LOVES OF THE GEMS. — DEDICATED TO THE 
 Q.UEEN OF NAVARRE. 
 
 I seek a pearl of rarest worth, 
 
 By the shore of some bright wave, — 
 Such a gem, whose wondrous birth 
 
 Radiance to all nature gave : 
 Which no change of tint can know, 
 
 Spotless ever, pure and white, 
 'Midst the rudest winds that blow 
 
 Sparkling in its silver light. 
 
 Thou, bright pearl, excell'st each gem 
 In proud Nature's diadem, — 
 Yet a captive lov'st to dwell, 
 Hid within thy cavern shell, 
 Where the sands of India lie 
 Basking in the sunny sky. 
 
 Thou, fair gem, art so divine, 
 
 That thy birthplace must be heaven, • 
 Where the stars, thy neighbours, shine ; 
 
 And thy lucid hue was given 
 By Aurora's rosy fingers, 
 
 When she colors herb and flower, 
 And with breath of perfume lingers 
 
 Over meadow, dell, and bower. 
 
 Lustrous shell, from whose bright womb 
 Does this fairy treasure come ? 
 If thou art the ocean's child, 
 
 Though thy kindred crowd the deep, 
 Thou disdain'st the moaning wild 
 
 Which thy foamy lovers keep, 
 And in vain their vows they pour 
 Round thy closed and guarded door. 
 
 Thou, proud beauty, bidd'st them learn 
 
 But a sojourner art thou ; 
 And their idle hopes canst spurn, 
 
 Nor may choose a mate below. 
 
 But when Spring, with treasures rife, 
 Calls all nature forth to life, 
 Then upon the waves descending, 
 Transient rays of brightness lending, 
 Falls the dew upon thy breast, 
 And, thy heavenly spouse confessed, 
 Thou admitt'st within thy cave 
 That bright stranger of the wave : 
 There he dwells, and hardens there 
 To the gem so pure and fair, 
 Which above all else is famed, 
 And the Marguerite l is named. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 FROM LA BERGERIE. 
 
 April, season blest and dear, 
 Hope of the reviving year, 
 Promise of bright fruits that lie 
 In their downy canopy, 
 Till the nipping winds are past, 
 And their veils aside are cast ! 
 April, who delight'st to spread 
 O'er the emerald, laughing mead 
 Flowers of fresh and brilliant dyes, 
 Rich in wild embroideries ! 
 April, who each zephyr's sigh 
 Dost with perfumed breath supply, 
 When they through the forest rove, 
 Spreading wily nets of love, 
 That, for lovely Flora made, 
 May detain her in the shade ! 
 
 1 The French word Marguerite, meaning both pearl and 
 daisy, is a constant theme for the poets of every age, ant 1 
 furnishes a compliment to the many princesses of thai 
 name. 
 
BELLEAU. — DE B AIF. — JODELLE. 
 
 451 
 
 April, by thy hand caressed, 
 Nature from her genial breast 
 Loves her richest gifts to shower, 
 And awakes her magic power • 
 Till all earth and air are rife 
 With delight, and hope, and life ! 
 
 April, nymph for ever fair, 
 On my mistress's sunny hair 
 Scattering wreaths of odors sweet, 
 For her snowy bosom meet ! 
 April, full of smiles and grace 
 Drawn from Venus' dwelling-place ; 
 Thou, from earth's enamelled plain, 
 Yield 'st the gods their breath again ! 
 
 'T is thy courteous hand doth bring 
 Back the messenger of spring; 
 And, his tedious exile o'er, 
 Hail'st the swallow's wing once more. 
 
 The eglantine and hawthorn bright, 
 The thyme, and pink, and jasmine white, 
 Don their purest robes, to be 
 Guests, fair April, worthy thee. 
 
 The nightingale — sweet, hidden sound ! — 
 'Midst the clustering boughs around, 
 Charms to silence notes that wake 
 Soft discourse from bush and brake, 
 And bids every listening thing 
 Pause awhile to hear her sing. 
 
 'T is to thy return we owe 
 Love's fond sighs, that learn to glow 
 After Winter's chilling reign 
 Long has bound them in her chain. 
 'T is thy smile to being warms 
 All the busy, shining swarms, 
 Which, on perfumed pillage bent, 
 Fly from flower to flower, intent ; 
 Till they load their golden thighs 
 With the treasure each supplies. 
 
 May may boast her ripened hues, 
 f Richer fruits, and flowers, and dews, 
 And those glowing charms that well 
 All the happy world can tell ; 
 But, sweet April, thou shalt be 
 Still a chosen month for me, — 
 For thy birth to her is due, 1 
 
 Who all grace and beauty gave, 
 
 When the gaze of Heaven she drew, 
 
 Fresh from ocean's foamy wave. 
 
 JEAN ANTOINE DE BAIF. 
 
 Jean Antoine de Ba'if was born at Ven- 
 ice, in 3 531, while his father was ambassador 
 there. He was carefully educated, under Dorat. 
 He was the most voluminous poet of his day; 
 and his writings embrace nearly every kind of 
 composition, — from the sonorous ode, to the 
 sprightly epigram. He translated the " Antigo- 
 
 i Venus. 
 
 ne " of Sophocles, and adapted several pieces of 
 Plautus and Terence. His style is hard and 
 artificial. De Bal'f was one of the Pleiades. 
 He died in 1592. 
 
 THE CALCULATION OF LIFE. 
 
 Thou art aged ; but recount, 
 
 Since thy early life began, 
 What may be the just amount 
 
 Thou shouldst number of thy span : 
 How much to thy debts belong, 
 
 How much when vain fancy caught thee, 
 How much to the giddy throng, 
 
 How much to the poor who sought thee, 
 How much to thy lawyer's wiles, 
 
 How much to thy menial crew, 
 How much to thy lady's smiles, 
 
 How much to thy sick-bed due, 
 How much for thy hours of leisure, 
 
 For thy hurrying to and fro, 
 How much for each idle pleasure, — 
 
 If the list thy memory know. 
 Every wasted, misspent day, 
 
 Which regret can ne'er recall, — 
 If all these thou tak'st away, 
 
 Thou wilt find thy age but small : 
 That thy years were falsely told, 
 And, even now, thou art not old. 
 
 EPITAPH ON RABELAIS. 
 
 Pluto, bid Rabelais welcome to thy shore, 
 That thou, who art the king of woe and pain, 
 
 Whose subjects never learned to laugh before, 
 May boast a laugher in thy grim domain. 
 
 ETIENNE JODELLE. 
 
 Jodelle, noted for having written the first 
 regular tragedy and comedy for the French stage, 
 was born at Paris, in 1532. Says Ronsard, — 
 " Apres Amour la France abandonna, 
 Et lors Jodelle heureusement sonna 
 D'une voix humble et d'une voix hardie 
 La comedie avec la tragedie, 
 Et d'un ton double, ore bas, ore haut, 
 Remplit premier le Francois eschafaut." 
 Jodelle was one of the Pleiades. He died in 
 poverty, in 1573. D'Aubigne wrote these vers 
 es on his death : — 
 
 "Jodelle est mort de pauvret£, 
 La pauvrete a eu puissance 
 Sur la richesse de la France. 
 O dieux ! quels traits de cruautfi ! 
 Le ciel avait mis en Jodelle 
 Un esprit tout autre qu'humain ; 
 La France lui nia le pain, 
 Tant elle fut mere cruelle." 
 
 TO MADAME DE PRIMADIS. 
 
 I saw thee weave a web with care, 
 Where, at thy touch, fresh roses grew, 
 
 And marvelled they were formed so fair, 
 And that thy heart such nature knew : 
 
452 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 Alas ! how idle my surprise ! 
 
 Since naught so plain can be: 
 Thy cheek their richest hue supplies, 
 And in thy breath their perfume lies, — 
 Their grace, their beauty, all are drawn from thee ! 
 
 AMADIS JAMYN. 
 
 Amadis Jamyn was born about the year 
 1540, at Chaource, in Champagne. Early in 
 life he acquired a taste for literature and science, 
 under the instructions of such teachers as Dorat 
 and Turnebus. Ronsard, the French Apollo of 
 the age, was so delighted with the verses of 
 Jamyn, that he invited him to his house, treat- 
 ed him as his own son, and procured him the 
 place of Secretary and Reader to the King. 
 After the death of his benefactor, Jamyn re- 
 tired from the court to his native town, where 
 he died in 1585. His poetical works, first pub- 
 lished by Robert Etienne in 1575, have been 
 repeatedly republished since. 
 
 CALLIREE. 
 Although, when I depart, 
 
 My soul that moment flies, 
 And in death's chill my heart 
 
 Without sensation lies, — 
 Yet still content am I 
 
 Once more to tempt my pain : 
 3o pleasant 't is to die, 
 
 To have my life again ! 
 Even thus I seek my woe, 
 
 My happiness to learn : 
 It is so blest to go, 
 
 So happy to return ! 
 
 MARIE STUART. 
 
 The life and tragical death of this celebrated 
 princess have been so often the subjects of 
 poetry, biography, history, and romance, that 
 it is quite unnecessary, and aside from the pur- 
 pose of this work, to repeat their details here. 
 She was born December 8, 1542. At the age 
 of six she was sent to France to be educated, 
 and in 1558 was married to the dauphin, after- 
 wards Francis the Second, at whose death she 
 returned to Scotland. After a series of impru- 
 dences, sufferings, and misfortunes, in the tur- 
 bulent times which followed, she threw herself 
 upon the protection of Queen Elizabeth, by 
 whom she was detained in captivity eighteen 
 years, and then put to death, February 8, 1587. 
 This unfortunate queen wrote Latin and French 
 with elegance, and was an ardent lover of poetry. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND, FRANCIS 
 THE SECOND. 
 In accents sad and low, 
 
 And tones of soft lament, 
 
 I breathe the bitterness of woe 
 
 O'er this sad chastisement: 
 
 With many a mournful sigh 
 The days of youth steal by. 
 
 Was e'er such stern decree 
 
 Of unrelenting fate ? 
 Did merciless adversity 
 
 E'er blight so fair a state 
 As mine, whose heart and eye 
 In bier and coffin lie, — 
 
 Who, in the gentle spring 
 And blossom of my years, 
 
 Must bear misfortune's piercing sting, 
 Sadness, and grief, and tears, — 
 
 Thoughts, that alone inspire 
 
 Regret and soft desire ? 
 
 What once was blithe and gay, 
 
 Changed into grief I see ; 
 The glad and glorious light of day 
 
 Is darkness unto me : 
 The world — the world has naught 
 That claims a passing thought. 
 
 Deep in my heart and eye 
 
 A form and image shine, 
 Which shadow forth wan misery 
 
 On this pale cheek of mine 
 Tinged with the violet's blue, 
 Which is love's favorite hue. 
 
 Where'er my footsteps stray, 
 
 In mead or wooded vale, 
 Whether beneath the dawn of day, 
 
 Or evening twilight pale, — 
 Still, still my thoughts ascend 
 To my departed friend. 
 
 If towards his home above 
 
 I raise my mournful sight, 
 I meet his gentle look of love 
 
 In every cloud of white ; 
 But straight the watery cloud 
 Changes to tomb and shroud. 
 
 i 
 When midnight hovers near, 
 
 And slumber seals mine eyes, 
 His voice still whispers in mine ear, 
 
 His form beside me lies : 
 In labor, in repose, 
 My heart his presence knows. 
 
 FAREWELL TO FRANCE. 
 
 Farewell, beloved France, to thee, 
 
 Best native land ! 
 
 The cherished strand 
 That nursed my tender infancy ! 
 
 Farewell, my childhood's happy day ! 
 The bark that bears me thus away 
 
 Bears but the poorer moiety hence; 
 The nobler half remains with thee, — 
 
 I leave it to thy confidence, 
 But to remind thee still of me ! 
 
DESPORTES. — BERTAUT.— HENRI IV. 
 
 453 
 
 PHILIPPE DESPORTES. 
 
 Philippe Desportes was born at Chartres, 
 in 1546. An early residence in Italy gave him 
 an opportunity to learn the Italian language. 
 He followed the duke of Anjou to Poland, but 
 soon returned to Paris in disgust. When this 
 prince became king of France, he bestowed 
 ample ecclesiastical revenues upon Desportes, 
 which the poet used nobly for the benefit of 
 men of letters. He died at the abbey of Bon- 
 port, in 1606. His great merit consisted in 
 freeing French poetry from the affectation and 
 pedantry with which it had been overloaded by 
 Ronsard. He was called the French Tibullus. 
 
 DIANE. 
 
 If stainless faith and fondness tried, 
 
 If hopes, and looks that softness tell, 
 If sighs whose tender whispers hide 
 
 Deep feelings that I would not quell, 
 Swift blushes that like clouds appear, 
 
 A trembling voice, a mournful gaze, 
 The timid step, the sudden fear, 
 
 The pallid hue that grief betrays, 
 If self-neglect, to live for one, 
 
 If countless tears, and sighs untold, 
 If sorrow, to a habit grown, 
 
 When absent warm, when present cold, — 
 If these can speak, and thou unmoved canst see, 
 The blame be thine, the ruin falls on me ! 
 
 JEAN BERTAUT. 
 
 This person, distinguished in the church 
 and in public affairs, was born at Caen, in 
 1552. He held in succession the offices of 
 Secretary and Reader to the King, First Almo- 
 ner to the Queen, Marie de Medicis, Counsellor 
 to the Parliament of Grenoble, Abbe of Aunay, 
 and Bishop of Seez ; and all this good fortune 
 he owed originally to his amorous poems, of 
 which Mademoiselle de Scuderi says, — "They 
 give a high and beautiful idea of the ladies he 
 loved." He died at Seez, in 1611. 
 
 LONELINESS. 
 
 Fortune, to me unkind, 
 
 So scoffs at my distress, 
 Each wretch his lot would find, 
 Compared to mine, a life of happiness. 
 
 My pillow every night 
 
 Is watered by my tears ; 
 Slumber yields no delight, 
 Nor with her gentle hand my sorrow cheers. 
 
 For every fleeting dream 
 
 But fills me with alarm ; 
 And still my visions seem 
 T io like the waking truth, pregnant with harm. 
 
 Justice and mercy's grace, 
 
 With faith and constancy, 
 
 To guile and wrong give place, 
 
 And every virtue seems from me to fly. 
 
 Amidst a stormy sea 
 
 I perish in despair ; 
 Men come the wreck to see, 
 And talk of pity while I perish there. 
 
 Te joys, too dearly bought, 
 
 Which time can ne'er renew, 
 Dear torments of my thought, 
 Why, when ye fled, fled not your memory too ? 
 
 Alas ! of hopes bereft, 
 
 The dreams, that once they were, 
 Are all that now is left, 
 And memory thus but turns them all to care ! 
 
 HENRI IV. 
 
 This illustrious prince, whose name fills so 
 large a space in the political and religious his- 
 tory of France, was born at Pau, December 13th, 
 1553. With all his noble qualities, as a prince 
 and ruler, he possessed a just appreciation of lit- 
 erature, and did much for the intellectual cul- 
 ture of the nation. The monarch who had re- 
 stored peace and happiness to the French, after 
 years of civil war, fell by the hand of an assassin, 
 named Ravaillac. His death took place May 
 14th, 1610. He was an eloquent speaker, and 
 the harangues which he delivered on various 
 occasions " produced," says a French writer, 
 " as great an effect as his most brilliant exploits. 
 Every good Frenchman ought to know by heart 
 that which he pronounced in the Assembly of 
 Notables at Rouen." Henri IV. was fond of 
 the society of scholars, and treated them more 
 as a friend and equal than as a superior. His 
 verses to Gabrielle have always excited the en- 
 thusiasm of his countrymen. 
 
 CHARMING GABRIELLE. 
 
 My charming Gabrielle ! 
 
 My heart is pierced with woe, 
 When glory sounds her knell, 
 And forth to war I go : 
 
 Parting, perchance our last ! 
 
 Day, marked unblest to prove 
 O, that my life were past, 
 Or else my hapless love . 
 
 Bright star, whose light I lose, — 
 
 O, fatal memory ! 
 My grief each thought renews ! — 
 
 We meet again, or die ! 
 Parting, &c. 
 
 O, share and bless the crown 
 
 By valor given to me ! 
 War made the prize my own, 
 
 My love awards it thee ! 
 Parting, &c. 
 
454 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 Let all my trumpets swell, 
 And every echo round 
 
 The words of my farewell 
 Repeat with mournful sound ! 
 Parting, &c. 
 
 D'HUXATIME. 
 
 This poet probably lived in the latter half of 
 the sixteenth century. He was a native of 
 Dauphine. His name is not mentioned in any 
 of the common literary histories of France ; it 
 is omitted by the Abbe Goujet ; it is not allud- 
 ed to by Girardin ; it is not included in the 
 "Biographie Universelle"; and is unnoticed by 
 Bouterwek. It is mentioned in a list of French 
 poets appended to a collection of pieces, from 
 the twelfth century to Malherbe, in six volumes. 
 Costello refers to a work, called the " Parnasse 
 des Muses Francoises," published in 1607, as 
 containing some pieces by this poet. Others 
 may be found in " Le* Temple d'Apollon," and 
 in the " Delices de la Poesie Franchise." 
 
 REPENTANCE. 
 
 Return again, return ' look towards thy polar 
 star ! 
 Too oft thou 'rt lost, my soul ! 
 Like to the fiery steed, whose speed is urged 
 too far, 
 And dies without a goal. 
 
 As yet ungathered all by any friendly hand, 
 
 Thv tender blossoms die, 
 Like bending, fruitful trees that on the way- 
 side stand, 
 
 But for the passer by. 
 
 The lively flame that once within me burned 
 so high 
 
 Is now extinct and fled; 
 I feel another fire its former place supply, 
 
 More holy and more dread. 
 
 My heart with other love has taught its pulse 
 to glow ; 
 
 My prison-gates unclose ; 
 My laws I frame myself; no lord but reason now 
 
 My rescued bosom knows. 
 
 Upon a sea of love the raging storms I braved, 
 And 'scaped the vengeful main ; 
 
 Wretched, alas ! is he, who, from the wreck once 
 saved, 
 Trusts to the winds again. 
 
 If I should ever love, my flame shall flourish 
 well, 
 More secret than confessed, 
 And in my thought alone shall be content to 
 dwell, 
 More soul than body's guest. 
 
 If I should ever love, an angel's love be mine, 
 
 And in the mind endure : 
 Love is a son of heaven, nor will he e'er combine 
 
 With elements less pure. 
 
 If I should ever love, 't will be in paths un- 
 known, 
 Where virtue may be tried : 
 I ask no beaten way, too wide, too common 
 grown 
 To every foot beside. 
 
 If I should ever love, 't will be a heart unstained, 
 
 Which boldly struggles still, 
 And with a hermit's strength has, unsubdued, 
 maintained 
 
 A ceaseless war with ill. 
 
 If I should ever love, a pure, chaste heart 't will 
 be, 
 And not a winged thing, 
 Which like the swallow lives, and flits from 
 tree to tree, 
 And can but love in spring. 
 
 It shall be you, bright eyes, blest stars that gild 
 my nisrht, 
 
 Centre of all desire, 
 In the immortal blaze and splendor of whose light 
 
 Fain would my life expire ! 
 
 Eyes which shine purely thus in love and ma- 
 jesty ! 
 Who ever saw ye glow, 
 Nor worshipped at your shrine, an infidel must 
 be, 
 Or can no transport know. 
 
 Bright eyes ! which well can teach what force 
 is in a ray, 
 
 What dread in looks so dear; 
 Alas ! I languish near, I perish when away, 
 
 And while I hope I fear ! 
 
 Bright eyes ! round whom the stars in jealous 
 crowds appear, 
 In envy of your light, — 
 ilather than see no more your splendor, soft and 
 clear, 
 I 'd sleep in endless night. 
 
 Blest eyes ! who gazes rapt sees all the bound- 
 less store 
 Of love and fond desire, 
 Where vanquished Love himself has graven all 
 his lore 
 In characters of fire ! 
 
 Bright eyes ! ah ! is 't not true your promises 
 are fair ? 
 Without a voice ye sigh : 
 Love asks from ye no sound, for words are only 
 air 
 That idly wanders by. 
 
 Ha ! thus, my soul, at once all thy sage visions fly, 
 Thou tempt'st again the flood: 
 
 Thou canst not fix but to inconstancy, 
 And but repent'st of good ! 
 
CORNEILLE. 
 
 455 
 
 FOURTH PERIOD. -FROM 1650 TO 1700. 
 
 PIERRE CORNEILLE. 
 
 This distinguished poet, the first great writer 
 of the age of Louis the Fourteenth, was born 
 at Rouen, June 6th, 1606. He studied under 
 the Jesuits of that place, for whom he ever 
 after retained a high regard. His early purpose 
 was to devote himself to the bar ; but a slight 
 and accidental occasion changed the current of 
 his pursuits, by disclosing the secret of his poet- 
 ical powers. A young friend of his introduced 
 him to his mistress, and Corneille rendered 
 himself more agreeable to the lady than her 
 lover. This little adventure he made the sub- 
 ject of the comedy of " Melite," which appeared 
 in 1625. The success of this was so decided 
 that he persevered in this career, and the con- 
 fidence he had inspired enabled him to form a 
 new company. He produced in rapid succes- 
 sion a series of pieces, which confirmed the im- 
 pression made by the first, and some of them 
 retain their place on the stage to the present 
 day. His " Medee," written in the declamatory 
 style of Seneca, appeared in 1635. Cardinal 
 Richelieu at this time had several poets in his 
 pay, who were required to write comedies on 
 plots furnished by him. Corneille was on the 
 point of placing himself in this situation, but, 
 having offended the cardinal by making some 
 alterations in one of his plots, withdrew to 
 Rouen, where, by the advice of Chalon, he 
 studied the Spanish language, with the view of 
 writing tragedies on the Spanish model. In 
 1636, he produced "The Cid," which received 
 the applause of all the world, except the car- 
 dinal and the Academy. The great minister 
 and his sycophantic literati did their best to 
 decry the poet's genius, but in vain. A series 
 of noble tragedies, "The Horaces," " Cinna," 
 " Polyeucte," the " Mort de Pompee," and 
 others, were a complete answer to his detrac- 
 tors, and gave him a rank in the French drama 
 which he has never lost. Several pieces, how- 
 ever, which followed these, such as " Rodo- 
 gune," "Heraclius," and "Andromede," had 
 less success, and seemed to indicate that the 
 genius of Corneille was already exhausted. 
 The " Nicomede," which appeared in 1652, 
 still retains its place on the stage. Corneille 
 now wished to abandon dramatic composition, 
 and applied himself for six years to the trans- 
 lation of the " De Imitatione Jesu Christi," but 
 was induced by the entreaties of Fouquet once 
 more to devote himself to the drama. His 
 " CEdipe," produced in 1659, and his " Sertori- 
 us," in 1662, were well received; but his sub- 
 sequent pieces show the poet's failing powers. 
 Of the thirty-three pieces which he left, only 
 eight retain their place upon the stage. He 
 
 died October 1st, 1684, having been for thirty- 
 seven years a member of the Academy, despite 
 the early disfavor with which that learned body 
 regarded him. "Although only six or seven of 
 the thirty-three pieces which he wrote are still 
 represented," says Voltaire, "he will always be 
 the father of the theatre. He is the first who 
 elevated the genius of the nation." Augustus 
 William Schlegel, in his " Lectures on Dramatic 
 Literature," has some excellent criticism, though 
 perhaps rather too unfavorable, on Corneille. 
 His principal pieces are also analyzed at con- 
 siderable length, and with great ability, by La 
 Harpe, in the " Cours de Litterature," Vol. IV. 
 Many of his dramas have been translated into 
 English ; — " The Horaces," by Sir William 
 Lower, London, 1656 ; again by Charles Cot- 
 ton, 1671 ; "Pompey," by Mrs. Catharine Phil- 
 ips, 1663; again by Edmund Waller, 1664; 
 " Heraclius," by Lodowick Carlell, 1664 ; " Ni- 
 comede," by John Dancer, 1671 ; " Rodogune," 
 by Aspinwall, 1765; "The Cid," by Joseph 
 Rutter, Part I., 1637, Part II., 1640 ; again by- 
 John Ozell, 1714 ; again by "a gentleman for- 
 merly a captain in the army," 1802. The best 
 edition of his works is that published by Re- 
 nouard, Paris, 1817, in twelve volumes. 
 
 The following description of Corneille, at 
 the famous Hotel de Rambouillet, is from the 
 "Foreign Quarterly Review," Vol. XXXII., 
 pp. 139, 140. 
 
 " The time stated is the autumn of the year 
 1644, and the object for which the society 
 meets is to hear a tragedy read by the great 
 Corneille. There are present the elite of the 
 town and of the court : the princess of Conde, 
 and her daughter, afterwards the famous duchess 
 de Longueville ; and a host of names, then bril- 
 liant, but since forgotten, which we pass fir 
 those whom fame has deemed worthy of preserv- 
 ing. There were the duchess of Cbevreuse, 
 one of that three whom Mazarin declared capa- 
 ble of saving or overthrowing a kingdom ; Ma- 
 demoiselle de Scuderi,then in the zenith of her 
 fame ; and Mademoiselle de la Vergne, destined, 
 under the name of Lafayette, to eclipse her. 
 There were also present Madame de Rambou- 
 illet's three daughters : the celebrated Julie, 
 destined to continue the literary glory of the 
 house of Rambouillet ; and her two sisters, both 
 religieuses, yet seeing no profanity in a play. 
 At the feet of the noble dames reclined young 
 seigneurs, their rich mantles of silk and gold 
 and silver spread loosely upon the floor, while, 
 to give more grace and vivacity to their action 
 and emphasis to their discourse, they waved 
 from time to time their littbj hats surcharged 
 with plumes. And there, in more modest at- 
 tire, were the men of letters : Balzac, Menage, 
 
456 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 Scuderi, Chapelain, Costart (the most gallant 
 or* pedants and pedantic of gallants), and Con- 
 rart, and La Mesnardiere, and Bossuet, then the 
 Abbe Bossuet, and others of less note. By a 
 stroke of politeness worthy of preservation, 
 Madame de Rambouillet has framed her invita- 
 tion in such wise that all her guests shall have 
 arrived a good half-hour before the poet; so 
 that he may not be interrupted, while reading, 
 by a door opening, and a head bobbing in, and 
 all eyes turning that way, and a dozen signs to 
 take a place here or there, and moving up and 
 moving down, and then an awkward trip, and 
 a whispered apology, — the attention of all sus- 
 pended, the illusion broken, and the poor poet 
 chilled ! 
 
 " The audience is tolerably punctual. All 
 are arrived but one : and who is he that shows 
 so much indifference to the feelings of such a 
 hostess? Why, who should he be, but an ec- 
 centric, whimsical, impracticable, spoiled pet of 
 a poet ? who but Monsieur Voiture, the life, the 
 soul, the charm of all ? He at last comes, and 
 Corneille may enter. But a tragic poet moves 
 slowly ; Corneille himself has not arrived; and 
 a gay French company cannot endure the ennui 
 of waiting. Time must pass agreeably; some- 
 thing must be set in motion ; and what that is 
 to be is suddenly settled by the Marquis de 
 Vardes, who proposes to bind the eyes of Ma- 
 dame de Sevigne for a game of Colin Maillard, 
 Anglic^, blind-man's buff. Madame de Ram- 
 bouillet implores : but the game is so tempting, 
 the prospect of fun so exhilarating, that she her- 
 self is drawn into the vortex of animal spirits, 
 and yields assent. The ribbon intended for 
 Madame de SeVigne is by the latter placed up- 
 on the eyes of the fair young De Vergne, then 
 only twelve years of age; and she is alone in 
 the midst of the salon, her pretty arms out- 
 stretched, her feet cautiously advancing, — when 
 the brothers Thomas and Pierre Corneille enter, 
 conducted by Benserade,a poet also, and one of 
 extensive reputation. Now, without abating one 
 tittle of our reverence for the great Pierre Cor- 
 neille, we can sympathize with those light 
 hearts, whose game with the then young Ma- 
 dame de Sevigne and her younger friend was 
 interrupted for a graver though more elevating 
 entertainment. Corneille, like many other po- 
 ets, was a bad reader of his own productions; 
 fortunately for him, upon this occasion, the young 
 Abbe Bossuet was called upon to repeat some 
 of the most striking passages of the play, enti- 
 tled ' Theodore Vierge et Martyre,' a Christian 
 tragedy, which he did with that declamatory 
 power for which he was afterwards so remarka- 
 ble. Then, of that distinguished company, the 
 most alive to the charms of poetical expression 
 had, each, as a matter of course, some verse to 
 repeat ; and repeated it with the just emphasis 
 of the feeling it had awakened, and with which 
 it harmonized, and thus offered, bv the simple 
 tone of the voice, the best homage to genius. 
 And so the morning ended with triumph for 
 
 the bard, and to the perfect gratification of his 
 auditors." 
 
 The reader will perceive, that, in the follow- 
 ing extract, the names have been changed by 
 the translator, and that of Carlos substituted for 
 the Cid. 
 
 FROM THE TRAGEDY OF THE CID. 
 
 SANCHEZ. 
 
 Relentless Fortune ! thou hast done thy part, 
 Neglected nothing to oppose my love ; 
 But thou shalt find, in thy despite, I '11 on. 
 Wert thou not blind, indeed, thou hadst foreseen 
 The honor done this hour to old Alvarez. 
 His being named the prince's governor 
 (Which I well knew the ambitious Gormaz 
 
 aimed at) 
 Must, like a wildfire's rage, embroil their union, 
 Rekindle jealousies in Gormaz' heart, 
 Whose fatal flame must bury all in ashes. 
 But see, he comes, and seems to ruminate 
 With pensive grudge the king's too partial favor. 
 
 [Gormaz enters. 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 The king, methinks, is sudden in his choice. 
 'T is true, I never sought (but therefore is 
 Not less the merit) nor obliquely hinted 
 That I desired the office. He has heard 
 Me say, the prince, his son, I thought was now 
 Of age to change his prattling female court, 
 And claimed a governor's instructive guidance. 
 The advice, it seems, was fit, — but not the ad- 
 viser. 
 Be 't so, — why is Alvarez, then, the man ? 
 He may be qualified, I '11 not dispute ; 
 But was not Gormaz, too, of equal merit? 
 Let me not think Alvarez plays me foul. 
 That cannot be, — he knew I would not bear it 
 
 And yet, why he 's so suddenly preferred 
 
 I '11 think no more on 't, — Time will soon re- 
 solve me. 
 
 SANCHEZ. 
 
 Not to disturb, my Lord, your graver thoughts, 
 May I presume 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 Don Sanchez may command me. — 
 This youthful lord is sworn our house's friend ; 
 If there's a cause for jealous thought, he '11 find it. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 SANCHEZ. 
 
 I hear the king has fresh advice received 
 Of a designed invasion from the Moors. 
 Holds it confirmed, or is it only rumor ? 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 Such new alarms, indeed, his letters bring, 
 But yet their grounds seemed doubtful at the 
 council. 
 
 SANCHEZ. 
 
 May it not prove some policy of state, 
 Some bugbear danger of our own creating? 
 The king, I have observed, is skilled in rule, 
 Perfect in all the arts of tempering minds, 
 
CORNEILLE. 
 
 457 
 
 And — for the public good — can give alarms 
 Where fears are not, and hush them where they 
 are. 
 
 GOR3IAZ. 
 
 'T is so ! he hints already at my wrongs. 
 
 [Asi 3e. 
 
 SANCHEZ. 
 
 Not but such prudence well becomes a prince ; 
 For peace at home is worth his dearest purchase ; 
 Yet he that gives his just resentments up, 
 Though honored by the royal mediation, 
 And sees his enemy enjoy the fruits, 
 Must have more virtues than his king, to bear it. 
 Perhaps, my Lord, I am not understood ; 
 Nay, hope my jealous fears have no foundation ; 
 But when the ties of friendship shall demand it, 
 Don Sanchez wears a sword that will revenge 
 you. 
 
 [Going. 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 Don Sanchez, stay, —I think thou art my friend. 
 Thy noble father oft has served me in 
 The cause of honor, and his cause was mine : 
 What thou hast said speaks thee Balthazar's 
 
 son, — 
 I need not praise thee more. If I deserve 
 Thy love, refuse not what my heart 's concerned 
 To ask : speak freely of the king, of me, 
 Of old Alvarez, of our late alliance, 
 And what has followed since; then sum the 
 
 whole, 
 And tell me truly where the account 's unequal. 
 
 SANCHEZ. 
 
 My Lord, you honor with too great a trust 
 The judgment of my inexperienced years ; 
 Yet, for the time I have observed on men, 
 I 've always found the generous, open heart 
 Betrayed, and made the prey of minds below it. 
 O, 't is the curse of manly virtue, that 
 Cowards, with cunning, are too strong for heroes ! 
 And, since you press me to unfold my thoughts, 
 I grieve to see your spirit so defeated, — 
 Your just resentments, by vile arts of court, 
 Beguiled, and melted to resign their terror, — 
 Your honest hate, that had for ages stood 
 Unmoved, and firmer from your foe's defiance, 
 Now sapped and undermined by his submission. 
 Alvarez knew you were impregnable 
 To force, and changed the soldier for the states- 
 man ; 
 While you were yet his foe professed, 
 He durst not take these honors o'er your head ; 
 Had you still held him at his distance due, 
 He would have trembled to have sought this 
 
 office. 
 When once the king inclined to make his peace, 
 I saw too well the secret on the anvil, 
 And soon foretold the favor that succeeded. 
 Alas ! this project has been long concerted, 
 Resolved in private 'twixt the king and him, 
 Laid out and managed here by secret agents, — 
 While he, good man, knew nothing of the honor, 
 But from his sweet repose was dragged to accept 
 it! 
 
 38 
 
 O, it inflames my blood to think this fear 
 Should get the start of your unguarded spirit, 
 And proudly vaunt it in the plumes he stole 
 From you ! 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 Sanchez, thou hast fired a thought 
 That was before but dawning in my mind ! 
 O, now afresh it strikes my memory, 
 
 With what dissembled warmth the artful king 
 First charged his temper with the gloom he wore, 
 When I supplied his late command of general ! 
 Then with what fawning flattery to me 
 
 Alvarez fear disguised his trembling hate, 
 
 And soothed my yielding temper to believe him. 
 
 SANCHEZ. 
 
 Not flattery, my Lord ; though I must grant 
 'T was praise well timed, and therefore skilful. 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 Now, on my soul, from him 't was loathsome 
 daubing ! 
 
 1 take thy friendship, Sanchez, to my heart ; 
 And were not my Ximena rashly promised 
 
 SANCHEZ. 
 
 Ximena's charms might grace a monarch's bed ; 
 Nor dares my humble heart admit the hope, — 
 Or, if it durst, some fitter time should show it. 
 Results more pressing now demand your thought; 
 First ease the pain of your depending doubt, 
 Divide this fawning courtier from the friend. 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 Which way shall I receive or thank thy love ? 
 
 SANCHEZ. 
 
 My Lord, you overrate me now. But see, 
 Alvarez comes ! Now probe his hollow heart, 
 Now while your thoughts are warm with his 
 
 deceit, 
 And mark how calmly he '11 evade the charge. 
 My Lord, I 'm gone. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 I am thy friend for ever. 
 
 [Alvarez enters. 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 My Lord, the king is walking forth to see 
 The prince, his son, begin his horsemanship : 
 If you 're inclined to see him, I '11 attend you. 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 Since duty calls me not, I 've no delight 
 To be an idle gaper on another's business. 
 You may, indeed, find pleasure in the office, 
 Which you 've so artfully contrived to fit. 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 Contrived, my Lord ? I 'm sorry such a thought 
 Can reach the man whom I so late embraced. 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 Men are not always what they seem. This 
 
 honor, 
 Which, in another's wrong, you 've bartered for, 
 Was at the price of those embraces bought. 
 
 MM 
 
458 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 Ha! bought? For shame! suppress this poor 
 
 suspicion ! 
 For if you think, you can't but be convinced 
 The naked honor of Alvarez scorns 
 Such base disguise. Yet pause a moment ; — 
 Since our great master, with such kind concern, 
 Himself has interposed to heal our feuds, 
 Let us not, thankless, rob him of the glory, 
 And undeserve the grace by new, false fears. 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 Kings are, alas ! but men, and formed like us, 
 Subject alike to be by men deceived : 
 The blushing court from this rash choice will see 
 How blindly he o'erlooks superior merit. 
 Could no man fill the place but worn Alvarez ? 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 Worn more with wounds and victories than age. 
 Who stands before him in great actions past? — 
 But I 'm to blame to urge that merit now, 
 Which will but shock what reasoning may con- 
 vince. 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 The fawning slave ! O Sanchez, how I thank 
 thee ! [Aside. 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 \ou have a virtuous daughter, I a son, 
 Whose softer hearts our mutual hands have 
 
 raised 
 Even to the summit of expected joy ; 
 Tf no regard to me, yet let, at least, 
 four pity of their passions rein your temper. 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 needless care ! to nobler objects now, 
 That son, be sure, in vanity, pretends : 
 While his high father's wisdom is preferred 
 To guide and govern our great monarch's son, 
 His proud, aspiring heart forgets Ximena. 
 Think not of him, but your superior care : 
 Instruct the royal youth to rule with awe 
 His future subjects, trembling at his frown ; 
 Teach him to bind the loyal heart in love, 
 The bold and factious in the chains of fear: 
 Join to these virtues, too, your warlike deeds; 
 Inflame him with the vast fatigues you 've borne, 
 But now are past, to show him by example, 
 And give him in the closet safe renown ; 
 Read him what scorching suns he must endure, 
 What bitter nights must wake, or sleep in arms, 
 To countermarch the foe, to give the alarm, 
 And to his own great conduct owe the day ; 
 Mark him on charts the order of the battle, 
 And make him from your manuscripts a hero. 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 Ill-tempered man ! thus to provoke the heart 
 Whose tortured patience is thy only friend ! 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 Thou only to thyself canst be a friend : 
 
 1 tell thee, false Alvarez, thou hast wronged me, 
 Hast basely robbed me of my merit's right, 
 And intercepted our young prince's fame. 
 
 His youth with me had found the active proof, 
 The living practice, of experienced war ; 
 This sword had taught him glory in the field, 
 At once his great example and his guard; 
 His unfledged wings from me had learned to 
 
 soar, 
 And strike at nations trembling at my name : 
 This I had done ; but thou, with servile arts, 
 Hast, fawning, crept into our master's breast, 
 Elbowed superior merit from his ear, 
 And, like a courtier, stole his son from glory. 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 Hear me, proud man ! for now I burn to speak, 
 Since neither truth can sway, nor temper touch 
 
 thee ; 
 Thus I retort with scorn thy slanderous rage : 
 Thou, thou the tutor of a kingdom's heir ? 
 Thou guide the passions of o'erboiling youth, 
 That canst not in thy age yet rule thy own ? 
 For shame ! retire, and purge thy imperious 
 
 heart, 
 Reduce thy arrogant, self-judging pride, 
 Correct the meanness of thy grovelling soul, 
 Chase damned suspicion from thy manly 
 
 thoughts, 
 And learn to treat with honor thy superior. 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 Superior, ha! dar'st thou provoke me, traitor? 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 Unhand me, ruffian, lest thy hold prove fatal ! 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 Take that, audacious dotard ! 
 
 [Strikes him. 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 O my blood, 
 
 Flow forward to my arm, to chain this tiger ! 
 If thou art brave, now bear thee like a man, 
 And quit my honor of this vile disgrace ! 
 
 [They fight ; Alvarez is disarmed. 
 O feeble life, I have too long endured thee ! 
 
 GORMAZ. 
 
 Thy sword is mine ; take back the inglorious 
 
 trophy, 
 Which would disgrace thy victor's thigh to wear. 
 Now forward to thy charge, read to the prince 
 This martial lecture of my famed exploits ; 
 And from this wholesome chastisement learn 
 
 thou 
 To tempt the patience of offended honor ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 O rage ! O wild despair ! O helpless age ! 
 Wert thou but lent me to survive my honor ? 
 Am I with martial toils worn gray, and see 
 At last one hour's blight lay waste my laurels ? 
 Is this famed arm to me alone defenceless? 
 Has it so often propped this empire's glory, 
 Fenced, like a rampart, the Castilian throne, 
 To me alone disgraceful, to its master useless ? 
 O sharp remembrance of departed glory ! 
 O fatal dignity, too dearly purchased ! 
 
CORNEILLE. — MOLIERE. 
 
 459 
 
 Now, haughty Gorraaz, now guide thou my 
 
 prince ; 
 insulted honor is unfit to approach him. 
 And thou, once glorious weapon, fare thee well, 
 Old servant, worthy of an abler master ! 
 Leave now for ever his abandoned side, 
 And, to revenge him, grace some nobler arm ! — 
 My son ! 
 
 [Carlos enters. 
 O Carlos ! canst thou bear dishonor ? 
 
 What villain dares occasion, Sir, the question ? 
 Give me his name ; the proof shall answer him. 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 O just reproach ! O prompt, resentful fire ! 
 My blood rekindles at thy manly flame, 
 And glads my laboring heart with youth's return. 
 Up, up, my son, — I cannot speak my shame, — 
 Revenge, revenge me ! 
 
 O, my rage ! — Of what ? 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 Of an indignity so vile, my heart 
 Redoubles all its torture to repeat it. 
 A blow, a blow, my boy ! 
 
 Distraction ! fury ! 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 In vain, alas ! this feeble arm assailed 
 With mortal vengeance the aggressor's heart ; 
 He dallied with my age, o'erborne, insulted ; 
 Therefore to thy young arm, for sure revenge, 
 My souls distress commits my sword and cause : 
 Pursue him, Carlos, to the world's last bounds, 
 And from his heart tear back our bleeding honor ; 
 Nav, to inflame thee more, thou 'It find his brow 
 Covered with laurels, and far-famed his prowess : 
 O, I have seen him, dreadful in the field, 
 Cut through whole squadrons his destructive 
 
 way, 
 And snatch the gore-died standard from the foe ! 
 
 CARLOS. 
 
 O, rack not with his fame my tortured heart, 
 That burns to know him and eclipse his glory ! 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 Though I foresee 't will strike thy soul to hear it, 
 Yet, since our gasping honor calls for thy 
 Relief, — O Carlos! — 't is Ximena's father — 
 
 CARLOS. 
 
 Ha! 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 Pause not for a replv, — I know thy love, 
 
 I know the tender obligations of thy heart, 
 
 And even lend a sigh to thy distress. 
 
 I grant Ximena dearer than thy life ; 
 
 But wounded honor must surmount them both. 
 
 I need not urge thee more ; thou know'st my 
 
 wrong ; 
 T is in thy heart, — and in thy hand the ven- 
 geance • 
 
 Blood only is the balm for grief like mine, 
 Which till obtained, I will in darkness mourn, 
 Nor lift my eyes to light, till thy return. 
 But haste, o'ertake this blaster of my name, 
 Fly swift to vengeance, and bring back my fame ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 CARLOS. _ 
 
 Relentless Heaven ! is all thy thunder gone ? 
 Not one bolt left to finish my despair? 
 Lie still, my heart, and close this deadly wound ! 
 Stir not to thought, for motion is thy ruin ! — 
 But see, the frighted poor Ximena comes, 
 And with her tremblings strikes thee cold as 
 
 death ! 
 Mv helpless father too, o'erwhelmed with shame, 
 Begs his dismission to his grave with honor. 
 Ximena weeps ; heart-pierced, Alvarez groans : 
 Rage lifts my sword, and love arrests my arm. 
 O double torture of distracting woe ! 
 Is there no mean betwixt these sharp extremes? 
 Must honor perish, if I spare my love ? 
 O ignominious pity ! shameful softness ! 
 Must I, to right Alvarez, kill Ximena ? 
 O cruel vengeance ! O heart-wounding honor! 
 Shall I forsake her in her soul's extremes, 
 Depress the virtue of her filial tears, 
 And bury in a tomb our nuptial joy ? 
 Shall that just honor, that subdued her heart, 
 Now build its fame, relentless, on her sorrows ? 
 Instruct me, Heaven, that gav'st me this distress, 
 To choose, and bear me worthy of my being ! 
 O Love, forgive me, if my hurried soul 
 Should act with error in this storm of fortune ! 
 For Heaven can tell what pangs I feel to t-ave 
 
 thee ! — 
 But, hark ! the shrieks of drowning honor call ! 
 'T is sinking, gasping, while I stand in pause; 
 Plunge in, my heart, and save it from the billows ! 
 It will be so, — the blow 's too sharp a pain ; 
 And vengeance has at least this just excuse, 
 That even Ximena blushes while I bear it : 
 Her generous heart, that was by honor won, 
 Must, when that honor 's stained, abjure my love. 
 O peace of mind, farewell ! Revenge, I come, 
 And raise thy altar on a mournful tomb ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 JEAN-BAPTISTE POCQUELIN DE 
 MOLIERE. 
 
 Jeas-Baptiste PocqrELiK was born at Paris, 
 in 16*20 His father, a valet-de-ckambre and up- 
 holsterer to the king, intended the boy for the 
 same occupation, and educated him accordingly, 
 up to the age of fourteen years. Young Poc- 
 qnelin's grandfather, who had a passion for the 
 theatre, took him occasionally to the Hotel de 
 Bourgogne, and thus helped to awaken an in- 
 vincible repugnance to his destined profession. 
 Through the interposition of his grandfather, he 
 was soon placed under the instruction of the 
 Jesuits, and made great progress in his studies. 
 Gassendi was one of his teachers, and Chapelle 
 and Bernier were among his school friends. 
 
460 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 He studied five years. When his father had 
 become infirm, the young man was required to 
 take his place about the person of the king. 
 The French theatre at this time was beginning 
 to flourish, through the genius of Corneille, and 
 the influence of Cardinal Richelieu; and Poc- 
 quelin's early passion for the drama received a 
 new impulse. He formed a company of young 
 persons who had a talent for declamation, which 
 soon became distinguished, and was known un- 
 der the name of L'lllustre TM&tre. Pocquelin 
 now resolved to apply himself wholly to the 
 drama, in the twofold capacity of author and ac- 
 tor. He took the surname of Moliere, after the 
 example of the Italian players, and those of the 
 Hotel de Bourgogne. Moliere remained un- 
 known during the civil wars of the Fronde ; 
 but he employed this time in cultivating his 
 powers and preparing for his future career. His 
 first regular piece, in five acts, was " L'Etourdi," 
 represented at Lyons, in 1653. The comedy 
 had great success, and drew away all the spec- 
 tators from another provincial company, which 
 was then playing at Lyons. From Lyons, Mo- 
 liere went to Languedoc, where he was warm- 
 ly received by the prince of Conti, who had 
 known him at school. The " Etourdi " was 
 played with the same applause at the theatre of 
 Beziera, and the " Dspit Amoureux " and the 
 " Precieuses Ridicules" were also brought for- 
 ward there. After having visited all the provin- 
 ces, Moliere arrived in Paris, in 1658, where his 
 company, now called " The Company of Mon- 
 sieur," was permitted to play in the presence 
 of Louis the Fourteenth. The king was so well 
 satisfied with Moliere's company, that he took 
 them into his favor, and assigned the poet a 
 pension of a thousand francs. In about fifteen 
 years, Moliere produced thirty pieces, among 
 which are the / " Ecole des Maris," the " F&- 
 cheux," the "Ecole des Femrnes," the "Ma- 
 nage Force," the "Misanthrope," the "Tartufe," 
 the "Avare," the "Amphitryon," the "Bour- 
 geois Gentilhomrne," the "Femmes Savantes," 
 and the " Malade Imaginaire." With this piece 
 he closed his career. He had been suffering, for 
 a long time, from pulmonary consumption. At 
 the third representation of this comedy, he was 
 more unwell than usual, and his friends urged 
 him not to play ; but his concern for the inter- 
 ests of others prevailed over their advice, and 
 the effort cost him his life. He was seized with 
 convulsions while pronouncing the word jv.ro, 
 in the last scene, and was carried, dying, to his 
 home, where he expired, a few hours after, Feb- 
 ruary 17th, 1673, at the age of forty-three years. 
 The comedy was at an end ; and Bossuet was 
 austere enough to say: "Perhaps posterity will 
 know the end of this poet-comedian, who, in 
 playing his Malade Imaginaire, received the 
 last blow of that disease which terminated his 
 life a few hours afterwards, and passed from 
 the jests of the theatre, amid which he almost 
 breathed his last sigh, to the tribunal of Him 
 who said, ( Woe to those who laugh, for they 
 
 shall mourn ! ' " Five years later, the Academy 
 erected his bust, with the line from Saurin, — 
 "Rien ne manque a sa gloire ; il manquait a la notre." 
 La Harpe says, — "Of all that have ever 
 written, Moliere has observed man the best, 
 without proclaiming his observation ; he has, 
 too, more the air of knowing him by heart, than 
 of having studied him. When we read his 
 pieces with reflection, we are astonished, not 
 at the author, but at ourselves His come- 
 dies, properly read, may supply the place of expe- 
 rience ; not because he has painted follies, which 
 are transient, but because he has painted man, 
 who does not change. He has given a series of 
 traits, not one of which is thrown away ; this is 
 for me, that is for my neighbour; and it is a 
 proof of the pleasure derived from a perfect 
 imitation, that my neighbour and I laugh very 
 heartily to see ourselves fools, simpletons, or 
 meddlers, and that we should be furious, if any 
 body were to tell us in another manner one half 
 of what Moliere says." 
 
 Schlegel has not done Moliere justice, though 
 there is some truth in his criticism. The bound- 
 less wit, the happy sarcasm, the infinite variety 
 of comic traits, which are found in Moliere's 
 pieces, place him among the greatest comic wri- 
 ters whom the world has ever seen, notwith- 
 standing frequent defects of plot, some extrava- 
 gances of character, and many instances of pla- 
 giarism. An excellent account of the life and 
 writings of Moliere has been published by J. 
 Taschereau, Paris, 1825, of which a full and 
 elegant analysis is contained in the sixty-first 
 number of the " North American Review." 
 Most of his pieces have been translated into 
 English, as "Plays," by John Ozell, 1714; 
 " Select Comedies in French and English," 
 1732; "Works, translated into English," Ber- 
 wick, 1770; "Tartufe, or the French Puritan, 
 a Comedy," translated by Matthew Medbourne, 
 1620. His works were published by Bret, in 
 six volumes, Paris, 1773. They have gone 
 through innumerable editions since, — among 
 others, a very beautiful illustrated edition, pub- 
 lished in 1839, by Dubochet. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM THE MISANTHROPE. 
 
 CELEM1NA. 
 
 Be seated, Madam. 
 
 ARSINOB. 
 
 No, there is no need, — 
 The claims of friendship call for care and speed ; 
 And as no cares of equal weight can be 
 To those of honor and propriety, 
 A current rumor, sullying your fair fame, 
 Has sent me here, sheltered by friendship's name. 
 Last night, a party, of distinguished taste, 
 Of sterling virtue, and of judgment chaste, 
 On you, fair lady, turned the conversation, 
 And at your conduct showed disapprobation. 
 This crowd of visiters about you pressing, 
 Your gallantry, which causes tales distressing, 
 
MOLIERE.— LA FONTAINE. 
 
 461 
 
 Found censors rigorous far beyond my views, 
 And much I strove your conduct to excuse ; 
 You well may judge, with zeal I would de- 
 fend 
 And do my best to shield my absent friend : 
 Act as you might, I said, you meant the best, 
 And on my soul your virtue I 'd protest. 
 But in this world, there are some things, you 
 
 know, 
 Much as we would excuse, 't is hard to do : 
 I found myself obliged to grant the rest, — 
 Your style of living was not of the best, 
 That it looked ill before a slanderous town, 
 And caused sad tales, which everywhere went 
 
 down, — 
 That, if you pleased your manners to restrain, 
 The world would have less reason to complain: 
 Not that I would your honesty impeach, — 
 Heaven save me from the thought, much more 
 
 the speech ! — 
 But at the shade of vice we tremble so, 
 And 't is not for ourselves we live, you know. 
 So well I know your rightly balanced mind, 
 I doubt not this advice will welcome find ; 
 And no unworthy motive, you '11 suppose, 
 Excites me thus your failings to disclose. 
 
 CELEMINA. 
 
 Madam, I thank you for your great good-will, 
 And good advice, which far from taking ill, 
 With interest I repay it on the spot, — 
 For friendship's favors should not be forgot; 
 And as your tender friendship you display 
 In kindly telling all the public say, 
 I your example in return pursue, 
 And let you know what they remark on you. 
 The other day, some friends I chanced to meet, 
 Whose claims to taste and judgment are com- 
 plete ; 
 Conversing on the cares of living well, 
 Madam, on you, their conversation fell: 
 Your great display of zeal and prudery 
 Was not the pattern which they fain would see ; 
 Your tedious speeches, flourished out with pride, 
 Of wisdom, honor ; then your grave outside 
 At the ambiguous joke, — your looks, your 
 
 cries, — 
 Of hidden meanings, still the worst supplies ; 
 Your self-esteem, which every one must know; 
 Those looks of pity, which around you throw; 
 Your frequent lessons and your censures hard 
 On things which others just and good regard : 
 All this, dear Madam, — pray excuse the word, — 
 Was freely blamed by all, with one accord. 
 "And whence," said they, " this modest face 
 
 and eye, — 
 This grave exterior, which her deeds deny? 
 She, to the last, with great exactness prays, 
 But beats her servants, and their dues delays ; 
 Her holy zeal displays to public sight, 
 But sighs for beauty, and wears borrowed white." 
 For me, against them all I took your part, 
 And said 't was scandal rank and wicked art; 
 But all opinions were opposed to me, — 
 And all insisted it would better be. 
 
 If you less care for others' deeds had shown, 
 And given more trouble to reform your own, — 
 That you had better scan yourself with care, 
 And others' conduct further censure spare, — 
 That she, who strove the public to correct, 
 Should lead a life the public might respect, 
 And that it was as well this task to leave 
 To those who might from Heaven the charge 
 
 receive. 
 So well I know your rightly balanced mind, 
 I doubt not this advice will welcome find; 
 And no unworthy motive, you '11 suppose, 
 Excites me thus your failings to disclose. 
 
 ARS1N0E. 
 
 The best of friends advice will oft reject, ■ 
 But this rejoinder I did not expect ; 
 And, Madam, from its sharpness, well I see 
 My counsel bears a sting not guessed by me. 
 
 JEAN DE LA FONTAINE. 
 
 This universally popular author was born at 
 Chateau Thierry, in 1621. His father desir- 
 ed to educate him for the church, a career whol- 
 ly unsuited to his natural disposition. At the 
 age of nineteen, he was placed with the Fath- 
 ers of the Oratory, but remained with them only 
 eighteen months. He was considered a dull and 
 spiritless youth, and manifested not the least 
 spark of poetry until he was twenty-two years 
 old, when the recitation of an o.de of Malherbe's 
 roused his dormant genius and he began to 
 compose verses. At the age of twenty-six, his 
 father persuaded him to marry a woman for 
 whom he had little or no attachment. He 
 lived, however, several years with her, and 
 had a son. He made himself familiar with the 
 best writings of the ancients, particularly Ho- 
 mer, Plato, Plutarch, Horace, Virgil, Terence, 
 and Quintilian. Being invited to Paris by the 
 Duchess Bouillon, he was there introduced to 
 Fouquet, then Minister of Finance, from whom 
 he received an annual pension of a thousand 
 francs, on condition of producing a piece of 
 poetry quarterly. After the fall of Fouquet, he 
 was taken into the service of Henrietta, wife 
 of Monsieur, the king's brother ; and when 
 she died, other persons of distinction gave him 
 their protection, until Madame Sabliere opened 
 her house to him and relieved him from every 
 care. With this kindest of friends he lived 
 twenty years. After her death, he was invited 
 by Madame Mazarin and Saint-Evremont to 
 England, but could not make up his mind to 
 leave Paris. In 1692, he was dangerously ill ; 
 and when a priest conversed with him on the 
 subject of religion, he replied, "I have lately 
 been reading the New Testament, which I as- 
 sure you is a very good book ; but there is one 
 article to which I cannot accede ; it is that ot 
 the eternity of punishment. I cannot compre- 
 hend how this eternity is compatible with the 
 goodness of G^ed " After recovering from this 
 
 MM 2 
 
462 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 illness, La Fontaine passed two years at the 
 house of Madame D'Hervart, during which he 
 attempted to translate some pious hymns, but 
 with little success. He wrote his own epitaph, 
 which is at once humorous and characteristic : 
 
 "Jean s'en alia comme il 6toit venu, 
 Mangea le fonds avec le revenu, 
 
 Tint les tresors chose peu necessaire. 
 Quant a son temps, bien sut le dispenser : 
 Deux parts en fit, dont il souloit passer, 
 
 L'une a dormir, et l'autre a ne rien faire." 
 
 He died at Paris, in 1695. 
 
 As a man of genius, La Fontaine was one of 
 the brightest ornaments of the age of Louis the 
 Fourteenth ; in originality, he stood nearly at 
 the head of his great contemporaries. As a 
 master of all the delicacies of the French lan- 
 guage, he was at least equal to any writer of 
 his day. His " Fables " are, probably, more read 
 than any other work of the time, excepting the 
 comedies of Moliere ; more read by English read- 
 ers than any similar works of English writers. 
 They possess an indescribable fascination, not 
 only for children, but for men, the "children 
 of a larger growth." His thoughts are always 
 fresh and natural ; his little pictures of human 
 life are perfectly drawn ; the short stories in 
 which human actors are introduced are con- 
 ceived in the same spirit as the fables of ani- 
 mals, and the moral is worked out with a 
 clearness, distinctness, and force, that make an 
 indelible impression on the mind. His style is 
 marked by the best qualities of the best writers 
 of his age. It is familiar, yet elegant; idio- 
 matic, but classic ; pithy and pointed, without 
 any apparently studied attempts at concise- 
 ness; and the versification is happily varied, 
 and adapted to the various characters and trains 
 of thought which it is the poet's object to set 
 forth. The exquisite turns of expression, which 
 so frequently occur in the fables of La Fon- 
 t.une, mark the peculiar character of the French 
 language, and give a better idea of its idiomatic 
 richness than the writings of any other author, 
 always excepting the immortal comedies of 
 Moliere. His humor is abundant, without de- 
 generating into coarseness; his satire is keen, 
 but never cynical. The faults, errors, and 
 weaknesses of men are open to his searching 
 gaze, but he is never misanthropical, never out 
 of humor with his fellow-beings. That such 
 a writer should be universally popular is not 
 at all surprising. He lived on familiar terms 
 with the greatest French writers, Moliere, Boi- 
 leau, and Racine, and the principal men of 
 talent and wit in the capital. They called him 
 Le Bon Homme, for he was " as simple as the 
 heroes of his own fables." His wife, having 
 left him after a short residence in Paris, he was 
 accustomed to visit her from time to time, and 
 on these occasions usually got rid of a part of 
 his estate. He had no skill in the management 
 of affairs, and in this respect his wife resembled 
 him, and the natural consequence was that his 
 property fell into great disorder. He had one son, 
 
 whom the archbishop of Paris promised to pro- 
 vide for. Meeting this son, after a long separa- 
 tion, at the house of a friend, and not recogniz- 
 ing him, he expressed great pleasure in his 
 conversation, and, upon being told that it was 
 his own son, he said, "Ah I I am very glad of 
 it." At another time, he was persuaded by 
 Racine and Boileau to return to Chateau Thier 
 ry and attempt a reconciliation with his wife. 
 He called at the house, and learning from the 
 servant, who did not know him, that Madame 
 La Fontaine was well, went to the house of a 
 neighbour, with whom he passed two days, and 
 then returned to Paris. To his friends' inquir- 
 ies about the success of his mission, he said, "I 
 have been to see her, but I did not find her ; 
 she is well." 
 
 La Fontaine's "Tales" and "Fables" have 
 been published with splendid illustrations. The 
 best edition of the former is that of 1762, with 
 Eisen's designs, and vignettes by ChofTat. The 
 "Fables " were published in a magnificent edi- 
 tion, four volumes folio, 1755— 59, each fable 
 being illustrated with a plate. An exquisite 
 edition of the " Fables," in octavo, was pub- 
 lished by Fournier, in 1839, with designs by 
 J. J. Grandville. The reader of this edition is 
 at a loss which most to admire, the exuberant 
 humor and wisdom of the poet, or the extra- 
 ordinary felicity with which the artist has told 
 the poet's story in his illustrations. 
 
 La Fontaine's fables have often been imi- 
 tated, but never equalled, in English. A collec- 
 tion of such imitations, done in a very spirit- 
 ed manner, was published in London, 1820. 
 The only entire translation ever attempted is 
 that by Elizur Wright, Jr., Boston, 1841 ; a 
 work which has many merits, though not reach- 
 ing the standard of perfect translation. 
 
 THE COUNCIL HELD BY THE RATS. 
 
 Old Rodilard, a certain cat, 
 
 Such havoc of the rats had made, 
 'T was difficult to find a rat 
 
 With nature's debt unpaid. 
 The few that did remain, 
 
 To leave their holes afraid, 
 From usual food abstain, 
 
 Not eating half their fill. 
 
 And wonder no one will, 
 That one, who made on rats his revel, 
 With rats passed not for cat, but devil. 
 Now, on a day, this dread rat-eater, 
 Who had a wife, went out to meet her ; 
 And while he held his caterwauling, 
 The unkilled rats, their chapter calling, 
 Discussed the point, in grave debate, 
 How they might shun impending fate. 
 
 Their dean, a prudent rat, 
 Thought best, and better soon than late, 
 
 To bell the fatal cat ; 
 That, when he took his hunting-round, 
 The rats, well cautioned by the sound, 
 Might hide in safety under ground: 
 
LA FONTAINE. 
 
 463 
 
 Indeed, he knew no other means. 
 And all the rest 
 At once confessed 
 
 Their minds were with the dean's. 
 No better plan, they all believed, 
 Could possibly have been conceived; 
 No doubt, the thing would work right well, 
 If any one would hang the bell. 
 But, one by one, said every rat, 
 " I 'm not so big a fool as that." 
 The plan knocked up in this respect, 
 The council closed without effect. 
 And many a council I have seen, 
 Or reverend chapter with its dean, 
 
 That, thus resolving wisely, 
 
 Fell through like this precisely. 
 
 To argue or refute, 
 
 Wise counsellors abound ; 
 
 The man to execute 
 Is harder to be found. 
 
 THE CAT AND THE OLD RAT. 
 
 A story-writer of our sort 
 Historifies, in short, 
 
 Of one that may be reckoned 
 A Rodilard the Second, — 
 The Alexander of the cats, 
 The Attila, the scourge of rats, 
 
 Whose fierce and whiskered head 
 Among the latter spread, 
 A league around, its dread ; 
 Who seemed, indeed, determined 
 The world should be unvermined. 
 The planks with props more false than slim, 
 The tempting heaps of poisoned meal, 
 The traps of wire and traps of steel, 
 Were only play, compared with him. 
 At length, so sadly were they scared, 
 The rats and mice no longer dared 
 To show their thievish faces 
 Outside their hiding-places, 
 Thus shunning all pursuit ; whereat 
 Our crafty General Cat 
 Contrived to hang himself, as dead, 
 Beside the wall, with downward head, — 
 Resisting gravitation's laws 
 By clinging with his hinder claws 
 To some small bit of string. 
 The rats esteemed the thing 
 A judgment for some naughty deed, 
 Some thievish snatch, 
 Or ugly scratch ; 
 And thought their foe had got his meed 
 By being hung indeed. 
 With hope elated all 
 Of laughing at his funeral, 
 They thrust their noses out in air; 
 And now to show their heads they dare, 
 Now dodging back, now venturing rhore ; 
 At last, upon the larder's store 
 They fall to filching, as of yore. 
 A scanty feast enjoyed these shallows ; 
 Down dropped the hung one from his gallows, 
 
 And of the hindmost caught. 
 "Some other tricks to me are known," 
 Said he, while tearing bone from bone, 
 
 " By long experience taught ; 
 The point is settled, free from doubt, 
 That from your holes you shall come out." 
 His threat as good as prophecy 
 Was proved by Mr. Mildandsly ; . 
 For, putting on a mealy robe, 
 He squatted in an open tub, 
 And held his purring and his breath; — 
 Out came the vermin to their death. 
 On this occasion, one old stager, 
 A rat as gray as any badger, 
 Who had in battle lost his tail, 
 Abstained from smelling at the meal; 
 And cried, far off, "Ah ! General Cat, 
 I much suspect a heap like that; 
 Your meal is not the thing, perhaps, 
 For one who knows somewhat of traps; 
 Should you a sack of meal become, 
 I 'd let you be, and stay at home." 
 
 Well said, I think, and prudently, 
 By one who knew distrust to be 
 The parent of security. 
 
 THE COCK AND THE FOX. 
 
 Upon a tree there mounted guard 
 A veteran cock, adroit and cunning; 
 When to the roots a fox up running 
 
 Spoke thus, in tones of kind regard : — 
 " Our quarrel, brother, 's at an end ; 
 Henceforth I hope to live your friend; 
 For peace now reigns 
 Throughout the animal domains. 
 I bear the news. Come down, I pray, 
 And give me the embrace fraternal ; 
 
 And please, my brother, do n't delay : 
 So much the tidings do concern all, 
 
 That I must spread them far to-day. 
 Now you and yours can take your walks 
 Without a fear or thought of hawks; 
 And should you clash with them or others, 
 In us you '11 find the best of brothers ; — 
 For which you may, this joyful night, 
 Your merry bonfires light. 
 But, first, let 's seal the bliss 
 With one fraternal kiss." 
 " Good friend," the cock replied, " upon my 
 
 word, 
 A better thing I never heard ; 
 And doubly I rejoice 
 To hear it from your voice : 
 And, really, there must be something in it, 
 For yonder come two greyhounds, which, I 
 
 flatter 
 Myself, are couriers on this very matter ; 
 They come so fast, they 'II be here in a minute. 
 I 'II down, and all of us will seal the blessing 
 With general kissing and caressing." 
 "Adieu," said fox; "my errand 's pressing , 
 I '11 hurry on my way, 
 And we '11 rejoice some other day." 
 
464 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 So off the fellow scampered, quick and light, 
 To gain the fox-holes of a neighbouring height, — 
 Less happy in his stratagem than flight. 
 The cock laughed sweetly in his sleeve ; — 
 'T is doubly sweet deceiver to deceive. 
 
 THE WOLF AND THE DOG. 
 
 A prowling wolf, whose shaggy skin 
 (So strict the watch of dogs had been) 
 
 Hid little but his bones, 
 Once met a mastiff dog astray ; 
 A prouder, fatter, sleeker Tray 
 No human mortal owns. 
 
 Sir Wolf, in famished plight, 
 Would fain have made a ration 
 Upon his fat relation ; 
 
 But then he first must fight ; 
 And well the dog seemed able 
 To save from wolfish table 
 
 His carcass snug and tight. 
 So, then, in civil conversation, 
 The wolf expressed his admiration 
 Of Tray's fine case. Said Tray, politely, 
 "Yourself, good Sir, may be as sightly: 
 Quit but the woods, advised by me ; 
 For all your fellows here, I see, 
 Are shabby wretches, lean and gaunt, 
 Belike to die of haggard want ; 
 With such a pack, of course it follows, 
 One fights for every bit he swallows. 
 Come, then, with me, and share 
 On equal terms our princely fare." 
 " But what with you 
 Has one to do? " 
 Inquires the wolf. "Light work indeed," 
 Replies the dog; "you only need 
 To bark a little, now and then, 
 To chase off duns and beggar-men, — 
 To fawn on friends that come or go forth, 
 Your master please, and so forth; 
 For which you have to eat 
 All sorts of well cooked meat, — 
 Cold pullets, pigeons, savory messes, — 
 Besides unnumbered fond caresses." 
 The wolf, by force of appetite, 
 Accepts the terms outright, 
 Tears glistening in his eyes. 
 But, faring on, he spies 
 A galled spot on the mastiff's neck. 
 " What 's that ? " he cries. " O, nothing but 
 a speck." 
 "A speck?" "Ay, ay; 't is not enough to 
 
 pain me; 
 Perhaps the collar's mark by which they chain 
 me." 
 "Chain, — chain you? What! run you not, then, 
 Just where you please, and when?" 
 
 "Not always, Sir; but what of that? " 
 " Enough for me, to spoil your fat ! 
 It ought to be a precious price 
 Which could to servile chains entice; 
 For me, I '11 shun them, while I 've wit." 
 So ran Sir Wolf, and runneth yet. 
 
 THE CROW AND THE FOX. 
 
 A master crow, perched on a tree one day, 
 
 Was holding in his beak a cheese ; — 
 A master fox, by the odor drawn that way, 
 Spake unto him in words like these : 
 " O, good morning, my Lord Crow ! 
 How well you look ! how handsome you 
 do grow ' 
 'Pon my honor, if your note 
 Bears a resemblance to your coat, 
 You are the phoenix of the dwellers in these 
 woods." 
 At these words does the crow exceedingly 
 
 rejoice ; 
 And, to display his beauteous voice, 
 He opens a wide beak, lets fall his stolen goods. 
 The fox seized on 't, and said, "My good 
 
 Monsieur, 
 Learn that every flatterer 
 Lives at the expense of him who hears him 
 
 out. 
 This lesson is well worth a cheese, no doubt." 
 The crow, ashamed, and much in pain, 
 Swore, but a little late, they 'd not catch him 
 so again. 
 
 NICHOLAS BOILEAU DESPREAUX. 
 
 Nicholas Boileau Despreatjx, one of the 
 most brilliant ornaments of the age of Louis 
 the Fourteenth, was born at Crosne, near Paris, 
 in 1636. He studied first at the College d'Har- 
 court, and then at the College de Beauvais. 
 Having completed his academical studies, he 
 applied himself to the law ; but soon becoming 
 disgusted with this career, he resolved to give 
 himself entirely to letters. His youth had been 
 assiduously occupied with the ancient classics, 
 on which his taste, so distinguished for its puri- 
 ty and severity, was formed. He attempted a 
 tragedy without success; but "his first satire, 
 "Les Adieux a Paris," made his talents known. 
 The "Satires," which he published in 1666, were 
 loudly applauded for their purity of language and 
 elegance of versification. His "Epistles" have 
 retained their popularity to the present day. The 
 next work which he published was the "Art 
 Poetique," in imitation of the " Ars Poetica " of 
 Horace. The merits of this poem, as a tasteful 
 and elegant summary of the principles of poet- 
 ical style and composition, are universally rec- 
 ognized, though his censures of Tasso and 
 Quinault have justly exposed him to the charge 
 of a somewhat narrow spirit in the criticism of 
 literature. Another well known work of Boi 
 leau is the " Lutrin," a mock-heroic poem, 
 nearly equal in reputation to Pope's " Rape of 
 the Lock." Louis the Fourteenth gave him the 
 appointment of Historiographer. The Academy 
 did not elect him a member until 1684, he 
 having attacked that body in some of his writ 
 injrs. Boileau died in 1711. An edition o 
 
BOILEAU DESPREAUX. 
 
 465 
 
 his works was published by Saint-Surin, Paris, 
 1824, in four volumes. 
 
 Boileau was not a man of profound and orig- 
 inal genius, but, in the language of Marmontel, 
 " He was a sound and judicious critic, the 
 avenger and conservator of taste, one who made 
 war upon bad writers, and discredited their 
 examples. He taught young people to feel the 
 proprieties of all the various styles; gave a 
 neat and precise idea of each of the different 
 kinds ; recognized those, primary truths which 
 are eternal laws, and stamped them upon the 
 minds of men in ineffaceable lines." 
 
 His works have been translated into English; 
 — "The Art of Poetry," London, 1683; "Lu- 
 trin," by N. Rowe, 1708; "The Works," by 
 Ozell and others, 1712, two volumes; "Posthu- 
 mous Works," by the same, 1713 — 14, three 
 volumes; "Satires," London, 1808. 
 
 NINTH SATIRE. 
 
 Look ye, my mind ! a lecture I must read ; 
 Your faults I '11 bear no more, — I won't, indeed ! 
 Too long already has my bending will 
 Allowed your tricks and insolence their fill; 
 But since you 've pushed my patience to the last, 
 Have at you now ! I '11 blow a wholesome blast. 
 
 Why, what ! to see you in that ethic mood, 
 Like Cato, prating about bad and good, 
 Judging who writes with merit, and who not, 
 And teaching reverend doctors what is what, — 
 One would suppose, that, covered over quite 
 With darts of satire ready winged for flight, 
 To you the sole prerogative was given 
 To hector every mortal under heaven. 
 But have a care, — with all that high pretence, 
 / know the worth of both your wit and sense. 
 All your defects, in all their black amount, 
 As easy as my fingers I can count. 
 Ready I am to burst with laughter, when 
 I see you snatch your weak and sterile pen, 
 And, with that censor-air, sit sternly down 
 To wield the scorpion and reform the town, — 
 More rough and biting in your satires far 
 Than angry scolds, or Gautier ' at the bar. 
 
 But come, a moment's parle) r let us hold ; — 
 Say whence you got that freak so madly bold. 
 How could you dare attempt in verse to shine, 
 Without one glance of favor from the Nine ? 
 Say, if on you those inspirations roll 
 Which stir the waters of the godlike soul ; 
 Tell how that rash, fool-hardy spirit grew ; — 
 Has Phcebus made Parnassus plain for you ? 
 And have you yet the dreadful truth to learn, 
 That, on that mount, where sacred splendors 
 
 burn, 
 He who comes short of its remotest height 
 Falls to the ground in ignominious plight, 
 
 i Claude Gautier, a famous advocate, and excessively 
 Diting in his recriminations. Hence he obtained the nick- 
 name of The Scold. When a pleader wished to intimi- 
 date his opponent, he used to say, " I '11 let Gautier loose 
 upon you." 
 
 59 
 
 And, severed far from Horace and Voiture, 
 Crawls round the bottom, — with the Abb£ 
 
 Pure ? 2 
 Yet still, if all that I can do or say 
 Can neither frighten nor persuade away 
 The dire approaches of that villain-sprite 
 Which tempts your sad infirmity, — to write, — 
 Why, make your scribbling, then, a gainful 
 
 thing, 
 And chant the glories of our conqueror-king; 3 
 So shall your whims and follies swell your purse, 
 And every year shall fructify your verse, 
 While by your thriving Muse is duly sold 
 An ounce of smoke, for full its weight in gold. 
 "Ah, tempt me not! " I hear you thus reply; 
 " In vain such splendid tasks my hand shall try. 
 It is not every dabbler that can strike 
 So high a chord, and thunder, Orpheus-like; 
 Not every one can fill the glowing page 
 With scenes where Discord swells and bursts 
 
 with rage, — 
 Where hot Bellona, thundering, shrieking, calls, 
 And frightened Belgium shrinks behind her 
 
 walls : 4 
 On such high themes, without a throb of fear, 
 Racan 6 may chant, — since Homer is not here. 
 But lack-a-day ! for me and poor Cotin, 6 
 Who rhyme by chance, and plunge through 
 
 thick and thin, — 
 We, who turned poets only on the plan 
 Of meanly finding all the fault we can, — 
 By crowds of schoolboys though our praise is 
 
 sung, 
 Our safest way we find — to hold our tongue. 
 Strains worthy of a flatterer and a dunce 
 Degrade both author and the king at once. 
 In short, for me such subjects are the worst, — 
 My capabilities they sure would burst." 
 'T is thus, my mind, you lazily affect 
 The outward semblance of a chaste respect, 
 
 2 The Abbe de Pure had circulated some black and un- 
 provoked calumnies against Boileau. 
 
 3 The victories of Louis the Fourteenth called forth a 
 swarm of inferior poets, who sought that celebrity from 
 their theme, which they never could gain of themselves. 
 
 * The king had just taken Lille, and made himself, in 
 the same campaign, master of several other cities in Flan- 
 ders. 
 
 5 This compliment is either too high, or posterity is very 
 unjust to this French Homer. Racan, however, was un 
 po&te estzme. 
 
 6 In the Third Satire, the author expresses his fondness 
 of good accommodation at the dinner-table, by declaring 
 that he wished for 
 
 "As much elbow-room to indulge himself in, 
 As Cassagne had at church, or tne Abbe Cotin." 
 Cassagne had the good sense ,to testify no resentment 
 against the author. Not so with Cotin. He could not en- 
 dure that his pulpit talents should be contested. In order 
 to have his revenge, he wrote a bad satire against Boileau, 
 in which he reproaches him, as if it were a great crime, 
 for having imitated Horace and Juvenal. He also published 
 an essay on the satires of the times, in which he charged 
 our author with having done the greatest injuries, and 
 imputed to him imaginary crimes. This only provoked a 
 new tissue of railleries, of which the above is one ; and, 
 Moliere being made a party in the game, the reputation of 
 Cotin at length sunk under the contest. 
 
466 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 While dark malignity, that poisonous sin, 
 Broods, rankling, with a double power within. 
 But grant, that, if you sung such high-wrought 
 
 things, 
 The lofty flight would melt your venturous 
 
 wings, — 
 Were it not better and far nobler, say, 
 Among the clouds to throw your life away, 
 Than thus to sally on the king's high-road, 
 And slash about in that unchristian mood, 
 Rhyming and scoffing, as you daily do, 
 Insulting those wh.< never speak to you, 
 Rashly endanger »'ig others and yourself, — 
 And all to load your publisher with pelf? 
 
 Perhaps you think, puffed up with senseless 
 
 pride, 
 To march with deathless Horace, side by side. 
 Even now you hope that on your rhymes obscure 
 Future Saumaises 7 will the rack endure. 
 But think what numbers, well received at first, 
 Have had their foolish expectations cursed ! 
 How many flourish for a little date, 
 Who see their packed-up verses sold by weight! 
 To-day, your writings, gathering wide renown, 
 From hand to hand spread briskly through the 
 
 town ; 
 A few months hence, despite their matchless 
 
 worth, 
 Powdered with dust, and never named on earth, 
 They to the grocer's swell that solemn train 
 Led by La Serre, 8 and eke by Neuf-Germain, 9 — 
 Or, at Pont-Neuf, 10 perhaps, all gnawed about, 
 Lie w th their leaves defaced and half torn out. 
 Ah ! the fine thing, to see your works engage 
 A loitering lacquey, or an idle page, — 
 Or make, perchance, conveyed to some dark 
 
 nook, 
 A second volume to Savoyard's book. 11 
 
 Should fate allow, by some good-natured 
 
 whim, 
 Tour verses on the stream of time to swim, 
 Fulfilling, centuries hence, your spiteful vow, 
 To load with hisses poor Cotin, as now, — 
 Of what avail will be the future praise 
 Which men may lavish in those distant days, 
 If in your life-time now that trick of rhyme 
 Blacken your conscience with repeated crime? 
 Where is the use to scare the public so ? 
 Why will you make each sorry fool your foe ? 
 Why draw down many a secret heart)- curse, 
 Merely to show your talent at a verse ? 
 What demon tempts you to the vain display 
 Of proving out how well you can inveigh ? 
 You read a book, — and if it does not strike, 
 Who forces you to publish your dislike? 
 
 1 Claude Saumaise, an excellent critic and commentator. 
 
 8 This is that miserable writer, of whom, in the Third 
 Satire, the country nobleman exclaims, 
 
 "La Serre is the author of authors for me ! " 
 
 9 Neuf-Germain is described as a ridiculous and extrava- 
 gant poet. 
 
 io This was a place in Paris, where books were exposed 
 to sale as waste paper. 
 
 ii Savoyard used to sing songs about the streets of Paris, 
 and at length he must publish his " New Collection of the 
 Songs of Savoyard, as sung by himself at Paris" ! 
 
 Pray, let a dunce in quiet meet bis lot; 
 Shall not an author unmolested rot? 
 Jowffis, 12 in dust, lies withered from our sight; 
 David, though printed, has not seen the light; 
 Moses is stained with right Mosaic mould 
 Along the margin of each musty fold. 
 How can they harm ? those who are dead are 
 
 dead; 
 Shall not the tomb escape your hostile tread ? 
 What poison have they poured within your cup, 
 That you should rake their slumbering ashes 
 
 up,— 
 Perrin and Bardin, Pradon and Hainaut, 
 Colletet, Pelletier, Titreville, Quinaut, 13 
 Whose names for ever to some rhyme you hitch, 
 Like staring image in sepulchral niche ? 
 You say you hate the nonsense they produce, 
 And that you 're wearied out; — a fine excuse ! 
 Have they not wearied out both court and king? 
 Yet who indictments has presumed to bring? 
 Has the least edict, to avenge their crime, 
 Silenced the authors, or suppressed the rhyme ? 
 Let write who will. All at this trade may lose 
 Freely what paper and what ink they choose. 
 Let a romance, whose volumes number ten, 14 
 Dismiss its hero, — Heaven alone knows when, — 
 Yet who can charge it with a single flaw 
 Against the statute or the common law ? 
 Hence, to this wild impunity we owe 
 Those tides of authors which for ever flow, — 
 Whose annual swell has never ceased to drown, 
 Time out of mind, this trash-devoted town. 
 Hence, not a single gate-post guards a door, 
 With puff-advertisements not smothered o'er. 
 Fastidious spirit ! and will you alone, 
 Without prerogative, with name unknown, 
 Presume to vindicate Apollo's cause, 
 Adjust his realm, and execute his laws? 
 
 But whilst their works thus roughly you 
 
 chastise, 
 Will yours be viewed with quite indulgent eyes ? 
 No living thing escapes your rude attack ; 
 Think you no blow of vengeance shall come 
 
 back ? 
 Ah, yes! e'en now, methinks, some injured 
 
 wright 
 Exclaims, "Keep out of that mad critic's sight! 
 One cannot tell what often ails his brain, — 
 A paradox, no shrewdness can explain, — 
 A very boy, — an inexperienced fool, 
 Who rashly grasps at universal rule ; 
 Who, for a pair of well turned verses' ends, 
 Would run the risk of losing twenty friends. 
 He gives no quarter to the godlike Maid, 
 And wants his will by all the world obeyed. 
 Is there a faultless pleader at the bar, 
 Whose eloquence he does not mock and mar? 15 
 
 12 The three poems, over which a requiem is sung in 
 these three lines, were all the productions of different au- 
 thors, and never had one breeze of success. 
 
 13 Poets, who had at various times incurred the humor 
 of our author in his Satires. 
 
 14 The romances of "Cyrus," " Clelie," and "Phara- 
 mond " each extended to ten volumes. 
 
 !5 Our author possessed in a very perfect degree th» 
 
BOILEAU DESPREAUX. 
 
 467 
 
 Is there a preacher, brilliant, chaste, and deep, 
 At whose discourse he does not go to sleep ? 
 And who is this Parnassian monarch-lad ? 
 A beggar, in the spoils of Horace clad ! 
 Did not one Juvenal, before him, teach 
 How few attend Cotin, to hear him preach? 16 
 Those poets both wrote satires upon rhyme ; 17 
 And how he fathers upon them his crime ! 
 Behind their glorious names he hides his head. 
 'T is true, those authors I have little read ; 
 But this I know, the world would get much good, 
 If all that slanderous, satiric brood 
 Into the river (and 't would be but fair) 
 Were headlong plunged, to make their verses 
 there." 
 See how they treat you, and the world astound ; 
 And the world deems you as already drowned. 
 In vain will some good-natured friend essay 
 To beg for grace, and wipe your doom away ; 
 Nothing can satisfy the jealous wight, 
 Who reads, and trembles as he reads in fright, 
 Thinks that each shaft is aimed at him alone, 
 Believing every fault you paint his own. 
 
 Tou 're always meddling with some new affair, 
 Picking eternal quarrels here and there. 
 Why are my ears so frequently assailed 
 With cries of authors and of fools impaled ? 
 When will your zeal some due cessation find ? 
 Come, now, — I 'm serious, — answer me, my 
 
 mind ! 
 "My stars!" you answer, "what a mighty 
 
 fuss! 
 Why do you let your spleen transport you thus? 
 Must I be hung, for having given, once 
 Or twice, a passing comment on a dunce ? 
 Where is the man, who, when a coxcomb brags 
 Of having written a mere piece of rags, 
 Does not exclaim, — 'You good-for-nothing 
 
 fool! 
 You tiresome dunce ! you vile translating tool ! 
 Why should such nonsense ever see the day, 
 Or why such wordy nothings make display ? ' 
 
 " Must this be slander called, or honest speech ? 
 No, slander steals more softly 10 the breach. 
 Thus, were it made a doubt, for what pretence 
 
 M built a convent at his own expense, — 
 
 'M ?' cries the slanderer, with a solemn 
 
 whine, 
 'Why, do n't suspect him, — he 's a friend of 
 
 mine. 
 I knew him well, before his fortunes grew, — 
 As fine a lacquey as e'er brushed a shoe. 
 
 talent of mimickry. Being a young advocate, his attend- 
 ance at the courts of justice enabled him to catch the tone 
 and manners of the pleaders there. He was no less an 
 annoyance to all preachers and all play-actors. 
 
 16 This is the most piercing thrust in the whole Satire. 
 Saint-Pavin and the Abbe Cotin had charged our author 
 with stealing from Horace and Juvenal. The objection was 
 very impertinent; but by making Juvenal talk about the 
 Abbe Cotin, who lived sixteen or seventeen centuries after 
 him, it fell back with tremendous force on the heads of its 
 authors. 
 
 17 It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that 
 neither Horace nor Juvenal, nor any other Latin poet before 
 the Dark Ag^s, knew any thing of rhyme. 
 
 His pious heart and honorable mind 
 Would give to God — his filchings from man- 
 kind.' 
 
 " There is a sample of your slanderer's art, 
 Which stabs, with vast politeness, to the heart. 
 The generous soul, to such intrigues unknown, 
 Detests the soft, backbiting, double tone. 
 But surely, to expose a wretched verse, 
 Hard as a stone, and dismal as a hearse, 
 To draw a line 'twixt merit and pretence, 
 To throttle him who throttles common sense, 
 To joke a would-be wit who wears out you, — 
 This every reader has a right to do. 
 
 " A fool at court may every day judge wrong, 
 And pass unpunished through the tasteless 
 
 throng, 
 Preferring (so all standards they disturb) 
 Theophilus to Racan and Malherbe, 
 Or e'en pretend an equal price to hold 
 For Tasso's tinsel as for Maro's gold. 
 
 " Some understrapper, for a dozen sous, 
 Who shrinks not from the scorn of public view, 
 May go and take his station at the pit, 
 And cry down Mtila 18 with vulgar wit ; 
 Unfit the beauties of the Hun to feel, 
 He chides those Vandal verses of Corneille. 
 
 "There 's not a varlet author in this town, 
 No drudge of pen and ink, no copyist clown, 
 Who is not ready to assume his stand, 
 And sternly judge all writings, scale in hand. 
 Soon as the anxious bard his fortune tries, 
 He is the slave of every dunce who buys. 
 He truckles low to every body's whim; 
 His works must combat for themselves and him 
 In preface meek, he gets upon his knees, 
 To beg his candor — whom his verses tease ; 
 In vain, — no mercy let the author hope, 
 When even his judge stands ready with the rope. 
 
 " And must / only hold my peace the while ? 
 If men are fools, shall I not dare to smile ? 
 What harm have my well-meaning verses done, 
 That furious authors thus against me run ? 
 So far from filching their hard-gotten fame, 
 I but stepped in, and built them up a name. 
 Had not my verses brought their trash to light, 
 It would have sunk, long since, to hopeless night. 
 Where'er my friendly notice had not reached, 
 Who would have known Cotin had ever 
 
 preached ? 
 By satire's dashes fools are glorious made, 
 As pictures owe their brilliancy to shade. 
 In all the honest censures I have brought, 
 I have but freely uttered what I thought; 
 And they who say I hold the rod too high, 
 Even they in secret think the same as I 
 
 " Still some will murmur, — ' Sure, he was to 
 blame ; 
 Where was the need of calling folks by name ? 19 
 
 18 One of Corneille's best dramas. 
 
 19 One day, the Abb6 Victoire met Boileau, and said to 
 him : " Chapelain is one of my friends, and I do n't like to 
 have you call him by name in your Satires. It is true, that, 
 if he had taken my advice, he would never have written 
 poetry. Prose is much better for his talents." " There it 
 is, there it is ! " said our poet. " What do I say more than 
 
468 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 Attacking Chapelain, too ! — so good a man ! — 
 Whom Balzac 20 always praises when he can. 
 'T is true, had Chapelain taken my advice, 
 He ne'er had versified, at any price ; 
 In rhyme he to himself 's the worst of foes ; 
 O, had he always been content with prose ! ' 
 
 " Such is the cant in which they talk away. 
 But is it not the very thing / say ? 
 When to his works I put my pruning-knife, 
 Pray, do I throw rank poison on his life ? 
 My Muse, though rough, adopts the candid plan 
 Still to disjoin the poet from the man. 
 Grant him what faith and honor are his due, 
 Allow him to be civil, modest, true, 
 Complaisant, soft, obliging, and sincere, — 
 From me not even a scruple shall you hear. 
 But when I see him as a model shown, 
 And raised and worshipped on the poet's throne, 
 Pensioned far more than wits of greater might, 21 
 My bile o'erflows, and I 'm on fire to write. 
 If I 'm forbidden what I think to say 
 In print, — then, like the menial in the play, 
 I '11 go and dig the earth, and whisper there, 
 That even the reeds may publish to the air, 
 Till every grove, and vale, and thicket hears, 
 Midas, King Midas, has an ass's ears. 
 How have my writings done him any wrong? 
 His powers how frozen, or how chilled his song ? 
 Whene'er a book first takes the vender's shelf, 
 Let every comer judge it for himself. 
 Bilaine 22 may save it from his bookshop's dust ; 
 Can he prevent a critic's keen disgust? 
 A minister may plot against The Cid, 23 
 And every breath of rapture may forbid ; 
 In vain, — all Paris, more informed and wise, 
 Looks on Ximena with Rodrigo's eyes. 24 
 The whole Academy may run it down, — 
 Still shall it charm and win the rebel town. 
 But when a work from Chapelain's mint appears, 
 Straightly his readers all become Linieres; 25 
 In vain a thousand authors laud him high, — 
 The book comes forth, and gives them all the 
 
 lie. 
 Since, then, he lives the mark of scorn and glee 
 To the whole town, — pray, without chiding me, 
 
 you ? Why am I reproached for saying in verse what 
 every body else says in prose? I am but the secretary of 
 the public." 
 
 20 Balzac was a nobleman, and a very popular writer of 
 letters. Out of about twenty of his volumes, six were 
 filled with letters to Chapelain, and encomiums on his 
 works. 
 
 21 Chapelain had, in different sinecures and pensions, 
 about eight thousand livres per annum. 
 
 22 Bilaine was a famous bookseller, who kept his shop 
 in the grand hall of the palace. 
 
 23 Corneille having obtained the representation of his fa- 
 mous drama of " The Cid," a party was formed against it, 
 at the head of which was the great Cardinal Richelieu, 
 Prime-minister of France. He obliged the French Academy 
 to criticise that play, and their strictures were printed 
 under the title of "Sentiments of the French Academy 
 respecting The Cid." 
 
 24 Ximena and Rodrigo, — the heroine and the hero of 
 "The Cid." 
 
 25 Liniere was an author who wrote severely against 
 Chapelain's " Maid of Orleans." 
 
 Let him accuse his own unhappy verse, 
 Whereon Apollo has pronounced a curse ; 
 Yes, blame that Muse that led his steps astray, 
 His German Muse, tricked out in French array 
 Chapelain ! farewell, for ever and for aye ! " 
 
 Satire, they tell us, is a dangerous thing ; 
 Some smile, but most are outraged at its sting ; 
 It gives its author every thing to fear, 
 And more than once made sorrow for Regnier. 26 
 Quit, then, a path, whose wily power decoys 
 The thoughtless soul to too ill-natured joys ; 
 To themes more gentle be your Muse confined, 
 And leave poor Feuillet 27 to reform mankind. 
 
 "What! give up satire? thwart my darling 
 drift ? 
 How shall I, then, employ my rhyming gift? 
 Pray, would you have me daintily explode 
 My inspiration in a pretty ode; 
 And, vexing Danube in his course superb, 
 Invoke his reeds with pilferings from Mal- 
 
 herbe ? 28 
 Save groaning Zion from the oppressor's rod, 
 Make Memphis tremble, and the crescent nod ; 
 And, passing Jordan, clad in dread alarms, 
 Snatch (undeserved !) the Idumean palms ? 29 
 Or, coming with an eclogue from the rocks, 
 Pipe, in the midst of Paris, to my flocks, 
 And sitting (at my desk), beneath a beech, 
 Make Echo with my rustic nonsense screech ? 
 Or, in cold blood, without one spark of love, 
 Burn to embrace some Iris from above ; 
 Lavish upon her every brilliant name, — 
 Sun, Moon, Aurora, — to relieve my flame ; 
 And while on good round fare I da'ly dine, 
 Die in a trope, or languish in a line ? 
 Let whining fools such affectation keep, 
 Whose drivelling minds in luscious dulness sleep. 
 
 " No, no ! Dame Satire, chide her as you will, 
 Charms by her novelties and lessons still. 
 She only knows, in fair proportions meet, 
 Nicely to blend the useful with the sweet ; 
 And, as good sense illuminates her rhymes, 
 Unmasks and routs the errors of the times; — 
 Dares e'en within the altar's bound to tread, 
 And strikes injustice, vice, and pride with 
 
 dread. 
 Her fearless tongue deals caustic vengeance 
 
 back, 
 When reason suffers from a fool's attack. 
 Thus by Lucilius, when his Laelius bid, 
 The old Cotins of Italy were chid ; 
 Thus Attic Horace, with his killing leers, 
 Braved and o'erwhelmed the Roman Pelletiers 
 
 26 Regnier was the first who wrote satires in France. 
 While very young, his verses provoked for him so many 
 enemies, that his father was obliged to chastise him. 
 
 27 Feuillet was a preacher excessively severe in his man- 
 ners, and alarming in his exhortations. He affected singu- 
 larity in his public performances. 
 
 28 These lines allude to the writings of one Perier, who 
 borrowed and spoiled sentences from Malherbe. 
 
 29 It is possible, that, in these few lines, he alludes to 
 Tasso's " Jerusalem," whose popularity at that time might 
 have roused Boileau's jealousy for the ancients, and caused 
 in his mind a reaction, both unfavorable and unjust to th 
 Italian poet. 
 
BOILEAU DESPR^AUX.-RACINE. 
 
 46£ 
 
 Yes, Satire, boon companion of my way, 
 Has shown me where the path of duty lay ; 
 For fifteen years has taught me how to look 
 With due abhorrence on a foolish book. 
 And eager o'er Parnassus as I run, 
 She smiles and lingers, willing to be won, 
 Strengthens my steps, and cheers my path with 
 
 light ; 
 In short, for her, — for her, I 've vowed to write. 
 
 " Yet e'en this instant, if you say I must, 
 I '11 quit her service, willing to be just; 
 And, if I can but quell these floods of foes, 
 Suppress the verse whence so much mischief 
 
 rose. 
 Since you command, — retracting, I declare, 
 Quinaut 's a Virgil ! 30 doubt it, ye who dare ; 
 Pradon 31 shines forth on these benighted times, 
 More like Apollo, than a thing of rhymes; 
 To Pelletier 32 a higher palm is due 
 Than falls to Ablancourt and his Patru ; 33 
 Colin draws all the world to hear him preach, 
 And through the crowds can scarce his pulpit 
 
 reach ; 
 Sofal 34 's the phoenix of our wits of fame ; 
 Perrin " Well done ! my mind, pursue that 
 
 game. 
 Yet do but see, how all the maddened tribe 
 Your very praise to raillery ascribe. 
 Heaven knows what authors soon, inflamed 
 
 with rage, 
 What wounded rhymesters will the battle wage. 
 Soon will you see them dart the envenomed lie, 
 Whole storms of slander will against you fly, 
 Each verse you write be construed as a crime, 
 And treasonous aims be charged on every rhyme. 
 Scarce will you dare to sound your monarch's 
 
 fame, 
 Or consecrate your pages with his name ; 
 Who slights Cotin (if we believe Cotin) 
 Has surely done the unpardonable sin, — 
 A traitor to his king, his faith, his God, 
 Fit for the hangman, or the beadle's rod. 
 
 " But what ! " you say, " can he do any harm ? 
 How has Cotin the power to strike alarm? 
 Can he forbid, what he esteems so high, 
 Those pensions, which ne'er cost my heart a 
 
 sigh ? 
 No, no ! my tongue waits not for sordid ore, 
 To laud that king whom friends and foes adore; 
 Enough that I his praise may feebly speak, — 
 No other honor or reward I seek. 
 My brush may seem capricious and severe, 
 While making vice in its own swarth appear, 
 
 30 Alluding to the line in the Third Satire : 
 
 "Reason says Virgil, but the rhyme Quinaut." 
 3 ' A writer of tragedies. He affected to be the rival of 
 Racine. He was very ignorant. 
 
 32 Pelletier was a wretched scribbler of sonnets. 
 
 33 Ablancourt and Patru were very close friends ; both 
 elegant writers. 
 
 3 * The author of a manuscript history of the antiquities 
 of Paris, written in a very bombastic style. Some morti- 
 fications and disappointments prevented the author from 
 exposing it to the world. Boileau has a cutting verse upon 
 him in the Seventh Satire. 
 
 Or holding up a set of fools to shame, 
 
 Who dare to arrogate an author's name ; 
 
 Yet shall I ever treat with fond respect 
 
 My honored Liege, with every virtue decked." 35 
 
 Yes, yes, you always will; that's very well; 
 But, think you, will it stop their threatening 
 yell ? 
 
 " Parnassian yells," you say, " I little count ; 
 A fig for all the Hurons on the mount ! " 
 
 Mon Dieu, take care, fear every thing, my mind, 
 From a bad author, furiously inclined; 
 
 Who, if he choose, can "What?" — I 
 
 know full well. 
 "Bless me! what is it?" — Hush! I must not 
 tell. 
 
 JEAN RACINE. 
 
 This illustrious poet was born December 21st, 
 1639, at Ferte-Milon. He received his early ed- 
 ucation in the abbey of Port-Royal-des-Champs, 
 and completed his studies at the College d'Har- 
 court. His studies were chiefly directed to the 
 Greek drama ; and Euripides, whose pathos and 
 tenderness were congenial to his own disposi- 
 tion, was his favorite. An ode, which he wrote 
 on the marriage of Louis the Fourteenth, was 
 the means of procuring him a pension from the 
 monarch. His first tragedy, " Les Freres En- 
 nemis," appeared in 1664, and was very favor- 
 ably received. Between this period and 1691, 
 he produced a series of tragedies, which have 
 immortalized his name, and which are known 
 wherever the literature of France is studied. 
 Besides these tragedies, he produced a comedy, 
 "Les Plaideurs," in 1668. The Academy 
 elected him into their body in 1673, and Louis 
 the Fourteenth appointed him, in connection 
 with Boileau, historiographer of his reign. Ra- 
 cine at length, from religious motives, desert- 
 ed the theatre ; but, at the request of Madame 
 de Maintenon, wrote the drama of " Esther," 
 which was represented by the pupils of Saint- 
 Cyr, in 1689. A treatise on the sufferings of 
 the people from the extravagance of the gov- 
 
 35 When the Eighth Satire was published, it met with 
 extraordinary success. The king himself spoke of it sev- 
 eral times with great praise. On one of these occasions, 
 the Sieur de Saint-Mauris, of the horse-guard, told the 
 king, that Boileau had composed another Satire (the Ninth), 
 which was still finer than that, and in which he spoke of 
 his Majesty. The king looked up with an air of surprise 
 and offended dignity, and replied, "A satire, in which ha 
 speaks of me, say you?" "Yes, Sire," answered Saint- 
 Mauris, "but with all that respect which is due to your 
 Majesty." The king then expressed a curiosity to see it ; 
 and when it was obtained, he admired it beyond measure, 
 and showed it to several ladies and others about court. 
 This was contrary to Boileau's wishes ; but when the poem 
 was so much circulated, that there was danger of a defec- 
 tive copy getting abroad, he resolved to publish it. "Thus," 
 says the commentator to whom we owe this story, "it 
 may in a manner be said, that this piece came to the pub- 
 lic through the hands of the king." 
 
 NN 
 
470 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 eminent, written by Racine at the instigation of 
 Madame de Maintenon, caused him to fall Into 
 disgrace with the king. He died soon after, 
 April 22d, 1699. 
 
 Innumerable editions of his works have been 
 published ; among which may be mentioned 
 the beautiful edition of 1760, in three volumes 
 quarto ; the edition of Boisgermain, in 1767 ; 
 and the more complete edition of Lenormand, 
 in 1808. 
 
 Racine, though not a poet of the highest or- 
 der of genius, was yet unsurpassed in some of 
 the best qualities of the tragedian. His deline- 
 ation of the tender passions, especially the pas- 
 sion of love, is masterly. The grace of his 
 language, the harmony of his versification, the 
 skilful management of the action, under all the 
 restrictions of the French critical code, have 
 made his tragedies unrivalled models of dramat- 
 ic art, as that art was understood in the age of 
 Louis the Fourteenth. 
 
 FROM THE TRAGEDY OF ANDROMAQUE. 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 What have I done ? — Where am I ? — Where 
 is Pyrrhus ? — 
 
 Ye gods ! what mean these horrors ? — I 'm un- 
 done ! 
 
 My soul is on the rack ! I cannot bear it! — 
 
 Why do I wander like some guilty ghost ? 
 
 What brought me to this place ? What keeps 
 me here ? 
 
 The court of Pyrrhus has no room for me ! 
 
 Do I still doubt if I should love or hate him? 
 
 Hard-hearted man ! how unconcerned he left 
 me ! 
 
 Did he once sigh ? bestow one pitying look ? 
 
 Once shed a tear? or speak one soft, kind word ? 
 
 Did he so much as feign one moment's sorrow, 
 
 To calm my griefs, and mitigate his falsehood? 
 
 Why am I still thus anxious for his life ? 
 
 Why do I start at his impending fate ? 
 
 Shall he, then, live ? Shall the base traitor live 
 
 To laugh at my distress? No, let him perish ! 
 
 Be quick, Orestes ! Execute my orders ! — 
 
 Alas ! my orders ! O preposterous guilt ! 
 
 Can I decree the death of him I love? 
 
 Was it for this my soul delighted in him ? 
 
 Was it for this I left my father's court? 
 
 Have I, then, crossed so many realms and seas 
 
 To murder Pyrrhus ? — 
 
 [Cleone enters. 
 
 O Cleone, help me ! 
 
 What have I done? Is Pyrrhus yet alive ? 
 
 What say'st thou? Answer me : where is the 
 king? 
 
 CLEONE. 
 
 Madam, I saw the cruel prince set forward, 
 Triumphant in his looks, and full of joy. 
 Still as he walked, his ravished eyes were fixed 
 On the fair captive; while through shouting 
 crowds 
 
 She passed along with a dejected air, 
 
 And seemed to mourn her Hector to the last. 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 Insulting tyrant ! I shall burst with rage ! 
 
 But say, Cleone, didst thou mark him well ? 
 
 Was his brow smooth? Say, did there not ap- 
 pear 
 
 Some shade of grief, some little cloud of sorrow? 
 
 Did he not stop? Did he not once look back? 
 
 Didst thou approach him ? Was he not con- 
 founded ? 
 
 Did he not O, be quick, and tell me all ! 
 
 CLEONE. 
 
 Madam, the tumult of his joy admits 
 
 No thought but love. Unguarded he marched 
 
 on, 
 'Midst a promiscuous throng of friends and foes. 
 His cares all turn upon Astyanax, 
 Whom he has lodged within the citadel, 
 Defended by the strength of all his guards. 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 Enough ' he dies ! the traitor ! — Where 's 
 Orestes ? 
 
 CLEONE. 
 
 He 's in the temple witl his whole retinue. 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 Is he still resolute? Is he still determined? 
 
 Madam, I fear 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 How ! Is Orestes false ? 
 Does he betray me too ? 
 
 CLEONE. 
 
 A thousand doubts 
 
 Perplex his soul, and wound him with remorse 
 
 His virtue and his love prevail by turns. 
 
 He told me Pyrrhus should not fall ignobly, — 
 
 Pyrrhus, the warlike son of great Achilles. 
 
 He dreads the censure of the Grecian states, — 
 
 Of all mankind; and fears to stain his honor. 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 Poor timorous wretch ! 'T is false ! He basely 
 
 fears 
 To cope with dangers, and encounter death ; 
 'T is that he fears! — Am I bright Helen's 
 
 daughter ? 
 To vindicate her wrongs all Greece conspired ; 
 For her, confederate nations fought, and kings 
 
 were slain, 
 Troy was o'erthrown, and a whole empire fell ■ 
 My eyes want force to raise a lover's arm 
 Against a tyrant that has dared to wrong me ! 
 
 CLEONE. 
 
 Madam, like Helen, trust your cause to Greece. 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 No ! I '11 avenge myself: I Ml to the temple ; 
 
 I '11 overturn the altar, stab the priest; 
 
 I '11 hurl destruction like a whirlwind round me ! 
 
RACINE. 
 
 471 
 
 They must not wed ! they must not live ! they 
 
 shall not ! — 
 Let me begone ! I have no time to lose ! . 
 Standoff! hold me not ! I am all distraction ! — 
 O Pyrrhus ! tyrant ! traitor ! thou shalt bleed ! 
 
 [Orestes enters. 
 
 ORESTES. 
 
 Madam, 't is done ; your orders are obeyed : 
 The tyrant lies expiring at the altar. 
 
 Is Pvrrhus slain ? 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 ORESTES. 
 
 Even now he gasps in death. 
 Our Greeks, all undistinguished in the crowd, 
 Flocked to the temple, and dispersed themselves 
 On every side the altar. I was there : 
 Pyrrhus observed me with a haughty eye ; 
 And, proud to triumph over Greece in me, 
 From his own brows he took the diadem, 
 And bound it on the temples of his captive : 
 "Receive," said he, "my crown ! receive my 
 
 faith ! 
 Mine and my people's sovereign, reign for ever ! 
 From this blessed hour, a father to your son, 
 I 'II scourge his foes : henceforward he be styled 
 The Trojan king: I swear it at the altar, 
 And call the gods to ratify my vows ! " 
 His subjects with loud acclamations shook 
 The spacious dome. Our Greeks, enraged, 
 
 cried out, 
 " Revenge ! revenge ! " broke through the 
 
 thronging press, 
 And rushed tumultuous on the unguarded king: 
 Their eager fury left no work for me. 
 Pyrrhus awhile opposed their clashing swords, 
 And dealt his fatal blows on every side 
 With manly fierceness; till, oppressed by num- 
 bers, 
 Streaming with blood, all over gashed with 
 
 wounds, 
 He reeled, he groaned, and at the altar fell. — 
 Haste, Madam ; let us fly ! Haste to our ships ! 
 They lie unmoored : our friends attend us there. 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 What have they done ? 
 
 ORESTES. 
 
 Madam, forgive their rage ! 
 I own your vengeance had been more complete, 
 Had Pyrrhus fallen by me, and had he known 
 Hermione chastised him by my arm. 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 Peace, monster, peace ! Go, tell thy horrid tale 
 To savages, and howl it in the deserts ! 
 Wouldst thou impute to me thy barbarous guilt? 
 Me wouldst thou make the accomplice of thy 
 
 crimes ? 
 Hence to thy Greeks, and boast thy foul exploits ! 
 My soul abhors them ! I disclaim the deed ! 
 Begone ! I know thee not, thou fell barbarian ! 
 What had he done ? What could provoke thy 
 
 madness 
 
 To assassinate so great, so brave a man ? 
 Who set thee on ? 
 
 ORESTES. 
 
 O, grant me patience, Heaven ! 
 With your own lips did you not curse the ty- 
 rant, 
 Pronounce his death, and urge me to destroy him ? 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 What if, transported by my boundless passion, 
 I could not bear to see him wed another, — 
 Were you to obey a jealous woman's frenzy? 
 You should have dived into my inmost thoughts 
 My heart, though full of rage, was free from 
 
 malice ; 
 And all my anger was excess of love. 
 Why did you take me at my word ? You saw 
 The struggles of my soul ; you heard me rave : 
 You should have questioned me a thousand 
 
 times, 
 Yet still have doubted, and still questioned on, 
 Before you ventured on a life so precious. 
 
 ORESTES. 
 
 Hear me but speak : Heaven knows, against my 
 will 
 
 HERMIONE. 
 
 Why did you not return ? why not consult me 
 A second time? and, undetermined still, 
 Again return, and still find new delays? 
 What had your rash, officious Greeks — dire 
 
 bloodhounds ! — 
 To do with my revenge? What drew you hith- 
 er? 
 To bring on me the vengeful woes that haunt 
 
 you? 
 Are these the fruits of your detested love ? 
 Your fatal embassy, your hateful presence, 
 Drove Pyrrhus to my rival ; and destroys 
 Both him and me. He might have loved me 
 
 still, 
 Had you ne'er interposed. — Avaunt ! Begone 1 
 And leave me in Epirus. I renounce 
 My friends, my country, Greece, and all man 
 
 kind : 
 But, chiefly, I renounce thee, monster ! thee ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ORESTES. 
 
 Am I awake ? — Where am I ? — Soft, my soul ' 
 
 Be not too rash. Was that Hermione ? 
 
 Why should her anger thunder against me ? 
 
 Was not this blood shed all by her command ? — 
 
 I am, indeed, a most outrageous monster ! 
 
 A ruffian, murderer, a base assassin ! 
 
 And all to please a false, ungrateful woman. 
 
 Henceforward let the laws of nations cease; 
 
 And let the pale that severs right and wrong, 
 
 Things sacred and profane, be broken down : 
 
 Gods in their temples, kings upon their thrones, 
 
 Are not in safely, while Orestes lives. 
 
 O, never more shall my torn mind be healed, 
 
 Nor taste the gentle comforts of repose ! 
 
 A dreadful band of gloomy cares surround me, 
 
 And lay strong siege to my distracted soul ! 
 
472 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 FIFTH PERIOD.-CENTURY XVIII. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 This piece of pleasantry, on the supposed 
 death and burial of the duke of Marlborough, 
 was written after the battle of Malplaquet, in 
 1709. The bibliophile Jacob* says, " Some mer- 
 ry ballad-singer pronounced this funeral oration 
 at the bivouac of Le Quesnoy, the night after 
 the battle, to console himself for having no shirt 
 to his back, and for having had nothing to eat 
 
 for three days But it did not survive the 
 
 hero of Malplaquet ; it was preserved by tradi- 
 tion only in some of the provinces, where it 
 had been carried by the soldiers of Villars and 
 
 Boufflers In 1781, however, it suddenly 
 
 resounded from one end of the kingdom to the 
 other." A peasant woman, who had been select- 
 ed as nurse of the dauphin, the son of Marie 
 Antoinette, used to sing this song in the royal 
 nursery, "and the royal infant opened his eyes 
 at the great name of Marlborough. This name, 
 the na'ive words of the song, the oddity of the 
 burden, and the touching simplicity of the air, 
 struck the queen, who retained the words and 
 the music. Every body repeated them after her; 
 and the king himself did not disdain to hum in 
 unison, 
 
 ' Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre.' " 
 
 MALBKOUCK. 
 
 Malbrouck, the prince of commanders, 
 Is gone to the war in Flanders; 
 His fame is like Alexander's ; 
 But when will he come home ? 
 
 Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or 
 Perhaps he may come at Easter. 
 Egad ! he had better make haste, or 
 We fear he may never come. 
 
 For Trinity Feast is over, 
 And has brought no news from Dover, 
 And Easter is past, moreover, 
 And Malbrouck still delays. 
 
 Milady in her watch-tower 
 Spends many a pensive hour, 
 Not knowing why or how her 
 Dear lord from England stays. 
 
 While sitting quite forlorn in 
 That tower, she spies returning 
 A page clad in deep mourning, 
 With fainting steps and slow. 
 
 " O page, prithee, come faster ! 
 
 What news do you bring of your master: 
 
 I fear there is some disaster, 
 Your looks are so full of woe." 
 
 "The news I bring, fair lady," 
 With sorrowful accent said he, 
 " Is one you are not ready 
 So soon, alas ! to hear. 
 
 "But since to speak I 'm hurried," 
 Added this page, quite flurried, 
 "Malbrouck is dead and buried ! " 
 And here he shed a tear. 
 
 " He 's dead ! he 's dead as a herring! 
 For I beheld his berring, 
 And four officers transferring 
 His corpse away from the field. 
 
 " One officer carried his sabre, 
 And he carried it not without labor, 
 Much envying his next neighbour, 
 Who only bore a shield. 
 
 "The third was helmet-bearer, — 
 That helmet which on its wearer 
 Filled all who saw with terror, 
 And covered a hero's brains. 
 
 " Now, having got so far, I 
 Find, that — by the Lord Harry ! — 
 The fourth is left nothing to carry ; — 
 So there the thing remains." 
 
 * Chants et Chansons Populaires de la France. 
 miere Serie. Paris : 1843. 8vo. 
 
 Pre- 
 
 FRANCOIS-MARIE AROUET DE VOL- 
 1 TAIRE. 
 
 Francois-Marie Arouet, who afterwards 
 assumed the name of Voltaire, was born at 
 Chatenay, February 20th, 1694. After having 
 studied in the Jesuits' College, he devoted him- 
 self to the law, in compliance with his father's 
 wishes, but found it repugnant to his own taste, 
 which inclined him strongly to literature. In 
 1713, he was sent to Holland in the retinue of 
 the Marquis de Chateauneuf, but was soon re- 
 called in consequence of a love affair, and forced 
 to resume the study of the law. At length, he 
 found a retreat at a country estate of Caurnar- 
 tin, the Intendant of Finances ; but after the 
 death of Louis the Fourteenth, in 1715, he 
 was imprisoned in the Bastille a year,*on sus- 
 picion of having written some satirical verses. 
 In 1718, his "Q^dipe" was represented, and 
 had great success. In 1722, he went to Hol- 
 land, where he became acquainted with J. J. 
 Rousseau. He returned to France in 1724. 
 About this time, a surreptitious edition of the 
 " Henriade," which he had sketched during his 
 imprisonment, was published, under the title of 
 " La Ligue." In 1726, he was again confined 
 
VOLTAIRE. 
 
 473 
 
 in the Bastille, on account of a quarrel with a 
 haughty young nobleman, the Chevalier de Ro- 
 han, but was released at the end of six months, 
 and banished from the kingdom. The follow- 
 ing three years he passed in England, where he 
 became acquainted with many persons of the 
 highest rank, and with the most distinguished 
 men of letters. Here he published the " Hen- 
 riade," and wrote the "Life of Charles the 
 Twelfth," the tragedy of "Brutus," the "Essay 
 on Epic Poetry," and the "Philosophical Let- 
 ters." In 1730, he returned to Paris, and, by 
 several successful speculations, acquired a large 
 fortune. His tragedy of " Brutus " was brought 
 out at this time, but with no great success. 
 Some lines, which he wrote on the death of 
 the actress Lecouvreur, who had been refused 
 Christian burial, forced him to retire from Paris, 
 and he passed some time at Rouen, under an 
 assumed name. The tragedy of " Zaire " ap- 
 peared in 1731 ; the poem called " The Temple 
 of Taste," in 1733; the tragedy of" Caesar," in 
 1735. This piece and the " Philosophical Let- 
 ters " raised a great clamor against Voltaire, 
 and he lived three years in concealment at 
 Cirey, in the house of the learned Marchioness 
 du Chatelet, where he wrote several of his phi- 
 losophical works, four tragedies, and the come- 
 dy of " L'Enfant Prodigue." The fame of Vol- 
 taire now spread over all Europe, and gained him 
 the friendship and correspondence of the crown- 
 prince of Prussia, afterwards Frederic the Sec- 
 ond ; and when this prince ascended the throne, 
 Voltaire was sent to Berlin, where he was ena- 
 bled to render political service to the French 
 court, by his influence with the new sovereign. 
 On the marriage of the dauphin, he wrote the 
 " Princesse de Navarre," and, through the inter- 
 est of Madame Pompadour, obtained a seat in 
 the Academy, and the appointment of Cham- 
 berlain and Historiographer of France. In 1750, 
 he accepted the reiterated invitations of the 
 king of Prussia, and went to Potsdam, where 
 he was received with the greatest distinction. 
 He had an apartment assigned to him in the pal- 
 ace, the order of Merit was given him, and a 
 pension of six thousand thalers. But difficul- 
 ties and jealousies soon interrupted the harmo- 
 ny of this relation, and in three years Voltaire 
 left Berlin. On his way, he was arrested, by 
 Frederic's order, at Frankfort, and required to 
 surrender a collection of the king's poems which 
 he had taken with him, and which the king 
 feared might be used to his prejudice. After 
 this, Voltaire lived a year in Colmar, and two 
 years in Switzerland; he then purchased the 
 two estates of Tourney and Ferney, in the Pays 
 de Gex, and at the latter passed the last twen- 
 ty years of his life. Here he lived, surrounded 
 by his friends and dependents, having collected 
 about him manufacturers and other settlers, 
 whom he attached strongly to himself by con- 
 tinued acts of kindness and constant attention 
 to their interests. He prosecuted his literary 
 labors with the greatest vigor and activity, 
 60 
 
 waged a violent war against the abuses of church 
 and state, and attacked Christianity itself with 
 unexampled bitterness. He erected a church 
 with the inscription, Deo erexit Voltaire. He 
 protected the victims of persecution and fanati- 
 cism ; and, in the numerous writings which he 
 published during this period of his life, assailed, 
 with all the weapons of ridicule and eloquence, 
 whatever seemed to him opposed to freedom 
 and justice. An edition of his works, which 
 appeared in 1757, led to a reconciliation with 
 Frederic, and a renewal of their correspondence. 
 The king sent him his bust, inscribed, Viro im- 
 mortali ; and the Empress Catharine wrote him 
 the most flattering letters, accompanied by 
 splendid presents. In February, 1778, he went 
 to Paris, where he was enthusiastically received 
 by the French Academy, who placed his bust 
 by the side of that of Corneille , the actors 
 waited upon him in a body; his tragedy of 
 " Irene " was played in the presence of the 
 royal family, and at the sixth representation 
 a laurel wreath v/as presented to him as he 
 entered the theatre, and at the close of the per- 
 formance his bust was crowned. The excite- 
 ment of such scenes, and the change from his 
 usual mode of life, were too much for his ad- 
 vanced age to bear. He died, May 30th, 1778, 
 in his eighty-fifth year. 
 
 It is difficult to present a satisfactory view of 
 this extraordinary man's character. He was vain, 
 almost beyond example. Subjects that men 
 thought sacred, and looked upon with awe, he 
 treated with levity, scoffing, and contempt. On 
 the other hand, he nobly maintained the rights 
 of the oppressed ; he vindicated, with irresisti- 
 ble eloquence, the claims of suffering humanity. 
 He was a strange compound of virtues and vices, 
 of folly and wisdom, of the little and the great. 
 He was capable of the most gigantic efforts, the 
 most astonishing labors ; at the age of eighty, 
 he worked fourteen hours a day. He had the 
 most piercing wit, the liveliest imagination, and 
 all the graces of style were at his command. 
 In many different species of literary composi- 
 tion, he excelled ; and in the drama, he ranks 
 next to Corneille and Racine. 
 
 Barante, in his eloquent and philosophical 
 "Tableau de la Litterature Franchise," uses the 
 following language. 
 
 " The farther Voltaire advanced in his ca- 
 reer, the more he saw himself encompassed 
 with fame and homage. Soon even sovereigns 
 became his friends, and almost his flatterers. 
 Hatred and envy, by resisting his triumphs, 
 excited in him sentiments of anger. This con- 
 tinual opposition gave still greater vivacity to 
 his character, and often made him lose moder- 
 ation, shame, and taste. Such was his life ; 
 such was the path which conducted him to that 
 long old age, which he might have rendered so 
 honorable; when, surrounded by unbounded 
 glory, he reigned despotically over letters, 
 which had taken the first rank among all the 
 objects to which the curiosity and attention of 
 nn2 
 
474 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 men are directed. It is sad that Voltaire did 
 not feel how he might have ennobled and adorn- 
 ed such a position, by using the advantages 
 which it offered him, and following the conduct 
 which it seemed to prescribe. It is deplorable 
 that he allowed himself to be carried away by 
 the torrent of a degraded age, and yielded to a 
 wicked and shameless spirit, which forms a re- 
 volting contrast with white hairs, the symbol 
 of wisdom and purity. What more melancho- 
 ly spectacle than an old man insulting the 
 Deity at the moment when he is about to be 
 recalled, and casting off the respect of youth by 
 sharing its disorders ! " 
 
 "His works," continues Barante, " have al- 
 most always been received with enthusiasm by 
 the public, but at the same time have encoun- 
 tered obstinate detractors, and party spirit has 
 continually dictated the judgment that has been 
 passed upon them. Haifa century has elapsed, 
 and Voltaire's reputation, like the body of Pa- 
 troclus, is still disputed by two hostile par- 
 ties. Such a conflict alone would be enough 
 to perpetuate the glory of his name. Men have 
 made themselves famous by having defended 
 him ; others owe all their celebrity to their in- 
 cessant attacks upon him. In this long con- 
 tinued conflict, the renown of Voltaire has doubt- 
 less failed to preserve all the splendor with 
 which it shone at first. There is no longer that 
 national enthusiasm, that admiration, equal to 
 the admiration inspired by the heroes and ben- 
 efactors of humanity. The triumph which was 
 decreed to him in his last days is no more. 
 A colder and more measured judgment has 
 checked these lively manifestations. But there 
 is something absurd and ridiculous in the efforts 
 of those who labor to tarnish entirely the glory 
 of Voltaire." 
 
 The life of Voltaire has been written by Con- 
 dorcet, Mercier, Luchet, Duvernet, and others. 
 His works have passed through numerous edi- 
 tions. The principal are those of Beaumarchais, 
 Kehl, 1784; Palissot, Paris, 1796; and the 
 more recent one by Dupont, in seventy volumes. 
 They were published in English, in the last 
 century, under the names of Smollett and 
 Franklin, in thirty-six volumes; again, in 
 1821, by Sotheby, in thirty-six volumes. An 
 excellent paper on Voltaire may be found in 
 Carlyle's "Miscellanies," Vol. II. 
 
 from the tragedy of alzira. 
 
 alzira's soliloquy. 
 
 Shade of my murdered lover, shun to view me ! 
 Rise to the stars, and make their brightness 
 
 sweeter ; 
 But shed no gleam of lustre on Alzira ! 
 She has betrayed her faith, and married Carlos ! 
 The sea, that rolled its watery world betwixt us, 
 Failed to divide our hands, — and he has reached 
 
 me ! 
 The altar trembled at the unhallowed touch ; 
 
 And Heaven drew back, reluctant at our meet- 
 ing. 
 
 O thou soft-hovering ghost, that haunt'st my 
 fancy ! 
 
 Thou dear and bloody form, that skimm'st be- 
 fore me ! 
 
 Thou never-dying, yet thou buried Zamor ! 
 
 If sighs and tears have power to pierce the 
 grave ; 
 
 If death, that knows no pity, will but hear me; 
 
 If still thy gentle spirit loves Alzira ; 
 
 Pardon, that even in death she dared forsake 
 thee ! 
 
 Pardon her rigid sense of nature's duties : 
 
 A parent's will, — a pleading country's safety ! 
 
 At these strong calls, she sacrificed her love 
 
 To joyless glory and to tasteless peace, — 
 
 And to an empty world, in which thou art not! 
 
 O Zamor, Zamor, follow me no longer ! 
 
 Drop some dark veil, snatch some kind cloud 
 before thee, 
 
 Cover that conscious face, and let death hide 
 thee ! 
 
 Leave me to suffer wrongs that Heaven allots 
 me, 
 
 And teach my busy fancy to forget thee ! 
 
 DON ALVAREZ, DON GUZMAN, AND ALZIRA. 
 
 [Enter Alvarez and Guzman. — Shouts ; trumpets, a long 
 and lofty flourish.] 
 
 ALVAKEZ. 
 
 Deserve, my son, this triumph of your arms. 
 Your numbers and your courage have prevailed ; 
 And of this last, best effort of the foe, 
 Half are no more, and half are yours in chains. 
 Disgrace not due success by undue cruelties ; 
 But call in mercy to support your fame. 
 I will go visit the afflicted captives, 
 And pour compassion on their aching wounds. 
 Meanwhile, remember you are man and Chris- 
 tian : 
 Bravely, at once, resolve to pardon Zamor 
 Fain would I soften this indocile fierceness, 
 And teach your courage how to conquer hearts. 
 
 GUZMAN. 
 
 Your words pierce mine. Freely devote my life, 
 
 But leave at liberty my just revenge. 
 
 Pardon him? Why, the savage brute is loved ! 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 The unhappily beloved most merit pity. 
 
 GUZMAN. 
 
 Pity ! — Could I be sure of such reward, 
 
 I would die pleased, — and she should pity me. 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 How much to be lamented is a heart, 
 
 At once by rage of headlong will oppressed, 
 
 And by strong jealousies and doubtings torn ! 
 
 GUZMAN. 
 
 When jealousy becomes a crime, guard, Heaven, 
 
VOLTAIRE. 
 
 475 
 
 That husband's honor, whom his wife not loves ! 
 Your pity takes in all the world — but me. 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 Mix not the bitterness of distant fear 
 
 With your arrived misfortunes. — Since Alzira 
 
 Has virtue, it will prove a wiser care 
 
 To soften her for change, by patient tenderness, 
 
 Than, by reproach, confirm a willing hate. 
 
 Her heart is, like her country, rudely sweet, — 
 
 Repelling force, but gentle to the kind. 
 
 Softness will soonest bend the stubborn will. 
 
 GUZMAN. 
 
 Softness! — by all the wrongs of woman's hate, 
 Too much of softness but invites disdain. 
 Flattered too long, beauty at length grows wan- 
 ton, 
 And, insolently scornful, slights its praiser. 
 O, rather, Sir, be jealous for my glory ; 
 And urge my doubting anger to resolve ! 
 Too low already condescension bowed, 
 Nor blushed to match the conqueror with the 
 
 slave ! 
 But, when this slave, unconscious what she 
 
 owes, 
 Proudly repays humility with scorn, 
 And braves and hates the unaspiring love, 
 Such love is weakness; and submission, there, 
 Gives sanction to contempt, and rivets pain. 
 
 ALVABEZ. 
 
 Thus, youth is ever apt to judge in haste, 
 And lose the medium in the wild extreme. 
 Do not repent, but regulate your passion : 
 Though love is reason, its excess is rage. 
 Give me, at least, your promise to reflect, 
 In cool, impartial solitude ; and still, 
 No last decision till we meet again. 
 
 GUZMAN. 
 
 It is my father asks, — and, had I will, 
 Nature denies me power to answer, No. 
 I will, in wisdom's right, suspend my anger. 
 Yet, spare my loaded heart, nor add more weight ; 
 Lest my strength fail beneath the unequal pres- 
 sure. 
 
 ALVAREZ. 
 
 Grant yourself time, and all you want comes 
 with it. [Exit. 
 
 GUZMAN. 
 
 And must I coldly, then, to pensive piety 
 Give up the livelier joys of wished revenge? 
 Must I repel the guardian cares of jealousy, 
 And slacken every rein to rival love ? 
 Musi I reduce my hopes beneath a savage, 
 And poorly envy such a wretch as Zamor? 
 A coarse luxuriance of spontaneous virtue ; 
 A shoot of rambling, fierce, offensive freedom ; 
 Nature's wild growth, — strong, but unpruned, 
 
 in daring ; 
 A rough, raw woodman of this rugged clime ; 
 Illiterate in the arts of polished life ; 
 And who, in Europe, where the fair can judge, 
 Would hardly, in our courts, be called a man ! — 
 
 [Alzira enters. 
 
 She comes! — Alzira comes! — unwished, — ye* 
 charming. 
 
 ALZIRA. 
 
 You turn, and shun me ! So, I have been told, 
 Spaniards, by custom, meet submissive wives. 
 But hear me, Sir; hear even a suppliant wife; 
 Hear this unguilty object of your anger: 
 One, who can reverence, though she cannot love 
 
 you : 
 One, who is wronged herself, not injures you : 
 One, who indeed is weak, and wants your pity. 
 I cannot wear disguise : be it the effect 
 Of greatness, or of weakness, in my mind, 
 My tongue could ne'er be moved but by my 
 
 heart ; 
 And that was vowed another's. If he dies, 
 The honest plainness of my soul destroys him. 
 You look surprised : I will still more surprise 
 
 you. 
 I come to try you deeply, — for I mean 
 To move the husband in the lover's favor ! 
 I had half flattered my unpractised hope, 
 That you, who govern others, should yourself 
 Be temperate in the use of your own passions. 
 Nay, I persuaded my unchristian ignorance, 
 That an ambitious warrior's infelt pride 
 Should plead in pardon of that pride in others 
 This I am sure of, — that forgiving mercy 
 Would stamp more influence on our Indian 
 
 hearts 
 Than all our gold on those of men like you. 
 Who knows, did such a change subdue your 
 
 breast, 
 How far the pleasing force might soften mine ? 
 Your right secures you my respect and faith : 
 Strive for my love ; strive for whatever else 
 May charm, — if aught there is can charm like 
 
 love. — 
 Forgive me ! I shall be betrayed by fear 
 To promise till I overcharge my power. 
 Yet try what changes gratitude can make. 
 A Spanish wife, perhaps, would promise more : 
 Profuse in charms, and prodigal of tears, 
 Would promise all things, — and forget them all. 
 But I have weaker charms, and simpler arts. 
 Guileless of soul, and left as nature formed me, 
 I err, in honest innocence of aim, 
 And, seeking to compose, inflame you more. 
 All I can add is this : unlovely force 
 Shall never bow me to reward constraint; 
 But to what lengths I may be led by benefits, 
 'T is in your power to try, — not mine to tell. 
 
 GUZMAN. 
 
 'T is well. Since justice has such power to 
 
 guide you, 
 That you may follow duty, know it first. 
 Count modesty among your country's virtues; 
 And copy, not condemn, the wives of Spain. 
 'T is your first lesson, Madam, to forget : 
 Become more delicate, if not more kind, 
 And never let me hear the name I hate. 
 You should learn, next, to blush away your haste, 
 And wait in silence, till my will resolves 
 What punishment, or pity, suits his crimes. 
 
476 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 Know, last, that, thus provoked, a husband's 
 
 clemency 
 Outstretches nature, if it pardons you. 
 Learn thence, ungrateful ! that I want not pity, 
 And be the last to dare believe me cruel. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 EMIRA. 
 
 Madam, be comforted ; — I marked him well; 
 I see, he loves; and love will make him softer. 
 
 ALZIRA. 
 
 Love has no power to act, when curbed by 
 
 jealousy. 
 Zamor must die, — for I have asked his life. 
 Why did not I foresee the likely danger ? 
 But has thy care been happier? Canst thou 
 
 save him ? 
 Far, far divided from me, may he live ! 
 Hast thou made trial of his keeper's faith ? 
 
 EMIRA. 
 
 Gold, that with Spaniards can outweigh their 
 
 God, 
 Has bought his hand ; and so his faith 's your own. 
 
 ALZIRA. 
 
 Then, Heaven be blessed ! this metal, formed 
 
 for crimes, 
 Sometimes atones the wrongs 't is dug to 
 
 cause ! — 
 But we lose time. Why dost thou seem to 
 
 pause ? 
 
 EMIRA. 
 
 I cannot think they purpose Zamor's death. 
 Alvarez has not lost his power so far ; 
 Nor can the council 
 
 ALZIRA. 
 
 They are Spaniards all. 
 
 Mark the proud, partial guilt of these vain men ! 
 Ours, but a country held to yield them slaves, 
 Who reign our kings by right of different clime : 
 Zamor, meanwhile, by birth, true sovereign here, 
 Weighs but a rebel in their righteous scale. 
 O civilized ascent of social murder ! — 
 But why, Emira, should this soldier stay ? 
 
 EMIRA. 
 
 We may expect him instantly. The night, 
 Methinks, grown darker, veils your bold design. 
 Wearied by slaughter, and unwashed from blood, 
 The world's proud spoilers all lie hushed in sleep. 
 
 ALZIRA. 
 
 Away, and find this Spaniard ! Guilt's bought 
 
 hand 
 Opening the prison, innocence goes free. 
 
 EMIRA. 
 
 See ! by Cephania led, he comes with Zamor. 
 Be cautious, Madam, at so dark an hour; 
 Lest, met, suspected honor should be lost, 
 And modesty, mistaken, suffer shame. 
 
 ALZIRA. 
 
 What does thy ill-taught fear mistake for shame ? 
 Virtue, at midnight, walks as safe within, 
 As in the conscious glare of flaming day. 
 
 She who in forms finds virtue has no virtue. 
 All the shame lies in hiding honest love. 
 Honor, the alien phantom, here unknown, 
 Lends but a lengthening shade to setting virtue. 
 Honor 's not love of innocence, but praise ; 
 The fear of censure, not the scorn of sin. 
 But I was taught, in a sincerer clime, 
 That virtue, though it shines not, still is virtue; 
 And inbred honor grows not but at home 
 This my heart knows ; and, knowing, bids me 
 
 dare, 
 Should Heaven forsake the just, be bold and 
 
 save him. 
 
 JEAN-BAPTISTE-LOUIS GRESSET. 
 
 This agreeable poet was born at Amiens, in 
 1709. He studied with the Jesuits, and at 
 the age of seventeen entered that order ; after 
 which he was sent to Paris, and completed his 
 education in the College Louis-le-Grand. In 
 his twenty-fourth year, he wrote the humorous 
 poem, called "Ver-Vert." This was shortly 
 followed by " Le Careme Impromptu," " Le 
 Lutrin Vivant," and other poems, which rapid- 
 ly gained him a great reputation. The free 
 tone of his writings gave offence in some pow- 
 erful quarters, and brought him under the cen- 
 sure of the Jesuits, who sent him to La Fleche, 
 by way of punishment. Here he continued his 
 literary occupations. At the age of twenty-six, he 
 left the order, and returned to Paris, where his 
 various and agreeable talents, and the celebrity 
 of his works, made him the favorite of society. 
 In 1748, he was chosen a member of the Acad- 
 emy. Soon after this, he returned to Amiens, 
 married, and established himself on a beautiful 
 estate near the city. In 1774, he was appoint- 
 ed to congratulate Louis the Sixteenth, in the 
 name of the Academy, on his coronation, and 
 was ennobled. He died in his native city, June 
 16th, 1777. 
 
 Besides the poems mentioned above, Gresset 
 wrote several dramatic pieces, which had but 
 little success. The tragedies, " Edouard III." 
 and " Sidney," were failures; but the piece en- 
 titled " Le Mechant " has distinguished merit as 
 a picture of manners. His style is marked by 
 humor, grace, and simplicity. The best edition 
 of his works is that by Renouard, in three vol- 
 umes, Paris, 1811. 
 
 The following piece, taken from "Fraser's 
 Magazine," is, as the writer truly remarks, Ver- 
 vert merely "upset into English verse." R is a 
 loose paraphrase, or rather, imitation, adapted to 
 English circumstances and ideas, " for the use of 
 the melancholy inhabitants of these [the British] 
 islands." Considerable portions are omitted, oth- 
 ers transposed, others altered so as to be scarcely 
 recognizable ; and names, allusions, lines, and 
 even long passages, are freely introduced, which 
 have nothing corresponding to them in the orig 
 inal. A few of these last are here struck out 
 
GRESSET. 
 
 477 
 
 VER-VERT, THE PARROT. 
 
 HIS ORIGINAL INNOCENCE. 
 
 Alas ! what evils I discern in 
 
 Too great an aptitude for learning ! 
 
 And fain would all the ills unravel 
 
 That aye ensue from foreign travel : 
 
 Far happier is the man who tarries 
 
 Quiet within his household lares. 
 
 Read, and you '11 find how virtue vanishes, 
 
 How foreign vice all goodness banishes, 
 
 And how abroad young heads will grow dizzy, 
 
 Proved in the underwritten Odyssey. 
 
 In old Nevers, so famous for its 
 Dark, narrow streets and Gothic turrets, 
 Close on the brink of Loire's young flood, 
 Flourished a convent sisterhood 
 Of Ursulines. Now, in this order 
 A. parrot lived as parlour-boarder ; 
 Brought in his childhood from the Antilles, 
 And sheltered under convent mantles. 
 Green were his feathers, green his pinions, 
 And greener still were his opinions: 
 For vice had not yet sought to pervert 
 This bird who had been christened Ver-Vert; 
 Nor could this wicked world defile him, 
 Safe from its snares in this asylum. 
 Fresh, in his teens, frank, gay, and gracious, 
 And, to crown all, somewhat loquacious; 
 If we examine close, not one, or he, 
 Had a vocation for a nunnery. 
 
 The convent's kindness need I mention ? 
 Need I detail each fond attention, 
 Or count the tit-bits which in Lent he 
 Swallowed remorseless and in plenty ? 
 Plump was his carcass ; no, not higher 
 Fed. was their confessor, the friar ; 
 And some even say that this young Hector 
 Was far more loved than the director. 
 Dear to each novice and each nun, — 
 He was the life and soul of fun ; 
 Though, to be sure, some hags censorious 
 Would sometimes find him too uproarious, 
 What did the parrot care for those old 
 Dames, while he had for him the household ? 
 He had not yet made his profession, 
 Nor come to years called of discretion ; 
 Therefore, unblamed, he ogled, flirted, 
 And romped, like any unconverted ; 
 Nay, sometimes, too, — by the Lord Harry ! — 
 He 'd pull their caps and scapulary. 
 But what in all his tricks seemed oddest 
 Was, that at times he 'd turn so modest, 
 That to all bystanders the wight 
 Appeared a finished hypocrite. 
 
 Placed, when at table, near some vestal, 
 His fare, be sure, was of the best all, — 
 For every sister would endeavour 
 To keep for him some sweet hors-d' ceuvre. 
 Kindly at heart, in spite of vows and 
 Cloisters, a nun is worth a thousand; 
 And aye, if Heaven would only lend her, 
 T 'd have a nun for a nurse tender ! 
 
 Then, when the shades of night would 
 come on, 
 And to their cells the sisters summon, 
 Happy the favored one whose grotto 
 This sultan of a bird would trot to. 
 Mostly the young ones' cells he toyed in, - 
 The aged sisterhood avoiding ; 
 Sure among all to find kind offices, 
 Still he was partial to the novices, 
 And in their cells our anchorite 
 Mostly cast anchor for the night ; 
 Perched on the box that held the relics, he 
 Slept without notion of indelicacy. 
 Rare was his luck ; nor did he spoil it 
 By flying from the morning toilet : 
 Not that I can admit the fitness 
 Of, at the toilet, a male witness, — 
 But that I scruple, in this history, 
 To shroud a single fact in mystery. 
 
 Quick at all arts, our bird was rich at 
 That best accomplishment called chit-chat; 
 For, though brought up within the cloister, 
 His beak was not closed like an oyster, 
 But, trippingly, without a stutter, 
 The longest sentences would utter. 
 Pious withal, and moralizing, 
 His conversation was surprising ; 
 None of your equivoques, no slander, — 
 To such vile tastes he scorned to pander ; 
 But his tongue ran most smooth and nice on 
 " Deo sit laus " and " Kyrie eleison " ; 
 The maxims he gave with best emphasis 
 Were Suarez's or Thomas a. Kempis'. 
 In Christmas carols he was famous, 
 " Orate, fratres" and " Oremus" ; 
 If in good-humor, he was wont 
 To give a stave from " Think well on 't," 
 Or, by particular desire, he 
 Would chant the hymn of " Dies irm." 
 Then in the choir he would amaze all, 
 By copying the tone so nasal 
 In which the sainted sisters chanted, — 
 At least, that pious nun, my aunt, did. 
 
 HIS FATAL RENOWN. 
 
 The public soon began to ferret 
 The hidden nest of so much merit, 
 And, spite of all the nuns' endeavours, 
 The fame of Ver-Vert filled all Nevers; 
 Nay, from Moulines folks came to stare at 
 The wondrous talent of this parrot ; 
 And to fresh visiters, ad libitum, 
 Sister Sophie had to exhibit him. 
 Dressed in her tidiest robes, the virgin, 
 Forth from the convent cells emerging, 
 Brings the bright bird, and for his plumage 
 First challenges unstinted homage ; 
 Then to his eloquence adverts, — 
 " What preacher 's can surpass Ver- Vert's ? 
 Truly, in oratory, few men 
 Equal this learned catechumen, 
 Fraught with the convent's choicest lessons, 
 And stuffed with piety's quintessence ; 
 A bird most quick of apprehension, 
 With gifts and graces hard to mention : 
 
478 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 Say, in what pulpit can you meet 
 
 A Chrysostom half so discreet, 
 
 Who 'd follow, in his ghostly mission, 
 
 So close the fathers and tradition ? " 
 
 Silent, meantime, the feathered hermit 
 
 Waits for the sister's gracious permit, 
 
 When, at a signal from his Mentor, 
 
 Quick on a course of speech he '11 enter : 
 
 Not that he cares for human glory, 
 
 Bent but to save his auditory; 
 
 Hence he pours forth with so much unction, 
 
 That all his hearers feel compunction. 
 
 Thus for a time did Ver-Vert dwell 
 Safe in this holy citadel ; 
 Scholared like any well-bred abbe, 
 And loved by many a cloistered Hebe ; 
 You 'd swear that he had crossed the same 
 
 bridge 
 As any youth brought up in Cambridge. 
 Other monks starve themselves ; but his skin 
 Was sleek, like that of a Franciscan, 
 And far more clean ; for this grave Solon 
 Bathed every day in eau de Cologne. 
 Thus he indulged each guiltless gambol, 
 Blessed had he ne'er been doomed to ramble ! 
 
 O town of Nantz ! yes, to thy bosom 
 We let him go, alas ! to lose him ! 
 Edicts, O town famed for revoking ! 
 Still was Ver- Vert's loss more provoking. 
 Dark be the day when our bright Don went 
 From this to a far distant convent ! 
 Two words comprised that awful era, — 
 Words big with fate and woe, — " II ira ! " 
 Yes, " he shall go ! " but, sisters, mourn ye 
 The dismal fruits of that sad journey, — 
 Ills on which Nantz's nuns ne'er reckoned, 
 When for the beauteous bird they beckoned. 
 
 Fame, O Ver-Vert ! in evil humor 
 One day to Nantz had brought the rumor 
 Of thy accomplishments, — acumen, 
 NcSt, ar) d esprit, quite superhuman ; 
 All these reports but served to enhance 
 Thy merits with the nuns of Nantz. 
 How did a matter so unsuited 
 For convent ears get hither bruited ? 
 Some may inquire. But nuns are knowing, 
 And first to hear what gossip 's going. 
 Forthwith they taxed their wits to elicit 
 From the famed bird a friendly visit. 
 Girls' wishes run in a brisk current, 
 But a nun's fancy is a torrent. 
 To get this bird they 'd pawn the missal : 
 Quick they indite a long epistle, 
 Careful with softest things to fill it, 
 And then with musk perfume the billet. 
 Thus, to obtain their darling purpose, 
 They send a writ of habeas corpus. 
 
 Off goes the post. When will the answer 
 Free them from doubt's corroding cancer? 
 Nothing can equal their anxiety, — 
 Except, of course, their well known piety. 
 
 Things at Nevers, meantime, went harder 
 
 Than well would suit such pious ardor; 
 
 It was no easy job to coax 
 
 This parrot from the Nevers folks. 
 
 What ! take their toy from convent belles ? 
 
 Make Russia yield the Dardanelles ! 
 
 Filch his good rifle from a Suliote, 
 
 Or drag her Romeo from a Juliet ! 
 
 Make an attempt to take Gibraltar, 
 
 Or try the old corn-laws to alter ! 
 
 This seemed to them, and eke to us, 
 
 Most wasteful and ridiculous. 
 
 Long did the chapter sit in state, 
 
 And on this point deliberate : 
 
 The junior members of the senate 
 
 Set their fair faces quite again' it; 
 
 Refuse to yield a point so tender, 
 
 And urge the motto, — JVo surrender .' 
 
 The elder nuns feel no great scruple 
 
 In parting with the charming pupil ; 
 
 And as each grave affair of state runs 
 
 Most on the verdict of the matrons, 
 
 Small odds, I ween, and poor the chance 
 
 Of keeping the dear bird from Nantz. 
 
 Nor in my surmise am I far out, — 
 
 For by their vote off goes the parrot. 
 
 HIS EVIL VOYAGE. 
 
 En ce terns la, a small canal-boat, 
 Called by most chroniclers the " Talbot," 
 (Talbot, a name well known in France :) 
 Travelled between Nevers and Nantz. 
 Ver-Vert took shipping in this craft, 
 'T is not said whether fore or aft ; 
 But in a book as old as Massinger's 
 We find a statement of the passengers : 
 These were, — two Gascons and a piper, 
 A sexton (a notorious swiper), 
 A brace of children, and a nurse ; 
 But what was infinitely worse, 
 A dashing Cyprian ; while by her 
 Sat a most jolly-looking friar. 
 
 For a poor bird brought up in purity 
 'T was a sad augur for futurity 
 To meet, just free from his indentures, 
 And in the first of his adventures, 
 Such company as formed his hansel, — 
 Two rogues ! a friar ! ! and a damsel ! ! ! 
 Birds the above were of a feather ; 
 But to Ver-Vert 't was altogether 
 Such a strange aggregate of scandals 
 As to be met but among Vandals. 
 Rude was their talk, bereft of polish, 
 And calculated to demolish 
 All the fine notions and good-breeding 
 Taught by the nuns in their sweet Eden. 
 No Billingsgate surpassed the nurse's, 
 And all the rest indulged in curses : 
 Ear hath not heard such vulgar gab in 
 The nautic cell of any cabin. 
 Silent and sad, the pensive bird, 
 Shocked at their guilt, said not a word. 
 
 Now he of orders gray, accosting 
 The parrot green, who seemed quite lost in 
 
GRESSET. 
 
 479 
 
 The contemplation of man's wickedness, 
 And the bright river's gliding liquidness, — 
 "Tip us a stave," quoth Tuck, "my darling! 
 Are n't you a parrot or a starling? 
 If you do n't talk, — by the holy poker ! — 
 I '11 give your ugly neck a choker ! " 
 Scared by this threat from his propriety, 
 Our pilgrim, thinking with sobriety, 
 That if he did not speak they 'd make him, 
 Answered the friar, " Pax sit tecum! " 
 Here our reporter marks down after 
 Poll's maiden-speech, — "loud roars of laugh- 
 ter " ; 
 And, sure enough, the bird so affable 
 Could hardly use a phrase more laughable. 
 
 Poll's brief address met lots of cavillers: 
 Badgered by all his fellow-travellers, 
 He tried to mend a speech so ominous 
 By striking up with " Dixit Dominus." 
 But louder shouts of laughter follow; — 
 This last roar beats the former hollow, 
 And shows that it was bad economy 
 To give a stave from Deuteronomy. 
 
 Posed, not abashed, the bird refused to 
 Indulge a scene he was not used to ; 
 And pondering on his strange reception, 
 " There must," he thought, " be some deception 
 In the nuns' views of things rhetorical, 
 And Sister Rose is not an oracle : 
 True wit, perhaps, lies not in matins, 
 Nor is their school a school of Athens." 
 
 Thus in this villanous receptacle 
 The simple bird at once grew skeptical. 
 Doubts lead to hell. The Arch-deceiver 
 Soon made of Poll an unbeliever ; 
 And mixing thus in bad society, 
 He took French leave of all his piety. 
 
 His austere maxims soon he mollified, 
 And all his old opinions qualified; 
 For he had learned to substitute 
 For pious lore things more astute : 
 Nor was his conduct unimpeachable, 
 For youth, alas ! is but too teachable ; 
 And, in the progress of his madness, 
 Soon he had reached the depths of badness. 
 Such were his curses, such his evil 
 Practices, that no ancient devil, 
 Plunged to the chin, when burning hot, 
 Into a holy water-pot, 
 Could so blaspheme, or fire a volley 
 Of oaths so drear and melancholy. 
 
 Must the bright blossoms, ripe and ruddy, 
 And the fair fruits of early study, 
 Thus in their summer season crossed, 
 Meet a sad blight, — a killing frost? 
 Must that vile demon, Moloch, oust 
 Heaven from a young heart's holocaust ? 
 And the glad hope of life's young promise 
 Thus in the dawn of youth ebb from us? 
 Such is, alas ! the sad and last trophy 
 Of the young rake's supreme catastrophe ; 
 
 For of what use are learning's laurels, 
 When a young man is without morals ? 
 Bereft of virtue, and grown heinous, 
 What signifies a brilliant genius ? 
 'T is but a case for wail and mourning,— 
 'T is but a brand fit for the burning ! 
 
 Meantime the river wafts the barge, 
 Fraught with its miscellaneous charge, 
 Smoothly upon its broad expanse, 
 Up to the very quay of Nantz ; 
 Fondly within the convent bowers 
 The sisters calculate the hours, 
 Chiding the breezes for their tardiness, 
 And, in the height of their foolhardiness, 
 Picturing the bird as fancy painted, — 
 Lovely, reserved, polite, and sainted, — 
 Fit Vrsuline; — and this, I trow, meant, 
 Enriched with every endowment. 
 Sadly, alas ! these nuns anointed 
 Will find their fancy disappointed ; 
 When, to meet all those hopes they drew on, 
 They '11 find a regular Don Jcan ! 
 
 THE AWFUL DISCOVERY. 
 
 Scarce in the port was this small craft 
 On its arrival telegraphed, 
 When, from the boat home to transfer him, 
 Came the nuns' portress, Sister Jerome. 
 Well did the parrot recognize 
 The walk demure and downcast eyes ; 
 Nor aught such saintly guidance relished 
 A bird by worldly arts embellished ; 
 Such was his taste for profane gayety, 
 He 'd rather, much, go with the laity. 
 Fast to the bark he clung ; but, plucked thence, 
 He showed dire symptoms of reluctance, 
 And, scandalizing each beholder, 
 Bit the nun's cheek, and eke her shoulder ! 
 Thus a black eagle once, 't is said, 
 Bore off the struggling Ganymede. 
 Thus was Ver-Vert, heart-sick and weary, 
 Brought to the heavenly monastery. 
 The bell and tidings both were tolled, 
 And the nuns crowded, young and old, 
 To feast their eyes, with joy uncommon, on 
 This wondrous, talkative phenomenon. 
 
 Round the bright stranger, so amazing 
 And so renowned, the sisters, gazing, 
 Praised the green glow which a warm lati- 
 tude 
 Gave to his neck, and liked his attitude. 
 Some by his gorgeous tail are smitten, 
 Some by his beak so beauteous bitten ! 
 And none e'er dreamed of dole or harm in 
 A bird so brilliant and so charming. 
 
 Meantime, the abbess, to draw out 
 A bird so modest and devout, 
 With soothing air and tone caressing 
 The pilgrim of the Loire addressing, 
 Broached the most edifying topics 
 To start this native of the tropics ; 
 
480 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 When, O, surprise ! the pert young Cupid 
 Breaks forth, — "Morbleu! those nuns are 
 
 stupid ! " 
 Showing how well he learned his task on 
 The packet-boat from that vile Gascon. 
 "Fie ! brother Poll ! " with zeal outbursting, 
 Exclaimed the abbess, Dame Augustin ; 
 But all the lady's sage rebukes 
 Brief answer got from Poll, — " Gadzooks ! " 
 
 Scared at the sound, — " Sure as a gun, 
 
 The bird 's a demon ! " cried the nun. 
 
 " O, the vile wretch ! the naughty dog ! 
 
 He 's surely Lucifer incog. 
 
 What ! is the reprobate before us 
 
 That bird so pious and decorous, — 
 
 So celebrated ?" Here the pilgrim, 
 
 Hearing sufficient to bewilder him, 
 
 Wound up the sermon of the beldam 
 
 By a conclusion heard but seldom, — 
 
 " Ventre Saint Gris ! " " Parbleu ! " and 
 
 " Sacre! " 
 Three oaths ! and every one a whacker ! 
 
 Still did the nuns, whose conscience tender 
 Was much shocked at the young offender, 
 Hoping he 'd change his tone, and alter, 
 Hang breathless round the sad defaulter ; 
 When, wrathful at their importunity, 
 And grown audacious from impunity, 
 He fired a broadside — holy Mary ! — 
 Drawn from hell's own vocabulary; 
 Forth, like a Congreve rocket, burst, 
 And stormed and swore, flared up and cursed ! 
 Stunned at these sounds of import Stygian, 
 The pious daughters of religion 
 Fled from a scene so dread, so horrid ; 
 But with a cross first signed their forehead. 
 The younger sisters, mild and meek, 
 Thought that the culprit spoke in Greek; 
 But the old matrons and "the bench " 
 Knew every word was genuine French ; 
 And ran in all directions, pell-mell, 
 From a flood fit to overwhelm hell. 
 'T was by a fall that Mother Ruth 
 Then lost her last remaining tooth. 
 " Fine conduct this, and pretty guidance ! " 
 Cried one of the most mortified ones ; 
 " Pray, is such language and such ritual 
 Among the Nevers nuns habitual ? 
 'T was in our sisters most improper 
 To teach such curses, — such a whapper! 
 He sha' n't by me, for one, be hindered 
 From being sent back to his kindred ! " 
 This prompt decree for Poll's proscription 
 Was signed by general subscription. 
 Straight in a cage the nuns insert 
 The guilty person of Ver-Vert; 
 Some young ones wanted to detain him, 
 But the grim portress took the paynim 
 Back to the boat, close in his litter : 
 T is not said this time that he bit her. 
 
 Back to the convent of his youth, 
 Sojourn of innocence and truth, 
 
 Sails the green monster, scorned and hated, 
 His heart with vice contaminated. 
 Must I tell how, on his return, 
 He scandalized his old sojourn, 
 And how the guardians of his infancy 
 Wept o'er their quondam child's delinquen- 
 cy ? 
 What could be done ? The elders often 
 Met to consult how best to soften 
 This obdurate and hardened sinner, 
 Finished in vice ere a beginner. 
 One mother counselled " to denounce, 
 And let the Inquisition pounce 
 On the vile heretic"; another 
 Thought " it was best the bird to smother " ; 
 Or " send the convict, for his felonies, 
 Back to his native land, — the colonies." 
 But milder views prevailed. His sentence 
 Was, that, until he showed repentance, 
 " A solemn fast and frugal diet, 
 Silence exact, and pensive quiet, 
 Should be his lot " ; and, for a blister, 
 He got, as gaoler, a lay-sister, 
 Ugly as sin, bad-tempered, jealous, 
 And in her scruples over-zealous. 
 A jug of water and a carrot 
 Was all the prog she 'd give the parrot ; 
 But every eve, when vesper-bell 
 Called Sister Rosalie from her cell, 
 She to Ver-Vert would gain admittance, 
 And bring of comfits a sweet pittance. 
 Comfits, — alas! can sweet confections 
 Alter sour slavery's imperfections ? 
 What are preserves to you or me, 
 When locked up in the Marshalsea, — 
 A place that certainly deserves 
 The name of "Best of all Preserves" ? 
 The sternest virtue in the hulks, 
 Though crammed with richest sweetmeats 
 sulks. 
 
 Taught by his gaoler and adversity, 
 Poll saw the folly of perversity, 
 And by degrees his heart relented : 
 Duly, in fine, the lad repented. 
 His >Lent passed on, and Sister Bridget 
 Coaxed the old abbess to abridge it. 
 
 The prodigal, reclaimed and free, 
 Became again a prodigy, 
 And gave more joy, by works and words, 
 Than ninety-nine Canary-birds, 
 Until his death; — which last disaster 
 (Nothing on earth endures !) came faster 
 Than they imagined. The transition 
 From a starved to a stuffed condition, 
 From penitence to jollification, 
 Brought on a fit of constipation. 
 Some think he would be living still, 
 If given a vegetable pill ; 
 But from a short life, and a merry, 
 Poll sailed one day per Charon's ferry. 
 
 By tears from nuns' sweet eyelids wept, 
 Happy in death this parrot slept; 
 
DE L'ISLE. — CHATEAUBRIAND. 
 
 481 
 
 For him Elysium oped its portals, 
 
 And there he talks among immortals. 
 
 But I have read, that, since that happy day 
 
 (So -writes Cornelius a Lapide\ 
 
 Proving, with commentary droll, 
 
 The transmigration of the soul), 
 
 Still Ver-Vert this earth doth haunt, 
 
 Of convent bowers a visitant ; 
 
 And that gay novices among 
 
 He dwells, transformed into a tongue ! 
 
 JOSEPH ROUGET-DE-L'ISLE. 
 
 Rouget-ee-L'1sle was born May 10th, 1760, 
 St Lons-le-Saulnier, in the department of Jura. 
 He was an officer in the French Revolution, 
 the principles of which he adopted with ardor. 
 He is best known as the author of " The Mar- 
 seilles Hymn," which he wrote and set to 
 music in one night. This became the national 
 song of the French patriots, and was famous in 
 Europe and America. Its author was, however, 
 imprisoned in the Reign of Terror, and owed his 
 liberation to the Revolution of the 9th Ther- 
 midor (27th July, 1794). He never enjoyed 
 the favor of Napoleon, either during the Con- 
 sulate or the Empire. After the Revolution of 
 July, "The Marseilles Hymn" again became 
 the national song of France, and Louis-Philippo 
 bestowed on the author a pension of fifteen hun- 
 dred francs from his private purse. De L'Isle has 
 published other pieces, both in poetry and prose. 
 
 THE MARSEILLES HYMN. 
 
 Ye sons of France, awake to glory ! 
 
 Hark ! hark ! what myriads bid you rise ! 
 Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary, — 
 
 Behold their tears and hear their cries ! 
 
 Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding, 
 With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, 
 Affright and desolate the land, 
 While liberty and peace lie bleeding? 
 To arms ! to arms ! ye brave ! 
 
 The avenging sword unsheathe ! 
 March on ! march on ! all hearts resolved 
 On victory or death ! 
 
 Now, now, the dangerous storm is rolling, ' 
 Which treacherous kings confederate raise, 
 
 The dogs of war, let loose, are howling, 
 And, lo ! our fields and cities blaze. 
 
 And shall we basely view the ruin, 
 
 While lawless force, with guilty stride, 
 Spreads desolation far and wide, 
 
 With crimes and blood his hands imbruing? 
 To arms ! to arms ! ye brave ! &c. 
 
 With luxury and pride surrounded, 
 
 The bold, insatiate despots dare — 
 Their thirst of gold and power unbounded — 
 
 To mete and vend the light and air. 
 Like beasts of burden would they load us, 
 
 Like gods would bid their slaves adore ; 
 
 But man is man, and who is more ? 
 Then shall they longer lash and goad us? 
 To arms ! to arms ! ye brave ! &c. 
 
 O Liberty, can man resign thee, 
 
 Once having felt thy generous flame? 
 Can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee, 
 
 Or whips thy noble spirit tame? 
 Too long the world has wept, bewailing, 
 
 That Falsehood's dagger tyrants wield ; 
 
 But Freedom is our sword and shield, 
 And all their arts are unavailing. 
 
 To arms ! to arms ! ye brave ! &c. 
 
 SIXTH PERIOD.-FROM 1800 TO 1844. 
 
 FRANCOIS-AUGUSTE, VICOMTE DE 
 " CHATEAUBRIAND. 
 
 This illustrious author and nobleman was 
 born in 1769, at Combourg, in Bretagne. In 
 1786, he joined the regiment of infantry, called 
 the Regiment of Navarre. During the troubles of 
 the Revolution, he sought refuge in America, 
 where he passed several years, and where he 
 wrote the prose-poem, entitled "Les Natchez, 
 ou Tableau de la Vie des Tribus Indiennes." 
 In 1792, he returned to Europe, joined the em- 
 igrants in arms, and was wounded at the siege 
 of Thionville ; after which he went to England, 
 and, being in narrow circumstances, was obliged 
 to support himself by his literary labors. After 
 the overthrow of the Directory, he returned to 
 61 
 
 Fiance, and became one of the editors of the 
 " Mercure de France." His " Genie du Chris- 
 tianisme " appeared in England in 1802, and 
 was reprinted in France. In 1803, he visited 
 Rome, where he remained a short time as Sec- 
 retary of Legation under Cardinal Fesch. His 
 residence in Rome inspired him to write "Les 
 Martyrs," a religious poem in prose. In the same 
 year, he was appointed French minister in the 
 Valais; but resigned the place after the death of 
 the Due d'Enghien, in March, 1804. In 1806, he 
 travelled through Greece and Rhodes to Jeru- 
 salem, visited Alexandria, Cairo, and Carthage, 
 and returned to France by way of Spain, in 
 May, 1807. In 1811, he was elected into the 
 Institute. In 1814, after Napoleon's fall, he 
 wrote his celebrated pamphlet," De Bonaparte 
 
et des Bourbons," in which he went over to 
 the side of the ultra-royalists, to whom he has 
 ever since remained faithful. On Napoleon's 
 return from Elba, he followed Louis the Eigh- 
 teenth to Ghent, and afterwards returned with 
 him to Paris, where, in 1815, he was made a 
 minister of state and a peer. In 1816, he was 
 chosen a member of the Academy. In 1820, 
 he was sent as Minister Plenipotentiary and 
 Envoy Extraordinary to Berlin, but returned to 
 Paris the next year, and was appointed minister 
 of state, and member of the Privy Council. In 
 1822, he went as ambassador to London, and 
 afterwards accompanied the Due de Montmo- 
 renci to the Congress of Verona, and in the 
 same year succeeded the duke as Minister of 
 Foreign Affairs. After the death of Louis the 
 Eighteenth, Chateaubriand published a pam- 
 phlet, entitled "Le Roi est mort: vive le Roi ! " 
 In 1825, he published the eloquent "Note sur 
 la Grece." Under the administration of Mar- 
 tignac, he went to Rome as French ambassador; 
 but in 1829, upon the dismissal of that minister, 
 he retired to private life. 
 
 The Revolution of July called Chateaubriand 
 again into political activity. He refused to take 
 the oath of allegiance to Louis-Philippe, and 
 consequently was deprived of his place in the 
 Chamber of Peers, and a yearly income of 
 twelve thousand francs. Since then, he has de- 
 voted himself, with chivalrous fidelity, to the 
 defence of the Due de Bordeaux, and his moth- 
 er, the Duchesse de Berri. 
 
 His works were published in 1826-31, by 
 Ladvocat, in thirty volumes. His writings show 
 a poetical imagination, and great power of de- 
 scription. His style is warm, copious, and elo- 
 quent. His prose has almost the rhythmical 
 cadence of poetry. "But, however distinguish- 
 ed a rank," says a writer in the last edition of 
 the "Conversations-Lexicon," "his talent for 
 description has gained for him, among the au- 
 thors of his nation, yet no one of his works can 
 be called classical, in the sense in which this 
 distinction belongs only to the works of a free 
 and lofty mind, which unite richness of ideas 
 with depth and solidity, without distorting the 
 truth by sophistical tricks, or by the illusions of 
 a self-deceiving imagination, or the bombast of 
 a luxuriant form of expression." 
 
 JEUNE FILLE ET JEUNE FLEUR. 
 
 The bier descends, the spotless roses too, 
 
 The father's tribute in his saddest hour : 
 O Earth ! that bore them both, thou hast thy 
 due, — 
 The fair young girl and flower. 
 
 Give them not back unto a world again, 
 
 Where mourning, grief, and agony have 
 power, — 
 Where winds destroy, and suns ma'ignant 
 reign,— 
 That fair young girl and flower. 
 
 Lightly thou sleepest, young Eliza, now, 
 
 Nor fear'st the burning heat, nor jhii ing 
 shower ; 
 They both have perished in their morning 
 glow, — 
 The fair young girl and flower. 
 
 But he, thy sire, whose furrowed brow is pale, 
 Bends, lost in sorrow, o'er thy funeral bower, 
 And Time the old oak's roots doth now a^aa'J, 
 O fair young girl and flower ! 
 
 CHARLES DE CHENEDOLLE. 
 
 Charles de Ch&nedolle' was born at Vire, 
 about the year 1770, and was educated at the 
 College de Juilly. At the commencement of 
 the Revolution, he emigrated. On his return to 
 France, he devoted himself to poetry and public 
 instruction in the office of Professor of Belles- 
 lettres in the Lyceum at Caen. Chenedolle" 
 several times gained the prize of poetry at the 
 Floral Games of Toulouse. His chief poetic 
 works are, "The Genius of Man," and "Poet- 
 ical Studies." He also assisted M. Fayolle in 
 editing the works of Rivarol. 
 
 ODE TO THE SEA. 
 
 At length I look on thee again, 
 Abyss of azure ! thou vast main, 
 Long by my verse implored in vain, 
 
 Alone inspired by thee ! 
 The magic of thy sounds alone 
 Can raise the transports I have known ; 
 My harp is mute, unless its tone 
 
 Be waked beside the sea. 
 
 The heights of Blanc have fired mine eyes,— 
 Those three bare mounts that touch the 
 
 skies ; 
 I loved the terror of their brow, 
 I loved their diadem of snow, — 
 But, O thou wild and awful Sea, 
 
 More dear to me 
 Thy threatening, drear immensity ! 
 
 Dread Ocean ! burst upon -me with thy shores ! 
 
 Fling wide thy waters where the storms bear 
 sway ! 
 Thy bosom opens to a thousand prores ; 
 
 Yet fleets, with idle daring, breast thy spray,— 
 Ripple with arrow's track thy closing plain, 
 And graze the surface of thy deep domain. 
 
 Man dares not tread thy liquid way ; 
 Thou spurn'st that despot of a day, 
 Tossed like a snow-flake or the spray 
 
 From storm-gulfs to the skies : 
 He breathes and reigns on solid land, 
 And ruins mark his tyrant hand ; 
 Thou bidd'st him in that circle stand, 
 
 Thy reign his rage defies : 
 
chenedolle. 
 
 483 
 
 Or should he force his passage there, 
 Thou risest, mocking his despair; 
 The shipwreck humbles all his pride : 
 He sinks within the darksome tide, — 
 The surge's vast unfathomed gloom 
 
 His catacomb, — 
 Without a name, without a tomb. 
 
 Thy banks are kingdoms, where the shrine, the 
 
 throne, 
 The pomp of human things are changed and 
 
 past; 
 The people, — they were phantoms, — they are 
 
 flown; 
 Time has avenged thee on their strength at 
 
 last : 
 Thy billows idly rest on Sidon's shore, 
 And her bold pilots wound thy pride no more. 
 
 Rome, — Athens, — Carthage, — what are 
 
 they? 
 Spoiled heritage, successive prey; 
 New nations force their onward way, 
 
 And grasp disputed reign : 
 Thou changest not; thy waters pour 
 The same wild waves against the shore, 
 Where liberty had breathed before, 
 
 And slavery hugs his chain. 
 
 States bow; Time's sceptre presses still 
 On Apennine's subsiding hill ; 
 The steps of ages, crumbling slow, 
 Are stamped upon his arid brow : 
 No trace of time is left on thee, 
 
 Unchanging Sea ! 
 Created thus, and still to be. 
 
 Sea! of Almightiness itself the immense 
 And glorious mirror ! how thy azure face 
 
 Renews the heavens in their magnificence ! 
 What awful grandeur rounds thy heaving 
 space ! 
 
 Thy surge two worlds eternal-warring sweeps, 
 
 And God's throne rests on thy majestic deeps. 
 
 THE YOUNG MATRON AMONG THE RUINS OF 
 ROME. 
 
 Through Rome's green plains with silent tread 
 
 I wandered, and on every side, 
 J'er all the glorious soil, I read 
 
 The nothingness of human pride. 
 
 Where reared the Capitol its brow, 
 Entranced I gazed on desert glades, 
 
 And saw the tangled herbage grow, 
 
 And brambles crawl o'er crushed arcades. 
 
 Beneath a portal, half-disclosed, 
 
 By its own ruins earthward pressed, 
 
 A. young Italian wife reposed, 
 Mild, blooming, with her babe at breast. 
 
 O'er that drear scene she breathed a grace, 
 
 And near her I inquiring drew, 
 And asked her of that lonely place, 
 
 The old traditions that she knew. 
 
 " Stranger ! " she softly said, " I grieve 
 Thy question must unanswered be ; 
 
 These rains, — I should but deceive, 
 Did I rehearse their history. 
 
 " Some defter tongue, some wiser head, 
 May know, and can instruct thee right ; 
 
 I thought not whither I was led, 
 
 And scarce the pile had caught my sight. 
 
 Thus, wrapped in tenderness alone, 
 Joy's innocence becalmed her brow; 
 
 She loved ! — no other knowledge known, 
 She lived not in the past, but now. 
 
 REGRETS. 
 
 Where are my days of youth, — those fairy days 
 Breathing of life, and strangers yet to pain, — 
 When inspiration kindled to a blaze 
 
 The rapture of the heart and brain ? 
 
 Then nature was my kingdom ; and I stood 
 
 Rich in the wealth of all beneath the pole ; 
 An antique rock, a torrent, or a wood, 
 Awaked the transport of my soul. 
 
 When the young Spring her rosy arms outspread, 
 And ice-flakes melted from the green-tipped 
 spray, 
 How rich the change ! what magic hues were 
 shed 
 On tribes of flowers that laughed in day ! 
 
 Thou, too, black Winter, hadst a charm for me 
 Thou held'st high festival : thy storms arose, 
 Delightsome in their horrid revelry 
 
 Of hail-blasts, hurricanes, and snows. 
 
 How have I loved to see the radiance run 
 O'er the calm ocean from an azure sky ■ 
 Or on the liquid world the evening sun 
 Gaze down with burning eye ! 
 
 Yet dearer were thy shores, when, blackening 
 round, 
 Thy waves, O Sea, rolled, gathering from afar ; 
 And all the waste in pompous horror frowned, 
 As storm-iashed surges strove in war. 
 
 Jura ! thou throne of tempests ! many a time 
 
 My love has sought thee in the musing hour; 
 Oft was I wont thy topmost ridge to climb, 
 Thy fir-tree depths my shadowing bower. 
 
 How, when I saw thy lofty scenes unfold, 
 
 My soul sprang forth, transported at the sight ' 
 Enthusiasm there shook its wings of gold, 
 And bore me up from height to height. 
 
 My bounding step o'ervaulted summits high, 
 Where resting clouds had checked their soai 
 ing pride ; 
 And my foot seemed in hovering speed to vie 
 With eagles swooping at my side. 
 
484 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 O, then with what enamoured touch I drew 
 
 Thy pencilled outlines desolate and grand ! 
 Vast ice-rifts ! ancient crags ! your wonders grew 
 Beneath my recreating hand. 
 
 All was enchantment then : but they depart, 
 Those days so beautiful, when the bright 
 flame 
 From unveiled genius shot within my heart 
 The noble pang of fame. 
 
 CHARLES-HUBERT MILLEVOYE. 
 
 This poet was the only son of a merchant 
 of Abbeville. He was born December 24th, 
 1782. He was first taught by one of his uncles, 
 and afterwards placed under the care of M. 
 Bardoux, a learned Greek scholar, and Profes- 
 sor in the College of Abbeville. At the age of 
 thirteen years, Millevoye lost his father. He 
 was sent by his family to complete his education 
 in Paris, where he distinguished himself by his 
 talent and industry, and began early to display 
 his poetical genius. Soon after finishing his 
 studies, he wrote a series of poems which suc- 
 cessively received the prize of the Institute. 
 He began the study of the law; but, finding it 
 impossible to bring his brilliant powers and 
 dreamy imagination down to the dry technical- 
 ities of that profession, he entered the estab- 
 lishment of a bookseller, hoping thus to unite 
 his favorite literary pursuits with the details of 
 business; but, not succeeding in this scheme, 
 he finally gave himself up wholly to study and 
 composition. He wrote the poems of " Charle- 
 magne," " Belzunce," and " Alfred" ; and the 
 tragedies of " Coresus," " Ugolin," and " Con- 
 radin," which, however, were not represented. 
 Besides these, he composed numerous fugitive 
 pieces, and a volume of elegies. 
 
 Millevoye's constitution was delicate from 
 his childhood, and he predicted his approach- 
 ing end in the touching elegy of " The Dying 
 Poet." Only eight days before his death, he 
 wrote the piece entitled "Priez pour moi." 
 He died August 12th, 1816, in the thirty-fourth 
 year of his age. 
 
 THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. 
 
 Autumn had stripped the grove, and strewed 
 
 The vale with leafy carpet o'er, 
 Shorn of its mystery the wood, 
 
 And Philomel bade sing no more: 
 Yet one still hither comes to feed 
 
 His gaze on childhood's merry path; 
 For him, sick youth ! poor invalid ! 
 
 Lonely attraction still it hath. 
 
 "I come to bid you farewell brief, 
 Here, O my infancy's wild haunt! 
 
 For death gives in each falling leaf 
 Sad summons to your visitant. 
 
 'T was a stern oracle that told 
 
 My dark decree, — ' The woodland bloom 
 Once more 't is given thee to behold, 
 
 Then comes the inexorable tomb ! ' 
 
 "The eternal cypress, balancing 
 
 Its tall form, like some funeral thing, 
 
 In silence o'er my head, 
 Tells me my youth shall wither fast, 
 Ere the grass fades,; — yea, ere the last 
 
 Stalk from the vine is shed. 
 
 " I die ! Yes, with his icy breath, 
 
 Fixed Fate has frozen up my blood ; 
 And by the chilly blast of Death 
 
 Nipped is my life's spring in the bud. 
 Fall, fall, O transitory leaf, 
 
 And cover well this path of sorrow ; 
 Hide from my mother's searching grief 
 
 The spot where I '11 be laid to-morrow ! 
 
 "But should my loved one's fairy tread 
 Seek the sad dwelling of the dead, 
 
 Silent, alone, at eve, — 
 O, then with rustling murmur meet 
 The echo of her coming feet, 
 
 And sign of welcome give ! " 
 
 Such was the sick youth's last sad thought; 
 
 Then slowly from the grove he moved : 
 Next moon that way a corpse was brought, 
 
 And buried in the bower he loved. 
 But at his grave no form appeared, 
 
 No fairy mourner: through the wood 
 The shepherd's tread alone was heard, 
 
 In the sepulchral solitude. 
 
 PRAY FOR ME. 
 
 Silent, remote, this hamlet seems; 
 
 How hushed the breeze ! the eve how calm ' 
 Light through my dying chamber beams, 
 
 But hope comes not, nor healing balm. 
 Kind villagers ! God bless your shed ! 
 
 Hark ! 't is for prayer, — the evening bell: 
 O, stay ! and near my dying bed, 
 
 Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! 
 
 When leaves shall strew the waterfall, 
 
 In the sad close of autumn drear, 
 Say, " The sick youth is freed from all 
 
 The pangs and woe he suffered here." 
 So may ye speak of him that 's gone ; 
 
 But when your belfry tolls my knell, 
 Pray for the soul of that lost one, — 
 
 Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! 
 
 O, pity her, in sable robe, 
 
 Who to my grassy grave will come ; 
 Nor seek a hidden wound to probe ! — 
 
 She was my love ! — point out my tomb; 
 Tell her my life should have been hers, — 
 
 'Twas buta day! — God's will ! — 't is well- 
 But weep with her, kind villagers ! 
 
 Maiden, for me vour rosary tell ! 
 
BERANGER. 
 
 485 
 
 PIERRE-JEAN DE BERANGER. 
 
 Beranger, the most original and popular of 
 the lyrical poets of France, was born at Paris, 
 August 19th, 1780, in a very humble condition. 
 He was educated by his grandfather, a poor 
 tailor. The books which first aroused his ge- 
 nius were the Bible and a translation of Homer. 
 His earliest poetical attempts attracted the at- 
 tention of Lucien Bonaparte. His songs, which 
 were enlivened by allusions to the politics of 
 the day, had a great run. Among his first pieces 
 were " Le Roi d'Yvetot" and " Le Senateur." 
 Beranger neither flattered Napoleon in his pow- 
 er, nor turned against him after his fall ; but 
 jealously maintained his personal independence. 
 After the Restoration, he fell under the ban of 
 the government, was prosecuted in 1821, on 
 occasion of a new edition of his poems being 
 subscribed for by his friends, and in 1828 was 
 again prosecuted, condemned to pay a fine of 
 ten thousand francs, and to be imprisoned nine 
 months. He took an active part in the July 
 Revolution, but refused all offices under the new 
 government. Since then, he has written but 
 little. A complete collection of his songs ap- 
 peared at Paris in 1831, with the title, "Chan- 
 sons de P. J. Beranger, nouvelles, anciennes et 
 inedites." A new collection, " Chansons nou- 
 velles et dernieres," was published in 1833, in 
 which Beranger took leave of the Muses. 
 
 The poems of Beranger are distinguished for 
 their genuine national spirit, their gayety and 
 wit, and for a delicacy and pungency of ex- 
 pression, which can scarcely be preserved in 
 translation. He died in 1857. 
 
 THE LITTLE BROWN MAN. 
 
 A little man we 've here, 
 All in a suit of brown, 
 Upon town ; 
 He 's as brisk as bottled beer, 
 And, without a shilling rent, 
 Lives content : 
 "For d' ye see," says he, "my plan? 
 D' ye see," says he, " my plan ? 
 My plan, d' ye see, 's to — laugh at that ! " 
 Sing merrily, sing merrily, the little brown man ! 
 
 When every mad grisette 
 He has toasted, till his score 
 Holds no more ; 
 Then, head and ears in debt, 
 
 When the duns and bums abound 
 All around, 
 " D' ye see," says he, " my plan ? 
 D' ye see," says he, " my plan ? 
 My plan, d' ye see, 's to — laugh at that! " 
 Sing merrily, sing merrily, the little brown man ! 
 
 When the rain comes through his attic, 
 And he lies all day a-bed 
 Without bread ; 
 When the winter winds rheumatic 
 
 Make him blow his nails for dire 
 Want of fire, 
 " D' ye see, ' says he, " my plan ? 
 D' ye see, says he, "my plan? 
 My plan, d' ye see, 's to — laugh at that! " 
 Sing merrily, sing merrily, the little brown man ! 
 
 His wife, a dashing figure, 
 
 Makes shift to pay her clothes 
 By her beaux; 
 The gallanter they rig her, 
 The more the people sneer 
 At her dear : 
 "Then d' ye see," says he, "my plan? 
 D' ye see, says he, " my plan ? 
 My plan, d' ye see, 's to — laugh at that ! ' 
 Sing merrily, sing merrily, the little brown man 
 
 When at last laid fairly level, 
 
 And the priest (he getting worse) 
 'Gan discourse 
 Of death and of the Devil, 
 Our little sinner sighed, 
 And replied, — 
 "Please your reverence, my plan, — 
 Please your reverence, my plan, — 
 My plan, d' ye see, 's to — laugh at that ! 
 Sing merrily, sing merrily, the little brown man 
 
 THE OLD VAGABOND. 
 
 Here in the ditch my bones I '11 lay ; 
 
 Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave. 
 "He 's drunk," the passing crowd will say 
 
 'T is well, for none will need to grieve. 
 Some turn their scornful heads away, 
 
 Some fling an alms in hurrying by ; — 
 Haste, — 't is the village holyday ! 
 The aged beggar needs no help to die. 
 
 Yes ! here, alone, of sheer old age 
 I die ; for hunger slays not all. 
 
 I hoped my misery's closing page 
 To fold within some hospital ; 
 
 But crowded thick is each retreat, 
 Such numbers now in misery lie. 
 
 Alas ! my cradle was the street ! 
 As he was born the aged wretch must die 
 
 In youth, of workmen, o'er and o er, 
 
 I 've asked, "Instruct me in your trade.' 
 
 " Begone ! — our business is not more 
 Than keeps ourselves, — go, beg! " they said 
 
 Ye rich, who bade me toil for bread, 
 Of bones your tables gave me store, 
 
 Your straw has often made my bed ; — 
 In death I lay no curses at your door. 
 
 Thus poor, I might have turned to theft; — 
 
 No ! — better still for alms to pray ! 
 At most, I 've plucked some apple, left 
 
 To ripen near the public way 
 Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laid 
 In the king's name, they let me pine; 
 They stole the only wealth I had, — 
 Though poor and old, the sun, at least, was mine, 
 oo 2 
 
486 FRENCH 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 What country has the poor to claim ? 
 
 Where shall I now find raptures that were felt 
 
 What boots to me your corn and wine, 
 
 Joys that befell, 
 
 Your busy toil, your vaunted fame, 
 
 And hopes that dawned at twenty, when I dwelt 
 
 The senate where your speakers shine ? 
 
 In attic cell ? 
 
 Once, when your homes, by war o'erswept, 
 
 
 
 Saw strangers battening on your land, 
 Like any puling fool, I wept ! 
 
 THE SHOOTING STABS. 
 
 The aged wretch was nourished by their hand. 
 
 " Shepherd, say'st thou that a star 
 
 
 Rules our days, and gems the skies?" 
 
 Mankind I why trod you not the worm, 
 
 " Yes, my child ; but in her veil 
 
 The noxious thing, beneath your heel ? 
 
 Night conceals it from our eyes.' 
 
 Ah ! had you taught me to perform 
 
 " Shepherd, they say that to thy sight 
 
 Due labor for the common weal ! 
 
 The secret of yon heaven is clear; 
 
 Then, sheltered from the adverse wind, 
 
 What is, then, that star so bright, 
 
 The worm and ant had learned to grow ; 
 
 Which flies, and flies to disappear? " 
 
 Ay, — then I might have loved my kind ; — 
 
 
 The aged beggar dies your bitter foe ! 
 
 " My child, a man has passed away ; 
 
 
 His star has shed its parting ray : 
 
 
 He, amid a joyous throng, 
 
 THE GARRET. 
 
 Pledged the wine-cup and the song; 
 
 
 Happy, he has closed his eyes 
 
 O, it was here that Love his gifts bestowed 
 
 By the wine to him so dear.' 
 
 On youth's wild age ! 
 
 "Yet another star that flies, — 
 
 Gladly once more I seek my youth's abode, 
 
 That flies, and flies to disappear ! " 
 
 In pilgrimage : 
 
 
 Here my young mistress with her poet dared 
 
 " My child, how pure and beautiful ! 
 
 Reckless to dwell ; 
 
 A gentle girl hatb fled to heaven; 
 
 She was sixteen, I twenty, and we shared 
 
 Happy, and in love most true, 
 
 This attic cell. 
 
 To the tenderest lover given : 
 
 
 Flowerets crown her maiden brow, 
 
 Yes, 't was a garret ! be it known to all, 
 
 Hymen's altar is her bier." 
 
 Here was Love's shrine : 
 
 "Yet another star that flies, — 
 
 There read, in charcoal traced along the wall, 
 
 That flies, and flies to disappear ! " 
 
 The unfinished line. 
 
 
 Here was the board where kindred hearts would 
 
 "Child, the rapid star behold 
 
 blend : 
 
 Of a great lord newly born ; 
 
 The Jew can tell 
 
 Lined with purple and with gold, 
 
 How oft I pawned my watch, to feast a friend 
 
 The empty cradle whence he 's gone 
 
 In attic cell ! 
 
 E'en now the tide of flatteries 
 
 
 Had almost reached his infant ear." 
 
 O, my Lisette's fair form could I recall 
 
 " Yet another star that flies, — 
 
 With fairy wand ! 
 
 That flies, and flies to disappear ! " 
 
 There she would blind the window with her 
 
 
 shawl, — 
 
 " My child, what lightning flash is that ? 
 
 Bashful, yet fond ! 
 
 A favorite has sought repose, 
 
 What though from whom she got her dress I 've 
 
 Who thought himself supremely great, 
 
 since 
 
 When his laughter mocked our woes : 
 
 Learned but too well? 
 
 They his image now despise, 
 
 Still, in those days I envied not a prince, 
 
 Who once worshipped him in fear." 
 
 In attic cell ! 
 
 "Yet another star that flies, — 
 
 
 That flies, and flies to disappear ! " 
 
 Here the glad tidings on our banquet burst, 
 
 
 'Mid the bright bowls : 
 
 " My son, what sorrow must be ours ! 
 
 Yes, it was here Marengo's triumph first 
 
 A generous patron's eyes are dim : 
 
 Kindled our souls ! 
 
 Indigence from others gleans, 
 
 Bronze cannon roared : France with redoubled 
 
 But she harvested on him ; 
 
 might 
 
 This very eve, with tears and sighs, 
 
 Felt her heart swell ! 
 
 The wretched to his roof draw near. 
 
 Proudly we drank our consul's health that night 
 
 "Yet another star that flies, — 
 
 In attic cell ! 
 
 That flies, and flies to disappear ! " 
 
 Dreams of my youthful days ! I d freely give, 
 
 " A mighty monarch's star is dark .' 
 
 Ere my life's close, 
 
 Boy ! preserve thy purity, 
 
 All the dull days I 'm destined yet to live, 
 
 Nor let men thy star remark 
 
 For one of those ! 
 
 For its size or brilliancy : 
 
BE RANGER.— LAM ART I NE. 
 
 487 
 
 Wert thou bright but to their eyes, 
 
 They would say, when death is near, — 
 
 'It is but a star that flies, — 
 
 That flies, and flies to disappear ! ' ' 
 
 LOUIS THE ELEVENTH. 
 
 Our aged king, whose name we breathe in dread, 
 
 Louis, the tenant of yon dreary pile, 
 Designs, in this fair prime of flowers, 't is said, 
 To view our sports, and try if he can smile. 
 Welcome ! sport that sweetens labor ! 
 
 Village maidens, village boys, 
 Neighbour hand in hand with neighbour, 
 Dance we, singing to the tabour, 
 And the saekbut's merry noise ! 
 
 While laughter, love, and song are here abroad, 
 His jealous fears imprison Louis there ; 
 
 He dreads his peers, his people, — ay, his God; 
 But more than all, the mention of his heir. 
 Welcome ! sport that sweetens labor ! &c. 
 
 Look there ! a thousand lances gleam afar, 
 In the warm sunlight of this gentle spring ! 
 
 And, 'midst the clang of bolts, that grate and jar, 
 
 Heard ye the warder's challenge sharply ring? 
 
 Welcome ! sport that sweetens labor ! &c. 
 
 He comes ! he comes ! Alas! this mighty king 
 
 With envy well the hovel's peace may view ; 
 
 See where he stands, a pale and spectral thing, 
 
 And glares askance the serried halberds 
 
 through ! 
 
 Welcome ! sport that sweetens labor ! &c. 
 
 Beside our cottage hearths, how bright and grand 
 Were all our visions of a monarch's air! 
 
 What ! is his sceptre but that trembling hand ? 
 
 Is that his crown, — a forehead seamed by care ? 
 
 Welcome ! sport that sweetens labor ! &c. 
 
 In vain we sing; at yonder distant chime, 
 Shivering, he starts ! — 't was but the village 
 bell ! 
 But evermore the sound that notes the time 
 Strikes to his ear an omen of his knell ! 
 Welcome ! sport that sweetens labor ! &c. 
 
 Alas ! our joys some dark distrust inspire ! 
 
 He flies, attended by his chosen slave : 
 Beware his hate ; and say, " Our gracious sire 
 
 A loving smile to greet his children gave." 
 Welcome ! sport that sweetens labor ! &c. 
 
 THE SONGS OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 Amid the lowly straw-built shed, 
 Long will the peasant seek his glory ; 
 
 And, when some fifty years have fled, 
 The thatch will hear no other story. 
 Around some old and hoary dame 
 The village crowd will oft exclaim, — 
 "Mother, now, till midnight chimes, 
 Tell us tales of other times. 
 
 He wronged us ! say it if they will, 
 The people love his memory still ; — 
 Mother, now the day is dim, 
 Mother, tell us now of him! " 
 
 " My children, in our village here, 
 I saw him once by kings attended ; 
 
 That time has passed this many a year, 
 For scarce my maiden days were ended. 
 On foot he climbed the hill, and nigh 
 To where I watched him passing by : 
 
 Small his hat upon that day, 
 
 And he wore a coat of gray ; 
 And when he saw me shake with dread, 
 ' Good day to you, my dear ! ' he said." 
 
 " O, and, mother, is it true ? 
 
 Mother, did he speak to you ? " 
 
 " From this a year had passed away, 
 Again in Paris' streets I found him : 
 To Notre Dame he rode that day, 
 With all his gallant court around him. 
 All eyes admired the show the while, 
 No face that did not wear a smile : 
 
 ' See how brightly shine the skies ! 
 
 'T is for him ! ' the people cries : 
 And then his face was soft with joy, 
 For God had blessed him with a boy." 
 
 "Mother, O, how glad to see 
 
 Days that must so happy be ! " 
 
 " But when o'er our province ran 
 The bloody armies of the strangers, 
 
 Alone he seemed, that famous man, 
 To fight against a thousand dangers. 
 One evening, just like this one here, 
 I heard a knock that made me fear: 
 
 Entered, when I oped the door, 
 
 He, and guards perhaps a score ; 
 And, seated where I sit, he said, 
 'To what a war have I been led ! ' " 
 
 " Mother, and was that the chair ? 
 
 Mother, was he seated there?" 
 
 " 'Dame, I am hungry,' then he cried; 
 I set our bread and wine before him ; — 
 There at the fire his clothes he dried, 
 And slept while watched his followers o'er 
 him. 
 When with a start he rose from sleep, 
 He saw me in my terror weep, 
 
 And he said, 'Nay, our France is strong 
 Soon I will avenge her wrong.' 
 It is the dearest thing of mine, — 
 The glass in which he drank his wine." 
 " And through change of good and ill, 
 Mother, you have kept it still." 
 
 ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE. 
 
 This richly gifted writer was born at Macon, 
 in 1792. He was educated at the College oj 
 Bellay, which he left in 1809; he then resided 
 
488 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 in Lyons, and in Paris, and twice travelled 
 through Italy. His temper was naturally in- 
 clined to religious seriousness, and this was in- 
 creased by the circumstances of his life and by 
 the condition of his county. The writings of 
 Saint-Pierre and Chateaubriand exercised no 
 little influence upon him. His "Meditations 
 Poetiques " appeared in 1820, and laid the foun- 
 dation of his fame. This was followed by the 
 " Nouvelles Meditations Poetiques " and the 
 " Mort de Socrate," in 1823. In 1825, he pub- 
 lished " Le Dernier Chant du Pelerinage d'Har- 
 old," and the " Chant du Sacre " ; and in 1829, 
 the " Harmonies Poetiques et Religieuses." 
 From 1820 to 1822, Lamartine was Secretary of 
 Legation in Naples, then in the same capacity in 
 London, and in 1825 went to Florence. Having 
 left the service of the state, he lived until the 
 July Revolution alternately in Paris and at the 
 Ch&teau Pierrepoint. In 1829, he was elected 
 into the French Academy. After the Rev- 
 olution, he became a member of the Chamber 
 of Deputies. In 1832, he travelled to Con- 
 stantinople, Syria, and Egypt, and on his return 
 published his observations. The best edition 
 is that in ten volumes, octavo, with illustrations 
 by Johannot and others. 
 
 ON LEAVING FRANCE FOR THE EAST. 
 
 If to the fluttering folds of the quick sail 
 My all of peace and comfort I impart; 
 If to the treacherous tide and wavering gale 
 
 My wife and child I lend, my soul's best part; 
 If on the seas, the sands, the clouds, I cast 
 Fond hopes, and beating hearts I leave be- 
 hind, 
 With no returning pledge beyond a mast 
 That bends with every blast of wind ■ 
 
 'T is nof the paltry thirst of gold could fire 
 A heart that ever glowed with holier flame, 
 
 Nor glory tempt me with the vain desire 
 To gild my memory with a fleeting fame. 
 
 I go not, like the Florentine of old, 
 The bitter bread of banishment to eat ; 
 
 No wave of faction, in its wildest roar, 
 Broke on my calm paternal seat. 
 
 Weeping, I leave on yonder valley's side 
 
 Trees thick with shade, a home, a noiseless 
 plain, 
 Peopled with warm regrets, and dim descried 
 Even here by wistful eyes across the main; 
 Deep in the leafv woods a lone abode, 
 
 Beyond the reach of faction's loud annoy, 
 Whose echoes, even while tempests groaned 
 abroad, 
 Were sounds of blessing, songs of joy. 
 
 There v.'Us a sire, who sees our imaged forms, 
 When through the battlements the breezes 
 sweep, 
 
 And prays to Him who stirs or lays the storms 
 To make his winds glide gentler o'er the deep ; 
 
 There friends, and servants masterless, are try- 
 ing 
 To trace our latest footprints on the sward, 
 And my poor dog, beneath my window lying, 
 Howls when my well known name is 
 heard. 
 
 There sisters dwell, from the same bosom fed, — 
 Boughs which the wind should rock on the 
 same tree ; 
 There friends, the soul's relations, dwell, that 
 read 
 My eye, and knew each thought that dawned 
 in me ; 
 And hearts unknown, that list the Muses' call, — 
 Mysterious friends, that know me in my 
 strain, — 
 Like viewless echoes, scattered over all 
 To render back its tones again. 
 
 But in the soul's unfathomable wells, 
 
 Unknown, inexplicable longings sleep ; 
 Like that strange instinct which the bird impels 
 
 In search of other food athwart the deep. 
 What from those orient climes have they to 
 gain ? 
 Have they not nests as mossy in our eaves, 
 And, for their callow progeny, the grain 
 
 Dropped from a thousand golden sheaves r 
 
 I, too, like them, could find my portion here, 
 Enjoy the mountain slope, the river's foam, — 
 
 My humble wishes seek no loftier sphere ; 
 And yet like them I go, — like them I come. 
 
 Dim longings draw me on and point my path 
 To Eastern sands, to Shem's deserted shore, 
 
 The cradle of the world, where God in wrath 
 Hardened the human heart of yore. 
 
 I have not yet felt on the sea of sand 
 
 The slumberous rocking of the desert bark ; 
 Nor quenched my thirst at eve with quivering 
 hand 
 By Hebron's well, beneath the palm-tree9 
 dark ; 
 Nor in the pilgrim's tent my mantle spread, 
 
 Nor laid me in the dust where Job hath lain, 
 Nor, while the canvass murmured overhead, 
 Dreamed Jacob's mystic dreams again. 
 
 Of the world's pages one is yet unread: — 
 How the stars tremble in Chaldea's sky, 
 With what a sense of nothingness we tread, 
 How the heart beats, when God appears so 
 nigh; — 
 How on the soul, beside some column lone, 
 
 The shadows of old days descend and hover, — 
 How the grass speaks, the earth sends out its 
 moan, 
 And the breeze wails that wanders over. 
 
 I have not heard in the tall cedar-top 
 The cries of nations echo to and fro, 
 
 Nor seen from Lebanon the eagles drop 
 On Tvre's deep-buried palaces below; 
 
LAMARTINE. 
 
 48a 
 
 I have not laid my head upon the ground 
 
 Where Tadmor's temples in the dust decay, 
 Nor startled, with my footfall's dreary sound, 
 The waste where Memnon's empire lay. 
 
 I have not stretched where Jordan's current 
 flows, 
 Heard how the loud-lamenting river weeps, 
 With moans and cries sublimer even than those 
 With which the Mournful Prophet stirred its 
 deeps ; 
 Nor felt the transports which the soul inspire 
 
 In the deep grot, where he, the bard of kings, 
 Felt, at the dead of night, a hand of flame 
 
 Seize on his harp, and sweep the strings. 
 
 I have not wandered o'er the plain, whereon, 
 Beneath the olive-tree, The Saviour wept; 
 Nor traced his tears the hallowed trees upon, 
 
 Which jealous angels have not all outswept ; 
 Nor, in the garden, watched through nights sub- 
 lime, 
 Where, while the bloody sweatwas undergone. 
 The echo of his sorrows and our crime 
 Rung in one listening ear alone. 
 
 Nor have I bent my forehead on the spot 
 
 Where his ascending footstep pressed the clay; 
 Nor worn with lips devout the rock-hewn grot, 
 Where, in his mother's tears embalmed, he 
 lay ; 
 Nor smote my breast on that sad mountain-head, 
 Where, even in death, conquering the Powers 
 of Air, 
 His arms, as to embrace our earth, he spread, 
 And bowed his head, to bless it there. — 
 
 For these I leave my home ; for these I stake 
 
 My little span of useless years below : 
 What matters it, where winter-winds may shake 
 The trunk that yields nor fruit nor foliage 
 now ? 
 Fool ! says the crowd. Theirs is the foolish part ! 
 Not in one spot can the soul's food be found ; — 
 No ! — to the poet thought is bread, — his heart 
 Lives on his Maker's works around. 
 
 Farewell, my sire, my sisters dear, again ! 
 
 Farewell, my walnut-shaded place of birth ! 
 Farewell, my steed, now loitering o'er the plain ! 
 
 Farewell, my dog, now lonely on the hearth ! 
 Tour image haunts me like the shade of bliss, 
 
 Your voices lure me with their fond recall : 
 Soon mav the hour arise, less dark than this, 
 The hour that reunites us all ' 
 
 And thoo, my country, tossed by winds and seas, 
 
 Like this frail bark on which my lot is cast, 
 Big with the world's yet unborn destinies, — 
 
 Adieu ! thy shores glide from my vision past ! 
 O, that some ray would pierce the cloud that 
 broods 
 O'er throne and temple, liberty and thee, 
 And kindle brighter, o'er the restless floods, 
 Thy beacon-light of immortality ! 
 62 
 
 And thou, Marseilles, at France's portals placed, 
 With thy white arms the coming guest to greet, 
 
 Whose haven, gleaming o'er the ocean's breast, 
 Spreads like a nest, each winged mast to meet ; 
 
 Where many a hand beloved now presses mine, 
 Where my foot lingers still, as loth to flee, — 
 
 Thine be my last departing accents, — thine 
 My first returning greeting be ! 
 
 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 When, in my childhood's morning, I rested 
 
 'neath the shade 
 Of the citron or the almond tree, with fruits and 
 
 blossoms weighed, 
 While the loose curls from my forehead were 
 
 lifted by the breeze, 
 Which like a spirit haunteth each living thing 
 
 it sees ; 
 Then, in those golden hours, a whisper soft and 
 
 light 
 Stole on my senses, thrilling each pulse to wild 
 
 delight : 
 'T was not the perfumed zephyr, the dreamy 
 
 pipe's low swell, 
 The tones of cherished kindred, or the distant 
 
 village bell ; 
 O, no, my Guardian Angel, that music in the air 
 Was but thy viewless pinions, that hovered 
 
 round me there ! 
 
 When deeper founts of feeling within my bo- 
 som sprung, 
 And Love, with soft enchantment, its varied 
 
 cadence rung ; 
 When twilight after twilight still found me 
 
 lingering near 
 Ton green and wavy sycamore, to meet with 
 
 one most dear, 
 Whose least caress could liberate the full springs 
 
 of my breast, 
 Whose kiss at every parting gave strange but 
 
 sweet unrest, — 
 Ah ! then the selfsame whisper upon my spirit 
 
 fell: 
 Say, could it be his footsteps, which woke the 
 
 mystic spell ? 
 O, no, my Guardian Angel, who watchest over 
 
 me, 
 My heart returned that echo of sympathy from 
 
 Ihee ! 
 
 And when, in bliss maternal, I clustered round 
 
 my hearth 
 Those blessings God had lent me, to make my 
 
 heaven on earth ; 
 When at my vine-clad portal I watched their 
 
 buoyant glee, 
 As my children, wild with frolic, shook the 
 
 ripe figs from the tree ; 
 E'en then, though half-defined, that voice with 
 
 sweetness fraught 
 Poured out its notes familiar upon my raptured 
 
 thought : 
 
490 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 What moved me then ? — ah ! was it the bird's 
 
 song unrepressed ? 
 Or the breathings of the baby that slumbered 
 
 on my breast? 
 O, no, my Guardian Angel, I felt that thou 
 
 wen near, 
 To echo back the gladness of my heart-music 
 
 clear ' 
 
 And now old age hath planted its snow-crown 
 on my head, 
 
 And, sheltered from the bleak winds that 
 through the forest spread, 
 
 I feed the blazing embers that warm my shrink- 
 ing frame, 
 
 And guard the lambs and children, who scarce 
 can lisp my name ; 
 
 Yet in this withered bosom, as in the days of 
 youth, 
 
 The selfsame voice consoles me with words of 
 love and truth : 
 
 'T is not the joys of childhood that haunt me 
 in my sleep, 
 
 Or the lost tones of the dear one whom even 
 now I weep ; 
 
 O, no, my Guardian Angel, my tried and faith- 
 ful friend, 
 
 It is thy heart that twineth with mine till life 
 shall end ! 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 A hymn more, O my lyre ! 
 
 Praise to the God above, 
 
 Of joy, and life, and love, 
 Sweeping its strings of fire ! 
 
 O, who the speed of bird and wind 
 
 And sunbeam's glance will lend to me, 
 
 That, soaring upward, I may find 
 
 My resting-place and home in Thee ? 
 
 Thou, whom my soul, 'midst doubt and gloom, 
 Adoreth with a fervent flame, — 
 
 Mysterious Spirit ! unto whom 
 Pertain nor sign nor name ! 
 
 Swiftly my lyre's soft murmurs go 
 Up from the cold and joyless earth, 
 
 Back to the God who bade them flow, 
 Whose moving spirit sent them forth : 
 
 But as for me, O God ! for me, 
 The lowly creature of thy will, 
 
 Lingering and sad, I sigh to thee, 
 An earth-bound pilgrim still ! 
 
 Was not my spirit born to shine 
 
 Where yonder stars and suns are glow- 
 
 To breathe with them the light divine, 
 From God's own holy altar flowing? 
 
 To be, indeed, whate'er the soul 
 
 In dreams hath thirsted for so long, — 
 
 A portion of heaven's glorious whole 
 Of loveliness and song? 
 
 O watchers of the stars of night, 
 
 Who breathe their fire, as we the air, — 
 
 Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light, 
 O, say, is He, the Eternal, there ? 
 
 Bend there around his awful throne 
 The seraph's glance, the angel's knee ? 
 
 Or are thy inmost depths his own, 
 O wild and mighty sea : 
 
 Thoughts of my soul ! how swift ye go — 
 Swift as the eagle's glance of fire, 
 
 Or arrows from the archer's bow — 
 To the far aim of your desire ! 
 
 Thought after thought, ye thronging rise, 
 Like spring-doves from the startled wood, 
 
 Bearing like them your sacrifice 
 Of music unto God ! 
 
 And shall there thoughts of joy and love 
 Come back again no more to me, — 
 
 Returning, like the Patriarch's dove, 
 Wing- weary, from the eternal sea, 
 
 To bear within my longing arms 
 
 The promise-bough of kindlier skies, 
 
 Plucked from the green, immortal palms 
 Which shadow paradise ? 
 
 All-moving Spirit ! freely forth, 
 
 At thy command, the strong wind goes 
 
 Its errand to the passive earth ; 
 
 Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose, 
 
 Until it folds its weary wing 
 
 Once more within the hand divine : 
 
 So, weary of each earthly thing, 
 My spirit turns to thine ! 
 
 Child of the sea, the mountain-stream 
 From its dark caverns hurries on 
 
 Ceaseless, by night and morning's beam, 
 By evening's star and noontide's sun, — 
 
 Until at last it sinks to rest, 
 
 O'erwearied, in the waiting sea, 
 
 And moans upon its mother's breast : 
 So turns my soul to thee ! 
 
 O Thou who bidd'st the torrent flow, 
 Who lendest wings unto the wind, — 
 
 Mover of all things ! where art thou ? 
 O, whither shall I go to find 
 
 The secret of thy resting-place ? 
 Is there no holy wing for me, 
 
 That, soaring, I may search the space 
 Of highest heaven for thee? 
 
 O, would I were as free to rise, 
 
 As leaves on autumn's whirlwind borne, 
 The arrowy light of sunset skies, 
 
 Or sound, or ray, or star of morn, 
 Which melts in heaven at twilight's close, 
 Or aught which soars unchecked and 
 free, 
 Through earth and heaven, — that I might 
 lose 
 Myself in finding Thee ! 
 
DELAVIGNE. 
 
 491 
 
 JEAN-FRANCGIS-CASIMIR DELAVIGNE. 
 
 Casimir Delavigne, one of the best known 
 among the recent French poets, was born at 
 Havre, in 1794. He first appeared as a poet 
 in a " Dithyrambe sur la Naissance du Roi de 
 Rome," in 1811. His poem entitled "La De- 
 couverte de la Vaccine " received the first of 
 the secondary prizes from the French Academy. 
 Afterwards he applied himself to dramatic poe- 
 try, and his tragedies, " Les V6pres Siciliennes," 
 and " Le Paria," were favorably received. Love 
 of country inspired his elegies, " Les Trois Mes- 
 seniennes," in which he bewailed the humilia- 
 tion of France; and in the " Nouvelles Messe- 
 niennes " he gives utterance to his feelings up- 
 on the Greek Revolution. A new " Messe- 
 nienne," which appeared in the tenth edition 
 of his " Messeniennes et Poesies Diverses," is 
 consecrated to the memory of Byron. His 
 comedy, " L'Ecole des Vieillards," and the trag- 
 edies, " Marino Faliero," " Louis XL," and " Les 
 Fils d'Edouard," which appeared between 1823 
 and 1833, greatly increased his reputation. In 
 1824, Delavigne was elected a member of the 
 French Academy ; and in 1825, a pension of 
 twelve hundred francs from the civil list, and 
 the cross of the Legion of Honor, were offered 
 him, both of which he declined. He wrote the 
 "Parisienne," which was to the Revolution of 
 July what the " Marseillaise " had been to the 
 old Revolution. He died in 1869. 
 
 BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 
 
 They breathe no longer : let their ashes rest ! 
 
 Clamor unjust and calumny 
 They stooped not to confute ; but flung their 
 breast 
 Against the legions of your enemy, 
 And thus avenged themselves : for you they 
 die. 
 
 Woe to you, woe ! if those inhuman eyes 
 Can spare no drops to mourn your country's 
 weal ; 
 
 Shrinking before your selfish miseries ; 
 Against the common sorrow hard as steel : 
 
 Tremble ! the hand of death upon you lies : 
 You may be forced yourselves to feel. 
 
 But no, — what son of France has spared his 
 tears 
 For her defenders, dying in their fame > 
 Though kings return, desired through lengthen- 
 ing years, 
 What old man's cheek is tinged not with her 
 shame? 
 What veteran, who their fortune's treason hears, 
 Feels not the quickening spark of his old 
 youthful flame ? 
 
 Great Heaven ! what lessons mark that one 
 
 day's page ! 
 What ghastly figures that might crowd an age ! 
 
 How shall the historic Muse record the day, 
 Nor, starting, cast the trembling pen away ? 
 Hide from me, hide those soldiers overborne, 
 Broken with toil, with death-bolts crushed and 
 
 torn, — 
 Those quivering limbs with dust defiled, 
 And bloody corses upon corses piled ; 
 
 Veil from mine eyes that monument 
 
 Of nation against nation spent 
 
 In struggling rage that pants for breath ; 
 
 Spare us the bands thou sparedst, Death ! 
 O Varus ! where the warriors thou hast led? 
 Restore our Legions! — give us back the 
 dead ! 
 
 I see the broken squadrons reel > 
 
 The steeds plunge wild with spurning heel ; 
 
 Our eagles trod in miry gore ; 
 
 The leopard standards swooping o'er; 
 
 The wounded on their slow cars dying; 
 
 The rout disordered, wavering, flying; 
 Tortured with struggles vain, the throng 
 Sway, shock, and drag their shattered mass 
 
 along, 
 And leave behind their long array- 
 Wrecks, corses, blood, — the foot-marks of their 
 way. 
 
 Through whirlwind smoke and flashing 
 flame, — 
 
 O grief! — what sight appalls mine eye ? 
 The sacred band, with generous shame, 
 
 Sole 'gainst an army, pause — to die ! 
 
 Struck with the rare devotion, 't is in vain 
 The foes at gaze their blades restrain, 
 And, proud to conquer, hem them round : the cry 
 Returns, "The guard surrender not! — they 
 die ! " 
 
 T is said, that, when in dust they saw them lie, 
 A reverend sorrow for their brave career 
 
 Smote on the foe : they fixed the pensive eye, 
 And first beheld them undisturbed with fear. 
 
 See, then, these heroes, long invincible, 
 
 Whose threatening features still their con 
 querors brave ; 
 Frozen in death, those eyes are terrible ; 
 
 Feats of the past their deep-scarred brows 
 engrave : 
 For these are they who bore Italia's sun, 
 
 Who o'er Castilia's mountain-barrier passed 
 The North beheld them o'er the rampart run, 
 
 Which frosts of ages round her ussia cast 
 All sank subdued before them, and the date 
 
 Of combats owed this guerdon to their glory, 
 Seldom to Franks denied, — to fall elate 
 
 On some proud day that should survive in 
 story. 
 
 Let us no longer mourn them ; for the pa.m 
 Unwithering shades their features stern and 
 
 calm : 
 Franks ! mourn we for ourselves, — our land's 
 
 disgrace, — 
 The proud, mean passions that divide her race. 
 
492 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 What age so rank in treasons ? to our blood 
 The love is alien of the common good ; 
 Friendship, no more unbosomed, hides her tears, 
 And man shuns man, and each his fellow fears; 
 Scared from her sanctuary, Faith shuddering flies 
 The din of oaths, the vaunt of perjuries. 
 
 O cursed delirium ! jars deplored, 
 
 That yield our home-hearths to the stranger's 
 
 sword ! 
 Our faithless hands but draw the gleaming blade 
 To wound the bosom which its point should aid. 
 
 The strangers raze our fenced walls ; 
 
 The castle stoops, the city falls ; 
 
 Insulting foes their truce forget; 
 
 The unsparing war-bolt thunders yet; 
 
 Flames glare our ravaged hamlets o'er, 
 
 And funerals darken every door ; 
 Drained provinces their greedy prefects rue, 
 Beneath the lilied or the triple hue; ' 
 And Franks, disputing for the choice of power, 
 Dethrone a banner, or proscribe a flower. 
 France ! to our fierce intolerance we owe 
 The ills that from these sad divisions flow; 
 'T is time the sacrifice were made to thee 
 Of our suspicious pride, our civic enmity: 
 Haste, — quench the torches of intestine war; 
 Heaven points the lily as our army's star; 
 Hoist, then, the banner of the white, — some tears 
 May bathe the thrice-dyed flag which Austerlitz 
 endears. 
 
 France ! France ! awake, with one indignant 
 
 mind ! 
 With new-born hosts the throne's dread pre- 
 cinct bind ! 
 Disarmed, divided, conquerors o'er us stand; 
 Present the olive, but the sword in hand. 
 And thou, O people, flushed with our defeat, 
 To whom the mourning of our land is sweet, 
 Thou witness of the death-blow of our brave ! 
 Dream not that France is vanquished to a slave ; 
 Gall not with pride the avengers yet to come : 
 Heaven may remit the chastening of our doom ; 
 A new Germanicus may yet demand 
 Those eagles wrested from our Varus' hand. 
 
 PARTHENOPE AND THE STRANGER. 
 " What wouldst thou, lady ? " "An asylum." 
 
 " Say, 
 What is thy crime?" "None." "Who ac- 
 cuse thee ? " " They 
 Who are ungrateful." " Who thine enemy ? " 
 ' Each whom the succour of my sword set free ; 
 Adored but yesterday, proscribed to-day." 
 " What shall my hospitality repay? " 
 ' A day's short peril ; laws eternal." " Who 
 "Within my city dare thy steps pursue?" 
 'Kings." "When arrive they?" " With the 
 
 morn." " From whence ? " 
 • From every side. Say, shall thy gates' defence 
 Be mine ? " "Yes, enter : but reveal to me 
 Thy name, O stranger ! " "I am Liberty ! " 
 
 Receive her, ramparts old, again ' 
 For ye her dwelling were of yore ; — 
 Receive her 'midst your gods once mo T e, 
 
 O every antique fane : — 
 Rise, shades of heroes ! hover o'er, 
 
 To grace her awful train ! 
 
 Fair sky of Naples, laugh with gladdening fays ! 
 
 Bring forth, O earth, thy hosts on every side ! 
 Sing, O ye people ! hymn the goddess' praise ! 
 
 'T is she for whom Leonidas once died. 
 
 Her brows all idle ornaments refuse ; 
 
 Half-opened flowers compose her diadem ; 
 Reared in Thermopylae with gory dews, 
 
 Not twice a thousand years have tarnished 
 them. 
 
 The wreath immortal sheds a nameless balm, 
 Which courage raptured breathes : in accents 
 calm, 
 
 Yet terrible, her conquering voice disarms 
 The rebel to her sway : her eyes impart 
 A holy transport to the panting heart, 
 
 And virtue only boasts superior charms. 
 
 The people pause around her; and their cries 
 Ask from what cause these kings, forgetting 
 ruth, 
 Cherish their anger : the strange maid replies, 
 
 " Alas ! I told to monarchs truth ! 
 If hate or if imprudence in my name 
 
 Had shook their power, which I would but 
 restrain, 
 Why should I bear the burden of the blame? 
 And are they Germans, who would forge my 
 chain ? 
 
 "Have they forgot, these slaves of yesterday, 
 Who now oppress you with their tyrant sway, 
 How, in sore straitness when to me they cried, 
 I joined their phalanx by Arminius' side? 
 Rallying their tribes, I scooped the blood-tinged 
 
 snows 
 In gaping death-beds for their sinking foes. 
 
 "Avenge ye, gods, that look upon my wrong! 
 
 And may the memory of my bounties past 
 Pursue these ingrates, — dog their scattering 
 throng ! 
 May Odin's sons upon the cloudy blast, 
 With storm-wrapt brows, above them stray, — 
 Glare by them in the lightning's midnight ray ! 
 And may Rome's legions, with whose whiten- 
 ing bones 
 I strewed their plains in ages past, 
 Rise in their sight and chase them to their 
 thrones ! 
 
 "Ha! and does Rome indeed sepulchred lie 
 In her own furrows' crumbling mould ? 
 
 Shall not my foot with ancient potency 
 
 Stamp, and from earth start forth her legions 
 old ? 
 
DELAVIGNE. 
 
 493 
 
 ' Feel'st thou not, Rome, within thy entrails 
 deep, 
 The cold bones shaking, and the spirits stir 
 Of citizens, that, in their marble sleep, 
 Rest under many a trophied sepulchre ? 
 
 " Break, Genoese, your chains ! — the impatient 
 flood 
 Murmurs till ye from worthless sloth have 
 started, 
 And proudly heaves beneath your floating wood, 
 Where streams the flag whose glory is de- 
 parted. 
 
 "Fair widow of the Medici ! be born 
 
 Again, thou noble Florence ! Now unclasp 
 Thy arms to my embrace : from slavery's 
 grasp 
 
 Breathe free in independence's stormy morn ! 
 
 " O Neptune's daughter, Venice ! city fair 
 As Venus, and that didst like her emerge 
 From the foam-silvered, beauty-ravished surge, 
 Let Albion see thee thy shorn beams repair ! 
 Doge, in my name command ! Within your 
 walls 
 Proclaim me, Senate ! Zeno, wake ' 
 Aside thy sleep, Pisani, shake ! — 
 'T is Liberty that calls ! " 
 
 She spoke : and a whole people with one will 
 Caught that arousing voice : the furnace- 
 light 
 Glowed, and the hardening steel grew white ; 
 Against the biting file the edge rang shrill; 
 Far clanged the anvil ; brayed the trumpet; one 
 Furbished his lance, and one his steed's capari- 
 son. 
 
 The father throws his weight of years aside, 
 Accoutring glad the youngest of his sons ; 
 Nor tarries, but his steps outruns, 
 And foremost joins the lines with emulous 
 
 stride : 
 The sister, smiling at his spleen, detains 
 The baby warrior, who the lap disdains, 
 And cries, " I go to die upon the plains ! " 
 
 Then what did they, or might they not have 
 
 done, 
 Whose courage manhood nerved ? or say, could 
 
 one 
 Repose his hope in flight, or fear the death 
 Claimed by the aged and the infant breath ? 
 
 Yes ! — all with common voice exclaimed aloud, 
 " We sit beneath thy laurel, and will guard 
 Its leaves from profanation : take, O bard, 
 Thy lyre, and sing our feats, their best reward ! 
 For Virgil's sacred shroud 
 
 Shall ne'er be spurned by victor footstep proud." 
 
 They marched, this warlike people, in their 
 
 scorn ; 
 And when one moon had filled her horn, 
 
 The oppressor German took his rouse 
 And drained his draughts of Rhenish tranquil- 
 
 ly; 
 
 And they lay round him, sheltered by the 
 boughs 
 
 Of Virgil's laurel-tree. 
 
 With eyes averted, Liberty had fled 
 Parthenope recalled her ; she her head 
 Bent for a moment from the height of air 
 "Thou hast betrayed thy guest: befall thee 
 
 fair!" 
 "Art gone for ever?" "They await me." 
 
 "Where?" 
 "In Greece." "They will pursue thee thith- 
 er too." 
 "Defenders will be found." "They too may 
 
 yield, 
 And numbers then may sweep thee from thy 
 field." 
 " Ay; but 't is possible to die : adieu ! " 
 
 LA PAEISIENNE. 
 
 Gallant nation ! now before you 
 
 Freedom, beckoning onward, stands : 
 Let no tyrant's sway be o'er you, — 
 Wrest the sceptre from his hands ! 
 Paris gave the general cry : 
 Glory, Fame, and Liberty ! 
 Speed, warriors, speed, 
 Though thousands bleed, 
 Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thun 
 dering steed ! 
 Conquest waits, — your foemen die ! 
 
 Keep your serried ranks in order; 
 
 Sons of France, your country calls ! 
 Gory hecatombs accord her, — 
 Well she merits each who falls ! 
 Happy day ! the general cry 
 Echoed naught but Liberty ! 
 Speed, warriors, speed, 
 Though thousands bleed, 
 Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thun 
 dering steed ! 
 Conquest waits, — your foemen die ! 
 
 Vain the shot may sweep along you, 
 Ranks of warriors now displayed ! 
 Youthful generals are among you, 
 By the great occasion made ! 
 Happy day ! the general cry 
 Echoed naught but Liberty ! 
 Speed, warriors, speed, 
 Though thousands bleed, 
 Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thun 
 dering steed ! 
 Conquest waits, — your foemen die 
 
 Foremost, who the Carlist lances 
 With the banner-staff has met? 
 
 Freedom's votary advances, 
 Venerable Lafayette ! 
 
494 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 Happy day ! the general cry 
 Echoed naught but Liberty ! 
 Speed, warriors, speed, 
 Though thousands bleed, 
 Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thun- 
 dering steed ! 
 Conquest waits, — your foemen die ! 
 
 Triple dyes again combining, 
 
 See the squadrons onward go ! 
 In the country's heaven shining, 
 Mark the various-colored bow ! 
 Happy day ! the general cry 
 Echoed naught but Liberty ! 
 Speed, warriors, speed, 
 Though thousands bleed, 
 Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thun- 
 dering steed ! 
 Conquest waits, — your foemen die ! 
 
 Heroes of that banner gleaming, 
 Ye, who bore it in the fray, — 
 Orleans' troops ! your blood was streaming 
 Freely on that fatal day ! 
 From the page of history 
 We have learned the general cry ! 
 Speed, warriors, speed, 
 Though thousands bleed, 
 Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thun- 
 dering steed ! 
 Conquest waits, — your foemen die ! 
 
 Muffled drum, thy music lonely 
 
 Answers to the mourner's sighs ! 
 Laurels, for the valiant only, 
 Ornament their obsequies ! 
 Sacred fane of Liberty, 
 Let their memories never die ! 
 Bear to his grave 
 Each warrior brave 
 Who fell in Freedom's cause, his country's 
 rights to save, 
 Crowned with fame and victory ! 
 
 VICTOR-MARIE HUGO. 
 
 Victor-Marie Hugo was born February 
 26th, 1802, at Besancjon. Several years of his 
 childhood were passed in Elba; then two years 
 in Paris ; then two years in the Neapolitan dis- 
 trict of Avellino, where his father was governor ; 
 again in Paris, where his mother superintended 
 his education in strict privacy. In 1811, he 
 went to Madrid, where he passed a year ; and 
 in 1815, entered the College Louis-le-Grand. 
 He already began to meditate the plans of sev- 
 eral tragedies. In 1817, he wrote a poem, " Sur 
 les Avantages de l'Etude," for the Academy's 
 prize ; which, however, he failed to obtain. In 
 1819, he gained two prizes from the Academy 
 of the Floral Games. The first volume of his 
 lyrical poems appeared in 1822. Louis the 
 Eighteenth bestowed on the young poet a pen- 
 
 sion of three thousand francs, which enabled him 
 to marry in 1823. He was soon acknowledged 
 as the leader of the Romantic School in France, 
 and as such has been assailed with unexampled 
 violence by the Classicists. Besides his lyrical 
 poems, of which several collections have ap- 
 peared, Victor Hugo has published novels, the 
 most celebrated of which is " Notre Dame de 
 Paris." His dramas, " Cromwell," " Hernani," 
 " Marion Delorme," " Triboulet, ou le Roi 
 s'amuse," "Lucrece Borgia," and "Marie Tu- 
 dor," are full of vigorous and striking passages. 
 He published, in 1834, a collection of miscella- 
 neous writings, entitled " Litterature et Philoso- 
 phic Mdlees." The collections of his lyrical 
 poems are, " Odes et Ballades," " Les Orien- 
 tales," " Chants du Cr^puscules," " Les Feuilles 
 d'Automne," "Les Rayons et les Ombres," and 
 " Voix Interieures." 
 
 Victor Hugo stands undoubtedly at the head 
 of the modern French poets. In vigor of thought 
 and splendor of diction, in beauty and variety 
 of poetical illustration, he is unrivalled by any 
 of his contemporaries. At the same time it 
 must be admitted that he often falls into extrav- 
 agance, and has written much that a purer taste 
 condemns. 
 
 INFANCY. 
 
 In the dusky alcove, 
 
 Near the altar laid, 
 Sleeps the child in shadow 
 
 Of his mother's bed ; 
 Softly he reposes, 
 And his lids of roses, 
 Closed to earth, uncloses 
 
 On the heaven o'erhead. 
 
 Many a dream is with him, 
 
 Fresh from fairy land : 
 Spangled o'er with diamonds 
 
 Seems the ocean sand ; 
 Suns are gleaming there ; 
 Troops of ladies fair 
 Souls of infants bear 
 
 In their charming hand. 
 
 O enchanting vision ! 
 
 Lo ! a rill upsprings, 
 And from out its bosom 
 
 Comes a voice that sings. 
 Lovelier there appear 
 Sire and sisters dear, 
 While his mother near 
 
 Plumes her new-born wings. 
 
 But a brighter vision 
 
 Yet his eyes behold : 
 Roses all and lilies 
 
 Every path unfold ; 
 Lakes in shadow sleeping, 
 Silver fishes leaping, 
 And the waters creeping 
 
 Through the reeds of gold. 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 495 
 
 Slumber on, sweet infant, 
 
 Slumber peacefully ! 
 Thv young soul knows not 
 
 What thy lot may be. 
 Like dead leaves tha sweep 
 Down the stormy deep, 
 Thou art borne in sleep : 
 
 What is all to thee ? 
 
 Innocent! thou sleepest ' — 
 See ! the heavenly band, 
 
 Who foreknow the trials 
 That for man are planned, 
 
 Seeing him unarmed, 
 
 Unfearing, unalarm*d. 
 
 With their tears have warmed 
 His unconscious hand. 
 
 Angels, hovering o'er him, 
 Kiss him where he lies ; 
 
 Hark ! he sees them weeping : 
 " Gabriel ! " he cries; 
 
 " Hush ! " the angel says, 
 
 On his lip he lays 
 
 One finger, and displays 
 His native skies. 
 
 HER NAME. 
 
 A lily s pure perfume ; a halo's light ; 
 
 The evening's voices mingling soft above ; 
 The hour's mysterious farewell in its flight; 
 
 The plaintive story told 
 By a dear friend who grieves, yet is consoled ; 
 
 The sweet, soft murmur of a kiss of love ; 
 
 The scarf, seven-tinted, which the hurricane 
 Leaves in the clouds, a trophy to the sun ; 
 The well remembered tone, 
 Which, scarcely hoped for, meets the ear again ; 
 The pure wish of a virgin heart ; the beam 
 That hovers o'er an infant's earliest dream ; 
 
 The voices of a distant choir ; the sighs 
 
 That fabulous Memnon breathed of yore to 
 greet 
 The coming dawn; the tone whose murmurs 
 
 rise, 
 Then, with a cadence tremulous, expire; — 
 
 These, and all else the spirit dreams of sweet, 
 Are not so sweet as her sweet name, O lyre ! 
 
 Pronounce it very softly, like a prayer ; 
 
 Tet be it heard, the burden of the song : 
 Ah ! let it be a sacred li?ht to shine 
 In the dim fane; the secret word, which there 
 
 Trembles for ever on one faithful tongue, 
 In the lone, shadow)' silence of the shrine. 
 
 But O, or e'er, in words of flame, 
 My Muse, unmindful, with the meaner crowd 
 Of names, by worthless pride revealed aloud, 
 
 Should dare to blend the dear and honored 
 name, 
 
 By fond affection set apart, 
 
 And hidden, like a treasure, in my heart , 
 
 My strain, soft-syllabled, should meet the ear 
 Like sacred music heard upon the knees ; 
 The air should vibrate to its harmonies, 
 As if, light-hovering in the atmosphere, 
 An angel, viewless to the mortal eye, 
 With his fine pinions shook it, rustling nigh 
 
 THE VEIL. 
 
 SISTER. 
 
 What ails, what ails you, brothers dear? 
 
 Those knitted brows why cast ye down? 
 Why gleams that light of deathly fear 
 
 'Neath the dark shadows of your frown? 
 Torn are your girdles' crimson bands; 
 
 And thrice already have I seen, 
 Half-drawn within your shuddering hands, 
 
 Glitter your poniards' naked sheen. 
 
 ELDEST BROTHER. 
 
 Sister, hath not to-day thy veil upraised been ' 
 
 As I returned from the bath, — 
 
 From the bath, brothers, I returned, — 
 By the mosque led my homeward path, 
 
 And fiercely down the hot noon burned ; 
 In my uncovered palanquin, 
 
 Safe from all eye of infidel, 
 I gasped for air, — I dreamed no sin, — 
 
 My veil a single instant fell. 
 
 SECOND BROTHER. 
 
 was passing r — in 
 sister, tell ! 
 
 green 
 
 caftan ? — 
 
 SISTER. 
 
 Yes, yes, — perhaps ; — but his bold eye 
 
 Saw not the blush upon my cheek. — 
 Why speak ye thus aside? O, why, 
 
 Brothers, aside do ye thus speak ? 
 Will ye mv blood ? — O, hear me swear, 
 
 He saw me not, — he could not see ! 
 Meroy ! — will ye refuse to spare 
 
 Weak woman helpless on her knee? 
 
 THIRD BROTHER. 
 
 When sank the sun to-night, in robe of re i 
 was he ! 
 
 sis:er. 
 Mercy ! — O, grrmt me, grant me grace : — 
 
 O God ! four poniards in nry side ! — 
 Ah ! by your knees wnich I embrace ! — 
 
 My veil ! my veil of snowy pride ! — 
 Fly me not now ! — in Liood I swim ! 
 
 Support, support my sinking head ! 
 For o'er my eyes, now dark and dim, 
 
 Brothers, the veil of death is spread. 
 
 FOURTH BROTHER. 
 
 That veil, at least, is one thou ne'er shalt lifl 
 again ' 
 
496 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 THE DJINNS. 
 
 Town, tower, 
 Shore, deep, 
 Where lower 
 Cliffs steep ; 
 Waves gray, 
 Where play 
 Winds gay, — 
 All sleep. 
 
 Hark ! a sound, 
 Far and slight, 
 Breathes around 
 On the night : 
 High and higher, 
 Nigh and nigher, 
 Like a fire 
 Roaring bright. 
 
 Now on 't is sweeping 
 
 With rattling beat, 
 
 Like dwarf imp leaping 
 
 In gallop fleet : 
 
 He flies, he prances, 
 
 In frolic fancies, 
 
 On wave-crest dances 
 
 With pattering feet. 
 
 Hark, the rising swell, 
 With each nearer burst ! 
 Like the toll of bell 
 Of a convent cursed ; 
 Like the billowy roar 
 On a storm-lashed shore, — 
 Now hushed, now once more 
 Maddening to its worst. 
 
 O God ! the deadly sound 
 Of the Djinns' fearful cry ! 
 Quick, 'neath the spiral round 
 Of the deep staircase fly ! 
 See, see our lamplight fade ! 
 And of the balustrade 
 Mounts, mounts the circling shade 
 Up to the ceiling high ! 
 
 'T is the Djinns' wild streaming swarm 
 Whistling in their tempest-flight ; 
 Snap the tall yews 'neath the storrrf, 
 Like a pine-flame crackling bright. 
 Swift and heavy, lo, their crowd 
 Through the heavens rushing loud, 
 Like a livid thunder-cloud 
 With its bolt of fiery night ! 
 
 Ha ! they are on us, close without ! 
 Shut tigat the sheJter where we lie ! 
 With hideous din the monster rout, 
 Dragon and vamoire, fill the sky ! 
 The loosened 1 after overhead 
 Trembles and bends like quivering reed ; 
 Shakes the old door with shuddering dread, 
 As from its rusty hinge 't would fly ! 
 
 Wild cries of hell ! voices that howl and shriek! 
 The horrid swarm before the tempest tossed — 
 O Heaven ! — descends my lowly roof to seek: 
 Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host. 
 
 Totters the house, as though, like dry leaf shorn 
 From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne, 
 Up from its deep foundations it were torn 
 To join the stormy whirl. Ah ! all is lost ! 
 
 O Prophet ! if thy hand but now 
 
 Save from these foul and hellish things, 
 
 A pilgrim at thy shrine I '11 bow, 
 
 Laden with pious offerings. 
 
 Bid their hot breath its fiery rain 
 
 Stream on my faithful door in vain, 
 
 Vainly upon my blackened pane 
 
 Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings! 
 
 They have passed ! — and their wild legi )< 
 Cease to thunder at my door ; 
 Fleeting through night's rayless region, 
 Hither they return no more. 
 Clanking chains and sounds of woe 
 Fill- the forests as they go ; 
 And the tall oaks cower low, 
 Bent their flaming flight before. 
 
 On ! on ! the storm of wings 
 Bears far the fiery fear, 
 Till scarce the breeze now brings 
 Dim murmurings to the ear ; 
 Like locusts' humming hail, 
 Or thrash of tiny flail 
 Plied by the pattering hail 
 On some old roof-tree near. 
 
 Fainter now are borne 
 Fitful mutterings still ; 
 As, when Arab horn 
 Swells its magic peal, 
 Shoreward o'er the deep 
 Fairy voices sweep, 
 And the infant's sleep 
 Golden visions fill. 
 
 Each deadly Djinn, 
 Dark child of fright, 
 Of death and sin, 
 Speeds the wild flight 
 Hark, the dull moan, 
 Like the deep tone 
 Of ocean's groan, 
 Afar, by night ! 
 
 More and more 
 Fades it now, 
 As on shore 
 Ripple's flow, — 
 As the plaint 
 Far and faint 
 Of a saint 
 Murmured low. 
 
 Hark 1 hist! 
 Around, 
 I list ! 
 The bounds 
 Of space 
 All trace 
 Efface 
 Of sound. 
 
VICTOR HUGO. — TASTU. 
 
 497 
 
 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing 
 o'er the wave ; 
 At the cool casement, to the evening breeze 
 
 flung wide, 
 Leans the sultana, and delights to watch the 
 tide, 
 With band of silvery sheen, yon sleeping islets 
 lave. 
 
 From her hand as it falls, vibrates her light 
 guitar ; — 
 She listens, — hark, that sound that echoes 
 
 dull and low ! 
 Is it the beat upon the Archipelago 
 Of some deep galley's oar, from Scio bound afar ? 
 
 Is it the cormorants, whose black wings, one by 
 one, 
 Cut the blue wave that o'er them breaks in 
 
 liquid pearls ? 
 Is it some hovering djinn with whistling 
 scream that hurls 
 Down to the deep from yon old tower each 
 loosened stone ? 
 
 Who thus disturbs the tide near the seraglio ? 
 'T is no dark cormorants upon the sea that 
 
 float, — 
 'T is no dull plunge of stones, — no oars of 
 Turkish boat 
 With measured beat along the water sweeping 
 slow. 
 
 'T is heavy sacks, borne each by voiceless 
 eunuch slave ; 
 And could you dare to sound the depth of 
 
 yon dark tide, 
 Something like human form would stir within 
 its side, 
 bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er 
 the wave. 
 
 THE SACK OF THE CITY. 
 
 Thy will, O King, is done ! Lighting but to 
 consume, 
 The roar of the fierce flames drowned even 
 the shouts and shrieks; 
 Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of 
 bloody doom, 
 Seemed they in joyous flight to dance above 
 their wrecks. 
 
 Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed 
 on high, 
 Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his 
 streaming steel ; 
 Prostrate the palaces huge tombs of fire lie, 
 While gathering overhead the vultures scream 
 and wheel. 
 
 Died the pale mothers ; — and the virgins, from 
 their arms, 
 O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young 
 years' blight ; 
 
 63 
 
 With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quiv- 
 ering charms 
 At our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in 
 mocking flight. 
 
 Lo, where the city lies mantled in pall of 
 death ! 
 Lo, where thy mighty arm hath passed, all 
 things must bend ! 
 As* the priests prayed, the sword stopped their 
 accursed breath, — 
 Vainly their sacred book for shield did they 
 extend. 
 
 Some infants yet survived, and the unsated 
 steel 
 Still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of 
 Christian hound. 
 To kiss thy sandal's foot, O King, thy people 
 kneel, 
 With golden circlet to thy glorious ankle 
 bound. 
 
 EXPECTATION. 
 
 Squirrel, mount yon oak so high, 
 To its twig that next the sky 
 
 Bends and trembles as a flower! 
 Strain, O stork, thy pinion well, — 
 From thy nest 'neath old church-bell, 
 Mount to yon tall citadel, 
 
 And its tallest donjon tower ' 
 
 To yon mountain, eagle old, 
 
 Mount, whose brow so white and cold 
 
 Kisses the last ray of even ! 
 And, O thou that lov'st to mark 
 Morn's first sunbeam pierce the dark, 
 Mount, O, mount, thou joyous lark, 
 
 Joyous lark, O, mount to heaven ! 
 
 And now say, from topmost bough, 
 Towering shaft, and peak of snow, 
 
 And heaven's arch, — O, can ye see 
 One white plume that like a star 
 Streams along the plain afar, 
 And a steed that from the war 
 
 Bears my lover back to me ? 
 
 AMABLE TASTU. 
 
 Madame Tastu is one of the most pleasing 
 and elegant of the living poets of France. Her 
 style is rich and copious, and frequently sug- 
 gests the impassioned manner and stately dic- 
 tion of Mrs. Hemans. The pieces entitled "La 
 Mort " and " L'Ange Gardien " are among her 
 best and most vigorous productions. Her works 
 are very popular. The sixth edition was pub- 
 lished in 1838, with vignettes after the designs 
 of Johannot. 
 
 pp2 
 
4J8 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 LEAVES OF THE WILLOW-TREE. 
 
 The air was pleasant; the last autumn day 
 With its sad parting tore away 
 
 The garland from the tree : 
 I looked, and, lo ! before me passed 
 The sun, the autumn, life, at last, — 
 
 One company ! 
 
 Sitting alone a mossy trunk beside, • 
 
 The presence of the evil days to hide 
 
 From my heart I sought ; 
 Upon the stream, amid my musing grief, 
 Silently fell a withered leaf: 
 
 I looked, and thought ! 
 
 Over my head an ancient willow-tree, — 
 My hand, all indolent and listlessly, 
 
 A green bough taketh ; 
 The light leaves casting, one by one, 
 I watch, as on the stream they run, 
 
 The course each taketh. 
 
 folly of my fancy's idle play ! 
 
 1 asked each broken fragment, on its way, 
 
 Of future years : 
 Linked to thy fortune, let me see 
 What is my fate of life to be, — 
 
 Gladness, or tears ? 
 
 One moment only in my longing sight, 
 Like a bark that glideth in the light 
 
 Upon the main, 
 The billow hurls it 'gainst the shore, 
 The little leaf returns no more, — 
 
 I wait in vain. 
 
 Another leaf upon the stream I throw, 
 Seeking my fond lute's fate to know, 
 
 If fair it be : 
 Vainly I look for miracles to-day; 
 My oracle the wind hath borne away, 
 
 And hope from me ! 
 
 Upon this water where my fortune dieth, 
 Mj song upon the zephyr's pinion flieth, 
 
 The wild wind's track : 
 O, shall I cast a vow more dear 
 Upon this faithless stream ? My hand, with 
 fear, 
 
 Hath started back ! 
 
 My feeble heart its weakness knoweth well, 
 Yet cannot banish that dark, gloomy spell, — 
 
 That vague affright : 
 The sick heart heedeth each mysterious thing : 
 About my soul the clouds are gathering, 
 
 Blacker than night ! 
 
 The green bough falleth from my hands to 
 
 earth : 
 Mournfully I turned unto my hearth, 
 
 Yet slow and ill ; 
 And in the night, around that willow-tree 
 And its prophetic leaves my memory 
 
 Did wander still. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Embarking on the sea of life, 
 
 The infant smiles at coming years ; 
 But Death is there ! and, like a small, thin cloud, 
 Upon the horizon's edge appears, — 
 Seen only by the mother's eye, 
 Which ever watcheth fearfully : 
 He laugheth in his cradle of delight, 
 His lovely morning thinkelh not of night: 
 
 Death is there ! when in the hands of Time 
 The sands of infancy are running by, 
 
 The veiled phantom riseth up 
 Unto youth's affrighted eye; 
 
 In the bosom of his play, 
 A sudden restlessness doth bring, 
 
 Even from wisdom's flowery way, 
 His heart back to that fearful thing : 
 Slowly falleth back the veil from that dark 
 visioning ! — 
 There is an hour, when from our blinded youth 
 The drunkenness of empty dreaming flies, — 
 An hour of mourning, when the voice of grief 
 Draweth the first tear from our shaded eyes : 
 All earth unmantleth itself to sight: 
 Death is there! but Death appeareth bright ; 
 'T is a young angel, in his bearing sweet, 
 With a light mourner-garment folded round ; 
 With pale, pale flowers his shining head is 
 crowned, 
 And like a friend he cometh nigh to greet; 
 No sound of fear is following his feet; 
 His pure hand presseth from the torch of life 
 
 Its mortal brightness on the ground; 
 His face doth breathe a slumber upon pain, — 
 He smiles, and pointeth to the heaven around. 
 The daylight gleameth on our hearts forlorn, 
 And, shaking off the vapors of the morn, 
 The angel waxeth mightier, and proud 
 From behind the fading cloud 
 His forehead towereth up in scorn ! 
 He strideth forward, and men's spirits quake ! 
 His mighty hand unfolds itself, to take 
 The towers in his path, — the warrior in his mail ' 
 Then it is that Death doth make the heart grow 
 
 pale ; 
 He cometh nigh, and towereth ceaselessly. — 
 The soul beholds the boundary of its way ; 
 Already 'neath the stooping shadow it depart- 
 eth, 
 The dying light of eve without another day ! 
 The weight of age upon our neck doth hang : 
 
 Death is there ! by years and sorrow bowed, 
 While we are kneeling at his dreadful feet, 
 
 His face is hidden in a cloud ; 
 But if the darkness from our sight the spec<M 
 
 hide, 
 We feel its presence all around, — on every sida. 
 
 And I shall die ! yea, time shall bring 
 
 The sad and lonely day, — 
 A day of silence, whence returns not 
 
 The music of my bosom's lay : 
 Yea, when the joys the future keepeth 
 Shall seek me, earth will know me not; 
 
BARBIER. 
 
 499 
 
 A flower, a lonely flower, that dieth 
 
 In some green woodland spot ; 
 
 A little perfume, and a few pale leaves, 
 
 To keep my memory unforgot. 
 
 THE ECHO OF THE HARP. 
 
 Poor poet-harp ! upon the wall suspended, 
 
 Thou sleepest, in that silence long unbroke! 
 The night-wind, with its cold and wandering 
 breath, 
 
 Upon thy chord a whisper hath awoke. 
 So sleepetk in my breast this hidden lyre, 
 
 Untouched save by the Muse's hand alone ; 
 Then, when a mighty word, a dream, a thought, 
 
 A pilgrim fancy, lovely in its tone, 
 Shaketh the flowers from its passing wing, 
 
 It vibrates suddenly: the sound that leapeth 
 Into the clouds my bosom doth not hear, — 
 
 The echo of that sound alone it keepeth. 
 
 AUGUSTE BARBIER. 
 
 Of this vigorous poet, a writer in the " For- 
 eign Quarterly Review" (No. LXI.) says, — 
 "It was shortly after the Revolution of July, 
 that Auguste Barbier, then a very young man, 
 brought out the poem, which, his contempora- 
 ries agree, at once raised him to the rank he 
 has since held. This poem was ' La Curee.' 
 He followed up his success by other volumes, 
 which had also the seal of originality upon them. 
 Barbier is not what is ordinarily called a de- 
 scriptive poet, and seldom a poet of tenderness. 
 His inspiration is not of the mountain or the 
 forest ; the outward forms of the grand and the 
 beautiful are not necessary to its awakening ; 
 he has found it most in the thick of cities, — in 
 truth, always. He is not a bard of soft num- 
 bers, but to be noted chiefly for the characteris- 
 tic boldness and manly vigor he has thrown 
 into a form of verse not commonly deemed sus- 
 ceptible of either. Always harmonious he is 
 not, but for the most part he is something bet- 
 ter. He selects the word of his thought; it 
 veils slightly, or lays wholly bare ; but it is 
 truth which is below, and sometimes in her 
 rudest nakedness. He is a child of the Paris 
 he knows so well and has portrayed so truly." 
 
 THE BRONZE STATUE OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 Come, stoker, come, more coal, more fuel, heap 
 
 Iron and copper at our need, — 
 Come, your broad shovel and your long arms 
 steep, 
 
 Old Vulcan, in the forge you feed ! 
 To your wide furnace be full portion thrown, — 
 
 To bid her sluggish teeth to grind, 
 Tear, and devour the weight which she doth 
 own, 
 
 A fire-palace she must find. 
 
 'T is well, — 't is here ! the flame, wide, wild, 
 intense, 
 
 Unsparing, and blood-colored, flung 
 From the vault down, where the assaults com- 
 mence 
 
 With lingot up to lingot clung, 
 And bounds and howlings of delirium born, — 
 
 Lead, copper, iron, mingled well, 
 All twisting, lengthening, and embraced, and 
 torn, . 
 
 And tortured, like the damned in hell. 
 The work is done ! the spent flame burns no 
 more, 
 
 The furnace fires smoke and die, 
 The iron flood boils over. Ope the door, 
 
 And let the haughty one pass by ! 
 Roar, mighty river, rush upon your course, 
 
 A bound, — and, from your dwelling past, 
 Dash forward, like a torrent from its source, 
 
 A flame from the volcano cast ! 
 To gulp your lava-waves earth's jaws extend, 
 
 Your fury in one mass fling forth, — 
 In your steel mould, O Bronze, a slave descend, 
 
 An emperor return to earth ! 
 Again Napoleon, — 't is his form appears ! 
 
 Hard soldier in unending quarrel, 
 Who cost so much of insult, blood, and tears, 
 
 For only a few boughs of laurel ! 
 
 For mourning France it was a day of grief, 
 
 When, down from its high station flung, 
 His mighty statue, like some shameful thief, 
 
 In coils of a vile rope was hung; 
 When we beheld at the grand column's base, 
 
 And o'er a shrieking cable bowed, 
 The stranger's strength that mighty bronze dis 
 place 
 
 To hurrahs of a foreign crowd ; 
 When, forced by thousand arms, head-foremost 
 thrown, 
 
 The proud mass cast in monarch mould 
 Made sudden fall, and on the hard, cold stone 
 
 Its iron carcass sternly rolled. 
 The Hun, the stupid Hun, with soiled, rank skin. 
 
 Ignoble fury in his glance, 
 The emperor's form the kennel's filth within 
 
 Drew after him, in face of France ! 
 On those within whose bosoms hearts hold reign, 
 
 That hour like remorse must weigh 
 On each French brow, — 't is the eternal stain, 
 
 Which only death can wash away ! 
 I saw, where palace-walls gave shade and ease, 
 
 The wagons of the foreign force ; 
 I saw then strip the bark which clothed our 
 truco, 
 
 To cast it to thoir hungry horse. 
 I saw the Northman, with his savage lip, 
 
 Bruising our flesh till black with gore, 
 Our bread devour, — on our nostrils sip 
 
 The air which was our awn before ' 
 
 In the abasement and the pain, — the weight 
 Of outrages no words make known, — 
 
 I charged one only being with my hate ■ 
 Be thou accursed, Napoleon ' 
 
500 
 
 FRENCH POETRY. 
 
 O lank-haired Corsican, your France was fair, 
 
 In the full sun of Messidor ! 
 She was a tameless and a rebel mare, 
 
 Nor steel bit nor gold rein she bore ; 
 Wild steed with rustic flank; — yet, while she 
 trod, — 
 
 Reeking with blood of royalty, 
 But proud with strong foot striking the old 
 sod, 
 
 At last, and for the first time, free, — 
 Never a hand, her virgin form passed o'er, 
 
 Left blemish nor affront essayed; 
 And never her broad sides the saddle bore, 
 
 Nor harness by the stranger made. 
 A noble vagrant, — with coat smooth and bright, 
 
 And nostril red, and action proud, — 
 As high she reared, she did the world affright 
 
 With neighings which rang long and loud. 
 You came ; her mighty loins, her paces scanned, 
 
 Pliant and eager for the track ; 
 Hot Centaur, twisting in her mane your hand, 
 
 You sprang all booted to her back. 
 Then, as she loved the war's exciting sound, 
 
 The smell of powder and the drum, 
 You gave her Earth for exercising ground, 
 
 Bade Battles as her pastimes come ! 
 Then, no repose for her, — no nights, no sleep ! 
 
 The air and toil for evermore ! 
 And human forms like unto sand crushed deep, 
 
 And blood which rose her chest before ! 
 Through fifteen years her hard hoofs' rapid 
 course 
 
 So ground the generations, 
 And she passed smoking in her speed and 
 force 
 
 Over the breast of nations ; 
 Till, — tired in ne'er earned goal to place vain 
 trust, 
 
 To tread a path ne'er left behind, 
 T o knead the universe and like a dust 
 
 To uplift scattered human kind, — 
 Feebly and worn, and gasping as she trode, 
 
 Stumbling each step of her career, 
 She craved for rest the Corsican who rode. 
 
 But, torturer ! you would not hear; 
 You pressed her harder with your nervous 
 thigh, 
 
 You tightened more the goading bit, 
 Choked in her foaming mouth her frantic cry, 
 
 And brake her teeth in fury-fit. 
 She rose, — but the strife came. From farther 
 fall 
 
 Saved not the curb she could not know, — 
 She went down, pillowed on the cannon-ball, 
 
 And thou wert broken by the blow ! 
 
 Now born again, from depths where thou wert 
 hurled, 
 
 A radiant eagle dost thou rise; 
 Winging thy flight again to rule the world, 
 
 Thine image reascends the skies. 
 No longer now the robber of a crown, — 
 
 The insolent usurper, — he, 
 With cushions of a throne, unpitying, down 
 
 Who pressed the throat of Liberty, — 
 
 Old slave of the Alliance, sad and lone, 
 
 Who died upon a sombre rock, 
 And France's image until death dragged on 
 
 For chain, beneath the stranger's stroke. — 
 Napoleon stands, unsullied by a stain : 
 
 Thanks to- the flatterer's tuneful race, 
 The lying poets who ring praises vain, 
 
 Has Caesar 'mong the gods found place ! 
 His image to the city-walls gives light; 
 
 His name has made the city's hum, — 
 Still sounded ceaselessly, as through the fight 
 
 It echoed farther than the drum. 
 From the high suburbs, where the people crowd, 
 
 Doth Paris, an old pilgrim now, 
 Each day descend to greet the pillar jroud, 
 
 And humble there his monarch brov; — 
 The arms encumbered with a mortal w eath, 
 
 With flowers for that bronze's pall, 
 (No mothers look on, as they pass bene fc, — 
 
 It grew beneath their tears so tall !) — 
 In working-vest, in drunkenness of soul, 
 
 Unto the fife's and trumpet's tone, 
 Doth joyous Paris dance the Carmagnole 
 
 Around the great Napoleon. 
 
 Thus, Gentle Monarchs, pass unnoted on ! 
 
 Mild Pastors of Mankind, away ! 
 Sages, depart, as common brows have gone, 
 
 Devoid of the immortal ray ! 
 For vainly you make light the people's chain; 
 
 And vainly, like a calm flock, come 
 On your own footsteps, without sweat or pain, 
 
 The people, — treading towards their tomb. 
 Soon as your star doth to its setting glide, 
 
 And its last lustre shall be given 
 By your quenched name, — upon the popular tide 
 
 Scarce a faint furrow shall be riven. 
 Pass, pass ye on ! For you no statue high ! 
 
 Your names shall vanish from the horde: 
 Their memory is for those who lead to die 
 
 Beneath the cannon and the sword ; 
 Their love, for him who on the humid field 
 
 By thousands lays to rot their bones ; 
 For him, who bids them pyramids to build, — 
 
 And bear upon their backs the stones ! 
 
 SONNET TO MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 'T is well to hold in Good our faith entire, 
 
 Rejecting doubt, refusing to despond, 
 Believing, beneath skies of gloom and fire, 
 
 In splendors of aerial worlds beyond : 
 As erst, when gangs of infamy inhuman, 
 
 At Freedom striking still through freemen's 
 lives, 
 
 Her great support devoted to their knives, 
 The Soul of Gironde, an inspired woman ! 
 
 Serene of aspect, and unmoved of eye, 
 Round the stern car which bare her on to die, 
 
 A brutal mob applauded to the crime. 
 But vain beside the pure the vile might be ! 
 
 Her heart despaired not; and her lip sublime 
 Blessed thee unto the last, O sainted Liberty ! 
 
ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETBY. 
 
 Like the French and Spanish, the Italian is 
 a branch of that wide-spread and not very uni- 
 form Romana Rustica, which was formed by 
 the intermingling of barbaric words and idioms 
 with the Lower Latinity of Italy, France, and 
 Spain, and which prevailed in the earlier part 
 of the Middle Ages, with many local forms and 
 peculiarities, through a large portion of the 
 South of Europe.* 
 
 * In regard to the origin of the Italian language, three 
 different theories have been brought forward by Italian 
 writers. 
 
 I. Leonardo Bruni, surnamed I'Aretino. from Arezzo, the 
 place of his birth, a writer of the fifteenth century, and the 
 first among his countrymen who treated of this subject, 
 maintains that the Italian language is coeval with the 
 Latin; that both were used at the same time in ancient 
 Rome, — the Latin by the learned in their writings and 
 public discourses, and the Italian by the populace, and in 
 familiar conversation. Cardinal Bembo and Francesco Sa- 
 verio Quadrio have since maintained the same opinion. 
 In proof of their theory, these writers cite the language of 
 the plebeian personages in the comedies of Plautus and 
 Terence. There they find many words and expressions, 
 which bear some resemblance to the modern Italian, and 
 which have never gained admittance into the works of 
 other classic writers; and from these, and some interchange 
 of letters, such as the use of o for e, as in vostris for res- 
 iris, and v for 6, as in vellum for helium, they draw the 
 conclusion, that, as the vulgar Latin was not classic Latin, 
 it must have been Italian. 
 
 IT. The next theory is that of the Marquis Scipio Maffei. 
 He rejects the opinion of Bruni and his disciples, because, 
 in his own words, " vulgarisms are not sufficient to form 
 a language, nor to render it adequate to literary uses." He 
 also rejects the general opinion, which we shall next con- 
 sider, that the Italian was formed by the corruptions intro- 
 duced into the Latin by the Northern conquerors ; asserting 
 that "neither the Lombards nor the Goths had any part 
 whatever in the formation of the Italian language." The 
 theory he advances is, that the Italian was formed from 
 the gradual corruption of the classic Latin, without the 
 intervention of any foreign influence; or, to use his own 
 words, that "it originated from abandoning in common 
 conversation the classic, grammatical, and correct Latin, 
 and generally adopting, in its stead, a vulgar mode of 
 speech, incorrect in structure and vicious in pronuncia- 
 tion." In proof of this, he asserts, that many words and 
 forms of expression, which are generally supposed to have 
 been derived from the barbarians of the North, were in use 
 in Italy before their invasions. The examples he brings in 
 evidence are taken chiefly from the writings of Aulus Gel- 
 lius, Cassiodorus, Saint Jerome, and others, who wrote 
 when the Latin had already lost much of its purity ; and 
 we believe it to be a fact very generally acknowledged by 
 literary historians, that this first corruption of the Latin 
 was produced by the crowds of strangers that filled the 
 city of Rome, during the reigns of the foreign emperors. 
 How much greater must that corruption have become, 
 when the Goths and Lombards filled, not only the city of 
 Rome, but the whole of Italy northward ! But Maffei sup- 
 poses that the number? "* the barbarian lonquerors were 
 
 The earliest well authenticated specimen of 
 the Italian language belongs to the close of the 
 twelfth century. It is the " Canzone " of Ciullo 
 d' Alcamo, by birth a Sicilian, and the earliest 
 Italian poet whose name is on record. He 
 wrote about the year 1197. The song consists 
 of thirty-two stanzas, some of which are not 
 entire, and is written in the form of a colloquy 
 between the poet and a lady. The language is 
 a rude Sicilian dialect, and in many places un- 
 intelligible. 
 
 Before proceeding farther, it will be neces- 
 sary to throw a passing glance upon the various 
 dialects which divide the Italian language. 
 These are all of greater antiquity than the 
 classic Italian, the Parlare Hlustre, Cardinale, 
 Aulico, e Cortigiano ; and many of them dis- 
 pute the honor of having given birth to it. 
 Dante enumerates fifteen dialects existing in 
 his day, and gives their names. He then ob- 
 serves farther : " From this it appears, that 
 
 too small to have produced any changes in the language of 
 the conquered people. Can this be so? Muratori, in a 
 dissertation upon this subject, says, that, in the Gothic 
 invasion of the year 405, King Radagaiso entered Italy 
 with an army of two hundred thousand men ; and it is 
 well known, that, at a later period, whole nations, rather 
 than armies, followed the Lombard banners towards the 
 South. 
 
 III. The oldest and most ganerally received opinion in 
 regard to the formation of the Italian language is that 
 which is advocated by Mnratori, Fontanini, Tiraboschi, 
 Denina, Ginguene, Sismondi, and most of the philologers of 
 the present day. All these writers recognize the immediate 
 cooperation of the Northern languages in the formation of 
 the Italian. Their theory is briefly this. Before the North- 
 ern invasions, the Latin language had lost much of its 
 elegance even in the writings of the learned, and in the 
 mouths of the illiterate had become exceedingly corrupt; 
 but still it was Latin. "When these invasions took place, 
 the conquerors found themselves under the necessity of 
 learning, to a certain extent, the language of the conquered. 
 This, however, was a task not easily accomplished by un- 
 lettered men, who, in their efforts to speak the Latin, in- 
 troduced a vicious pronunciation, and many of the familiar 
 forms and idioms of their native languages. Thus the 
 articles came into use ; prepositions were substituted for 
 the various terminations of the Latin declensions ; and the 
 auxiliary verbs crept into the conjugations. Though the 
 great mass of words remained virtually the same, yet most 
 of them were more or less mutilated, and a great number 
 of Gothic and Lombard words were naturalized in Italy, by 
 giving them a Latin termination. To the conquered people, 
 the gradual transition from one degree of corruption in 
 their language to another still lower was both natural and 
 easy ; and thus a conventional language was formed, which 
 very naturally divided itself into numerous dialects, and 
 was denominated Volgare in contradistinction to the Latin; 
 for the Latin still continued to be the written language o 
 the studious and the learned. 
 
502 
 
 ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 the Italian language alone is divided into at 
 least fourteen dialects, each of which is again 
 subdivided into under-dialects, — as, the Tuscan 
 into the Sienese and Aretine, the Lombard 
 into the dialects of Ferrara and Piacenza ; and 
 even in the same city some varieties of lan- 
 guage may be found. Hence, if we include the 
 leading dialects of the Italian Volgare with the 
 under-dialects and their subdivisions, the varie- 
 ties of language common in this little corner of 
 the world will amount to a thousand, and even 
 more."* This diversity of the Italian dialects 
 is doubtless to be attributed in a great measure 
 to the varieties of dialect existing in the vulgar 
 Latin at the time of the Northern invasions, 
 and to similar varieties in the original dialects 
 of the invaders themselves, who, it will be 
 recollected, were of different tribes of the vast 
 family of the Gotho-Germans, among which 
 were the Ostrogoths, the Visigoths, the Lom- 
 bards, the Gepidi, the Bulgari, the Sarmati, the 
 Pannonii, the Suevi, and the Norici. Much, 
 too, must be attributed to the accidental but 
 inevitable changes wrought in a language by the 
 gradual progress of its history, and the contin- 
 gencies of time and place ; and something to 
 the new development of national character pro- 
 duced by the admixture of the Roman and 
 Teutonic races. t 
 
 After enumerating the dialects which pre- 
 vailed in his day, Dante goes into a discussion 
 of the beauties and defects of some of the more 
 prominent. He disposes of all these by observ- 
 ing that neither of them is the Volgare Illustre, 
 to discover which he had instituted the inquiry ; 
 and hence draws the conclusion, " that the Vol- 
 gare Illustre, Cardinale, Jlulico, e Cortigiano of 
 Italy is the language common to all the Italian 
 cities, but peculiar to none." In other words, 
 it exists everywhere in parts, but nowhere as 
 a whole, save in the pages of the classic writer. 
 This opinion, however, has been warmly con- 
 tested, and the champions of four or five parties 
 have taken the field. The first, with Machia- 
 velli and the host of the Florentine Academy 
 at their head, have asserted the supremacy of 
 
 * De Vulgari Eloquentia. Cap. X. 
 t Each of the Italian cities is marked by peculiar traits 
 of character in its inhabitants, which bear in the mouths 
 of the populace some epithet of praise, or are the subject 
 of gibe and ribaldry. For example, the Milanese have the 
 sobriquet of buoni buzziconi ; and in the following lines, 
 quoted in Howell's "Signorie of Venice," p. 55, numerous 
 jpithets are applied. 
 
 "Fama tra noi ; Roma pomposa e santa; 
 
 Venetia saggia, rica, signorile ; 
 
 Napoli odorifera e gentile ; 
 
 Fiorenza bella, tutto il mondo canta ; 
 
 Grande Milano in Italia si vanta ; 
 
 Bologna grassa ; Ferrara civile ; 
 
 Padoua dotla t e Bergamo sottile; 
 
 Genoa di super bia altiera pianta ; 
 
 Verona degna. e Perugia sanguigna ; 
 
 Brescia V armata. e Mantoa~£-/on'osa; 
 
 Rimini buona. e Pistols, ferrigna ; 
 
 Cremona antica, e Luca industriosa ; 
 
 Furli hizarro, e Ravenna benigua ; " Sec. 
 
 the language of the city of Florence ; and, ac- 
 tuated, it would seem, more by the zeal of local 
 prejudice, than any generous feeling of national 
 pride, have contended, that the classic language 
 of that literature, in whose ample field the 
 name of their whole country was already so 
 proudly emblazoned, was the dialect of Flor- 
 ence, and should be called, not Italian, not 
 even Tuscan, — but Florentine. In the bitter- 
 ness of dispute, Machiavelli exclaims against 
 the author of 'the " Divina Commedia," — "In 
 every thing he has brought infamy upon his 
 country ; and now, even in her language, he 
 would tear from her that reputation which he 
 imagines his own writings have conferred upon 
 her."* There spake the politician, not the 
 scholar. Machiavelli's own writings are the 
 best refutation of his theory. Bembo, though 
 a Venetian, and Varchi, the historian of the 
 wars of the Florentine Republic, were also ad- 
 vocates of the same opinion. In humble imi- 
 tation of these, some members of the Academy 
 of the Jntronati in Siena put in their claims in 
 favor of their native Sienese; and one writer, 
 at least, of Bologna asserted the supremacy of 
 the Bolognese. Their pretensions, however, 
 seem neither to have caused alarm, nor even to 
 have excited attention. The champions of the 
 name and glory of the Tuscan show a more 
 liberal spirit, inasmuch as they extend to a 
 whole province what the Florentine and Sie- 
 nese academicians would have shut up within 
 the walls of a single city. Among those who 
 have enlisted beneath this banner are Dolce 
 and Tolomei. But far more of the high and 
 liberal spirit of the scholar is shown by those 
 writers who do not arrogate to their own native 
 city or province that glory which rightly be- 
 longs to their whole country. Among those 
 who assert the common right of all the provin- 
 ces of Italy to share in the honor of having 
 contributed something to the classic Italian, 
 and, consequently, say that it should bear the 
 name of Italian, rather than that of Florentine, 
 Sienese, or Tuscan, after Dante, are Castelvetro, 
 Muzio, and Cesarotti. Now, as is almost uni- 
 versally the case in literary warfare, an exclu- 
 sive and uncompromising spirit has urged the 
 combatants onward, and they have contended 
 for victory rather than for truth, which seems 
 to lie prostrate in the field midway between 
 the contending parties, unseen and trampled 
 upon by all. The facts which may be gathered 
 from the contending arguments lead one to 
 embrace the opinion, that the classic Italian is 
 founded upon the Tuscan, but adorned and en- 
 riched by words and idioms from all the prov- 
 inces of Italy. In other words, each of the 
 Italian dialects has contributed something to 
 its formation, but most of all the Tuscan ; and 
 the language thus formed belongs not to a single 
 
 * Discorso in cui si esamina se la lingua in cui scrisserc 
 Dante, il Boccaccio, e il Petrarca si debba chiamare . Ita- 
 liana, Toscana,oFiorentina. Machiavelli. Opere. Tomo 
 X., p. 371. 
 
ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 503 
 
 city., nor a single province, but is the common 
 possession of the whole of 
 
 " II bel paese la dove il si suona." 
 
 Such is the language, which in the fourteenth 
 century was carried to its highest state of per- 
 fection in the writings of Dante, Petrarch, and 
 Boccaccio. Beneath their culture, the tree, 
 whose far-spreading roots drew nourishment 
 from the soil of every province, reared aloft its 
 leafy branches to the sky, vocal with song, and 
 proffered shelter to all who came to sit be- 
 neath its shadow and listen to the laughing 
 tale, the amorous lay, or the awful mysteries 
 of another life. Dante Al^ghieri was born at 
 Florence in 1265, and died at Ravenna in 
 1321. As an author, he belongs to the four- 
 teenth century. Boccaccio says, that he wrote 
 in his native dialect ; but it is conceded on all 
 hands, and all his writings prove the fact, that 
 he did not confine himself exclusively to any 
 one dialect, but drew from all whatever they 
 contained of force and beauty. In the words 
 of Cesarotti, in his " Essay on the Philosophy 
 of Language," "The genius of Dante was not 
 the slave of his native idiom. His zeal was 
 rather national than simply patriotic. The cre- 
 ator of a philosophic language, he sacrifices all 
 conventional elegance to expressiveness and 
 force ; and, far from flattering a particular dia- 
 lect, lords it over the whole language, which 
 he seems at times to rule with despotic sway." 
 In this way, Dante advanced the Italian to a 
 high rank among the living languages of his 
 age. Posterity has not withheld the honor, 
 then bestowed upon him, of being the most 
 perfect master of the vulgar tongue, that had 
 appeared : and this seems to strengthen and 
 establish the argument, that the Italian langu^"" 
 consists of the gems of various dialects encas- 
 ed in the pure gold of the Tuscan. 
 
 Francesco Petrarca was born in 1304, and 
 died in 1374. During his residence at Vau- 
 cluse, he made the Provencal language and the 
 poetry of the Troubadours his study. From 
 the former he enriched the vocabulary of his 
 native tongue, and from the latter his own son- 
 nets and canzoni ; but we are inclined to think, 
 that, in both these, critics have much exaggerated 
 the amount. Many Italian words supposed to 
 have been introduced by him from the Proven- 
 cal are of native origin ; and in regard to the 
 plagiarisms from Mossen Jordi, those cited are 
 few in number, and may be in part accounted 
 for by regarding them as simple coincidences 
 of thought, or by referring them to that myste- 
 rious principle of the mind, by which the ideas 
 we have gathered from books or from those 
 around us start up like the spontaneous off- 
 spring of our own powers. But Petrarch's res- 
 idence at Avignon, and his study of the Trou- 
 badours of Provence, were productive of more 
 real advantages than these ; for there the poet 
 caught the cunning art of his melodious peri- 
 ods, and thus infused into his native language 
 all the sof'ness and flexibility of the dialect of 
 
 the South of France. Dante had already given 
 majesty and force to the Italian ; Petrarch im- 
 parted to it elegance and refinement. To use 
 the language of an Italian author, — " He wrote 
 with so great elegance, and such a delicate 
 choice of words and phrases, that for the space 
 of four hundred vears no one has appeared who 
 can boast of having carried to greater perfec- 
 tion, or refined in any degree, the style of his 
 " Canzoniere." On the contrary, he stands so 
 sovereign and unrivalled a master of this lan- 
 guage, particularly in poetry, that perhaps no 
 author exists in any tongue, whose expressions 
 may be so freely and unhesitatingly imitated 
 both in verse and in prose, as those of Petrarch, 
 although he wrote four centuries ago, and the 
 language has still continued a living language, 
 subject to the continual changes of time."* 
 
 Giovanni Boccaccio was born in Paris, in 
 1313, and died in 1375. Italian critics do not 
 bestow the same unqualified praise upon his 
 language as upon that of Petrarch. They find 
 him something old and musty ; and complain 
 of his Latin inversions, and that Ciceronian 
 fulness of periods, which characterizes the style 
 of the Tuscan novelist. And yet they all agree 
 in awarding him the praise of being a strong and 
 energetic writer, and are willing to confess, that, 
 single-handed, he did for Italian prose what 
 Dante and Petrarch had done for its poetry. 
 " The ' Decameron ' of Boccaccio," says the au- 
 thor just quoted, " is by far the best model of 
 eloquence which Italian literature can boast. 
 There are other writings whose style may be 
 more elegant and pure, others more useful on 
 account of a more obvious and perhaps greater 
 abundance of important information ; but with- 
 out reading the 'Decameron' of Boccaccio, no 
 one can know the true spirit of our language." 
 
 By such writers was the Italian language 
 brought to its highest point of literary culture, 
 before the close of the fourteenth century. Dur- 
 ing the fifteenth, there is nothing remarkable in 
 its history ; but at the commencement of the 
 sixteenth, a literary contest arose concerning it, 
 which terminated in results most favorable to 
 its prevalence and permanence. The writings 
 of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio in the vulgar 
 tongue produced so great a revolution in public 
 taste, and raised the language in which they 
 were composed into such repute, that those 
 uninitiated in the mysteries of learning began 
 to jeer the wisdom of the schools, and to point 
 the finger of ridicule at all who walked be- 
 fore them in the strange and antiquated garb 
 of the Latin. The Academies, too, of which 
 such a vast number saw the light at the com- 
 mencement of the sixteenth century, began to 
 occupy themselves seriously with the study of 
 the vulgar tongue, examining the works of its 
 classic writers in order to draw from them ex- 
 amples and authorities whereon to rest its 
 philosophical principles, and thus reducing to a 
 
 * Denina. Saggio aopra la Letteratura Italiana. 
 
504 
 
 ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 regular system what had previously been the 
 result of usage or caprice. This progress in 
 the Italian language excited the jealousy of all 
 the devotees of the Latin, and they soon de- 
 clared an exterminating warfare against the in- 
 truding dialect. Romolo Amaseo, Professor of 
 Eloquence and Belles-lettres at Bologna, was 
 Peter-the-Hermit in this literary crusade ; and 
 in the year 1529, in the presence of the Em- 
 peror Charles the Fifth and Pope Clement the 
 Seventh, he harangued for two successive days 
 against the Italian language, maintaining with 
 eloquence that the Latin ought to reign su- 
 preme, and the Italian be degraded to a patois, 
 and confined to the peasant's hut, and the 
 shambles and market-places of the city. Many 
 other learned men of the age followed him to 
 the field, and contended with much zeal for 
 the cause of the Latin ; some even went so far 
 as to wish the Italian banished entirely from 
 the world. But stalwart champions were not 
 wanting on the other side; and, to be brief, 
 the impulse of public opinion soon swept away 
 all opposition, and the popular cause was trium- 
 phant.* The effect of this was to establish the 
 Italian upon a firmer foundation. One noble 
 monument of the literary labors of this century 
 in behalf of the Italian is the " Vocabulary " 
 of the renowned Jlccademia della Crusca, which 
 was first published in 1612, and has ever since 
 remained the irrefragable code of pure and 
 classic language. 
 
 It is unnecessary to pursue the history of the 
 Italian more in detail, or to bring it down to a 
 later period. What changes have since taken 
 place are the gradual and inevitable changes 
 which time works in all things, and which are 
 so picturesquely described by the Roman poet : 
 
 " Ut sylvffi foliis pronos mutantur in annos, 
 Prima cadunt; ita verborum vetus interit anas, 
 Et juvenum ritu florent modo nata, vigentque. 
 
 Multa renascentur qua; jam cecidere, cadentque 
 Qua; nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus : 
 Quern penes arbitrium est, et jus et norma loquendi." 
 
 The principal dialects of the Italian are : 
 
 I. The Sicilian ; 2. The Calabrian ; 3. The 
 Neapolitan ; 4. The Roman ; 5. The Norcian ; 
 6. The Tuscan ; 7. The Bolognese ; 8. The 
 Venetian; 9. The Friulian ; 10 The Paduan ; 
 
 II. The Lombard ; 12. The Milanese ; 13. The 
 Bergamask ; 14. The Piedmontese ; 1.5. The 
 Genoese ; 16. The Corsican ; 17. The Sardin- 
 ian 
 
 ] The Sicilian. This was the first of the 
 Italian dialects, which was converted to literary 
 uses. So far, at least, it may be called the 
 mother-tongue of the Italian Muse, as Sicily 
 itself has often been called her cradle. It ex- 
 hibits vestiges, more or less distinct, of all the 
 ancient and successive lords of the island, 
 Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Byzantines, 
 Arabs, Normans, Germans, French, and Span- 
 
 * For a more detailed account of this literary contest, see 
 tinguene, Hist. Liu. d'ltalie, Tom. VII., pp. 387, et seq. 
 
 iards. Its best form is that spoken at Palermo , 
 though but slight local varieties are to be found 
 in any part of the island. One circumstance, 
 however, is worthy of remark ; which is, that 
 in the towns and villages on the southern coast 
 Arabic words predominate, whereas in all other 
 parts the Greek and Provencal prevail. 
 
 II. The Calabrian. The Caiabrian dialect 
 is a connecting link between the Sicilian and 
 the Neapolitan. It possesses many of the pecu- 
 liarities of each of these, and a few which are 
 found in neither of them. 
 
 III. The Neapolitan. The Neapolitan is one 
 of the principal dialects of Italy. In its train it 
 counts several subordinate dialects, such as the 
 Pugliese or Apulian, the Sabine, and that of the 
 island of Capri. Even in Naples, the different 
 quarters of the city are marked by different 
 jargons, though it is not to be supposed that 
 these subdivisions exhibit any varieties so strik- 
 ing as to diminish the universal sway of Pulci- 
 7iella, or to prevent that monarch's voice from 
 being understood in every nook and corner of 
 his own peculiar dominion. 
 
 IV. The Roman. The Roman is by far the 
 most easily understood of all the Italian dia- 
 lects, though at the same time neither the most 
 beautiful nor the most cultivated. At its origin, 
 it seems to have, been the rudest of all.* But 
 this was while the papal court resided at Avig- 
 non. Its removal to Rome produced, doubtless, 
 a great change in the language of that city ; and 
 the large concourse of strangers, and particu- 
 larly of ecclesiastics, from all quarters of Italy, 
 must have had a tendency to deprive it of local 
 and provincial peculiarities, and to give it a 
 character more conformable to the written lan- 
 guage of Italy ; for all who resorted thither from 
 the remoter towns and provinces would natu- 
 rally, in their daily intercourse, divest their 
 speech of the grosser peculiarities of their re- 
 spective dialects. 
 
 The Roman populace is divided into three 
 distinct and well defined classes; — the Mon- 
 teggiani, who inhabit the region of the Es- 
 quiline, Quirinal, and Capitoline hills; the 
 Popolanti, who reside in the neighbourhood of 
 the Porta del Popolo, both within and without 
 the gate ; and the Trasteverini, who live on 
 the western bank of the Tiber, toward Saint 
 Peter's and the Janiculum. Each of these 
 classes has some distinguishing peculiarities in 
 its dialect, and to these three divisions of the 
 linguaggio Romanesco may be added a fourth, 
 that of the Ghetto, or Jewish quarter of Rome. 
 This last is rather a dialect of a dialect, and 
 may be found in most of the Italian cities. 
 
 V. The Norcian. Proceeding northward 
 from the Eternal City, the next dialect we en- 
 counter is the Romano. Rustica of Norcia ; the 
 
 * Dante, in his treatise "De Vuhjari Eloquentia," ob- 
 serves; "Dicimus ergo Romanorum non vulgare, sed po- 
 tius trisliloquium. Italortm vulgarium omnium esse tur- 
 pissimum ; nee mirum, c lm etiam morum habituuni:;ue 
 deformitate pra; cunctis vicsantur fa;tere." Cap. XI. 
 
ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 505 
 
 dialect which Dante designates as the Spoletano. 
 Norcia is a small city in the duchy of Spoleto, 
 about fifty miles north-east from Rome. The 
 language spoken there and in the surrounding 
 country is called the dialetto Norcino. 
 
 VI. The Tuscan. The dialect of Tuscany 
 sends forth six distinct branches. Each of these 
 divisions is marked by its peculiarities. They 
 are: 1. Toscano Fiorentino, spoken at Florence; 
 2. Toscano Sanese, spoken at Siena ; 3. Toscano 
 Pistojano, spoken at Pistoja; 4. Toscano Pisano, 
 spoken at Pisa; 5. Toscano Lucchese, spoken at 
 Lucca ; 6. Toscano Aretino, spoken at Arezzo. 
 
 In the Florentine dialect, a distinction is also 
 made between the lingua Florentina di citta, 
 or the language of the lower classes in the city, 
 and the lingua Fiorentina rustica di contado, or 
 the language of the peasantry in the vicinity. 
 The Florentine di citta is also subdivided, with- 
 in the very walls of the city, into the two dia- 
 lects of the Mercato Vecchio and the Mercato 
 Nuovo, and the riboboli or pithy sayings of either 
 of these quarters of the city would not be fully 
 understood and felt by the inhabitants of the 
 other. 
 
 The Toscano Sanese is the same, in the main, 
 as the Florentine. 
 
 Among all the Tuscan dialects, the Pistoian 
 has the least of the disagreeable gorgia Fioren- 
 tina, or guttural aspirate of Florence. 
 
 The dialect of Pisa is more strongly marked 
 with the Florentine aspirate. 
 
 The dialect of Lucca has the reputation of 
 being as pure as any, if not the purest, among 
 the Tuscan dialects. Still, it is not without its 
 vulgarisms and plebeian peculiarities. 
 
 VII. The Bolognese. The Bolognese is the 
 most southern of the harsh Lombard dialects 
 of the North of Italy. In this dialect, not only 
 are the vowels cut off at the termination of 
 words, but, generally speaking, a word loses all 
 its vowels, saving that which bears the accent. 
 Indeed, its elements may be considered — we 
 use the forcible, but very inelegant, metaphor of 
 a modern English traveller* — as "Tuscan vo- 
 cables gutted and trussed." This condensation 
 of words by the suppression of their vowels 
 constitutes the chief peculiarity of the Bolog- 
 nese dialect ; as, for example, asn for asino ; 
 lagrm for lagrime ; de volt for delle volte ; pr 
 for per ; st for questo ; bj for belli; &c. 
 
 Dante speaks in praise of the Bolognese dia- 
 lect. t He calls it a beautiful language, " ad lau- 
 dabilem suavitatem temperata." 
 
 VIII. The Venetian. The Venetian is the 
 most beautiful of all the Italian dialects. Its 
 pronunciation is remarkably soft and pleasant; 
 the sound of the sch and tsch, so frequent in 
 the Tuscan and Southern dialects, being chang- 
 ed into the soft s and ts. This peculiarity of 
 the Venetian, surrounded as it is by the harsh, 
 
 * Letters from the North of Italy : addressed to Henry 
 Hallam, Esq., Vol. II., p. 12. 
 t De Vulg. Eloq., Lib. I., Cap. XV. 
 64 
 
 unmusical dialects of the North, can be attrib- 
 uted to no other cause than the local situation 
 of the city. Sheltered in the bosom of the 
 Adriatic, it lay beyond the reach of those bar- 
 barous hordes which ever and anon with deso- 
 lating blast swept the North of Italy like a 
 mountain wind. Hence, it grew up soft, flexi- 
 ble, and melodious, and unencumbered with 
 those harsh and barbarous sounds which so 
 strikingly deform the neighbouring dialects of 
 the North of Italy. 
 
 IX. The Fridlian. The Friulian, or dialetto 
 Furlano, is the language of the province of 
 Friuli, lying north of the Venetian Gulf, and 
 bounded westward by the Trevisan, the Feltrin, 
 and the Bellunese. It is a mixture of corrupt 
 Italian with the Sclavonic and Southern French. 
 The French admixture must have taken place 
 in the fourteenth century, when Bertrand de 
 Querci and Cardinal Philip went to that prov- 
 ince with great numbers of Gascons and Pro- 
 vencals.* The dialect is not uniform through- 
 out the province of Friuli. 
 
 X. The Paduan. The Paduan dialect, or 
 lingua rustica Pavana, is a stepping-stone from 
 the Venetian to the Lombard. It is composed 
 of an admixture of these two, and is one of the 
 most unintelligible of the Italian dialects. 
 
 XI. The Lombard. This is the dialect spo- 
 ken in that fertile country watered by the river 
 Po, and stretching westward from the Adige 
 to the Bergamasco and the Milanese, and south- 
 ward till it includes the duchies of Parma and 
 Modena. The wide territory, over which this 
 dialect may be said to sway the sceptre of the 
 tongue, includes the cities of Mantua, Cremona, 
 and Brescia on the northern side of the Po, and 
 Ferrara, Modena, Piacenza, and Parma on the 
 southern. Of course, no great uniformity of 
 language prevails, inasmuch as each of these 
 cities has its peculiarities and modifications of 
 the general dialect. Besides, the line of de- 
 marcation which separates one dialect from 
 another can never be perfectly distinct and 
 well defined. On the borders of each province, 
 the various and fluctuating tides of language 
 must meet and mingle. Thus, in its northern 
 districts, the Lombard has much in common 
 with the Bergamask and the Milanese, the 
 Paduan connects it with the Venetian, and in 
 Modena and Ferrara it is so closely connected 
 with the Bolognese as to be almost the same 
 language. 
 
 XII. The Milanese. Like all the rest of 
 the Lombard dialects, the dialetto Milanese ex- 
 
 * West of Friuli . in the southern portion of the Tyro- 
 lese, two dialects of German origin are spoken. They are, 
 the dialect of the Sette Comutii, spoken in the country 
 round Vicenza, and that of the Tredici Comuni in the 
 neighbourhood of Verona. They are remnants of the Up- 
 per German, or Ober-Deulsch. As these are not dialects 
 of the Italian language, though spoken within the territory 
 of Italy, we shall not notice them more particularly, but 
 referthe reader to Adelung's " Mithridates," Vol. II., p. 215, 
 for a more minute account of them. 
 
 0.0. 
 
506 
 
 ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 hibits, in its mutilated syllables and harsh con- 
 sonant terminations, strong marks of the march 
 and empire of Northern invaders. It is di- 
 vided into a city and a country dialect. Near 
 the Lago di Lugano and the Lago di Como 
 this dialect is more unintelligible than else- 
 where, on account of the intercourse of the 
 people with their German neighbours, and the 
 necessary admixture of their language ; and 
 westward, upon the shores of the Lago Maggi- 
 ore, the Milanese passes gradually into the 
 Piedmontese. 
 
 XIII. The Bergamask. This is the dialect 
 of the province of Bergamasco, lying north-east 
 of the Milanese, among the lakes and moun- 
 tains which mark the northern boundary of 
 Italy. It is the harshest of all the Italian dia- 
 lects, and the most remarkable for its contrac- 
 tions and mutilations. 
 
 XIV. The Piedmontese. This dialect very 
 clearly declares the neighbourhood of the French 
 frontier. In the province of Piedmont, two 
 great branches of the old Romance, the French 
 and Italian, may be said to meet and mingle ; 
 or rather, amid its snowy hills to have had a 
 common fountain, the one flowing westward to 
 the plains of France, and the other pouring its 
 tributary stream down the southern declivity of 
 the Alps. 
 
 XV. The Genoese. The dialect of Genoa 
 is called the dialetto Zeneize, from Zena, the 
 name of the city in the popular tongue. Like 
 the Piedmontese, it possesses much in common 
 with the French. 
 
 This dialect has several subdivisions, both 
 within the city of Genoa and in the surround- 
 ing country. Westward, towards the French 
 frontier, it assimilates itself more and more to 
 the French ; and towards the south and east, 
 becomes more nearly allied to the Italian. 
 
 Along the seaboard, in Mentone and Mo- 
 naco, a kind of frontier dialect is spoken. It 
 is a mixture of Genoese, Piedmontese, and Pro- 
 vencal ; the first two predominating. Many 
 Spanish words are also intermingled, Monaco 
 having formerly been under the government of 
 Spain. Though Monaco and Mentone are but 
 a few miles distant from each other, some mark- 
 ed peculiarities of dialect may be observed in 
 the two places. At Nice the Provencal is spok- 
 en, though mixed with many Italian words. 
 
 XVI. The Corsican. The dialect of the 
 island of Corsica seems never to have attract- 
 ed very strongly the attention of Italian schol- 
 ars. Travellers have seldom penetrated beyond 
 the cities of the seashore, so that no accounts 
 are given of the dialect of the interior; and as 
 literary curiosity has never been excited upon 
 the subject, no work, we believe, has been pub- 
 lished in the dialect, or dialects, of the island. 
 Denina says, in his " Clef des Langues," that 
 the language of the higher classes bears a strong- 
 er resemblance to the Tuscan than do the dia- 
 lects of the other islands of the Gulf of Genoa, 
 as formerly a very lively commerce opened a 
 
 constant intercourse between Leghorn and thb 
 Corsican seaboard. Some remarks upon this 
 dialect may be found in the " Voyage de Lyco- 
 mede en Corse." 
 
 XVII. The Sardinian. The island of Sar- 
 dinia has been inhabited and governed by a va- 
 rious succession of colonists. Huns, Greeks, 
 Carthaginians, Romans, Vandals, Byzantines, 
 Ostrogoths, Lombards, Franks, Arabians, Pisans, 
 and Aragonese, — all these have at various 
 epochs dwelt within its territory. Hence the 
 variety of the dialects which checker the lan- 
 guage of the island, or rather the variety of lan- 
 guages there spoken. The first and principal 
 division of these is into the lingua Sarda, the 
 vernacular Sardinian, and the lingue Forestieri, 
 or the foreign dialects spoken in some parts oi 
 the island. Each of these has its subdivisions. 
 
 1. The lingua Sarda is divided into the dia- 
 letto Campidanese and the dialetto Logodoro, 
 and contains a great number of Greek, French, 
 German, and Spanish words. 
 
 The dialetto Campidanese is the language 
 spoken in the southern part of the island. On 
 the eastern shore it has much in common with 
 the Sicilian, and on the western with the Cata- 
 lonian dialect of Spain. 
 
 The dialetto Logodoro is the language of the 
 North of Sardinia, though it does not universal- 
 ly prevail there. It partakes of the various pe- 
 culiarities which we have mentioned as belong- 
 ing to the Campidanese, and the main distinc- 
 tion between these two dialects seems to be, 
 that the Logodoro is not so uniform in the use 
 of these peculiarities as the Campidanese. This, 
 without doubt, must be attributed to the influ- 
 ence of the Tuscan, which is spoken in many 
 of the principal cities and villages of the North. 
 Indeed, the dialetto Logodoro seems to be a mix- 
 ture of the Tuscan and Campidanese. 
 
 2. Lingue Forestieri of Sardinia. The Cat- 
 alonian and the Tuscan are the two principal 
 foreign dialects spoken in the island. As dia- 
 lects, these are confined to the North, though 
 their influence seems to extend through the 
 whole country. The Catalonian is spoken in 
 the city of Alghieri, which is a Spanish colony 
 on the western coast. The Tuscan has a more 
 extended sway, and is the language of Sassari, 
 Castel-Sardo, Tempio, and the surrounding 
 country ; though, of course, with many local 
 modifications.* 
 
 The history of Italian poetry may be con- 
 veniently divided into four periods. I. From 
 1200 to 1400. II. From 1400 to 1500. III. 
 From 1500 to 1600. IV. From 1600 to the 
 present time. 
 
 I. From 1200 to 1400. The earliest of the 
 Italian poets is Ciullo d' Alcamo, the Sicilian, 
 who flourished at the close of the twelfth cen- 
 tury, about 1197. From his day to that of 
 
 * For a more elaborate account of the Italian dialects 
 and their literature, see "North American Review," for 
 October, 1832. 
 
ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 507 
 
 Dante, flourished some thirty rhyme-smiths, 
 among whom Brunetto Latini wrote the most, 
 and Beato Benedetti, Guido Guinicelli, and Fra 
 Guittone d' Arezzo the best. Beato Benedetti 
 is the reputed author of the beautiful Latin 
 hymn of " Stabat Mater"; and Guido Guini- 
 celli is the bard whom Dante eulogizes as the 
 writer of 
 
 "Those dulcet lays, all which, as long 
 As of our tongue the beauty does not fade, 
 Shall make us love the very ink that wrote them." 
 
 The age of Dante was an age of violence, 
 when the law of force prevailed. The Floren- 
 tines were an heroic people. They declared 
 war by sending a bloody glove to their enemy; 
 and the onset of battle was sounded, not by 
 the blast of trumpets, but by the ringing of a 
 great bell, which was wheeled about the field. 
 Florence was then a republic. So were all the 
 neighbouring states. The spirit of liberty was 
 wild, not easily tamed, not easily subjected to 
 laws. Amid civil discords, family feuds, tavern 
 quarrels, street broils, and the disaffection of 
 the poor towards the rich, it was in vain for 
 Fra Giovanni to preach the " Kiss of Peace." 
 Buondelmonte was dragged from his horse and 
 murdered at the base of Mars's statue, in broad 
 day ; Ricoverino de' Cerchi had his nose cut 
 off in a ball-room ; and the exile of Dante 
 can be traced back to a drunken quarrel be- 
 tween Godfrey Cancellieri and his cousin Ama- 
 doro in a tavern at Pistoja. 
 
 The pride of human intellect in that age was 
 displayed in the scholastic philosophy Peter 
 Lombard, the Wise Master of Sentences, had 
 been mouldering in his grave just one hundred 
 years when Dante was born ; and the mystic 
 poet was still a child, when the Angelic Doctor, 
 Thomas Aquinas, — called by his schoolmates, 
 at Cologne, the Dumb Ox, — having at length 
 fulfilled the prophecy of his master, Albertus 
 Magnus, and given "such a bellow in learning 
 as was heard all over the world," had fallen 
 asleep in the Cistercian convent at Terracina, 
 saying, " This is my rest for ages without end." 
 These great masters were gone ; but others had 
 arisen to take their places, and to teach that the 
 true religion is the true philosophy, and the true 
 philosophy the true religion. Among these 
 were Henry of GothUls, the Doctor Solemnis, 
 and Richard of Middletown, the Doctor Solidus, 
 and Giles of Cologne, the Doctor Fundatissi- 
 mus, and John Duns Scotus, the Doctor Subtilis, 
 and founder of the Formalists, — who taught that 
 the end of philosophy is, to find out the quid- 
 dity of things, — that every thing has a kind of 
 quiddity or quidditive existence, — and that noth- 
 ingness is divided into absolute nothingness, 
 which has no quiddity or thingness, and rela- 
 tive nothingness, which has no existence out of 
 the understanding. Side by side with these 
 stood Raymond Lully, the Doctor Illuminatus, 
 and Francis of Mayence, the Magister Acutus 
 Sbstractlonvm, and William Durand, the Doctor 
 (tesolutissimus , and Walter Burleigh, the Doctoi 
 
 Planus et Perspicuus, and William Occam, the 
 Doctor Invincibilis, Singularis, et Venernbilis. 
 These were men of acute and masculine intel- 
 lect: 
 
 For in those dark and iron days of old, 
 Arose, amid the pigmies of their age, 
 
 Minds of a massive and gigantic mould, 
 Whom we must measure as the Cretan sage 
 
 Measured the pyramids of ages past; — 
 
 By the far-reaching shadows that they cast. 
 
 These philosophic studies are here alluded to 
 because they exercised a powerful influence 
 upon the poetry of Dante and of his age. As 
 we look back upon that age with reference 
 to the theme before us, from the confused group- 
 ing of hisiory a few figures stand forth in strong- 
 er light and shade. The first is a tall, thin 
 personage, clothed in black. His face is that 
 of a scholar ; his manners are grave and mod- 
 est; he has a pleasant, humorous mouth, and a 
 jesting eye, which somewhat temper his modest 
 gravity. In his whole appearance there is a 
 strange mixture of the schoolmaster, philoso- 
 pher, and notary public. He has been a trav- 
 eller, and a soldier, and the author of much 
 rhyme. He fought in the campaign of Siena, 
 and, after the war, wrote with his own hand 
 the treaty of peace between the two republics, 
 which, it is to be hoped, was better written 
 than his rhymes. This is Brunetto Latini, the 
 instructer of Dante in his youth, — who rewards 
 his services with a place in the " Inferno," — 
 grammarian, theologian, politician, poet, and 
 Grand-Master of Rhetoric in Florence. His 
 principal work is entitled, " Li Livres (lou Tre- 
 sor." It was written in France, and in the 
 French language ; and is a kind of encyclopedia, 
 containing, among other matters, the History 
 of the Old and New Testament, to which is 
 appended an abridgment of Pliny's " Natural 
 History," the "Ethics" of Aristotle, and a 
 treatise on the Virtues and Vices ; together 
 with the Art of Speaking with Propriety, and 
 the Manner of Governing the Republic ' He 
 wrote, likewise, a poem called the " Tesoret- 
 to," — a small treasury of moral precepts; 
 also a satirical poem called "II Pataffio," in the 
 vulgar Florentine street-jargon, very difficult of 
 comprehension. 
 
 He is followed by a nobler figure ; a youth 
 of beautiful but melancholy countenance, cour- 
 teous in manner, yet proud and solitary. He 
 seems lost in thought, and is much alone among 
 the old tombs, — the marble sepulchres about 
 the church of Saint John. In vain do Betto 
 Bruneleschi and his boon companions come 
 dashing up on horseback, and make a jest of 
 his dreams and reveries. He turns away and 
 disappears among the tombs. This is Guido 
 Cavalcanti, the bosom friend of Dante, and no 
 mean poet. But he loves the dreams of phi- 
 losophy better than the dreams of poetry, and 
 the popular belief is, that all his solitary studies 
 and meditations have no other object than to 
 prove that there is no God. It is el" this Guido 
 
508 
 
 ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 that the poet speaks in the tenth canto of the 
 "Inferno," where a form looks out of its fiery 
 sepulchre and asks, " Where is my son ? and 
 why is he not with thee ? " 
 
 And now, attended by two courtly dames, a 
 maiden clad in white approaches. She is veil- 
 ed; but from beneath the veil look forth soft 
 emerald eyes, — eyes of the color of the sea.* 
 Well might it be said of her, 
 
 " An eagle 
 Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye." 
 
 So beautiful is she, that many in the crowd 
 exclaim, as she passes, " This is no mortal, but 
 one of God's angels." And this is Beatrice ; 
 and she walks all crowned and garmented with 
 humility, showing no vain-glory of that which 
 she beholds and hears. t 
 
 The figure that advances to meet her is that 
 of a young man of middle stature, with a dark, 
 melancholy, thoughtful face. His eyes are 
 large, his nose aquiline, his lower lip project- 
 ing, his hair and beard thick, black, and curled. 
 His step is quiet and solemn. He is clothed 
 in long, flowing garments, and wears sandals 
 on his feet, and on his head a cap, from which 
 two broad bands descend upon the shoulders. 
 This is Dante. 
 
 But the crowd throng around us, and we 
 behold but indistinctly the shadowy images of 
 Guido Novello, and Francesco Malaspina, and 
 the great Lombard, Can Grande della Scala, 
 and Giano della Bella, the friend of the Flo- 
 rentine populace ; and the superb Philippo Ar- 
 genti, his horse's hoofs shod with silver ; and 
 Corso Donati, the proud, bad man, but valiant 
 cavalier and eloquent orator, dragged at his 
 horse's heels, and murdered at the gate of a 
 convent; and Monferrato, exposed, like a wild 
 beast, in a wooden cage in the market-place, 
 and dying broken-hearted with rage and hu- 
 miliation. 
 
 After Dante, the principal poets of this pe- 
 riod are Giovanni Boccaccio, whose prose is 
 more splendid than his verse, and Francesco 
 Petrarca, of whom Chaucer says, 
 
 "His rhetoric sweet 
 Enlumined all Italy of poetry." 
 
 II. From 1400 to 1500. This period em- 
 braces the age of Lorenzo de' Medici, surnamed 
 the Magnificent. He was the friend of poets, 
 and himself a poet of no mean pretension. 
 Speaking of him and his times, Macaulay says : + 
 
 " Knowledge and public prosperity continued 
 to advance together. Both attained their me- 
 ridian in the age of Lorenzo the Magnificent. 
 We cannot refrain from quoting the splendid 
 passage in which the Tuscan Thucydides de- 
 
 * Erano i suoi occhi d' un turchino verdiccio, simile a 
 quel del mare. — Law. Annotazioni. 
 
 t Ella, coronata e vestita d' umilla, s' andava, nulla glo- 
 ia mostrando di cio ch' ella vedeva ed udiva. — Dante. Vi- 
 a Nuova. 
 
 t Critical and Miscellaneous Essays, by T. B. Macaulay 
 (Phila-Mphia, 1843, 4 vols., 12n,o.), Vol. I., p. 77. 
 
 scribes the state of Italy at that period: — 
 'Restored to supreme peace and tranquillity, 
 cultivated no less in her most mountainous and 
 sterile places than in her plains and more fer- 
 tile regions, and subject to no other empire 
 than her own, not only was she most abundant 
 in inhabitants and wealth, but, in the highest 
 degree illustrious by the magnificence of many 
 princes, by the splendor of many most noble and 
 beautiful cities, and by the seat and majesty ot 
 religion, she flourished with men preeminent in 
 the administration of public affairs, and with 
 geniuses skilled in all the sciences, and in every 
 elegant and useful art.'* When we peruse this 
 just and splendid description, we can scarcely 
 persuade ourselves that we are reading of times 
 in which the annals of England and France 
 present us only with a frightful spectacle of 
 poverty, barbarity, and ignorance. From the 
 oppressions of illiterate masters, and the suffer- 
 ings of a brutalized peasantry, it is delightful to 
 turn to the opulent and enlightened States of 
 Italy, — to the vast and magnificent cities, the 
 ports, the arsenals, the villas, the museums, the 
 libraries, the marts filled with every article of 
 comfort or luxury, the manufactories swarming 
 with artisans, the Apennines covered with rich 
 cultivation up to their very summits, the Po 
 wafting the harvests of Lombardy to the grana- 
 ries of Venice, and carrying back the silks of 
 Bengal and the furs of Siberia to the palaces of 
 Milan. With peculiar pleasure every culti- 
 vated mind must repose«on the fair, the happy, 
 the glorious Florence, — on the halls which 
 rung with the mirth of Pulci, — the cell where 
 twinkled the midnight lamp of Politian, — the 
 statues on which the young eye of Michel 
 Angelo glared with the frenzy of a kindred 
 inspiration, — the gardens in which Lorenzo 
 meditated some sparkling song for the May-day 
 dance of the Etrurian virgins. Alas for the 
 beautiful city ! Alas for the wit and the learn- 
 ing, the genius and the love ! 
 
 " ' Le donne e i cavalier, gli affanni e gli agi, 
 Che ne 'nvogliava amore e curtesia, 
 La dove i cuor son fatti si malvagi.' " f 
 
 The principal poets of this period are Angelo 
 Poliziano, author of the " Orfeo," the earliest 
 classic drama of the Italians ; and Luigi Pulci, 
 author of the " Morgante Maggiore," the first of 
 that series of romantic fictions, — those mag- 
 nanime menzogne, — of which Bojardo's " Or- 
 lando Innamorato "was the second, and which 
 in the following century made Italian song so 
 illustrious. To these may be added Andrea del 
 Basso, a priest of Ferrara, and author of a re- 
 markable "Ode to a Dead Body," which will 
 be found among our extracts. 
 
 To this period belongs the origin of the Ital- 
 ian drama. The dark night which descended 
 upon the Roman empire enveloped the theatre 
 
 * Gdicciabdiw. Lib. I. 
 t Dante. Purgatorio, XIV. 
 
ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 509 
 
 ivith its shadows ; and it is only in times com- 
 paratively modern that we are able to discern 
 with distinctness the reviving drama of Italy. 
 There is the testimony of Cassiodorus, that pan- 
 tomimic plays were performed as early as the 
 sixth century,* and it appears that from this 
 time they flourished among the people of 
 Italy. These spectacles, however, required 
 and received but slight support from literature. 
 Afterwards, in the thirteenth century, Thomas 
 Aquinas speaks of the comedy of his times as 
 having already subsisted many centuries. To 
 him, who was revered as the Angel of the 
 Schools, and the arbiter in difficult questions of 
 duty, was submitted the doubt, whether the art 
 of the theatre could be practised without sin. 
 The Angelic Doctor replied, that it was to be 
 regarded as a pleasure necessary for the recrea- 
 tion of the life of man, due regard being had 
 to circumstances of place, time, and person. 
 
 It seems that the pantomimic representations 
 in the earliest days were confined to profane 
 subjects; but, in process of time, things spirit- 
 ual were brought on the stage, and the churches 
 became the theatres. Finally, the archbish- 
 op of Florence, Antoninus, at the same time 
 that he affirmed the opinion of Aquinas, add- 
 ed this decree : " Whereas the representations 
 which are now made of things spiritual are 
 mixed with buffooneries, with ludicrous words 
 and conduct, and with masks; therefore they 
 ought no longer to be performed in the church- 
 es, nor by the clergy in any manner." 
 
 The earliest specimens of dramatic composi- 
 tion in Italy, which have been preserved, are 
 in the Latin tongue. In the beginning of the 
 fourteenth century, the historian Albertino Mus- 
 sato wrote two tragedies in Latin, after the 
 manner of Seneca. They are divided into 
 five acts, with a chorus at the end of each act. 
 In the same century, we find, also, a tragedy 
 by Giovanni Manzoni, and some comedies by 
 Petrarch, both of whom scorned the vulgar 
 tongue, though the latter owes his immortality 
 to his Italian poems. Still later, among many 
 other plays in the Latin language, we find a 
 tragedy by Bernardino, on the Passion of Christ, 
 which was dedicated to Pope Sixtus the Fourth. 
 This use of the language and form of antiquity 
 resembled the practice of the Catholic Church, 
 which melted the statues of the heathen gods to 
 fashion the images of Christian saints. 
 
 The Latin continued to be exclusively used 
 in dramatic poetry till after the middle of the 
 fifteenth century. Only at this late period, 
 more than. a hundred and fifty years after the 
 verse of Dante, more than a hundred years 
 after the prose of Boccaccio had refined and 
 matured the Italian tongue, it was thought wor- 
 thy to be employed in the drama. Quadrio, on 
 the authority of other writers, mentions the 
 "Floriana," a comedy, or farce, in terza rima, 
 by an unknown author, who was supposed to 
 
 * Quadrio Lib. 2, Dist. 3, Cap. 2. 
 
 have lived at the beginning of the fifteenth 
 century, or, perhaps, even earlier; but this play 
 was not printed till 1523, and Tiraboschi, whose 
 authority in questions of Italian letters is almost 
 supreme, does not seem to consider it so ancient 
 as was supposed by others. To the rich and 
 precocious genius of Angelo Poliziano belongs 
 the honor of producing the first Italian play 
 which can be considered as entitled to a place 
 in the regular drama. This is the " Orfeo," 
 which, though sometimes regarded as a pastoral 
 fable, and partaking somewhat of this charac- 
 ter, may, on account of its action, and the tragic 
 nature of its close, be treated as of the legiti- 
 mate drama. It is difficult to determine the 
 exact date when the Muse of Tragedy first lis- 
 tened to the sweet Italian words of this piece. 
 It is supposed that it was represented in 1472, 
 at Mantua, when the Cardinal Francesco Gon- 
 zaga made a solemn entry into his native city. 
 At this time Poliziano was only eighteen years 
 old. At this tender age he opened for his coun- 
 try the fountain of new delights, whose waters 
 in the next century refreshed the whole land.* 
 
 Satisfied with the brilliant success of his 
 " Orfeo " and his " Stanze," Poliziano ceased 
 to write in his native tongue. In so doing, he 
 followed the suggestions of the age in which he 
 lived, which was overshadowed still by the 
 mighty spirit of antiquity. His genius was now 
 applied to the cultivation of the Latin language, 
 which he employed in the copious works of his 
 maturer life. In the excess of his care, he re- 
 fused to read the Bible, in the Latin Vulgate, 
 "for fear of spoiling his style " ; on which our 
 English Doctor South has remarked, that " he 
 showed himself no less a blockhead than an in- 
 fidel." It has, indeed, been insinuated, that the 
 Latin Muses were reserved and coy to one who 
 had obtained the favor of their sisters at so 
 early an age. But a Latin poem, to which he 
 gave the title of " Rusticus," is pronounced by 
 Mr. Roscoe t "inferior in its kind only to the 
 ' Georgics ' of Virgil"; and he is said, by the 
 same high authority, " to approach nearer to the 
 standard of the ancients than any man of his 
 time." 
 
 Among the writers of this age, whose genius 
 may still be recognized in the unnatural trans- 
 formation to which they voluntarily subjected 
 themselves, are Landino, Naldo Naldio, Ugolino 
 Verini, Michel Verini, Pontano, and Sannazza- 
 ro, the last of whom found repose for his mortal 
 remains in the classic Parthenope, near the 
 tomb of Virgil, whom he had revered as his 
 master in song. Vain effort to revive the extin- 
 guished glories of a language which has ceased 
 to be animated by the breath of living men ! 
 
 * On this subject see Riccoboni. Histoire du Theatre 
 Italien, depuis la decadence de la Comedie Latine ; also, 
 Histoire du Theatre Italien, depuis son Reiablissement en 
 France, 7 vols., Paris, 1769, 12mo. ; and Signorelli, Storia 
 Critica de' Teatri Antichi e Moderni, 6 vols., Najioli, 1787 
 - 90, 8vo. 
 
 t Life of Lorenzo de' Medici, Vol. I., Ch. 8, p. 175. 
 a«2 
 
510 
 
 ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 It is not among the powers of genius, magical 
 though they be, to infuse into a dead tongue 
 the Promethean heat which shall its former light 
 relume ! 
 
 III. From 1500 to 1600. This is a golden 
 period in the history of Italian poetry, and sec- 
 ond only to the age of Dante. It is true, there 
 appeared in it no one production that can bear 
 a moment's comparison with 
 
 "The Poem Sacred, 
 To which both heaven and earth have set their hands " ; 
 
 but it produced more great poems than any 
 other period. Then in the halls of Este Ariosto 
 sang, in copious and flowing numbers, the beau- 
 ty of Angelica, and Orlando's madness ; then 
 Berni told his tale of love to the illustrious Ga- 
 briella Gonzaga, and Vittoria Colonna, the glo- 
 rious Marchesa di Pescara, wrapped in her sable 
 gown, and lamenting "the naked spirit and little 
 earth" of him who was her husband; then 
 Guarini found in princes' courts how cold may 
 be "the best enamel of nobility"; then Tas- 
 so's songs resounded in the palaces of Ferra- 
 ra, and his groans in its dungeons ; then Michel 
 Angelo crowded a long life, embracing three 
 generations of men, with noble works in sculp- 
 ture, in painting, and in song, so that Ariosto 
 fitly called him, 
 
 " Michel, piu che mortale, Angel divino " ; 
 and then, too, Machiavelli, whose soul was 
 fretted by the cares of state and by the burdens 
 of embassies, and who was forced to " eat his 
 heart through comfortless despairs " of poverty 
 and neglect, enriched his native Tuscan with 
 some of its most nervous prose, and diverted 
 himself with the Muses of Poetry and the Drama. 
 
 In the brilliant troop of Italian poets which 
 swarmed through this period, these names are 
 the most conspicuous. Separated from all these 
 by her sex and superior to most of them, in the 
 beauty and elevation of her genius, stands Vit- 
 toria Colonna, faithful in an age of falsehood, 
 pure in an age of licentiousness, the greatest po- 
 etess of Italy, to whom her contemporaries gave, 
 by acclamation, the title of Divine. Other dis- 
 tinguished authors of the time will be noticed 
 hereafter, in connection with extracts from their 
 writings. 
 
 The Italian had now arrived at its highest 
 excellence. It had become familiar to the peo- 
 ple through the works of poets, of historians, 
 and philosophers ; and was employed by the 
 learned in writings, which, in another age, would 
 have been locked in a dead tongue. Galileo, 
 whose glorious career extends into the next 
 century, being asked by what means he had ac- 
 quired the remarkable talent of giving perspicu- 
 ity and grace to his philosophical writings, re- 
 ferred it to the continual study of Ariosto. But 
 while the native language obtained such favor, 
 the Latin continued during the early part of 
 this century to hold with it a divided empire 
 dver the realm of poetry. The great poets of 
 the 4ugustan age were thought to be revived in 
 
 the productions of Fracastoro, Vida, Naugerio, 
 and Flaminio, who have been vaunted as the 
 rivals of Virgil, of Ovid, and of Catullus. The 
 admiration which they received ki their own 
 age has ceased, and the attention of the curious 
 scholar is arrested only for a moment by the 
 inanimate beauty of their verse : — 
 
 "So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
 We start, for soul is wanting there." 
 
 IV. From 1600 to the present time. To the 
 golden age of the cinquecentisti, succeeded the 
 affected productions of the seicentisti, which 
 usher in the present period. The Italian mind, 
 contented or weary with the triumphs of the 
 previous century, now found its chief expression 
 in odes and sonnets, marked by conceits and 
 exaggerated refinements of style. The leader 
 in this corruption of the national taste was Giam- 
 battista Marini, whose acknowledged genius 
 increased the influence of his vicious style. 
 The greatest poetic names of this period are Ma- 
 rini, Chiabrera, Redi, Fi'licaja, Maffei, Goldoni, 
 Gozzi, Metastasio, Alfieri, Monti, Pindemonte, 
 Foscolo, Manzoni, Parini, Niccolini, Pellico, 
 Grossi, and Leopardi. Mightiest among these 
 stands Alfieri, a glorious example of the power 
 of a strong will and a fixed purpose. He is the 
 last great sign in that celestial zodiac of Italian 
 song, which encircles the earth with its glory, 
 and of which Dante, in the majestic procession 
 of the ages, was the first to appear above the 
 horizon, chasing the darkness before him, and, 
 like Sagittarius, filling the whole heaven with 
 his golden arrows. 
 
 On the subject of Italian poetry the reader is 
 referred to the following works : — " Italy : Gen- 
 eral Views of its History and Literature," by L. 
 Mariotti, 2 vols., London, 1841, 8vo. ; an admi- 
 rable work, written with great power and beauty ; 
 — " Storia della Letteratura Italiana," del Cav. 
 Abate Girolamo Tiraboschi, 9 vols., Firenze, 
 1 805 - 1 3, 8vo.;— " Della Storia e della Ragione 
 d' ogni Poesia," di Francesco Saverio Quadrio, 
 7 vols., Bologna e Milano, 1739-52, 4to. ; — 
 " L' Istoria della Volgar Poesia," da Gio. Mario 
 Crescimbeni, 5 vols., Venezia, 1730, 4to. ; — 
 " Discorso sopra le Vicende della Letteratura," 
 dell' Ab. Carlo Denina, 2 vols., Napoli, 1792 
 8vo. ; — " Saggi di Prose e Poesie de' piu celebri 
 Serittori d' ogni Secolo," da L. Nardini e S. 
 Buonaiuti, 6 vols., London, 1796 — 98, 8vo. ; — 
 " Geschichte der Italienischen Poesie und Be- 
 redsamkeit," von Friedrich Bouterwek, 2 vols. 
 Gottingen, 1801, 8vo ; — "Historical View ot 
 the Literature of the South of Europe," by J. C 
 L. Simonde de Sismondi, translated by Thomas 
 Roscoe, Esq., 2 vols., New York, 1827, 8vo. ; — 
 "Introduction to the Literature of Europe," by 
 Henry Hallam, 4 vols., London, 1840, 8vo. ; — 
 " Lives of the Italian Poets," by Henry Stub- 
 bing, 3 vols., London, 1837, 8vo. ; — and " His- 
 toire Littiraire d'ltalie," par P L. Ginguene 
 9 vols., Paris, 1824, 8vo. 
 
FIRST PERIOD.-CENTURIES XIII., XIV. 
 
 GUIDO GUINICELLI. 
 
 Guido Guinicelli of Bologna, to whom by 
 acclamation is given the honor of being the 
 first among the Italian poets who embodied in 
 verse the subtilties of philosophy, and gave 
 terseness, force, and elevation to poetic style, 
 flourished about 1250. Dante has recorded his 
 fame in the twenty-sixth canto of the " Purga- 
 torio," where he speaks of his dolci detti, and 
 calls him 
 
 "II padre 
 Mio e degli altri miei miglior che mai 
 Rime d' amore usar dolci e leggiadre." 
 
 The praise of sweet-flowing language is cer- 
 tainly merited by this ancient poet, as may be 
 seen from the following extract. It is the com- 
 mencement of the most beautiful of the author's 
 canzoni. 
 
 The writings of Guido Guinicelli exhibit the 
 Italian language under the best form it wore 
 during the first half of the thirteenth century. 
 Otherwise, they would not have been so highly 
 extolled by Dante, who. never loses an oppor- 
 tunity of setting forth their merit, and who still 
 more plainly shows the esteem in which he 
 held the quaint language of his poetic father, 
 by appropriating one of his lines. 
 
 "Amor ch' al cor gentil rat to s' apprende." 
 in the description of Francesca da Rimini, in 
 the fifth canto of the "Inferno," was doubtless 
 suggested by Guinicelli's 
 
 "Fuoco d' Amore in gentil cor s' apprende." 
 
 Dante places the spirit of Guinicelli in the 
 seventh circle of the " Purgatorio." 
 
 THE NATURE OF LOVE. 
 
 To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly, 
 
 As, seeks the bird the forest's leafy shade ; 
 
 Love was not felt till noble heart beat high, 
 
 Nor before love the noble heart was made. 
 
 Soon as the sun's broad flame 
 
 Was formed, so soon the clear light filled the air ; 
 
 Yet was not till he came : 
 
 So love springs up in noble breasts, and there 
 
 Has its appointed space, 
 
 As heat in the bright flame finds its allotted place. 
 
 Kinches in noble heart the fire of love, 
 
 As hidden virtue in the precious stone : 
 
 This virtue comes not from the stars above, 
 
 Till round it the ennobling sun has shone; 
 
 But when his powerful blaze 
 
 Has drawn forth what was vile, the stars impart 
 
 Strange virtue in their rays : 
 And thus when Nature doth create the heart 
 Noble and pure and high, 
 
 Like virtue from the star, love comes from wo- 
 man's eye. 
 
 FRA GUITTONE D' AREZZO. 
 
 Guittone d' Arezzo, called Fra Guittone, 
 from the order of Frati Gaudenti, to which he 
 belonged, was born in Arezzo, near the middle 
 of the thirteenth century. He is distinguished 
 in literary history for having brought the Italian 
 sonnet to its present form. Many of his pieces 
 are found in the collection of ancient poet3 by the 
 Giunti. There are also remaining forty letters 
 by him, in Italian, published in Rome in 1745. 
 They are remarkable for being the most ancient 
 example of Italian letters extant. In 1293, 
 Fra Guittone founded the order of Camaldoli, 
 and died in the following year. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 I 
 Unhappy is my star and hard my fate ; 
 For bitter life e'en from the stars may come, 
 And prudence seldom can repair the doom 
 That by the stars is moulded for our state. 
 From the first day I was predestinate 
 To Love's fell sport, where so much woe hath 
 
 room, 
 As maketh life less precious than the tomb: 
 Wretch, whom the skies did for such hap create ! 
 And yet to shun this fatal star of love, 
 A thousand times to Athens have I run, 
 Addressing to each school my steps in turn; 
 And then I fled for help to Heaven above, 
 That I these keen and gilded shafts might shun: 
 But naught avails ; whence, reft of hope, I 
 
 mourn. 
 
 The more I am destroyed by my thought, 
 Which doth its birth from others' hardness date, 
 So much the lower falls my sad estate, 
 And hope in me with flight of hope is wrought: 
 For to this end are all my reasonings brought, 
 That I shall sink under so heavy weight, 
 Though still desire maintains the firm debate, 
 And I pursue what bringeth me to naught. 
 This hour, perchance, the mortal may be born, 
 Who, when he reads my doleful sighs in ihymr, 
 Shall sorrow for a lot as mine severe. 
 
512 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Who knows but she that holds me now in scorn, 
 
 Seeing her loss linked to my ill, in time 
 
 May for my death shed one compunctious tear ? 
 
 LAPO GIANNI. 
 
 This poet is supposed by Crescimheni to have 
 lived about the time of Guittone. He was a 
 Florentine by birth, and a notary by profession. 
 Muratori argued, from the character of his style, 
 that he must have belonged to the fourteenth 
 century. 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 This new-born rose, 
 
 That pleaseth in its early blossom so, 
 
 O Love, doth show 
 
 What rare perfection from her virtue flows. 
 
 Were I with power endued 
 
 To make report of this new miracle, 
 
 How Nature hath adorned her I might tell : 
 
 But if my speech be rude, 
 
 Nor of her worth able to sum the proof, 
 
 Speak, Love, in my behoof, — 
 
 For thou alone mayst fitly speak her praise. 
 
 Yet this I tell, — how, lifting once my sight 
 
 On her to gaze, 
 
 Her sweet smile won me, and the rays 
 
 That trembled in her eyes with star-like light. 
 
 Mine straightway veiled te thee, 
 
 Not powerful to hold up against the beam 
 
 That in an instant to my heart did stream. 
 
 "And this," saidst thou, "is she 
 
 Must rule thee; long as she her life shall have, 
 
 Thou art ordained her slave." 
 
 Wherefore, sweet Lord, I thank thy sovereign 
 
 might, 
 That to such bondage hath my spirit swayed ; 
 For in delight 
 
 Henceforth live I, a blissful wight, 
 Thinking whose vassal thou my soul hast made. 
 Go, stripling song, 
 
 Tell her that hath the flaxen tresses free, 
 That I, so long 
 As Love hath told, her servitor must be. 
 
 DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 Dante was the son of Alighiero degli Alighi- 
 eri, and was christened in the church of Saint 
 John the Baptist by the name of Durante ; 
 which name was playfully changed in child- 
 hood to Dante. He was born at Florence, in 
 May, 1265, and died at Ravenna, in September. 
 1321. 
 
 The life of Dante naturally divides itself into 
 three epochs, each of which is very distinctly 
 marked. The first is that of his early youth, 
 — from his birth to the time when Beatrice 
 died; — a period of twenty-five years (1265 — 
 
 1290). The second, his public and political 
 life; — a period of twelve years, in the prime 
 of early manhood, from the age of twenty-five 
 to that of thirty-seven, when he was banished 
 from Florence (1290 1302). -And {he third, 
 his exile and wanderings, and death; — a period 
 of nineteen years ; namely, from the age of 
 thirty-seven to that of fifty-six (1302-1321). 
 
 What Dante's youth was we know from his 
 own lips,* and from the busy pens of many 
 biographers. It was a quiet, peaceful youth, 
 passed in the study of philosophy, and music, 
 and painting, and verse; and in the compan- 
 ionship of learned men and artists, such as 
 Latini, Cavalcante, Giotto, and Casella. Into 
 this perhaps sober-colored warp of life was 
 early woven the bright, dream-like figure of 
 Beatrice. As he himself tells us, he had not 
 yet completed his ninth year, when he beheld 
 her for the first time ; and, to use his own 
 words, "The spirit of life, that dwelleth in the 
 most secret chambers of the heart, all-trembling, 
 spake these words : ' Behold a god more pow- 
 erful than I ! ' " Boccaccio says that this was 
 at a May-day festival, — "In that season, when 
 the mil-dness of heaven reclothes the earth 
 with its own ornaments, and all with manifold 
 flowers mingled among the verdant leaves man- 
 eth her to laugh." t 
 
 Beatrice died in youth. She had not yet 
 completed her twenty-fourth year.f Soon after- 
 wards, Dante was unhappily married to Madon- 
 na Gemma de' Donati. 
 
 Such was the first epoch of Dante's life. 
 The second, which embraces his public and 
 political career, was as full of trouble as the 
 first was full of peace. Now came the clash 
 of parties, and the battles of Campaldino and 
 Pisa, and the fourteen embassies treading close 
 upon each other's heels. So much astir were 
 all men, — and Dante, in the midst of all, so 
 busy with the affairs of state, so necessary at 
 home and abroad, — that he exclaims, despairing 
 of the power of others to govern the republic, — 
 " If I stay, who is there to go ? If I go, who 
 is there to stay ? " 
 
 It was on one of these political pilgrimages 
 that he left Florence for Rome, never more to 
 enter the gates of his native city. They were 
 closed against him for ever. But, in the words 
 of Michel Angelo, 
 
 "Heaven unbarred to him her lofty gates, 
 To whom his country hers refused to ope." 
 
 Being at Rome, he heard the sentence pro- 
 nounced against him ; perpetual exile, confis- 
 cation of his property, — and death by fire, should 
 he ever again set foot in Florence. 
 
 * Vita Nuova. 
 
 t Nel tempe, net quale la dolcezza del cielo riveste de' 
 suoi ornamenti la terra, e tutta per la varieta de' fiori me- 
 scolati palle verde frondi la fa ridente. — Vita di Dante. 
 
 t Boccaccio says, that Beatrice was married to Simone 
 de' Bardi ; and of Dante's marriage he says, — "O incon- 
 ceivable torture ! to live, and converse, and grow old, and 
 die with such a jealous creature ! " 
 
DANTE ALIGHIERI 
 
 513 
 
 Thus, in the life, of Dante, closes the second 
 spoch, and the third begins; — a long and sor- 
 -owful period of nineteen years, closing with 
 his death. The prior of Florence was now a 
 poor and homeless man. The companion of 
 the rich and great was now their pensioner. 
 Their roofs sheltered him, — their hands gave 
 him bread. Well might he exclaim, in piteous 
 accents, — "I am sorry for all who suffer ; but I 
 have greater pity for those, who, being in exile 
 and affliction, behold their native land in dreams 
 only."* One may easily believe, that to the lips 
 of those " who have drunk the waters of the 
 Arno before they had teeth " t the waters of all 
 other streams should have a bitter taste. 
 
 We need not follow the poet in his wander- 
 ings, blown to and fro " by the sharp wind that 
 springs from sad poverty." There are, how- 
 ever, one or two scenes in this last mournful 
 period of his life, which cannot be passed over 
 in silence. They are too striking and charac- 
 teristic, not to find a place here. The first is 
 an interview of the exiled poet with Frate 
 Ilario in the convent of the Corvo alle Foci 
 della Marca. We copy the monk's own words, 
 as he wrote them down at the time, in a letter 
 to Uguccione della Faggiuola, one of Dante's 
 fast and faithful friends. 
 
 "Hither he came, passing through the dio- 
 cese of Luni, moved either by the religion of 
 the place, or by some other feeling. And see- 
 ing him, as yet unknown to me and to all my 
 brethren, I questioned him of his wishings and 
 his seekings there. He moved not ; but stood 
 silently contemplating the columns and arches 
 of the cloister. And again I asked him what 
 he wished and whom he sought. Then, slowly 
 turning his head, and looking at the friars and 
 at me, he answered: 'Pace!' Thence kind- 
 ling more and more the wish to know him and 
 who he might be, I led him aside somewhat, 
 and, having spoken a few words with him, I 
 knew him ; for although I had never seen 
 him till that hour, his fame had long since 
 reached me. And when he saw that I hung 
 upon his countenance, and listened to him with 
 strange affection (con raro affetto), he drew from 
 his bosom a book, did gently open it, and 
 offered it to me, saying : ' Sir Friar, here is a 
 portion of my work, which peradventure thou 
 hast not seen. This remembrance I leave with 
 thee. Forget me not.' And when he had given 
 me the book, I pressed it gratefully to my bo- 
 som, and in his presence fixed my eyes upon it 
 with great love. But I beholding there the 
 vulgar tongue, and showing by the fashion of 
 my countenance my wonderment thereat, he 
 asked the reason of the same. I answered, 
 that I marvelled he should sing in that lan- 
 guage ; for it seemed a difficult thing, nay, 
 incredible, that those most high conceptions 
 could be expressed in common language ; nor did 
 
 * De Vulg. Eloq., Lib. II., Cap. 6. 
 t Ibid., Lib. I., Cap. 6. 
 
 65 
 
 it seem to me right, that such and so worthy a 
 science should be clothed in such plebeian gar- 
 ments. 'You think aright,' he said, 'and I 
 myself have thought so. And when at first the 
 seeds of these matters, perhaps inspired by 
 Heaven, began to bud, I chose that language, 
 which was most worthy of them : and not alone 
 chose it, but began forthwith to poetize therein, 
 after this wise : 
 
 " Ultima regna canam fluido contermina mundo, 
 Spiritibus qua? lata patent; quas praemia solvunt 
 Pro meritis cuicumque suis." 
 But when I recalled the condition of the pres- 
 ent age, and saw the songs of the illustrious 
 poets esteemed almost as naught, and knew 
 that the generous men, for whom in better days 
 these things were written, had abandoned (alii 
 dolore!) the liberal arts unto vulgar hands, I 
 threw aside the delicate lyre, which had armed 
 my flank (onde armavami il fianco), and at- 
 tuned another more befitting the ear of mod- 
 erns ; — for the food that is hard we hold in 
 vain to the mouths of sucklings.' "* 
 
 And not less striking is the closing scene of 
 that eventful life ; when, his work on earth 
 accomplished, the great poet lay down to die, 
 in the palace of Ravenna, wrapped in the cowl 
 and mantle of a Franciscan friar. By his side 
 was his friend Guido Novello, the nephew 
 of that lovely Francesca, whose passionate de- 
 sires and cruel death have become immortal in 
 the poet's song. It was the day of the Holy 
 Cross ; and, perhaps, a solemn anthem was the 
 last sound that reached the ears of the dying 
 man, when, between life and death, "he beheld 
 eyes of light, that wandered like stars." And 
 after death, the cowl and mantle were removed, 
 and he was clothed in the garments of a poet ; 
 and his friend pronounced his eulogy in the 
 palace. 
 
 Thus died the greatest of the Italian poets ; 
 and it may truly be said, that the gloomy forests 
 of Ravenna seem still to breathe forth the sighs 
 of the dying man ; so intimately associated with 
 his spirit are all the places that knew him 
 upon earth ! 
 
 Dante's writings are the " Vita Nuova," a 
 romantic record of his early life and love, writ- 
 ten in prose, and interspersed with sonnets and 
 canzoni ; the " Convito," a prose commentary 
 upon three canzoni, to which the reader is in- 
 vited as to a festival; the " Canzoniere," or 
 collection of sonnets and canzoni ; the two Lat- 
 in treatises, " De Monarchic," and " De Vulgari 
 Eloquentia " ; and the great masterpiece and 
 labor of his mature life, the "Divina Comme- 
 dia." 
 
 The "Divina Commedia"is not what we 
 understand by an allegorical poem, in the strict 
 sense of the word, — in the same sense, for in- 
 stance, as the " Faery Queen." And yet it is 
 full of allegory ; full of literal and figurative 
 meanings ; full of symbols and things signi 
 
 * Comento Storico di Ferdinando Arrivabene, p. 380. 
 
514 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 fied. Dante himself says, in a letter which he 
 sent with the poem to his friend Can Grande 
 della Scala : " It is to be remarked, that the 
 sense of this work is not simple ; but, on the 
 contrary, one may say, manifold. For the first 
 sense is that which it derives from its language; 
 and another is that which it derives from the 
 things signified by the language; — the one, lit- 
 eral ; the other, allegorical The subject of 
 
 the whole work, taken literally, is the condition 
 of the soul after death. But if you well observe 
 the express words, you will easily perceive, 
 that, in an allegorical sense, the poet is treating 
 of this hell, in which, journeying onward like 
 travellers, we may deserve reward or punish- 
 ment." The machinery, then, of the poem is 
 allegorical ; but the characters are real person- 
 ages, in their true forms. Among these some 
 masks and disguises are introduced : — the Age ; 
 the Church; the Empire of Rome ; the Virtues, 
 shining as stars, &c. Properly speaking, the 
 poem is a mixture of realities and symbols, as 
 best suits the author's feeling at the moment.* 
 
 We are to consider the Divine Poem as the 
 mirror of the age in which its author lived ; 
 or rather, perhaps, as a mirror of Italy in that 
 age. The principal historic events and per- 
 sonages, the character and learning of the time, 
 are faithfully imaged and reproduced therein. 
 Most of the events described had just transpir- 
 ed ; most of the persons were just dead ; the 
 memory of both was still warm in the minds 
 of men. The poet did not merely imagine, as 
 a possibility ; but felt, as a reality. He was 
 wandering about homeless, as he composed ; al- 
 most borrowing the ink he wrote with. They 
 who had wronged him still lived to wrong him 
 further. No wonder, then, that in his troubled, 
 burning soul arose great thoughts and awful, 
 like Farinata, from his burning sepulchre. When 
 he approached a city's gates, he could not but 
 be reminded that into the gates of Florence he 
 could go no more. When he beheld the towers 
 of feudal castles cresting the distant hills, he 
 felt how arrogant are the strong, how much 
 abused the weak. Every brook and river re- 
 minded him of the Arno, and the brooklets that 
 descend from Casentino. Every voice he heard 
 told him, by its strange accent, that he was an 
 exile; and every home he saw said to him, in 
 its sympathies even, " Thou art homeless ! " 
 All these things found expression in his poem; 
 and much of the beautiful description of land- 
 scape, and of the morning and the evening, bears 
 the freshness of that impression which is made 
 on the mind of a foot-traveller, who sits under 
 the trees at noon, and leaves or enters towns 
 when the morning or evening bells are ringing, 
 and he has only to hear " how many a tale 
 their music tells." 
 
 Dante, in his Latin treatise " De Monarchic," 
 says, that man is a kind of middle term be- 
 
 * See, upon this subject, Rossetti, Spirito Antipapale 
 de' Classici Italiani, Cap. V. 
 
 tween the corruptible and the incorruptible, and, 
 being thus twofold in his nature, is destined 
 to a twofold end ; "namely, to happiness in this 
 life, which consists in the practice of virtue, 
 and is figured forth in the Terrestrial Paradise ; 
 and eternal beatitude, which consists in the 
 fruition of the divine presence ; to which we 
 cannot arrive by any virtue of our own, unless 
 aided by divine light ; and this is the Celestial 
 Paradise."* This idea forms the thread of the 
 " Commedia." 
 
 Midway in life the poet finds himself lost 
 in the gloomy forest of worldly cares, beset by 
 Pride, Avarice, and Sensual Pleasure. Moral 
 Philosophy, embodied in the form of Virgil, 
 leads him forth through the hell of worldly 
 sin and passion and suffering, through the pur- 
 gatory of repentant feelings, to the quiet repose 
 of earthly happiness. Farther than this mere 
 philosophy cannot go. Here Divine Wisdom, 
 or Theology, in the form of Beatrice, receives 
 the pilgrim, and, ascending from planet to 
 planet, brings him to the throne of God. 
 
 Upon this slender, golden thread hangs this 
 universe of a poem ; in which things visible 
 and invisible have their appointed place, and 
 the spheres and populous stars revolve harmo- 
 nious about their centre. 
 
 Dante supposes, that, when Lucifer fell from 
 heaven, he struck the earth with such violence 
 as to make a vast chasm, tunnel-shaped, quite 
 down to the earth's centre, where he lies frozen 
 in eternal ice. Down the sloping sides of this 
 great tunnel sucks the groaning maelstrom of 
 Dante's Inferno ; through whose various eddies 
 and whirlpools the shuddering poet is hurried 
 forward, amid the shrieking shipwrecked souls. 
 There sighs and lamentations and deep woes 
 resounded through the air without a star : 
 
 "And diverse languages, and horrible tongues, 
 Outcries of anguish, accents of fierce wrath, 
 And voices high and hoarse, and sound of hands therewith, 
 Made up a tumult that goes whirling on 
 For ever in that air of palpable blackness, 
 Like unto sand, when the wild whirlwind breathes."! 
 
 Through these several circles Dante follows 
 Virgil. The first is Limbo, where are the souls 
 of children and the unbaptized ; the heathen 
 poets and philosophers, 
 
 " With slow and solemn eyes, 
 And great authority in their countenance, 
 Who speak but seldom with soft, pleasant voices." 
 
 They are neither in pain nor glory. No groans 
 are heard, but the whole air is tremulous with 
 sighs. 
 
 In the second circle the sin of lust is pun- 
 ished. The spirits are tossed to and fro in a 
 
 * De Monarch^, Cap. 92, 93. 
 
 t Of this Inferno a certain Antonio Manetti has made 
 a "profile and plan, with measurements." 
 
 To the first seven circles he allows a thousand miles; 
 and seven hundred more to the gulf of Malabolge. with 
 its ten fosses. It is in the Zatta edition of Dante : Venice, 
 1757, Tom. I. A still better view of the Infernal Tunnel 
 may be found in the De Romanis edition: Rome, 1815, 4to. 
 
DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 515 
 
 whirlwind, and dashed against each other with 
 moans and blasphemies : 
 
 " As cranes, 
 Chanting their dolorous notes, traverse the sky, 
 Stretched out in long array; so I beheld 
 Spirits, who came loud wailing, hurried on 
 By their dire doom." 
 In the third circle the miserable souls of 
 gluttons lie howling like dogs under an eternal 
 and accursed shower, wherein large hailstones, 
 and black rain, 
 
 "and sleety flaw. 
 Through the dun midnight air stream down amain." 
 In the fourth circle the prodigal and avari- 
 cious are punished by being set in eternal con- 
 flict, clashing, howling, and rolling great weights 
 against each other. 
 
 In the fifth is the Stygian pool; immersed in 
 whose filthy, stagnant waters, the souls of the 
 irascible are smiting each other, naked and 
 muddy, while others, breathing under the water, 
 cover the whole pool with bubbles : 
 
 "How many now are mighty kings on earth, 
 Who here like swine shall wallow in the mire; 
 Leaving behind them horrible dispraise! " 
 The sixth circle is the fiery city of Dis, with 
 walls of heated iron, and bale-fires flaming on 
 the towers. The whole place within is like a 
 vast cemetery, where the souls of heretics lie 
 buried in fiery graves, which are open, and 
 from which terrific groans are constantly as- 
 cending. 
 
 From high cliffs the poet looks down into 
 the seventh circle, which is divided into three 
 rounds, or gironi, where the violent are tor- 
 mented ; those who have done violence to their 
 neighbours are plunged into a river of blood ; 
 those who have laid violent hands upon them- 
 selves are changed to trees, and 
 
 " Even as a green stick, that, being kindled, 
 Burns at one end. and at the other groans 
 And hisses with the air that is escaping, 
 So from the broken limb came out together 
 Both words and blood"; 
 and in the third girone, or division, those who 
 have been violent against God, Nature, or Art, 
 walk upon a sandy plain under a shower of fire, 
 whose broad flakes come slowly wafted down, 
 "like snow upon the Alps when winds are 
 still." 
 
 The eighth circle is the gulf of Malabolge, 
 into which the Phlegethon, the rLver of blood, 
 falls with a hollow roar ; and down into whose 
 bosom the two poets are borne on the back of 
 the winged monster Geryon, hearing all the 
 while the horrible crash of the cataract of 
 blood. Here, in ten concentric fosses, spanned 
 by bridges, various sinners suffer various tor- 
 ments : seducers are scourged by demons ; flat- 
 terers wallow in filth ; simoniacs are plunged 
 head foremost into holes in the earth ; sooth- 
 sayers have their heads turned backwards ; 
 peculators seethe in a lake of boiling pitch ; 
 hypocrites wear gilded hoods of lead ; robbers 
 are stung bv venomous serpents ; evil counsel- 
 lors live in flames, in each flame a sinful soul ; 
 
 schismatics are maimed and cut asunder ; and 
 alchemists and forgers lie rotting with disease, 
 as in a lazar-house, or rather, as if 
 
 "Each lazar-house 
 Of Valdichiana, in the sultry time 
 'Twixt July and September, with the isle 
 Sardinia, and Maremma's pestilent fen, 
 Had heaped their maladies all in one fosse 
 Together." 
 
 From among the sobbing ghosts of Malabolge 
 they pass onward, and the sound of a horn is 
 heard, more terrible than Orlando's, and the 
 forms of giants are seen, like the towers of a 
 city, through the gross and misty atmosphere. 
 Antaeus takes the poets in his hands, and sets 
 them down in the ninth and last circle of the 
 Inferno, where the souls of traitors lie in the 
 frozen lake, and in the midst Lucifer, the fallen 
 archangel, in the very centre of the earth, 
 "like a worm boring through the centre of the 
 world." Down his shaggy, icy sides they slide, 
 and, turning their heads round, begin to ascend 
 to the earth's surface, through a cavern, guided 
 upward by the sound of a brooklet, " and thence 
 come forth to see the stars again." 
 
 The fall of Lucifer made not only the gull 
 of Hell, but threw up on the opposite surface 
 of the earth a huge cone, which is the moun- 
 tain of Purgatory. Seven broad terraces are 
 cut into its sides, and on its summit is the Ter- 
 restrial Paradise, to which the poets climb, 
 ushered onward from terrace to terrace by an- 
 gels. On these terraces, the seven mortal sins 
 are purged away. 
 
 On the first terrace the spirits of the proud 
 are made to totter under huge stones, that are 
 placed upon their shoulders ; and he who had 
 most patience in his looks, weeping, did seem 
 to say, "I can no more." 
 
 On the second terrace sit the souls of the 
 envious, having their eyelids sewed together 
 with iron wire, and turning their faces up 
 piteously, like blind beggars at the gates of 
 churches. 
 
 On the third terrace the sin of anger is 
 purged. The souls walk enveloped in dense, 
 suffocating smoke, and in darkness like that of 
 a starless night. 
 
 On the fourth terrace the sin of lukewarm- 
 ness is punished. The crowd of ghosts comes 
 sweeping round the hill, ridden and spurred 
 onward by a righteous, though tardy zeal. 
 
 On the fifth terrace the souls of the avari 
 cious lie with their faces in the dust, weeping 
 and wailing. 
 
 On the sixth, the souls of gluttons "drink 
 the sweet wormwood of their torment," being 
 emaciated by famine, till the hollow sockets of 
 their eyes seem rings, from which the gems 
 have fallen. 
 
 On the seventh and last terrace the sin o. 
 incontinence is purged by fire. Beyond this, 
 on the summit of the mountain, stands the Ter- 
 restrial Paradise, where, amid flowers, and 
 leaves, and living waters, the poet meets Bea- 
 
516 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 trice, who becomes his guide among the stars 
 of Paradise 
 
 The Paradise of Dante is divided into ten 
 heavens, or spheres. Through these the two 
 travellers ascend, drawn upward by heavenly 
 desire. 
 
 In the first Heaven, or that of the Moon, are 
 seen the spirits of those who, having taken 
 monastic vows, were forced to violate them. 
 
 In the second, or that of Mercury, the spirits of 
 those whom love of fame incited to noble deeds. 
 
 In the third, or that of Venus, the spirits of 
 Lovers. 
 
 In the fourth, or that of the Sun, the spirits 
 of Theologians and Fathers of the Church. 
 
 In the fifth, or that of Mars, the spirits of 
 Crusaders and those who died for the true Faith. 
 
 In the sixth, or that of Jupiter, the spirits 
 of righteous Kings and Rulers. 
 
 In the seventh, or that of Saturn, the spirits 
 of the Contemplative. 
 
 In the eighth, or that of the Fixed Stars, the 
 Triumph of Christ. 
 
 In the ninth, or Primum Mobile, the Angelic 
 Hierarchies. 
 
 In the tenth, or the Empyrean, is the Visible 
 Presence of God. 
 
 It must be observed, however, that the lower 
 spheres, in which the spirits appear, are not as- 
 signed them as their places or dwellings. They 
 show themselves in these different places only to 
 indicate to Dante the different degrees of glory 
 which they enjoy, aDd to show that while on 
 earth they were under the influence of the 
 planets in which they here appear. Dante ex- 
 pressly says, in Canto IV. 28 : — 
 
 " He of the Seraphim most absorbed in God, 
 Moses, and Samuel, and whichever John 
 Thou mayst select, I say, and even Mary, 
 Have not in any other heaven their thrones 
 Than have those spirits that just appeared to thee, 
 Nor of existence more or fewer years." 
 
 The " Divina Commedia " has been many 
 times, wholly or in part, translated into Eng- 
 lish. The following is a list of these transla- 
 tions in order of date. 
 
 Rogers. The Inferno, 1782. 
 
 Boyd. The whole poem, 1785 - 1802. 
 
 Cary. The whole poem, 1806 - 1814. 
 
 Howard. The Inferno, 1807. 
 
 Hume. The Inferno, 1812. 
 
 Wright. The whole poem, 1833 - 1840. 
 
 Dayman. The whole poem, 1843-1865. 
 
 Carlyle. The Inferno, in prose, 1849. 
 
 Bannerman. The whole poem, 1850. 
 
 Cayley. The whole poem, 1851-1854. 
 
 O'Donnell. The whole poem. 1852. 
 
 Brooksbank. The Inferno, 1854. 
 
 Pollock. The whole poem, 1854. 
 
 Bruce Whyte. The Inferno, 1859. 
 
 Ramsay. The whole poem, 1862 - 1863. 
 
 Rossetti. The Inferno, 1865. 
 
 Parsons. The Inferno, 1867. 
 
 Longfellow The whole poem, 1867. 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE VITA NUOTA. 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 Love and a generous heart are but one thing, 
 As says the wise man in his apophthegm ; 
 And one can by itself no more exist 
 Than reason can, without the reasoning soul. 
 Nature in kindliest mood creates the two: 
 Makes Love a king, the heart his palace makes; 
 Within whose chambers sleeping, his repose 
 Is sometimes brief, and sometimes long endures 
 Beauty with sense combined in lady charms 
 The observing eye, and then within the heart 
 Desire to obtain the pleasing object springs, 
 There sometimes grows, and strength in time 
 
 acquires 
 The spirit of Love from slumber to arouse: 
 Like power o'er lady's heart hath manly worth 
 
 LOVELINESS OF BEATRICE. 
 
 The throne of Love is in my lady's eyes, 
 Whence every thing she looks on is ennobled : 
 On her all eyes are turned, where'er she moves, 
 And his heart palpitates whom she salutes, 
 So that, with countenance cast down and pale, 
 Conscious unworthiness his sighs express: 
 Anger and pride before her presence fly. 
 O, aid me, gentle dames, to do her honor! 
 All sweetness springs, and every humble thought, 
 Within the heart of him who hears her speak ; 
 And happy may be deemed who once hath seen 
 
 her. 
 What she appears when she doth gently smile 
 Tongue cannot tell nor memory retain, — 
 So beauteous is the miracle, and new. 
 
 Beatrice's salutation. 
 
 So noble is Madonna's air, so kind, 
 So full of grace to all, when she salutes, 
 That every tongue with awe is mute and trem- 
 bles, 
 And every eye shrinks back from her regard. 
 Clothed in humility, she hears her praise, 
 And passes on with calm benignity; 
 Appearing not a thing of earth, but come 
 From heaven, to show mankind a miracle. 
 So pleasing is her countenance, that he 
 Who gazes feels delight expand the heart, 
 Which must be proved, or cannot be conceived ; 
 And from her lip there seems to emanate 
 A spirit full of mildness and of love, 
 Which, counselling the soul, still says, " O, 
 sigh ! " 
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 Into the chambers of my memory came 
 That noble lady, whom in tears Love mourns, 
 The very moment when his power led you 
 To watch the labors that my hand employed. 
 Love to the seat of memory felt her come. 
 And woke from slumber in my wretched heart, 
 
DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 517 
 
 And, calling to the sighs, exclaimed, "Go forth ! " 
 The sighs in mournful crowds with haste obeyed, 
 And issued from my breast, uttering such sounds 
 Of grief, as often draw from these sad eyes 
 The fellowship of my unhappy tears. 
 But of the sighs sent forth with greatest pain 
 Are those which say, "O noble mind, this day 
 Completes the year since thy ascent to heaven ! " 
 
 THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 Tell me, ye pilgrims, who so thoughtful go, 
 Musing, perhaps, on objects far away, 
 Come ye from wandering in such distant land 
 (As by your looks and garb we must infer), 
 That you our city traverse in her woe, 
 And mingle with her crowds, yet tears with- 
 hold, 
 Like persons quite unconscious of her state, 
 Who ne'er have heard the heavy loss she 
 
 mourns ? 
 O, should you stay, and lend a willing ear, 
 My sighing heart feels sure its tale would cause 
 Your tears to flow, and sad you would depart. 
 The city mourns her Beatrice; she 's dead ! 
 And that which we can truly say of her 
 Has power to force even strangers' eyes to weep. 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE CANZONIERE. 
 
 THE CURSE. 
 
 Accursed be the day when first I saw 
 The beams which sparkle in your traitorous eyes ! 
 The moment cursed, when to my heart you came, 
 And reached its pinnacle to steal the soul ! 
 Accursed be Love's labor, which my style 
 Has polished, and the beauteous tints refined 
 That I for you invented, and with verse 
 
 adorned, 
 To force the world to honor you for ever ! 
 Accursed be my stubborn memory, 
 So firm in holding what must cause my death, 
 The wicked image of your beauteous form ; 
 Through which Love's perjuries so frequent are, 
 That he and I are ridiculed by all, 
 And I am tempted Fortune's wheel to seize ! 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 Into thy hands, sweet lady of my soul, 
 The spirit which is dying I commend ; 
 In grief so sad it takes its leave, that Love 
 Views it with pity while dismissing it. 
 By thee to his dominion it was chained 
 So firmly, that no power it hath retained 
 To call him aught except its sovereign lord; 
 For whatsoe'er thou wilt, thy will is mine. 
 I know that every wrong displeaseth thee ; 
 Therefore stern Death, whom I have never 
 
 served, 
 Enters my heart with far more bitterness : 
 O noble lady, then, whilst life remains, 
 That I may die in peace, my mind consoled, 
 Vouchsafe to be less dear unto these eyes. 
 
 BEAUTY AND VIRTUE. 
 
 Two ladies on the summit of my mind 
 Their station take, to hold discourse of love : 
 Virtue and courtesy adorn the one, 
 With modesty and prudence in her train ; 
 Beauty and lively elegance the other, 
 With every winning grace to do her honor: 
 And I, thanks to my sweet and sovereign lord, 
 Enamoured of the two, their slave remain. 
 Beauty and virtue each address the mind, 
 And doubts express if loyal heart can rest 
 Between the two, in perfect love divided: 
 The fountain of true eloquence replies, — 
 "Both may be loved: beauty, to yield delight; 
 And virtue, to excite to generous deeds." 
 
 THE LOVER. 
 
 When night with sable wing the earth en 
 
 shrouds, 
 And day, departing, hides itself in heaven, 
 In ocean, and in grove, and bird and beast 
 Amid the boughs or in the stall find rest; 
 And sleep o'er every limb its gentle balm 
 Diffuses, undisturbed by care or thought, 
 Until Aurora with her tresses fair 
 Returns, and day's fatigue again renews : 
 Then, wretched, I am banished from sleep's 
 
 fold; 
 For grief and sighs, the enemies of rest, 
 Mine eyes keep open and my heart awake ; 
 And like a bird enveloped in a net, 
 The more I seek and struggle to escape, 
 The more I am entangled and in error lost. 
 
 TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 
 
 Friend Gnido, would that Lappo, you, and I 
 Were carried by enchantment far from care, 
 And sailing in a bark upon the sea, 
 Where wind and wave our bidding should 
 
 obey; 
 Where never fortune cross, nor weather foul, 
 To interrupt our joy should have the power; 
 And wishes ne'er to part should still increase, 
 While granted were the wish to live together. 
 And might the good enchanter place beside us 
 Our Beatrice, and Vanna, and the lady 
 Who stands preeminent amidst the thirty, 
 There would we never cease to talk of love ; 
 And each fair dame, I trust, would be content, 
 As I am confident that we should be. 
 
 TO BOSSONE D' AGOBIO. 
 
 O thoc who tread'st the cool and shady hill 
 Skirting the river, which so softly glides 
 That gentle Linceus 't is by natives called, 
 In its Italian, not its German, name, — 
 Contented sit thee down at morn and eve ; 
 For thy beloved child already bears 
 The fruit desired, and his march hath been 
 Rapid in Grecian and in Gallic lore. 
 Genius, alas ! no longer holds her throne 
 
 RR 
 
518 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 In that Hesperia, now the abode of woe, 
 Whose gardens once such noble promise gave. 
 None fairer than thy Raphael ; then rejoice, 
 For thou shalt see him float amid the learned, 
 Admired as a galliot on the wave. 
 
 CANZONI FROM THE VITA NUOVA. 
 
 vision of Beatrice's death. 
 
 A lady, young, compassionate, and fair, 
 Richly adorned with every human grace, 
 Watched o'er my couch, where oft I called on 
 
 death ; 
 And noticing the eyes with sorrow swollen, 
 And listening to the folly of my words, 
 Fear seized upon her, and she wept aloud. 
 Attracted by her moaning, other dames 
 Gave heed unto my pitiable state, 
 And from my view removed her. 
 They then approached to rouse me by their voice, 
 And one cried, " Sleep no more ! " 
 And one, " Why thus discomfort thee ? " 
 With that the strange, delirious fancy fled, 
 And, calling on my lady's name, I woke. 
 So indistinct and mournful was my voice, 
 By anguish interrupted so, and tears, 
 That I alone the name heard in my heart : 
 Then with a countenance abashed, through 
 
 shame, 
 Which to my face had mounted visibly, 
 Prompted by Love, I turned towards my friends, 
 And features showed so pale and wan, 
 It made beholders turn their thoughts on death. 
 " Alas ! our comfort he must have," 
 Said every one, with kind humility. 
 Then oft they questioned me, 
 " What hast thou seen, that has unmanned 
 
 thee thus ? " 
 And when I was in part restored, I said, 
 " Ladies, to you the vision I '11 relate. 
 Whilst I lay pondering on my ebbing life, 
 And saw how brief its tenure, and how frail, 
 Love wept within my heart, where he abides ; 
 For my sad soul was wandering so, and lost, 
 That, sighing deeply at the thought, it said, 
 'Inevitable death attends Madonna too.' 
 Such consternation then my senses seized, 
 The eyes weighed down with fear were closed; 
 And scattered far and wide 
 The spirits fled, and each in error strayed ; 
 And then imagination's powers, 
 Of recollection and of truth bereft, 
 Showed me the fleeting forms of wretched dames, 
 Who shouted, ' Death ! ' still crying, ' Thou shalt 
 
 die !' 
 Many the doubtful things which next I saw, 
 Wandering in vain imagination's maze. 
 I seemed to be I know not in what place, 
 And ladies loosely robed saw fleet along, 
 Some weeping, and some uttering loud laments 
 Which darted burning griefs into the soul. 
 And then methought I saw a gradual veil 
 Obscure the sun ; the star of Love appeared, 
 And sun an ' star seemed both to ween ' 
 
 Birds flying through the dusky air dropped down ; 
 Trembled the earth : 
 
 And then appeared a man, feeble and pale, 
 Who cried to me, ' What ! here ? Heard'st not 
 
 the news ? 
 Dead is thy lady, — she who was so fair.' 
 I raised the eyes then, moistened with my tears, 
 And, softly as the shower of manna fell, 
 Angels I saw returning up to heaven : 
 Before them was a slender cloud extended, 
 And from behind I heard them shout, ' Hosan- 
 
 na ! ' 
 What more was sung I know not, or would tell. 
 Then Love thus spoke : ' Concealment here 
 
 shall end ; 
 Come now, and see our lady who lies dead 
 Imagination's fallacy 
 
 Then led me where in death Madonna lay ; 
 And after I had gazed upon her form, 
 Ladies I saw conceal it with a veil ; 
 And such true meekness from its features 
 
 beamed, 
 It seemed to say to me, 'I dwell in peace.' 
 So meek in my affliction I became, 
 Seeing such meekness on her brow expressed, 
 That I exclaimed, ' O Death, I hold thee sweet, 
 Noble and kind henceforth thou must be deemed, 
 Since thou hast been united to Madonna; 
 Piteous, not cruel, must thy nature be. 
 Behold desire so strong to be enrolled 
 Thy follower, my faith and thine seem one! 
 Come, for the heart solicits thee ! ' 
 I then departed, all sad rites complete ; 
 And when I found myself alone, 
 With eyes upraised to the realms above I said, 
 'Blessed is he beholds thee, beauteous soul !' 
 That instant, through your kindness, I awoke " 
 
 DIRGE OF BEATRICE. 
 
 The eyes, which mourn the sorrows of the heart, 
 Such torture have endured in shedding tears, 
 That they at last are utterly subdued ; 
 And should I strive to find relief from woe, 
 Which by degrees is leading me to death, 
 Sad notes of misery are my sole resource. 
 And as I well remember how I spoke 
 My thoughts of my loved mistress, while she 
 
 lived, 
 Most willingly to you, my noble dames, — 
 Now to no other will I speak 
 Than to the gentle heart in lady's breast ; 
 And weeping, then, my song shall be of her 
 Who has to heaven departed suddenly, 
 And Love has left companion of my sorrows. 
 To highest heaven our Beatrice is gone, 
 Unto the realm where peace and angels dwell-, 
 With them she rests, and you, fair dames, hath 
 
 left. 
 No icy chill or fever's heat deprived 
 Us of her, as in nature's course ; 
 But solely her transcendent excellence. 
 For the bright beam of her humility 
 Passed with such virtue the celestial spheres, 
 It called forth wonder in the Eternal Sire ; 
 
DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 519 
 
 And then his pleasure was 
 
 To claim a soul so healthful and so pure, 
 
 And make it from our earth ascend to him ; 
 
 Deeming this life of weariness and care 
 
 Unworthy of a thing so excellent. 
 
 Forth from its lovely frame the soul is fled, 
 
 In favo.- as in excellence most high, 
 
 And sits in glory on a worthy throne. 
 
 He who can speak of her without a tear 
 
 A heart of stone must have, wicked and vile, 
 
 Where never spirit benign can entrance find. 
 
 The ignoble heart is fraught with sense too low 
 
 To form imagination faint of her ; 
 
 And hence desire to weep offends not him. 
 
 But sadness him assails, and sighs, 
 
 And tears of deadly sorrow, and his soul 
 
 Of every consolation is bereft, 
 
 Who, even in thought, has once beheld how good 
 
 And fair she was, and how from us she 's taken. 
 
 Anguish intolerable attends my sighs, 
 
 When to the mind returns the afflicting thought 
 
 Of the beloved who mv heart hath shared. 
 
 And often, when I ruminate on death, 
 
 A wish so soothing o'er my senses comes, 
 
 The color of my features it transforms. 
 
 But when imagination holds me fast, 
 
 Pain so severe oft seizes every nerve, 
 
 That I am roused through very agony; 
 
 And I such spectacle become, 
 
 That from mankind I separate abashed. 
 
 Then solitarv, weepinj, I lament and call 
 
 On Beatrice, and say, "Art thou, then, dead?" 
 
 And while I call on her, am comforted. 
 
 Sorrow and tears and sighs of mental anguish 
 
 So waste my heart, whene'er I am alone, 
 
 That who should hear me must compassion feel ; 
 
 And what my state hath been, since to the world 
 
 Unknown Madonna took her flight from earth, 
 
 No tongue of human power can express. 
 
 And therefore, ladies, even with the will 
 
 To tell you what I am, the ability must fail ; 
 
 So am I harassed by mv bitter life, 
 
 Disheartened and degraded so, that all 
 
 Who mark the death-like color of my cheek, 
 
 Pass on, and seem to say, " I thee abandon ! " 
 
 But what I am Madonna knows full well, 
 
 And still from her I hope for my reward. 
 
 My plaintive song, now mournful take thy way, 
 
 And find the ladies and the damsels kind, 
 
 To whom thy sisters blithe 
 
 Were wont to bear the merry notes of joy ; 
 
 And thou, who art the daughter of my sorrow, 
 
 Disconsolate depart and dwell with them ! 
 
 CANZOXI FROM THE CANZONIERE. 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 Those curled and flaxen tresses I admire, 
 
 Of which, with strings of pearl and scattered 
 
 flowers, 
 Hath Love contrived a net for me, his prey 
 To take me ; and I find the lure succeed. 
 And chief, those beauteous eves attract my gaze, 
 Which pass through mine and penetrate the heart 
 
 With rays so animating and so bright, 
 
 That from the sun itself they seem to flow. 
 
 Virtue still growing is in them displayed; 
 
 Hence I, who contemplate their charms so rare, 
 
 Thus commune with myself amid my sighs : 
 
 " Alas ! why cannot I be placed 
 
 Alone, unseen, with her where I would wish; 
 
 So that with those fair tresses I might play, 
 
 And separate them wave by wave ; 
 
 And of her beauteous eyes, which shine supreme. 
 
 Might form two mirrors for delight of mine? " 
 
 I next the fair and lovely mouth survey, 
 
 The spacious forehead, and the enamouring look. 
 
 The fingers white, the nose correctly straight, 
 
 The eyebrow smooth and dark, that pencilled 
 
 seems. 
 Then wandering thought imagination stirs, 
 Saying : " Observe the winning grace and joy 
 Within that delicate and vermeil lip, 
 Where all that 's sweet and zest can give is seen : 
 O, stay, and hear how lovely her discourse, 
 What tenderness and goodness it reveals, 
 And how her converse she imparts to all! 
 Admire, how, when she smiles, 
 All other charms in sweetness are surpassed ! ' 
 Thus to expatiate on that mouth my thought 
 Still spurs me on ; for I 
 Have nothing upon earth I would not give, 
 Could I from it obtain one unreluctant "Yes." 
 Then I regard her white and well turned throat, 
 So aptly joined to shoulders and to bust ; 
 And little rounded chin, with dimple stamped, 
 In form as true as painter's eye conceives. 
 My thought, which ever turns its flight to her, 
 Then says: "With joy contemplate the delight, 
 To clasp within the arms that lovely neck, 
 And on the throat a tender seal impress ! " 
 Then further says : " Let fancy take the wing , 
 Think, if the parts exposed so beauteous are, 
 What must the others be, concealed and veiled? 
 Our admiration of the glorious works 
 Displayed in heaven, the sun and other stars, 
 Alone persuades us paradise is there : 
 So, if with fixed regard thou meditate, 
 Thou must imagine every earthlv bliss 
 Is found where eye is not allowed to pierce." 
 Her arms I next observe, spacious and full ; 
 Her hand, white, smooth, and soft as down; 
 Her fingers, long and delicately thin, 
 Proud of the ring which one of them enclasps. 
 And thought then savs to me : " If thou wert now 
 Within those arms, thy life would pleasure know 
 And share with her, which to describe 
 In least degree defies mv utmost skill. 
 Observe, that every limb a picture seems; 
 Exact the size and shape her frame requires, 
 And colored with angelic hues of pearl : 
 Grace is in every look ; 
 And indignation, if offence provoke: 
 Meek, modest, temperate, and calm, 
 To virtue ever dear, 
 
 O'er all her noble manners reigns a charm, 
 Which universal reverence inspires. 
 Stately and soft she moves as Juno's bird, 
 Erect and firmly poised as any crane. 
 
520 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 One charm remark, peculiarly hers, — 
 An elegance unmatched, with modesty com- 
 bined ; 
 And would you see it, in a living proof," 
 Says thought to me, " Attend well to thy mind, 
 When, with a lady elegant and fair 
 Harmoniously conjoined, she moves along; 
 Then, as the brilliant stars seem chased away 
 By greater brightness of the advancing sun, 
 So vanish other charms when hers are viewed. 
 Think, then, how pleasing she must be 
 Whose loveliness and beauty equal are ; 
 And beauty past compare in her is found. 
 Habits of virtue and of loyalty 
 Alone can please her and her cause can serve: 
 But in her welfare only place thy hope." 
 My song, well may'st thou vouch for true, 
 That, since the day when first was born 
 A beauteous lady, none ever pleased like her 
 Thou celebratest, take her all in all : 
 For joined in her are found 
 Personal beauty and a virtuous mind ; 
 Nor aught deficient, but some grains of pity. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell, for ever gone those tresses bright, 
 
 From whence the hills around 
 
 Drew and reflected tints of shining gold ! 
 
 Farewell the beauteous look, the glances sweet, 
 
 Implanted in my heart 
 
 By those fair eyes that well remembered day ! 
 
 Farewell the graceful bloom 
 
 Of sparkling countenance ! 
 
 Farewell the endearing smile, 
 
 Disclosing pearls of snowy white between 
 
 Roses of vermeil hues throughout the year! 
 
 Why without me, O Death, 
 
 These hast thou robbed us of in flower of spring ? 
 
 Farewell the playful mind and wise reserve, 
 
 The welcome frank and sweet, 
 
 The ready wit, and the determined heart! 
 
 Farewell the meek, yet lofty, just disdain, 
 
 Confirming my resolve 
 
 All baseness to detest and greatness love ! 
 
 Farewell desire, the child 
 
 Of beauty overflowing ! 
 
 Farewell the aspiring hope, 
 
 Which made me view all other far behind, 
 
 And rendered light to me Love's heaviest load ! 
 
 These hast thou shivered, Death, 
 
 As glass, and me alive suspended as one dead. 
 
 Lady, farewell ! of every virtue queen, 
 
 Goddess preferred to all, 
 
 For whom, through Love, all others I renounce, 
 
 Farewell ! What column of such precious stone 
 
 On earth were worthy found 
 
 To raise thy temple, and in air sustain ? 
 
 Farewell, thou vessel filled 
 
 With Nature's miracles! 
 
 By fortune's evil turn, 
 
 Beyond the rugged mountains thou wast led, 
 
 Where Death has closed thee in the cruel tomb, 
 
 And of my eyes hath formed 
 
 Two fountains wearied with incessant tears. 
 
 Farewell ! And thou without excuse, O Death, 
 Observe these sorrowing eyes, and own at least. 
 Until thy hand destroy me, 
 Endless should be my cry, "Alas, farewell! 
 
 CANZONE FROM THE CONVITO. 
 
 PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Love with delight discourses in my mind 
 Upon my lady's admirable gifts, 
 And oft expatiates with me on deserts 
 Beyond the range of human intellect. 
 In sounds so sweetly eloquent his voice 
 Touches the listening and enraptured soul, 
 That it exclaims, "Alas! how weak my power 
 To tell what of my lady now I hear ! " 
 For first, I am compelled to throw aside, 
 When I attempt of what I hear to treat, 
 All that my mind in vain would comprehend; 
 And next, of what I even understand, 
 Great part, that my ability transcends. 
 If, then, my verse should in defects abound, 
 Which fondly enters on Madonna's praise, 
 The feeble understanding must be blamed, 
 And language feeble, wanting power with me 
 The merits to portrav which Love describes. 
 The sun, revolving round this earthly globe, 
 Nothing beholds so excellent and fair, 
 As in that hour he lights the land where dwells 
 The lady for whom Love commands my song. 
 Angelic essences her worth admire ; 
 And they on earth whom she hath once enam- 
 oured 
 Still find her image present to their thoughts, 
 When Love calms all emotions into peace. 
 With such complacency her Maker views 
 His work, his virtue still he showers on her, 
 In gifts beyond our nature's utmost call. 
 Her pure and spotless soul, 
 Which owes its health to the Creator's boon, 
 Proclaims his hand in her material frame, 
 Which beauties in such varied form displays, 
 The eyes of those on whom her countenance 
 
 beams 
 Send thoughts into the heart, with wishes filled, 
 Which thence take wing in air, transformed to 
 
 sighs. 
 Virtue divine descends on her, as on 
 An angel who the beatific vision sees : 
 If there be gentle dame who disbelieves, 
 Let her converse with her, and mark her ways. 
 For when she speaks, she draws an angel down 
 From heaven, who joyful testimony bears, 
 That the high worth in her possession seen 
 Exceeds the endowments suited to our wants. 
 Her acts of courtesy, conferred on all, 
 Strive each which best shall call on Love 
 In language which he never fails to feel. 
 Of her it may be said, 
 Graceful in lady what in her we find, 
 And beautiful what most resembles her. 
 And truly may we say, her countenance aids 
 In miracles belief; for one she seems, 
 And thus our faith confirms, and was for this 
 
DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 521 
 
 Created and eternally ordained. 
 
 Clianns in her countenance appear, which show 
 
 Of paradise the ineffable delights : 
 
 Of her sweet smile I speak, and of her eyes, 
 
 Which Love attract as to his proper throne. 
 
 Our intellect they dazzle and subdue, 
 
 As the sun's rays o'erpower the feeble sight: 
 
 Mine may not look on them with fixed regard, 
 
 And hence to scant their honors I am fain. 
 
 Her beauty falls in gentle showers of flame, 
 
 Each animated with a spirit benign, 
 
 Which is creator of all virtuous thoughts, 
 
 And shatters like the thunderbolt 
 
 All inbred vices which the mind debase. 
 
 Therefore let beauteous dame, who censure. 
 
 earns, 
 By wanting a deportment meek and still, 
 View this exemplar of humility ; 
 Her, before whom each sinner drops his pride, 
 Her, whom the Mover of the world conceived. 
 My song, thy speech may seem to contradict 
 The language we have heard thy sister hold ; 
 For she the lady calls both fierce and proud, 
 Whom thou so humble represent'st, and meek. 
 But well thou know'st that heaven is ever bright 
 And clear and cloudless, as regards itself; 
 Although our eyes, from many a cause, 
 May sometimes call the sun itself obscure: 
 So when your sister calls this lady proud, 
 She views her not consistently with truth, 
 But forms a judgment on appearances; 
 For oft my soul has feared, 
 And still so fears, that cruelty I see, 
 Whene'er I come where she my thoughts may 
 
 know. 
 Excuse me thus, my song, if there be need ; 
 And when thou canst, present thee to Madonna, 
 And say to her, — "If you such course approve, 
 My praise I will rehearse throughout the world." 
 
 FROM THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. — INFERNO. 
 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.* 
 
 "The land where I was born sits by the seas, 
 Upon that shore to which the Po descends, 
 With all his followers, in search of peace. 
 
 Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 
 Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en 
 From me ; and me even yet the mode offends. 
 
 Love, who to none beloved to love again 
 Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, 
 That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 
 
 Love to one death conducted us along, 
 
 * Francesca, daughter of Guido da Polenta, lord of Ra- 
 venna and of Cervia. was given by her father in marriage 
 to Lanciotto, son of Malatesta, lord of Rimini, a man of 
 extraordinary courage, but deformed in his person. His 
 brother Paolo, who unhappily possessed those graces which 
 the husband of Francesca wanted, engaged her nffections; 
 they were both put to death by the enraged Lanciotto. The 
 interest of the narrative is much increased, when it is 
 recollected that the father of this unfortunate lady was the 
 oeloved friend and generous protector of Dante, during his 
 atter days. 
 
 66 
 
 But Caink ' wails for him our life who ended." 
 These were the accents uttered by her tongue. 
 
 Since I first listened to these souls offended, 
 I bowed my visage, and so kept it, till 
 " What think'st thou ? " said the bard ; when I 
 unbended, 
 
 And recommenced : "Alas! unto such ill 
 How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies, 
 Led these their evil fortune to fulfil ! " 
 
 And then I turned unto their side my eyes, 
 And said, — "Francesca, thy sad destinies 
 Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 
 
 But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, 
 By what and how thy love to passion rose, 
 So as his dim desires to recognize. " 
 
 Then she to me : "The greatest of all woes 
 Is, to remind us of our happy days 
 In misery ; and that thy teacher knows. 
 
 But if to learn our passion's first root preys 
 Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
 I will do even as he who weeps and says. 
 
 We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, 
 Of Lancilot, how Love enchained him too. 
 We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 
 
 But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 
 All o'er discolored by that reading were; 
 But one point only wholly us o'erthrew: 
 
 When we read the longsighed-for smile of her, 
 To be thus kissed by such devoted lover, 
 He who from me can be divided ne'er 
 
 Kissed my mouth, trembling in the act all 
 over. 
 Accursed was the book and he who wrote ! 
 That day no further leaf we did uncover." 
 
 While thus one spirit told us of their lot, 
 The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 
 I swooned, as if by death I had been smote, 
 
 And fell down even as a dead body falls. 
 
 FARINATA. 
 
 Now by a narrow path my master winds, 
 Conducting me 'twixt those tormenting tombs 
 And the town walls. " O thou, whose good- 
 ness finds 
 
 A passage for me through these impious 
 glooms, 
 Say, sovereign Virtue, satisfy my hope : 
 May man behold the wretches buried here 
 
 In these dire sepulchres? — the lids are ope, — 
 Suspended all, — and none is watching near." 
 To this he answered : " When they come at last, 
 
 Clothed in their now forsaken frames of clay, 
 From dread Jehoshaphat, — the judgment past, — 
 These flaming dens must all be barred for aye. 
 
 Here in their cemetery, on this side, 
 With his whole sect is Epicurus pent, 
 Who thought the spirit with its body died : 
 
 Soon, therefore, thy desire shall be content, — 
 Ay, and the secret wish thou hid'st from me." 
 " Good guide," I said, " I only veil my heart, 
 
 Lest of mine utterance I appear too free : 
 
 i That part of the Inferno to which murderers are con- 
 demned. 
 
 br 2 
 
522 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Thyself my monitor of silence art." 
 
 " O Tuscan, thou who com'st with gentle speech, 
 
 Through Hell's hot city, breathing from the 
 earth, 
 Stop in this place one moment^ I beseech ; — 
 Thy tongue betrays the country of thy birth. 
 
 Of that illustrious land I know thee sprung, 
 Which in my day perchance I somewhat vexed." 
 Forth from one vault these sudden accents rung, 
 
 So that I trembling stood with fear perplexed. 
 Then as I closer to my master drew, — 
 " Turn back ! what dost thou ? " he exclaimed 
 in haste ; 
 
 " See ! Farinata rises to thy view ! 
 Now may'st behold him upward from his waist." 
 Full in his face already I was gazing, 
 
 While his front lowered, and his proud bosom 
 swelled ; 
 As though even there, amid his burial blazing, 
 The infernal realm in high disdain he held. 
 
 My leader then, with ready hands and bold, 
 Forced me toward him, among the graves to 
 
 pace, 
 Saying, " Thy thoughts in open words unfold." 
 
 So by his tomb I stood, — beside its base. 
 Glancing upon me with a scornful air, 
 " Who were thine ancestors ? " he coldly asked. 
 
 Willing to answer, I did not forbear 
 My name or lineage, but the whole unmasked. 
 Slightly the spirit raised his haughty brows, 
 
 And said, — " Thy sires to mine were aye ad- 
 verse, — 
 To me, and to the cause I did espouse ; 
 Wherefore their legions twice did I disperse." 
 
 " What though they banished were ? they all 
 returned, 
 Each time of their expulsion," I replied : 
 ' That is an art thy party never learned." 
 
 Hereat arose a shadow at his side : 
 Uplifted on his knees he seemed to me, 
 For his face only to his chin was bare ; 
 
 And round about he stared, as though to see 
 If other mortal with myself were there. 
 But when that momentary dream was o'er, 
 
 Weeping, he groaned, — " If thou this dun- 
 geon dim, 
 Led by thy soaring genius, dost explore, 
 Where is my son ? ah, wherefore bring'st not 
 him ? " 
 
 " Not of myself I seek this realm forlorn ; 
 He who waits yonder marshals me my road; 
 Whom once, perchance, thy Guido had in 
 scorn." 
 
 My recognition thus I fully showed ; 
 For in the pangs on that poor sinner wreaked, 
 And in his question, plain his name I read. 
 
 Suddenly starting up, — " What ! what ! " — 
 he shrieked ; 
 " Say'st thou, ' He had ' ? What mean ye ? Is 
 
 he dead ? 
 Dnh heaven's dear light his eye no longer 
 bless? " 
 
 Perceiving how I hesitated then, 
 Ere I responded to his wild address, 
 Backward he sunk, nor looked he forth again. 
 
 FROM THE DIVINA COMMEDI A. — PTJRGATORIO. 
 THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 
 
 And now, behold ! as at the approach of 
 morning, 
 Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red, 
 Down in the west upon the ocean floor, 
 
 Appeared to me, — may I again behold it ! — 
 A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, 
 Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. 
 
 And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little 
 Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor, 
 Again I saw it brighter grown, and larger. 
 
 Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared 
 I knew not what of white; and underneath, 
 Little by little, there came forth another. 
 
 My master yet had uttered not a word, 
 While the first brightness into wings unfolded ; 
 But when he clearly recognized the pilot, 
 
 He cried aloud, — "Quick, quick, and bow 
 the knee ! 
 Behold the Angel of God ! fold up thy hands ! 
 Henceforward shalt thou see such officers' 
 
 See, how he scorns all human arguments, 
 So that no oar he wants, nor other sail 
 Than his own wings, between so distant shores ! 
 
 See, how he holds them, pointed straight to 
 heaven, 
 Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, 
 That do not moult themselves like mortal hair ! " 
 
 And then, as nearer and more near us came 
 The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared, 
 So that the eye could not sustain his presence, 
 
 But down I cast it; and he came to shore 
 With a small vessel, gliding swift and light, 
 So that the water swallowed naught thereof. 
 
 Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot ; 
 Beatitude seemed written in his face; 
 And more than a hundred spirits sat within. 
 
 "In exitu Israel out of Egypt ! " 
 Thus sang they all together in one voice, 
 With whatso in that Psalm is after written. 
 
 Then made he sign of holy rood upon them ; 
 Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, 
 And he departed swiftly as he came. 
 
 THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. 
 
 Longing already to search in and round 
 The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, 
 Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day, 
 
 Withouten more delay I left the bank, 
 Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, 
 Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fra- 
 grance. 
 
 A gently breathing air, that no mutation 
 Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead, — 
 No heavier blow than of a pleasant breeze : 
 
 Whereat the tremulous branches readily 
 Did all of them bow downward towards that side 
 Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain ; 
 
 Yet not from their upright direction bent, 
 So that the little birds upon their tops 
 Should cease the practice of their tuneful art; 
 
 But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime 
 
DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 
 523 
 
 Singing received they in the midst of foliage 
 That made monotonous burden to their rhymes; 
 Even as from branch to branch it gathering 
 swells 
 Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, 
 When iEolus unlooses the sirocco. 
 
 Already my slow steps had led me on 
 Into the ancient wood so far, that I 
 Could see no more the place where I had en- 
 tered ; 
 And, lo ! my farther course cut off a river, 
 Which, towards the left hand, with its little 
 
 waves, 
 Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang. 
 
 All waters that on earth most limpid are 
 Would seem to have within themselves some 
 
 mixture, 
 Compared with that, which nothing doth con- 
 ceal, 
 Although it moves on with a brown, brown 
 current, 
 Under the shade perpetual, that never 
 Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. 
 
 Even as the blessed, in the new covenant, 
 Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave, 
 Wearing again the garments of the flesh, — 
 
 So, upon that celestial chariot, 
 A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, 
 Ministers and messengers of life eternal. 
 
 They all were saying: " Benedictus qui venis .'" 
 And, scattering flowers above and round about, 
 u Manibus, 0, date lilla plenis ! " 
 
 I once beheld, at the approach of day, 
 The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, 
 And the other heaven with light serene adorned, 
 
 And the sun's face uprising overshadowed, 
 So that, by temperate influence of vapors, 
 The eye sustained his aspect for long while : 
 
 Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, 
 Which from those hands angelic were thrown 
 
 up, 
 And down descended inside and without, 
 
 With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil, 
 Appeared a lady under a green mantle, 
 Vested in colors 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 a 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, 
 " O, 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 crossbow breaks, when 't is dis- 
 charged, 
 Too tensely drawn the bowstring 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. 
 
 FROM THE DIVINA COMMEDIA. — PARADISO. 
 SPIRITS IN THE PLANET MERCURY. 
 
 And as an arrow to the mark is driven, 
 Or e'er the cord that sent it be at rest, 
 So swiftly passed we to the second heaven. 
 
 Entered within the precincts of the light, 
 I saw my guide's fair countenance possessed 
 With joy so great, the planet glowed more bright: 
 
 And if the very star a smile displayed, 
 Well might I smile, — to change by nature prone, 
 And varying still with each impression made. 
 
 As in some water that is smooth and clear 
 The fish are drawn to any object thrown 
 So as to make it like their food appear : 
 
 So saw I more than thousand splendors move 
 Towards us, and every one was heard to say, 
 " Behold one here, who will increase our love ! ' 
 
 And as each soul approached us, the delight 
 It felt was manifested by the ray 
 That from within was thrown upon my sight. 
 
 Think, reader, if the wondrous history 
 That here begins should also terminate, 
 How painful would thy dearth of knowledge be ! 
 
 Then may'st thou tell if I were not possessed 
 By strong desire to learn of these their state, 
 The moment they became thus manifest. 
 
 " O well-born spirit, whom grace permits to 
 see 
 The thrones of the eternal triumph, ere 
 Closed is thine earthly warfare, — know that we 
 
 Are kindled by the light which fills the wide 
 Expanse of heaven : — if thou art fain to hear 
 Of our condition, be thy wish supplied." 
 
 One of those pious spirits thus I heard ; 
 When Beatrice: "Speak on without dismay; 
 And trust, as they were gods, their every word." 
 
 "I see full well how in the light divine 
 Thou dwell'st ; and that thine eyes a joy dis- 
 play, 
 Which when thou smilest more serenely shine: 
 
 But who thou art I know not; neither why, 
 O worthy soul, a sphere is given to thee, 
 Hid by another's ray from mortal eye." 
 
 These words I spake unto the joyous light 
 That had been first to address me, — whereat she 
 Arrayed herself in splendor still more Dright . 
 
 And as the sun conceals himself from view 
 In the pure splendor of the new-born day, 
 
524 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Bursting his mantle of the early dew ; 
 
 E'en so that holy form herself concealed 
 Within the lustre of her own pure ray. 
 
 SPIRITS IN THE SUN. 
 
 Then, like a clock that summons us away, 
 What time the Spouse of God at matin hour 
 Hastes to her Husband, for his love to pray, — 
 
 And one part urges on the other, sounding 
 Tin Tin in notes so sweet, that by its power 
 The soul is thrilled, with pious love abounding: 
 
 So I beheld that glorious circle move ; 
 And with such sweet accord and harmony 
 Take up the song of praise, as none may prove, 
 
 Save where is joy through all eternity. 
 
 HEAVENLY JUSTICE. 
 
 And hence the heavenly Justice can no more 
 By mortal ken be fathomed, than the sea: 
 For though the eye of one upon the shore 
 
 May pierce its shallow tide, the depths beyond 
 Baffle his ken ; yet there is also laid 
 A bottom, ^ewless through the deep profound. 
 
 As the stork lifts herself the nest above, 
 When she hath fed her little ones; and they 
 Regard their mother with a look of love : 
 
 E'en so that ever-blessed Bird appeared, — 
 Raising its wings, excited by the sway 
 Of numerous thoughts; — and so my eyes I 
 reared. 
 
 Turning around, it sang: "Obscure to thee 
 As have been found these mystic notes of mine ; 
 So dark to man is Heaven's all-wise decree." 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 Like as the bird, who on her nest all night 
 Had rested, darkling, with her tender brood, 
 'Mid the loved foliage, longing now for light, 
 
 To gaze on their dear looks and bring them 
 food, — 
 Sweet task, whose pleasures all its toil repay, — 
 Anticipates the dawn, and, through the wood 
 
 Ascending, perches on the topmost spray, 
 There, all impatience, watching to descry 
 The first faint glimmer of approaching day : 
 
 Thus did my lady, toward the southern sky, 
 Erect and motionless, her visage turn ; 
 The mute suspense that filled her wistful eye 
 
 Made me like one who waits a friend's return, 
 Lives on this hope, and will no other own. 
 Soon did my eye a rising light discern j 
 
 High up the heavens its kindling splendors 
 shone, 
 And Beatrice exclaimed, " See, they appear, 
 The Lord's triumphal hosts ! For this alone 
 
 These spheres have rolled and reap their 
 harvest here ! " 
 Her face seemed all on fire, and in her eye 
 Danced joy unspeakable to mortal ear. 
 
 As when full-orbed Diana smiles on high, 
 
 While the eternal nymphs her form surround, 
 And, scattering beauty through the cloudless sky 
 
 Float on the bosom of the blue profound : 
 O'er thousands of bright flowers was seen to blaze 
 One sun transcendent, from whom all around, 
 
 As from our sun the planets, drew their rays; 
 He through these living lights poured such a tide 
 Of glory, as o'erpowered my feeble gaze. 
 
 " O Beatrice, my sweet, my precious guide ! " 
 
 FRANCESCO PETRARCA. 
 
 Francesco Petrarca, usually called Pe- 
 trarch, in English, was the son of a Florentine, 
 who was banished, at the same time with Dante, 
 from his native city. He was born in 1304, at 
 Arezzo, in Tuscany. His early childhood was 
 passed on an estate of his father's, at Ancisa; 
 but when he was seven years old, the family 
 removed to Avignon, then the capital of the 
 Roman see. They next resided in Carpentras, 
 a small town in the neighbourhood, where Pe- 
 trarch was placed under the tuition of Conven- 
 nole, with whom he studied about five years. 
 At the age of fourteen, he w<as sent to Mont- 
 pellier, to study the law ; but the strong taste 
 which he early manifested for poetry and elo- 
 quence interfered so much with his professional 
 studies, that his father removed him to Bologna, 
 hoping that the Professors of the University 
 there would be more successful in stimulating 
 his industry. Visiting his son one day, he was 
 so much irritated by finding the table covered 
 with the manuscripts of Cicero and Virgil, that 
 he seized the scrolls and threw them into the 
 fire; but the young student made such a piteous 
 outcry, that the father's heart relented, and he 
 snatched the manuscripts from the flames, say- 
 ing, " that he must read Virgil for his comfort, 
 and Cicero as an excitement to pursue the 
 study of the law with more ardor." After his 
 father's death, Petrarch left Bologna, and re- 
 nounced the study of the law. In 1326, he 
 returned to Avignon, embraced the eccle- 
 siastical profession, and gave himself up with 
 ardor to literary pursuits. A short time before 
 Petrarch went to Avignon, Giacopo Colonna, 
 son of Stefano Colonna, the representative of 
 one of the oldest and most illustrious families 
 in Italy, had established himself there. The 
 young man had been a fellow-student with 
 Petrarch at the University of Bologna. The 
 former acquaintance was renewed at the papal 
 court, and the similarity of their characters and 
 tastes was the foundation of a close and lasting 
 friendship. The other members of that dis- 
 tinguished family recognized the merit of the 
 young scholar, and were affectionately attached 
 to him for life. 
 
 Petrarch first saw Laura in the twenty-third 
 year of his age. He met her in the church of 
 Saint Clara, on the morning of the 6th of Ap:ii, 
 
PETRARCA. 
 
 525 
 
 1327; and from that moment commenced the 
 great passion which was extinguished only with 
 his life. Whether there ever was such a per- 
 son as Laura, and, if so, who she was, are ques- 
 tions which have been frequently and warmly 
 discussed ; but there can now remain scarcely 
 a doubt, either of her existence, or of the reality 
 of Petrarch's love. It is generally agreed, that 
 she was the daughter of a wealthy and distin- 
 guished gentleman, Andeberto de Noves, of 
 Avignon ; that she had married, after her fath- 
 er's death, Ugo de Sade, a young man of Avig- 
 non, whose character seems not to have been 
 very amiable; and that, though she was by no 
 means insensible to the poet's homage, her 
 conduct was always above reproach. For three 
 years after this momentous meeting, Petrarch's 
 occupations were the study of literature, the 
 celebration of his mistress, and the cultivation 
 of his friendly relations with the Colonna family ; 
 but when Giacopo Colonna was made bishop of 
 Lombez, he accompanied him thither. After 
 an agreeable summer passed in this retirement, 
 they returned to Avignon. Finding his passion 
 for Laura still undiminished, Petrarch under- 
 took a long journey, which occupied him eight 
 months, and, on his return to Avignon, he found 
 that his friend, the bishop of Lombez, had been 
 summoned to Rome by the affairs of his family. 
 Accounts of his travels are contained in his 
 " Epistolce Familiares." 
 
 It was about this time that Petrarch began to 
 visit the vale of Vaucluse, which was peculiarly 
 attractive to him in his present state of feeling. 
 His mind was also earnestly occupied with his 
 favorite idea of persuading the pope to remove 
 his court from Avignon to Rome, and, when 
 Benedict the Twelfth succeeded to the pontifi- 
 cal chair, he addressed to the new pontiff a 
 long letter on this subject, in Latin verse. 
 Towards the end of 1336, he left France on his 
 way to Italy, and reached Rome in the follow- 
 ing February, where he was received in the 
 most friendly manner by the Colonni. After 
 having eagerly examined all the monuments of 
 antiquity with which the city was embellished, 
 he returned the same year to Avignon ; but 
 finding himself still agitated by his love for 
 Laura, he determined to withdraw to the soli- 
 tudes of Vaucluse, and purchased a cottage and 
 a small estate in that beautiful retreat. Here 
 Petrarch wrote a great part of his poems, many 
 of his Latin letters, and many of his eclogues, 
 besides several of his larger works, in Latin 
 prose. Here, also, he commenced his Latin 
 epic, entitled " Africa," on which he supposed 
 his fame would chiefly rest. The rumor of 
 this work excited the greatest interest at the 
 time, and made Petrarch an object of universal 
 wonder. He received, in his retreat, the visits 
 of many of his friends, and of the learned men 
 who came to Avignon. Among others, he 
 became acquainted, about the year 1339, with 
 the monk Barlaam, ambassador at Avignon from 
 the Greek emperor, Andronicus, and by this 
 
 learned person was instructed in the language 
 and literature of Greece. Robert, the king of 
 Naples, and the great patron of the scholars 
 and poets of his age, whom the fame of Pe- 
 trarch's genius and works had reached, wrote 
 him a letter about this time, sending him a copy 
 of an epitaph, composed by himself, on his 
 niece Clemence, the queen of France, to which 
 the poet sent a most courtly and flattering re- 
 ply. This incident was only a prelude to the 
 honors which the royal scholar determined 
 should be conferred on Petrarch. The ancient 
 custom of bestowing on illustrious poets the 
 laurel crown, with public pomp and ceremony, 
 in the Capitol, had gradually disappeared with 
 the decline of letters and the arts in the Roman 
 empire. Petrarch had long desired to attain to 
 this great distinction, and had directed his 
 studies and labors with a view to this end. In 
 the year 1340, a letter was sent to him from 
 the Roman senate, inviting him to come to 
 Rome and receive the crown ; and soon after, 
 he received another letter, from Robert Bardi, 
 chancellor of the University of Paris, urging 
 him to proceed to that city, and accept the 
 honors of a public coronation there. The Ro- 
 man senate had been powerfully influenced to 
 take this step by King Robert. After some de- 
 liberation, Petrarch decided in favor of Rome. 
 On his way thither he visited the Neapolitan 
 court, and was received with the highest dis- 
 tinction by King Robert, who was never weary 
 of conversing with him on poetry and litera- 
 ture. Petrarch read to the king several books 
 of his "Africa." The king was charmed with the 
 poem, and signified his desire that it should be 
 dedicated to him. Before proceeding to Rome 
 Petrarch resolved to pass a public examination 
 This was conducted by King Robert with great 
 ceremony, and continued through three days, 
 in the presence of the whole court, and the 
 poet-scholar was pronounced to be every way 
 worthy of the coronation. Petrarch was wel- 
 comed, on his arrival, by Orso di Anguillara, 
 senator of Rome, and the 8th of April was 
 appointed for the coronation. On that day, the 
 poet received the laurel crown from the hand 
 of Orso, in the Capitol, amidst the applauses of 
 the whole Roman people, surrounded by the 
 most illustrious nobles of the city. On his re- 
 turn from Rome, he visited Parma, where he re- 
 mained about a year, employed upon the poem 
 of "Africa." He returned to France in 1342. 
 Tiraboschi says, that the immediate motive of his 
 return at this time was the circumstance of his 
 having been appointed, together with the cele- 
 brated Cola di Rienzi, on an embassy from the 
 Roman senate and people, to congratulate the 
 new pope, Clement the Sixth, on his accession, 
 and to solicit him to remove the court to Rome. 
 In 1343, he was sent by the pope to Naples, to 
 guard the interests and claims of the papal see 
 in that court ; and on his return, Clement 
 offered him the office of Apostolical Secretary, 
 which he declined. The revolution brought 
 
526 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 about by Rienzi at Rome, which began in 
 1347, excited in Petrarch the profoundest in- 
 terest; and he was bitterly disappointed, when 
 the mad conduct of the tribune destroyed the 
 dream, in which he had indulged, of the restora- 
 tion of Rome to her ancient glory. In 1348, 
 he went to Padua, where he became acquainted 
 with Jacopo da Carrara. This year was sig- 
 nalized by the terrible pestilence which rav- 
 aged all Europe ; and the death of Laura, who 
 fell a victim to it on the 6th of April, made it 
 a memorable epoch in the life of the poet. The 
 remainder of this year, and nearly the whole of 
 the following, he passed at Parma. In 1350, 
 he went to Mantua, where he was honorably 
 received by Gonzaga, and thence returned to 
 Padua. It was in this year that he wrote 
 his eloquent letter to the emperor, Charles the 
 Fourth, entreating him to deliver Italy from the 
 evils which that unhappy country was suffer- 
 ing. He also visited Rome the same year. 
 Returning to Carrara, he found his protector, 
 Jacopo da Carrara, dead. At this time he 
 formed a close friendship with the celebrated 
 Andrea Dandolo, the doge of Venice, and used 
 his influence, though without success, to bring 
 about a peace between that republic and Genoa. 
 Meantime the Florentines, having resolved to 
 restore to Petrarch his paternal estate, and to 
 offer him the charge of their newly established 
 University, selected Boccaccio to be the bear- 
 er of the missive. He was at first inclined 
 to accept the offer, but, changing his mind, he 
 returned to France in 1351, and divided his 
 time for two years between Vaucluse and the 
 citv of Avignon. Clement the Sixth died in 
 1352, and the Cardinal Stefano Alberti suc- 
 ceeded him. The new pope was so illiterate, 
 that he looked upon Petrarch as a magician ; 
 and thij disfavor is supposed to have caused 
 *he poet's return to Italy. He went to Milan, 
 .vhere the urgency of Giovanni Visconti in- 
 duced him to remain. He was highly honored 
 by this prince and his successors, and employed 
 by them in the most important public affairs. 
 He was sent, in ] 354, on an embassy to the 
 doge of Venice. In the same year, the em- 
 peror, Charles the Fourth, who had at length 
 entered Italy, sent for him to meet him at Man- 
 tua. In 1356, he was sent by Galeazzo Vis- 
 conti on an embassy to the emperor at Prague, 
 and soon after his return received from Charles 
 the dignity of Count Palatine. Notwithstand- 
 ing these honors and employments, Petrarch 
 sighed for solitude. He selected a villa about 
 three miles from the city, which he called Lin- 
 terno, where he passed the principal part of his 
 time for several years. In the year 1360, he 
 was sent by Galeazzo to Paris, to congratulate 
 King John on his restoration from his long 
 captivity in England. On his return, he re- 
 ceived a pressing invitation from the Emperor 
 Charles to his court, but declined. In 1361, 
 Pope Innocent the Sixth offered him the post 
 of Apostolical Secretary, which he had already 
 
 repeatedly refused. The plague which ravaged 
 Italy in 1362 induced Petrarch to go for safety 
 to Venice, a city which he repeatedly visited 
 in the following years, and where he was al- 
 ways sure of a distinguished reception. About 
 this time, the citizens of Florence, mortified 
 that so distinguished a person should never 
 return to his own country, besought the pope 
 to bestow on him an ecclesiastical office in 
 Florence or Fiesole ; but Urban, who had suc- 
 ceeded to the chair of Saint Peter, holding 
 Petrarch in high esteem, and desiring to keep 
 him near the papal court, made him Canon in 
 Carpentras. In the following year, he wrote to 
 the pope a letter on his favorite subject of 
 transferring the papal see to Rome ; a letter, 
 which, perhaps, finally determined Urban to 
 carry the project into effect ; for he actually 
 removed to Rome, the next year. In 1370, 
 Petrarch finally resolved to make the journey 
 to Rome, in compliance with the frequent and 
 urgent solicitations of Urban. Having previ- 
 ously made his will, he departed from Padua; 
 but had scarcely reached Ferrara, when he was 
 attacked by a severe illness, which compelled 
 him to return. He now withdrew to the villa 
 of Arqua, where he had frequently resided dur- 
 ing the last four years. He had scarcely estab- 
 lished himself there, when he heard, with great 
 displeasure, that Urban had abandoned Italy and 
 returned to Avignon. The war betwaen the 
 Venetians and Francesco da Carrara called Pe- 
 trarch from his retirement in 1373, and forced 
 him to undertake, another embassy to Venice. 
 On this occasion, he was obliged to address the 
 senate; "but," says Tiraboschi, "the majesty 
 of that august assembly confused him to such a 
 degree, that, weakened as he had been by fa- 
 tigues and by years, he had not strength to 
 speak, and it was necessary to postpone the 
 discourse until the next day, when he delivered 
 it with happier success." On his return to 
 Padua, Petrarch again withdrew to his villa in 
 Arqua, in an enfeebled state, where he linger- 
 ed on, until the night of July 18th, 1374. The 
 following morning, he was found dead in his 
 library, with his head resting on a book. He 
 was buried with solemn pomp, the last rites be- 
 ing attended by the prince of Padua, the eccle- 
 siastical dignitaries, and the students of the 
 University. 
 
 "There is a tomb in Arqua; — rearer] in air, 
 Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose 
 
 The bones of Laura's lover ; here repair 
 Many familiar with his well sung woes, 
 The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
 
 To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
 From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes ; 
 
 Watering the tree that bears his lady's name 
 
 With his melodious tears, he gate himself to fame." 
 
 The character, genius, and labors of Petrarch 
 form one of the most remarkable and interest- 
 ing chapters in the literary history of Italy. 
 In his youth he was strikingly handsome. His 
 manners were oolished and courteous. In his 
 
PETRARCA. 
 
 50? 
 
 dress he appears to have been something of a fop. 
 " Do yon remember," says he, in a letter to his 
 brother Gherardo, " how much care we employ- 
 ed in decorating our persons ? When we travers- 
 ed the streets, with what attention did we not 
 avoid every breath of wind which might discom- 
 pose our hair ; and with what caution did we not 
 prevent the least speck of dirt from soiling our 
 garments ! " But even at this time, he found op- 
 portunities to make large acquisitions of know- 
 ledge, and to write, both in Latin and Italian. 
 His Italian sonnets and canzoni, through which 
 he is popularly known, display only one side 
 of his many-sided character. The theme which 
 runs through them is the great passion of his 
 life, — his love for Laura. This he sings under 
 every possible variety of form, and in a style 
 melodious and polished to the last degree of 
 elaborate finish of which expression is. capable. 
 Following sometimes the example of his pre- 
 decessors, the Provencal Troubadours, he inter- 
 mingles with the eloquence of profound passion 
 those conceits, both of thought and phrase, 
 which seem incompatible with real feeling; 
 but, in general, his taste is as faultless as his 
 language is expressive and musical. He mould- 
 ed the Italian language to forms, which, for five 
 hundred years, it has retained ; and it is re- 
 marked by the critics of his country, that scarce- 
 ly a word which he used has become obsolete 
 or antiquated. Judging him, however, by these 
 productions alone, we should suppose him to 
 be a sentimental lover, wasting his sighs upon 
 an object he could never lawfully possess ; a 
 poet of delicate genius, but too shrinking and 
 sensitive to grapple with the affairs of the 
 world ; withdrawing into a romantic solitude, 
 there to brood over his imaginary woes, until 
 the manliness of his soul had melted away in 
 the heat of fantastic desires ; consoling him- 
 self for ideal sufferings by the images of super- 
 natural charms and angelic perfections, which 
 an over-indulged imagination was ever conjur- 
 ing up before him. But he was not this alone ; 
 he was, at the same time, much more and much 
 better. He was one of the ablest scholars of 
 his age. His enthusiasm for ancient learning 
 knew no bounds. In searching for manuscripts 
 of the classics, he shrunk from no labor and 
 spared no expense. He employed numerous 
 transcribers, and copied many volumes with 
 his own hand. Though he did not study Greek 
 in his youth, he seized every opportunity to ac- 
 quire it, and applied himself to it with enthu- 
 siasm, under the instructions of the learned 
 Greek, Barlaam. He was the friend of popes, 
 emperors, cardinals, and princes, and corre- 
 sponded with them in a tone of equality and 
 independence. He never hesitated to denounce 
 vice and wickedness in the highest places. 
 The abominations practised at the papal court 
 were lashed by him with a vigor and fearless- 
 ness that remind us of the terrible denuncia- 
 tions of Luther and the Reformers. He was 
 frequently employed in diplomatic negotiations 
 
 of delicacy and difficulty, and always acquitted 
 himself with address and eloquence. He was 
 a warm and faithful friend, generous to those 
 in distress, eager to do good, and disinterested 
 in rendering services to others. His industry 
 was wonderful. He carried on an immense 
 Latin correspondence, in addition to his other 
 and constant labors, and wrote several long trea- 
 tises, besides an epic poem and numerous minor 
 pieces, in the same language. His restless en- 
 ergies, quite as much as his consuming passion 
 for Laura, drove him about from city to city, 
 from province to province, and from country to 
 country, and he found no repose but the repose 
 of the grave. A name that fills so large a 
 space as Petrarch's could not fail to be the sub- 
 ject of frequent discussion, speculation, and in- 
 quiry. Among the best things that have been 
 written on his life and writings are the chap- 
 ters in Tiraboschi's and Ginguene's literary his- 
 tories, the "Essays on Petrarch," by Ugo Fos- 
 colo, and a tasteful and eloquent paper in the 
 "North American Review," Vol. XL. Profes- 
 sor Marsand, at Padua, collected a " Biblioteca 
 Petrarchesca," of nine hundred volumes, all 
 devoted to the history of Petrarch. It was 
 bought by the king of France, in 1829, for his 
 private library in the Louvre. A complete edi- 
 tion of Petrarch's "Rime," in two volumes, 
 appeared at Padua in 1827-29. His Latin 
 works were printed at Basel, in folio, in 1496 
 and 1581. The "Triumphs" have been three 
 times translated ; by H. P. Knyght, by Mrs. Anna 
 Hume, — both of these translations very scarce, 
 — and by the Rev. Henry Boyd, London, 1807. 
 A collection of the sonnets and odes, with the 
 original text, appeared in London in 1777 ; an- 
 other collection in 1808. The life of Petrarch 
 has been written in English by Mrs. S. Dob- 
 son, London, 1775, 2 vols., 8vo. This work 
 is chiefly founded on De Sade's " Memoires," 
 and has passed through several editions. The 
 late Mr. Campbell, the poet, has recently pub 
 lished an elaborate life of Petrarch, in two vol 
 umes, 8vo. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 The palmer bent, with locks of silver-gray, 
 Quits the sweet spot where he has passed his 
 
 years, — 
 Quits his poor family, whose anxious fears 
 Paint the loved father fainting on his way ; 
 And trembling, on his aged limbs slow borne, 
 In these last days that close his earthly course, 
 He in his soul's strong purpose finds new 
 
 force, 
 Though weak with age, though by long trave 
 
 worn : 
 Thus reaching Rome, led on by pious love, 
 He seeks the image of that Saviour Lord 
 Whom soon he hopes to meet in bliss above. 
 So, oft in other forms I seek to trace 
 Some charm, that to my heart may yet afford 
 A faint resemblance of thy matchless grace. 
 
528 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Poor, solitary bird, that pour'st thy lay, 
 
 Or haply mournest the sweet season gone, 
 
 As chilly night and winter hurry on, 
 
 And daylight fades, and summer flies away ! 
 
 If, as the cares that swell thy little throat, 
 
 Thou knew'st alike the woes that wound my 
 
 rest, 
 O, thou wouldst house thee in this kindred 
 
 breast, 
 And mix with mine thy melancholy note! 
 Yet little know I ours are kindred ills : 
 She still may live the object of thy song : 
 Not so for me stern Death or Heaven wills ! 
 But the sad season, and less grateful hour, 
 And of past joy and sorrow thoughts that throng, 
 Prompt my full heart this idle lay to pour. 
 
 Alone and pensive, the deserted strand 
 
 I wander o'er with slow and measured pace, 
 
 And shun with eager eye the lightest trace 
 
 Of human foot imprinted on the sand. 
 
 I find, alas ! no other resting-place 
 
 From the keen eye of man ; for, in the show 
 
 Of joys gone by, it reads upon my face 
 
 The traces of the flame that burns below. 
 
 And thus, at length, each leafy mount and plain, 
 
 Each wandering stream and shady forest, know, 
 
 What others know not, all my life of pain. 
 
 And e'en as through the wildest tracts I go, 
 
 Love whispers in my ear his tender strain, 
 
 Which I with trembling lip repeat to him again. 
 
 The soft west wind, returning, brings again 
 Its lovely family of herbs and flowers; 
 Progne's gay notes and Philomela's strain 
 Vary the dance of springtide's rosy hours; 
 And joyously o'er every field and plain 
 Glows the bright smile that greets them from 
 
 above, 
 And the warm spirit of reviving love 
 Breathes in the air and murmurs from the main. 
 But tears and sorrowing sighs, which gushingly 
 Pour from the secret chambers of my heart, 
 Are all that spring returning brings to me ; 
 And in the modest smile, or glance of art, 
 The song of birds, the bloom of heath and tree, 
 A desert's rugged tract and savage forms I see. 
 
 Swift current, that from rocky Alpine vein, 
 Gathering the tribute to thy waters free, 
 Mov'st joyous onward night and day with me, 
 Where nature leads tbee, me love's tyrant chain ! 
 Roll freely on ; nor toil nor rest restrain 
 Thine arrowy course ; but ere thou yieldest in 
 The tribute of thy waters to the main, 
 Seek out heaven's purest sky, earth's deepest 
 
 green ; 
 There wilt thou find the bright and living beam 
 That o'er thy left bank sheds its heavenly rays: 
 If unto her too slow my footsteps seem, — 
 While by her feet thy lingering current strays, 
 Forming to words the murmurs of its stream, — 
 Say that the weary flesh the willing soul delays. 
 
 In tears I trace the memory of the days, 
 When every thought was bent on human love, 
 Nor dared direct its eager flight above, 
 And seek, as Heaven designed, a nobler praise. 
 O, whilst thine eye my wretched state surveys, 
 Invisible, immortal King of Heaven, 
 Unto my weak and erring soul be given 
 To gather strength in thy reviving rays; 
 So that a life, 'mid war and tempest passed, 
 A peaceful port may find, and close, at last, 
 On Jesus' breast its years of vanity ! 
 And when, at length, thy summons sets me free, 
 O, may thy powerful arms, around me cast, 
 Support the fainting soul that knows no trust 
 but thee ! 
 
 In what ideal world or part of heaven 
 Did Nature find the model of that face 
 And form, so fraught with loveliness and grace, 
 In which, to our creation, she has given 
 Her prime proof of creative power above ? 
 What fountain nymph or goddess ever let 
 Such lovely tresses float of gold refined 
 Upon the breeze, or in a single mind 
 Where have so many virtues ever met, 
 E'en though those charms have slain my bos- 
 om's weal ? 
 He knows not love, who has not seen her eyes 
 Turn when she sweetly speaks, or smiles, or sighs 
 Or how the power of love can hurt or heal. 
 
 Creatures there be, of sight so keen and high, 
 That even on the sun they bend their gaze ; 
 Others, who, dazzled by too fierce a blaze, 
 Issue not forth till evening veils the sky; 
 Others, who, with insane desire, would try 
 The bliss which dwells within the fire's bright 
 
 rays, 
 But, in their sport, find that its fervor slays. 
 Alas ! of this last heedless band am I : 
 Since strength I boast not, to support the light 
 Of that fair form, nor in obscure sojourn 
 Am skilled to fence me, nor enshrouding night; 
 Wherefore, with eyes which ever weep and 
 
 mourn, 
 My fate compels me still to .court her sight, 
 Conscious I follow flames which shine to burn. 
 
 Waved to the winds were those long locks of 
 
 gold 
 Which in a thousand burnished ringlets flowed, 
 And the sweet light beyond all measure glowed 
 Of those fair eyes which I no more behold, 
 Nor (so it seemed) that face aught harsh or cold 
 To me (if true or false, I know, not) showed; 
 Me, in whose breast the amorous lure abode, 
 If flames consumed, what marvel to unfold' 
 That step of hers was of no mortal guise, 
 But of angelic nature, and her tongue 
 Had other utterance than of human sounds. 
 A living sun, a spirit of the skies, 
 I saw her. Now, perhaps, not so. But wounds 
 Heal not, for that the bow is since unstrung. 
 
PETRARCA. 
 
 529 
 
 Those eyes, my bright and glowing theme ere- 
 
 while, — 
 Thai arm, those hands, that lovely foot, that face, 
 Whose view was wont my fancy to beguile, 
 And raise me high o'er all of human race, — 
 Those golden locks that flowed in liquid grace, 
 And the sweet lightning of that angel smile, 
 Which made a paradise of every place, — 
 What are they ? dust, insensible and vile ! 
 And yet I live ! O grief! O rage ! O shame ! 
 Reft of the guiding star I loved so long, 
 A shipwrecked bark, which storms of woes as- 
 sail ! 
 Be this the limit of my amorous song : 
 Quenched in my bosom is the sacred flame, 
 And my harp murmurs its expiring wail. 
 
 I feel the well known breeze, and the sweet 
 
 hill 
 Again appears, where rose that beauteous light, 
 Which, while Heaven willed it, met my eyes, 
 
 then bright 
 With gladness, but now dimmed with many an ill. 
 Vain hopes ! weak thoughts ! Now, turbid is 
 
 the rill ; 
 The flowers have drooped; and she hath ta'en 
 
 her flight 
 From the cold nest, which once, in proud de- 
 light, 
 Living and dying, I had hoped to fill : 
 I hoped, in these retreats, and in the blaze 
 Of her fair eyes, which have consumed my heart, 
 To taste the sweet reward of troubled days. 
 Thou, whom I serve, how hard and proud thou 
 
 art ! 
 Erewhile, thy flame consumed me ; now, I 
 
 mourn 
 Over the ashes which have ceased to burn. 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 In the still evening, when with rapid flight 
 
 Low in the western sky the sun descends 
 
 To give expectant nations life and light, 
 
 The aged pilgrim, in some clime unknown 
 
 Slow journeying, right onward fearful bends 
 
 With weary haste, a stranger and alone ; 
 
 Yet, when his labor ends, 
 
 He solitary sleeps, 
 
 And in short slumber steeps 
 
 Each sense of sorrow hanging on the day, 
 
 And all the toil of the long past way: 
 
 But, O, each pang, that wakes with morn's first 
 
 ray, 
 More piercing wounds my breast, 
 When heaven's eternal light sinks crimson in 
 
 the west ! 
 
 His burning wheels when downward Phcebus 
 
 bends 
 And leaves the world to night, its lengthened 
 
 shade 
 Each towering mountain o'er the vale extends ; 
 The thrifty peasant shoulders light his spade, 
 67 
 
 With sylvan carol gay and uncouth note 
 Bidding his cares upon the wild winds float, 
 Content in peace to share 
 His poor and humble fare, 
 As in that golden age 
 
 We honor still, yet leave its simple ways; 
 Whoe'er so list, let joy his hours engage : 
 No gladness e'er has cheered my gloomy days 
 Nor moment of repose, 
 
 However rolled the sphere.,, whatever plane 
 rose. 
 
 When as the shepherd mark he sloping ray 
 Of the great orb that sinks in ocean's bed, 
 While on the east soft steals tne evening gray, 
 He rises, and resumes the ac^s'-wied crook, 
 Quitting the beechen grove, l-._ ..eld, the brook. 
 And gently homeward drives the flock he fed; 
 Then, far from human tread, 
 In lonely hut or cave, 
 O'er which the green boughs wave, 
 In sleep without a thought he lays his head : 
 Ah ! cruel Love ! at this dark, silent hour, 
 Thou wak'st to trace, and with redoubled pow- 
 er, 
 The voice, the step, the air 
 Of her, who scorns thy chain, and flies thy fatal 
 snare. 
 
 And in some sheltered bay, at evening's close, 
 The mariners their rude coats round them fold, 
 Stretched on the rugged plank in deep repose : 
 But I, though Phoebus sink into the main, 
 And leave Granada wrapt in night, with Spain, 
 Morocco, and the Pillars famed of old, — 
 Though all of human kind, 
 And every creature blest, 
 All hush their ills to rest, 
 No end to my unceasing sorrows find : 
 And still the sad account swells day by day ; 
 For, since these thoughts on my lorn spirit prey, 
 I see the tenth year roll ; 
 
 Nor hope of freedom springs in my desponding 
 soul. 
 
 Thus, as I vent my bursting bosom's pain, 
 Lo ! from their yoke I see the oxen freed, 
 Slow moving homeward o'er the furrowed plain 
 Why to my sorrow is no pause decreed ? 
 Why from my yoke no respite must I know ? 
 Why gush these tears, and never cease to flow ? 
 Ah me ! what sought my eyes, 
 When, fixed in fond surprise, 
 On her angelic face 
 
 I gazed, and on my heart each charm impressed ? 
 From whence nor force nor art the sacred trace 
 Shall e'er remove, till I the victim rest 
 Of Death, whose mortal blow 
 Shall my pure spirit free, and this worn frame 
 lay low. 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 Ye waters clear and fresh, to whose bright wave 
 
 She all her beauties gave, — 
 
 Sole of her sex in my impassioned mind ' 
 
530 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Thou sacred branch so graced, — 
 
 With sighs e'en now retraced, — 
 
 On whose smooth shaft her heavenly form re- 
 clined ! 
 
 Herbage and flowers, that bent the robe beneath, 
 
 Whose graceful folds compressed 
 
 Her pure angelic breast ! 
 
 Ye airs serene, that breathe 
 
 Where Love firs s CMight me in her eyes his lore ! 
 
 Yet once more all attest 
 
 The last sad, plaintive lay my woe-worn heart 
 may pour ! 
 
 If so I must m testiny fulfil, 
 
 And Love to se these weeping eyes be 
 
 doomed 
 By Heaven's mysterious will, 
 O, grant that in this loved retreat entombed 
 My poor remains may lie, 
 And my freed soul regain its native sky ' 
 Less rude shall Death appear, 
 If yet a hope so dear 
 Smooth the dread passage to eternity : 
 No shade so calm, serene, 
 My weary spirit finds on earth below ; 
 No grave so still, so green, 
 In which my o'ertoiled frame may rest from 
 
 mortal woe. 
 
 Yet one day, haply, she — so heavenly fair ! 
 
 So kind in cruelty ! — 
 
 With careless steps may to these haunts repair ; 
 
 And where her beaming eye 
 
 Met mine in days so blest, 
 
 A wistful glance may yet unconscious rest, 
 
 And, seeking me around, 
 
 May mark among the stones a lowly mound, 
 
 That speaks of pity to the shuddering sense 
 
 Then may she breathe a sigh, 
 
 Of power to win me mercy from above, 
 
 Doing Heaven violence ; 
 
 All-beautiful in tears of late relenting love. 
 
 Still dear to memory, when, in odorous showers 
 
 Scattering their balmy flowers, 
 
 To summer airs the o'ershadowing branches 
 bowed ; 
 
 The while, with humble state, 
 
 In all the pomp of tribute sweets she sat, 
 
 Wrapt in the roseate cloud ! 
 
 Now clustering blossoms deck her vesture's hem, 
 
 Now her bright tresses gem, — 
 
 In that all-blissful day, 
 
 Like burnished gold with orient pearls in- 
 wrought ; — 
 
 Some strew the turf; some on the waters float; 
 
 Some, fluttering, seem to say, 
 
 In wanton circlets tossed, — "Here Love holds 
 sovereign sway ! " 
 
 Oft I exclaimed, in awful tremor rapt, — 
 
 "Surely of heavenly birth 
 
 This gracious form that visits the low earth !" 
 
 So in oblivion lapped 
 
 Was reason's power, by the celestial mien, 
 
 The brow, the accents mild, 
 
 The angelic smile serene, 
 That now, all sense of sad reality 
 O'erborne by transport wild, — 
 " Alas ! how came I here, and when ? " I cry,— 
 Deeming my spirit passed into the sky ! 
 E'en though the illusion cease, 
 In these dear haunts alone my tortured heart 
 finds peace. 
 
 If thou wert graced with numbers sweet, my 
 
 song, 
 To match thy wish to please ; 
 Leaving these rocks and trees, 
 Thou boldly might'st go forth, and dare the 
 
 assembled throng. 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 From hill to hill I roam, from thought to thought, 
 With Love my guide ; the beaten path I fly, 
 For there in vain the tranquil life is sought : 
 If 'mid the waste well forth a lonely rill, 
 Or deep embosomed a low valley lie, 
 In its calm shade my trembling heart is still; 
 And there, if Love so will, 
 I smile, or weep, or fondly hope, or fear; 
 While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul, 
 The wild emotions roll, 
 
 Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear; 
 That whoso'er has proved the lover's state 
 Would say, " He feels the flame, nor knows his 
 future fate." 
 
 On mountains high, in forests drear and wide, 
 
 I find repose, and from the thronged resort 
 
 Of man turn fearfully my eyes aside ; 
 
 At each lone step, thoughts ever new arise 
 
 Of her I love, who oft with cruel sport 
 
 Will mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs : 
 
 Yet e'en these ills I prize, — 
 
 Though bitter, sweet, — nor would they were 
 
 removed ; 
 For my heart whispers me, " Love yet has power 
 To grant a happier hour : 
 Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art 
 
 loved " : 
 E'en then my breast a passing sigh will heave, 
 " Ah ! when, or how, may I a hope so wild be- 
 lieve ? " 
 
 Where shadows of high rockingpines dark wave, 
 I stay my footsteps, and on some rude stone 
 With thought intense her beauteous face en- 
 grave : 
 Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I find 
 With tears, and cry, "Ah ! whither thus alone 
 Hast thou far wandered, and whom left behind''' 
 But as with fixed mind 
 On this fair image I impassioned rest, 
 And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills, 
 Love my rapt fancy fills ; 
 In its own error sweet the soul is blest, 
 While all around so bright the visions glide : 
 O, might the cheat endure ! I ask not aught 
 beside. 
 
PETRARCA. 
 
 531 
 
 Her form portrayed within the lucid stream 
 Will oft appear, or on the verdant lawn, 
 Or glossy beech, or fleecy cloud, will gleam 
 So lovely fair, that Leda's self might say, 
 Her Helen sinks eclipsed, as at the dawn 
 A star when covered by the solar ray . 
 And as o'er wilds I stray, 
 
 Where the eye naught but savage nature meets, 
 There fancy most her brightest tints employs; 
 But when rude truth destroys 
 The loved illusion of those dreamed sweets, 
 I sit me down on the cold, rugged stone, — 
 Less cold, less dead than I, — and think and 
 weep alone. 
 
 Where the huge mountain rears his brow sub- 
 lime, 
 On which no neighbouring height its shadow 
 
 flings, 
 Led by desire intense the steep I climb ; 
 And tracing in the boundless space each woe, 
 Whose sad remembrance my torn bosom wrings, 
 Tears, that bespeak the heart o'erfraught, will 
 
 flow : 
 While, viewing all below, 
 
 "From me," I cry, "what worlds of air divide 
 The beauteous form, still absent, and still near!" 
 Then, chiding soft the tear, 
 I whisper low, "Haply she too has sighed 
 That thou art far away": a thought so sweet 
 Awhile my laboring soul will of its burden 
 cheat. 
 
 Go thou, my song, beyond that Alpine bound, 
 Where the pure, smiling heavens are most serene ! 
 There by a murmuring stream may I be found, 
 Whose gentle airs around 
 Waft grateful odors from the laurel green : 
 Naught but my empty form roams here unblest; 
 There dwells my heart with her who steals it 
 from my breast. 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 O my own Italy ! though words are vain 
 The mortal wounds to close, 
 Unnumbered, that thy beauteous bosom stain, 
 Yet may it soothe my pain 
 To sigh forth Tiber's woes, 
 And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's saddened shore 
 Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour. 
 Ruler of Heaven ! by the all-pitying love 
 That could thy Godhead move 
 To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth, — 
 Turn, Lord, on this thy chosen land thine eye ! 
 See, God of Charity, 
 
 From what light cause this cruel war has birth ! 
 And the hard hearts by savage discord steeled, 
 Thou, Father, from on high, 
 Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath 
 may yield ! 
 
 Ye, to whose sovereign hands the Fates confide 
 Of this fair land the reins, — 
 This land, for which no pity wrings your 
 breast, — 
 
 Why does the stranger's sword her plains infest' 
 That her green fields be dyed, 
 Hope ye, with blood from the barbarians' veins? 
 Beguiled by error weak, 
 
 Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast, 
 Who love or faith in venal bosoms seek : 
 When thronged your standards most, 
 Ye are encompassed most by hostile bands. 
 O hideous deluge gathered in strange lands, 
 That, rushing down amain, 
 O'erwhelms our every native lovely plain ! 
 Alas 1 if our own hands 
 
 Have thus our weal betrayed, who shall our 
 cause sustain ? 
 
 Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state, 
 
 Rear her rude Alpine heights, 
 
 A lofty rampart against German hate ; 
 
 But blind Ambition, seeking his own ill, 
 
 With ever restless will, 
 
 To the pure gales contagion foul invites : 
 
 Within the same strait fold 
 
 The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng, 
 
 Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong; 
 
 And these — O shame avowed ! — 
 
 Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold : 
 
 Fame tells how Marius' sword 
 
 Erewhile their bosoms gored, — 
 
 Nor has Time's hand aught blurred the record 
 proud ! — 
 
 When they, who, thirsting, stooped to quaff the 
 flood, 
 
 With the cool waters mixed, drank of a com- 
 rade's blood ! 
 
 Great Caesar's name I pass, who o'er our plains 
 
 Poured forth the ensanguined tide, 
 
 Drawn by our own good swords from out their 
 
 veins ; 
 But now, — nor know I what ill stars preside, — 
 Heaven holds this land in hate ! 
 To you the thanks, whose hands control her 
 
 helm ! — 
 You, whose rash feuds despoil 
 Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm ! 
 Are ye impelled by judgment, crime, or fate, 
 To oppress the desolate ? 
 From broken fortunes, and from humble toil, 
 The hard-earned dole to wring, 
 While from afar ye bring 
 
 Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire ? 
 In truth's great cause I sing, 
 Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire. 
 
 Nor mark ye yet, confirmed by proof on proof, 
 Bavaria's perfidy, 
 
 Who strikes in mockery, keeping death aloof; 
 (Shame, worse than aught of loss, in honor's 
 
 eye ! ) 
 While ye, with honest rage, devoted pour 
 Your inmost bosom's gore? — 
 Yet give one hour to thought, 
 And ye shall own how little he can hold 
 Another's glory dear, who sets his own at naught, 
 O Latin blood of old, 
 
532 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame, 
 Nor bow before a name 
 
 Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce ! 
 For if barbarians rude 
 Have higher minds subdued, 
 Ours, ours the crime ! — not such wise Nature's 
 course. 
 
 Ah ! is not this the soil my foot first pressed ? 
 And here, in cradled rest, 
 
 Was I not softly hushed, — here fondly reared? 
 Ah ! is not this my country, — so endeared 
 By every filial tie, — 
 
 In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie ? 
 O, by this tender thought 
 Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought, 
 Look on the people's grief, 
 Who, after God, of you expect relief ! 
 And if ye but relent, 
 
 Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might, 
 Against blind fury bent, 
 
 Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight; 
 For no, — the ancient flame 
 Is not extinguished yet, that raised the Italian 
 name ! 
 
 Mark, sovereign lords, how Time, with pinion 
 
 strong, 
 Swift hurries life along ! 
 
 E'en now, behold, Death presses on the rear! 
 We sojourn here a day, — the next, are gone! 
 The soul, disrobed, alone, 
 
 Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we fear. 
 O, at the dreaded bourn, 
 Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn ! 
 (Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high !) 
 And ye, whose cruelty 
 Has sought another's harm, by fairer deed, 
 Of heart, or hand, or intellect, aspire 
 To win the honest meed 
 
 Of just renown, — the noble mind's desire! — 
 Thus sweet on earth the stay ! 
 Thus, to the spirit pure, unbarred is heaven's 
 
 way ! 
 
 My song, with courtesy, and numbers sooth, 
 Thy daring reasons grace ! 
 For thou the mighty, in their pride of place, 
 Must woo to gentle ruth, 
 Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse, 
 Ever to truth averse ! 
 Thee better fortunes wait, 
 Among the virtuous few, — the truly great! 
 Tell them — But who shall bid my terrors cease ? 
 Peace ! Peace! on thee I call ! return, O hea- 
 ven-born Peace ! 
 
 VISIONS. 
 i. 
 Being one day at my window all alone, 
 
 So manie strange things happened me to see, 
 As much it grieveth me to thinke thereon. 
 
 At my right hand a hynde appear'd to mee, 
 So faire as mote the greatest god delite ; 
 Two eager dogs did her pursue in chace, 
 
 Of which the one was blacke, the other white : 
 With deadly force so in their cruell race 
 
 They pincht the haunches of that gentle beast, 
 That at the last, and in short time, I spide, 
 
 Under a rocke, where she alas, opprest, 
 
 Fell to the ground, and there untimely dide. 
 
 Cruell death vanquishing so noble beautie 
 
 Oft makes me wayle so hard a destenie. 
 
 After, at sea a tall ship did appeare, 
 
 Made all of heben ' and white yvorie ; 
 The sailes of golde, of silke the tackle were : 
 
 Milde was the winde, calme seem'd the sea to 
 bee, 
 The skie eachwhere did show full bright and 
 faire : 
 
 With rich treasures this gay shipfraighted was- 
 But sudden storme did so turmoyle the aire, 
 
 And tumbled up the sea, that she (alas) 
 Strake on a rock, that under water lay, 
 
 And perished past all recoverie. 
 O ! how great ruth, and sorrowfull assay, 
 
 Doth vex my spirite with perplexitie, 
 Thus in a moment to see lost, and drown'd, 
 So great riches, as like cannot be found. 
 
 The heavenly branches did I see arise 
 
 Out of the fresh and lustie lawrell tree, 
 Amidst the yong greene wood of paradise ; 
 
 Some noble plant I thought my selfe to see : 
 Such store of birds therein yshrowded were, 
 
 Chaunting in shade their sundrie melodie, 
 That with their sweetnes I was ravisht nere. 
 
 While on this lawrell fixed was mine eie, 
 The skie gan everie where to overcast, 
 
 And darkned was the welkin all about, 
 When sudden flash of heavens fire out brast, 2 
 
 And rent this royall tree quite by the roote; 
 Which makes me much and ever to complaine ; 
 For no such shadow shalbe had againe. 
 
 Within this wood, out of a rocke did rise 
 
 A spring of water, mildly rumbling downe, 
 Whereto approched not in anie wise 
 
 The homely shepheard, nor the ruder clowne ; 
 But manie muses, and the nymphes withall, 
 
 That sweetly in accord did tune their voyce 
 To the soft sounding of the waters fall; 
 
 That my glad hart thereat did much reioyce. 
 But, while herein I tooke my chiefs delight, 
 
 I saw (alas) the gaping earth devoure 
 The spring, the place, and all cleane out of sight ; 
 
 Which yet aggreeves my hart even to this 
 houre, 
 And wounds my soule with rufull memorie, 
 To see such pleasures gon so suddenly. 
 
 I saw a phoenix in the wood alone, 
 
 With purple wings, and crest of golden hewe; 
 
 Ebony. 
 
 2 Burst. 
 
BOCCACCIO. 
 
 533 
 
 Strange bird he was, whereby I thought anone, 
 
 That of some heavenly wight I had the vewe ; 
 Untill he came unto the broken tree, 
 
 And to the spring, that late devoured was. 
 What say I more ? each thing at last we see 
 
 Doth passe away : the phoenix there alas, 
 Spying the tree destroid, the water dride, 
 
 Himselfe smote with his beake, as in disdaine, 
 And so foorthwith in great despight he dide ; 
 
 That yet my heart burnes, in exceeding paine, 
 For ruth and pitie of so haples plight: 
 O ! let mine eyes no more see such a sight. 
 
 At last so faire a ladie did I spie, 
 
 That thinking yet on her I burne and quake; 
 On hearbs and flowres she walked pensively, 
 
 Milde, but yet love she proudly did forsake: 
 White seem'd her robes, yet woven so they 
 were, 
 
 As snow and golde together had been wrought : 
 Above the wast a darke clowde shrouded her, 
 
 A stinging serpent by the heele her caught; 
 Wherewith she languisht as the gathered floure ; 
 
 And, well assur'd, she mounted up to ioy. 
 Alas, on earth so nothing doth endure, 
 
 But bitter griefe and sorrowfull annoy : 
 Which make this life wretched and miserable, 
 Tossed with stormes of fortune variable. 
 
 When I beheld this tickle 3 trusties state 
 
 Of vaine worlds glorie, flitting too and fro, 
 And mortall men tossed by troublous fate 
 
 In restles seas of wretchednes and woe ; 
 [ wish I might this wearie life forgoe, 
 
 And shortly turne unto my happie rest, 
 Where my free spirite might not anie moe 4 
 
 Be vext with sights, that doo her peace molest. 
 And ye, faire ladie, in whose bounteous brest 
 
 All heavenly grace and vertue shrined is, 
 When ye these rythmes doo read, and vew the 
 rest, 
 
 Loath this base world, and thinke of heavens 
 blis: 
 And though ye be the fairest of Gods creatures, 
 5Tet thinke, that Death shall spoyle your goodly 
 features. 
 
 GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO. 
 
 This great writer, the " Bard of Prose," one 
 of the immortal triumvirate of the early Italian 
 literature, was the natural son of a Florentine 
 merchant. His family originated in Certaldo, 
 a village of Tuscany. Giovanni's mother was 
 a Parisian, and he was born in Paris, in 1313. 
 The boy was early brought to Florence, where 
 he commenced his studies, and showed a preco- 
 cious love of letters and poetry. At the age of 
 ten, he was apprenticed to a merchant, who took 
 him back to Paris, and kept him there six years. 
 
 3 Uncertain. 
 
 4 More. 
 
 He then resided eight years in Naples. But his 
 taste for literature gave him a dislike to mercan- 
 tile life, and led to the formation of intimacies 
 with the Neapolitan and Florentine scholars who 
 had been assembled around the poetical king, 
 Robert of Naples. He fell in love with the lady- 
 Mary, a natural daughter of the king, to please 
 whom he wrote several works, both in prose and 
 poetry. This princess he celebrated under the 
 name of Fiammetta. The favor of his royal 
 mistress, the intercourse which he enjoyed with 
 learned men, the brilliant reception of Petrarch 
 at the Neapolitan court, when on his way to re- 
 ceiye the laurel crown at Rome, and the friend- 
 ship which he formed with that illustrious poet 
 and scholar, cooperating with his natural inclina- 
 tion, induced him finally to embrace the pursuit 
 of literature and poetry. Having spent two years 
 in Florence with his father, he returned to Na- 
 ples, and was favorably received by Queen Jo- 
 anna, for whose amusement, as well as that of 
 his mistress, Fiammetta, he wrote the " Deca- 
 merone," or Tales of the Ten Days. 
 
 Mr. Mariotti, an eloquent writer, who, though 
 an Italian, has mastered the elegancies of En- 
 glish style, in his work on Italian history and 
 literature,* has drawn the following fanciful 
 picture of Boccaccio about this period : — 
 
 " Above the entrance of that tenebrous pas- 
 sage, in a fragrant grove of orange and myrtle, 
 in sight of Naples and her gulf, of Vesuvius 
 and its wide-spreading sides, exhibited to the 
 worship of five hundred thousand souls, there 
 lies an ancient monument, from time immemo- 
 rial designated by fame as the tomb of Virgil. 
 The tradition among the less cultivated classes 
 in the country is, that this Virgil was an old 
 wizard, whose tomb stands, as it were, as the 
 guard of the grotto, that was dug in one night, 
 at his bidding, by a legion of demons enlisted 
 in his service. 
 
 "Over that haunted sepulchre there grew a 
 laurel, which some of our grandfathers remem- 
 ber still to have seen ; and which might per- 
 chance be there still, braving the inclemencies 
 of the north winds, and the lightnings of heav- 
 en, had it not been plucked to the very roots 
 by the religious enthusiasm of classical tourists. 
 
 "Under the shade of that hallowed tree, 
 kneeling on the marble steps of that holy tomb, 
 there was, five hundred and seven years ago, a 
 handsome youth, of about twenty years of age, 
 with long dark locks falling upon his shoul- 
 ders, with a bright smiling countenance, a no- 
 ble forehead, and features after the best an- 
 tique Florentine cast, with the hues of health 
 and good-humor on his cheeks, and the habit- 
 ual smile of a man whose life-path had hitherto 
 lain amidst purple and roses. 
 
 " That youth was Giovanni Boccaccio. 
 
 "Born under unfavorable circumstances, and 
 obliged to atone by a brilliant life for the stain 
 
 * Italy : General Views of its History and Literature, in 
 Reference to its present State. By L. Mariotti (2 vols., 
 London, 1841, 12mo.). Vol. I. pp. 278, 279. 
 ss2 
 
534 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 inflicted upon his nativity by the imprudence 
 and levity of his parents, he was long secretly 
 preyed upon by a vague ambition, which in 
 vain he endeavoured to lay asleep among the 
 dissipations of a disorderly youth. There, on 
 the urn of the Latin poet, to which he often 
 resorted in his disgust of every thing around 
 him, he, according to his own account, 'felt 
 himself suddenly seized by a sacred inspiration, 
 and entered into a daring vow with himself that 
 his name should not perish with him.' " 
 
 After his father's death, Boccaccio established 
 himself in Florence, where he wrote the cele- 
 brated description of the plague, — a piece of his- 
 torical painting which almost rivals the terrible 
 picture of the plague of Athens, in Thucydides. 
 When the republic of Florence resolved to recall 
 Petrarch, and to restore to him the estate of his 
 father, who died in banishment, they made 
 choice of Boccaccio to bear the message to the 
 poet, then living in Padua. The disturbances 
 in Florence induced him to withdraw to Cer- 
 taldo, where he possessed a small estate. In 
 this retirement he composed several historical 
 works in Latin. Boccaccio was a very good 
 classical scholar. In addition to his familiar 
 knowledge of Latin, he made acquirements in 
 Greek, extraordinary for his age and country, 
 under the instruction of Leontius Pilate, whom 
 he kept, at his own charge, three years in his 
 house ; and he had the honor of being the first 
 to procure from Greece transcripts of the " Iliad " 
 and "Odyssey." He exerted all his influence 
 to induce his contemporaries to substitute the 
 study of classical antiquity for the scholastic 
 pursuits on which their intellectual energies 
 were expended. He was twice sent on impor- 
 tant public afFairs to the papal court, and ac- 
 quitted himself of the duties of these embassies 
 with signal ability. When the Florentines, 
 desirous of making atonement to the memory 
 of their great countryman, Dante, for the per- 
 secution and banishment with which they had 
 wronged him while living, established in their 
 University a professorship for the explanation 
 and illustration of his poem, Boccaccio was 
 placed in the chair. Dante had always been the 
 object of his admiration and reverence ; and he 
 devoted himself to the work of his office with 
 such diligence that he seriously injured his 
 health, which was never completely restored. 
 The news of the death of Petrarch, his instructer 
 and friend, was a violent shock, and he survived 
 him but little more than a year. He died at 
 Certaldo, December 21st, 1375. 
 
 The genius of Boccaccio is most favorably 
 exhibited in the prose of his "Decamerone " ; 
 a work which places him unquestionably in the 
 first rank of Italian writers. He accomplished 
 for Italian prose the same great service which 
 Dante and Petrarch effected for poetry. But 
 besides this, he wrote " La Teseide," the first 
 Italian epic in the ottava rima, of which he was 
 the inventor; the "Amorosa Visione," a long 
 poem in the terzarima; and other productions in 
 
 verse, which are obscured by the superior splen- 
 dor of the " Decamerone." He also wrote a 
 work entitled "Origine, Vita e Costumi di Dan- 
 te Alighieri," and a " Comento sopra la Corn- 
 media di Dante," which, however, extends only 
 to the seventeenth canto of the "Inferno." The 
 best edition of his works is that of Florence, 
 in seventeen volumes, 1827-34. 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 Dante am I, — Minerva's son, who knew 
 With skill and genius (though in style obscure) 
 And elegance maternal to mature 
 My toil, a miracle to mortal view. 
 Through realms tartarean and celestial flew 
 My lofty fancy, swift-winged and secure ; 
 And ever shall my noble work endure, 
 Fit to be read of men, and angels too. 
 Florence my earthly mother's glorious name ; 
 Stepdame to me, — whom from her side she 
 
 thrust, 
 Her duteous son : bear slanderous tongues the 
 
 blame ; 
 Ravenna housed my exile, holds my dust ; 
 My spirit is with Him from whom it came, — 
 A Parent envy cannot make unjust. 
 
 SONGS FROM THE DECAMERONE. 
 
 Cupid, the charms that crown my fair 
 
 Ha.ve made me slave to you and her • 
 The lightning of her eyes, 
 That darting through my bosom flies, 
 
 Doth still your sovereign power declare: 
 
 At your control, 
 
 Each grace binds fast my vanquished soul. 
 
 Devoted to your throne 
 From henceforth I myself confess ; 
 Nor can I guess 
 
 If my desires to her be known, 
 Who claims each wish, each thought, so far, 
 That all my peace depends on her. 
 
 Then haste, kind godhead, and inspire 
 A portion of your sacred fire ; 
 
 To make her feel 
 
 That self-consuming zeal, 
 The cause of my decay, 
 That wastes my very heart away. 
 
 Go, Love, and to my lord declare 
 The torment which for him I find; 
 
 Go, say I die, whilst still my fear 
 Forbids me to declare my mind. 
 
 With hands uplifted, I thee pray, 
 O Love, that thou wouldst haste away, 
 And gently to my lord impart 
 The warmest wishes of my heart ; 
 Declare how great my sorrows seem, 
 Which, sighing, blushing, I endure for him. 
 Go, Love, &c. 
 
PULCI. 
 
 535 
 
 Why was I not so bold to tell, 
 For once, the passion that I feel ? 
 To him, for whom I grieve alone, 
 The anguish of my heart make known ? 
 He might rejoice to hear my grief 
 Awaits his single pleasure for relief. 
 Go, Love, &c. 
 
 But if this my request be vain, 
 Nor other means of help remain, 
 Yet say, that when in armor bright 
 He marched, as if equipped for fight, 
 Amidst his chiefs, that fatal day, 
 I saw, and gazed my very heart away. 
 Go, Love, &c. 
 
 SECOND PERIOD.-CENTURY XV. 
 
 LUIGI PULCI. 
 
 Luigi Pulci was born in Florence, Dec. 3, 
 1431. He belonged to a very respectable 
 family, and was the youngest of three brothers, 
 all distinguished for their abilities and learning. 
 He lived on intimate terms with the great Lo- 
 renzo de' Medici, whose accomplished mother, 
 Lucrezia Tomabuoni, induced him to write the 
 poem of " II Morgante Maggiore," in which 
 are celebrated the exploits of Orlando and the 
 giant Morgante. Very little is known of his 
 life, which was passed in privacy, and was 
 wholly devoted to letters. The time and cir- 
 cumstances of his death are also unknown. 
 
 The principal work of Luigi Pulci is that 
 already mentioned, the " Morgante Maggiore." 
 It is one of the romantic narrative poems on 
 the adventures of Charlemagne and his pala- 
 dins. The character of this work has been the 
 subject of critical disputes. " Some," says Ti- 
 raboschi, " place it among serious, others among 
 burlesque poems ; some speak of it with con- 
 tempt, others do not hesitate to pronounce it 
 equal to the ' Furioso ' of Ariosto. All this 
 proves, merely, that there is no absurdity which 
 has not been written and adopted by some one. 
 A little good sense and good taste is sufficient 
 to discover in the ' Morgante ' a burlesque, in 
 which are seen invention and poetic fancy and 
 purity of style, so far as appertains to Tuscan 
 proverbs and jests, of which it is full." But, 
 on the other hand, he censures the want of 
 connection and order in the narratives, the 
 hardness of the versification, the absence of ele- 
 vated expression, and especially the ridicule of 
 sacred things, " a defect, however, common at 
 that time to not a few of the burlesque poets." 
 
 FROM THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 ORLANDO AND THE GIANT. 
 
 Then full of wrath departed from the place, 
 And far as pagan countries roamed astray, 
 
 And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
 The traitor Gan remembered by the way; 
 
 And wandering on in error a long space, 
 An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 
 
 'Midst glens obscure, and distant lands, he found, 
 Which formed the Christian's and the pagan's 
 bound. 
 
 The abbot was called Clermont, and by blood 
 Descended from Angrante ; under cover 
 
 Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood, 
 But certain savage giants looked him over; 
 
 One Passamont was foremost of the brood, 
 And Alabaster and Morgante hover 
 
 Second and third, with certain slings, and throw 
 
 In daily jeopardy the place below. 
 
 The monks could pass the convent gate no more, 
 Nor leave their cells for water or for wood. 
 
 Orlando knocked, but none would ope, before 
 Unto the prior it at length seemed good ; 
 
 Entered, he said that he was taught to adore 
 Him who was born «f Mary's holiest blood, 
 
 And was baptized a Christian ; and then showed 
 
 How to the abbey he had found his road. 
 
 Said the abbot, " You are welcome ; what is mine 
 We give you freely, since that you believe 
 
 With us in Mary Mother's Son divine ; 
 And that you may not, Cavalier, conceive 
 
 The cause of our delay to let you in 
 To be rusticity, you shall receive 
 
 The reason why our gate was barred to you : 
 
 Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 
 
 " When hither to inhabit first we came 
 
 These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 
 
 As you perceive, yet without fear or blame 
 They seemed to promise an asylum sure : 
 
 From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 
 'T was fit our quiet dwelling to secure , 
 
 But now, if here we 'd stay, we needs must guard 
 
 Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 
 
 " These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch ; 
 
 For late there have appeared three giants 
 rough ; 
 What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 
 
 I know not, but they are all of savage stuff: 
 When force and malice with some genius match, 
 
 You know, they can do all, — -we 're not 
 enough : 
 And these so much our orisons derange, 
 I know not what to do, till matters change. 
 
536 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 " Our ancient fathers, living the desert in, 
 For just and holy works were duly fed ; 
 
 Think not they lived on locusts sole, 't is certain 
 That manna was rained down from heaven 
 instead : 
 
 But here 't is fit we keep on the alert in 
 
 Our bounds, or taste the stones showered 
 down for bread, 
 
 From ofTyon mountain daily raining faster, 
 
 And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 
 
 " The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far; he 
 Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and 
 oaks, 
 
 And flings them, our community to bury; 
 And all that I can do but more provokes." 
 
 While thus they parley in the cemetery, 
 A stone from one of their gigantic strokes, 
 
 Which nearly crushed Rondell, came tumbling 
 over, 
 
 So that he took a long leap under cover. 
 
 " For God's sake, Cavalier, come in with speed ! 
 The manna 's falling now," the abbot cried. 
 " This fellow does not wish my horse should 
 feed, 
 Dear Abbot," Roland unto him replied 
 ' Of restiveness he 'd cure him, had he need ; 
 That stone seems with good-will and aim 
 applied." 
 The holy father said, "I do n't deceive •, 
 They Ml one day fling the mountain, I believe." 
 
 Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 
 And also made a breakfast of his own : 
 
 " Abbot," he said, " I want to find that fellow 
 Whoflungatmy good horse yon corner-stone." 
 
 Said the abbot, " Let not my advice seem shal- 
 low ; 
 As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 
 
 I would dissuade you, Baron, from this strife, 
 
 As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 
 
 " That Passamont has in his hand three darts, — 
 Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield 
 you must ; 
 
 You know that giants have much stouter hearts 
 Than us, with reason, in proportion just: 
 
 If go you will, guard well against their arts, 
 For these are very barbarous and robust." 
 
 Orlando answered, "This I '11 see, be sure, 
 
 And walk the wild on foot to be secure." 
 
 The abbot signed the great cross on his front : 
 " Then go you with God's benison and mine." 
 
 Orlando, after he had scaled the mount, 
 As the abbot had directed, kept the line 
 
 Right to the usual haunt of Passamont ; 
 Who, seeing him alone in this design, 
 
 Surveyed him fore and aft with eyes observant, 
 
 Then asked him, if he wished to stay as servant ; 
 
 And promised him an office of great ease. 
 
 But said Orlando, " Saracen insane ! 
 I come to kill you, if it shall so please 
 
 God, — not to serve as footboy in your train; 
 
 You with his monks so oft have broke the peace, 
 Vile dog! 't is past his patience to sustain." 
 The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious, 
 When he received an answer so injurious. 
 
 And being returned to where Orlando stood, 
 Who had not moved him from the spot, and 
 swinging 
 The cord, he hurled a stone with strength so 
 rude, 
 As showed a sample of his skill in slinging ; 
 It rolled on Count Orlando's helmet good, 
 And head, and set both head and helmet 
 ringing, 
 So that he swooned with pain as if he died, 
 But more than dead, he seemed so stupefied. 
 
 Then Passamont, who thought him slain out- 
 right, 
 
 Said, " I will go, and, while he lies along, 
 Disarm me : why such craven did I fight ? " 
 
 But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long, 
 Especially Orlando, such a knight 
 
 As to desert would almost be a wrong. 
 While the giant goes to put off his defences, 
 Orlando has recalled his force and senses ; 
 
 And loud he shouted, " Giant, where dost go ? 
 
 Thou thought'st me, doubtless, for the bier 
 outlaid ; 
 To the right about ! without wings thou 'rt too 
 slow 
 
 To fly my vengeance, currish renegade ! 
 'T was but by treachery thou laid'st me low." 
 
 The giant his astonishment betrayed, 
 And turned about, and stopped his journey on, 
 And then he stooped to pick up a great stone. 
 
 Orlando had Cortana bare in hand; 
 
 To split the head in twain was what he 
 schemed : 
 Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, 
 
 And pagan Passamont died unredeemed ; 
 Yet harsh and haughty, as - he lay he banned, 
 
 And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed : 
 But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
 Orlando thanked the Father and the Word, — 
 
 Saying, " What grace to me thou 'st this day 
 given ! 
 
 And I to thee, O Lord, am ever bound. 
 I know my life was saved by thee from heaven, 
 
 Since by the giant I was fairly downed. 
 All things by thee are measured just and even; 
 
 Our power without thine aid would naught 
 be found : 
 I pray thee, take heed of me, till I can 
 At least return once more to Carloman." 
 
 And having said thus much, he went his way ; 
 
 And Alabaster he found out below, 
 Doing the very best that in him lay 
 
 To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
 Orlando, when he reached him, loud 'gan say, 
 
 " How think'st thou, glutton, such a stone to 
 throw ? " 
 
PULCI. 
 
 537 
 
 When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring, 
 He suddenly betook him to his sling, 
 
 And hurled a fragment of a size so large, 
 That, if it had in fact fulfilled its mission, 
 
 And Roland not availed him of his targe, 
 There would have been no need of a phy- 
 sician. 
 
 Orlando set himself in turn to charge, 
 And in his bulky bosom made incision 
 
 With all his sword. The lout fell ; but, o'er- 
 thrown, he, 
 
 However, by no means forgot Macone. 
 
 Morgante had a palace in his mode, 
 
 Composed of branches, logs of wood, and 
 earth, 
 
 And stretched himself at ease in this abode, 
 And shut himself at night within his berth. 
 
 Orlando knocked, and knocked again, to goad 
 The giant from his sleep ; and he came forth, 
 
 The door to open, like a crazy thing ; 
 
 For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 
 
 He thought that a fierce serpent had attacked 
 him ; 
 And Mahomet he called ; but Mahomet ' 
 Is nothing worth, and not an instant backed 
 him ; 
 But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 
 At liberty from all the fears which racked him ; 
 
 And to the gate he came with great regret. 
 " Who knocks here? " grumbling all the while, 
 
 said he. 
 " That," said Orlando, " you will quickly see. 
 
 " I come to preach to you, as to your brothers, — 
 Sent by the miserable monks, — repentance ; 
 For Providence Divine, in you and others, 
 Condemns the evil done my new acquaint- 
 ance. 
 'T is writ on high, your wrong must pay an- 
 other's ; 
 From heaven itself is issued out this sen- 
 tence. 
 Know, then, that colder now than a pilaster 
 I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 
 
 Morgante said, " O gentle Cavalier, 
 Now, by thy God, say me no villany ! 
 
 The favor of your name I fain would hear, 
 And, if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 
 
 Replied Orlando, " So much to your ear 
 I, by my faith, disclose contentedly; 
 
 Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
 
 And, if you please, by you may be adored." 
 
 The Saracen rejoined, in humble tone, 
 " I have had an extraordinary vision : 
 
 A savage serpent fell on me alone, 
 
 And Macon would not pity my condition ; 
 
 Hence, to thy God, who for ye did atone 
 Upon the cross, preferred I my petition ; 
 
 His timely succour set me safe and free, 
 
 And I a Christian am disposed to be." 
 63 
 
 MORGANTE AT THE CONVENT. 
 
 Then to the abbey they went on together, 
 Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 
 
 The monks, who knew not yet the fact, ran 
 thither 
 To their superior, all in breathless rout, 
 
 Saying, with tremor, " Please to tell us whether 
 You wish to have this person in or out." 
 
 The abbot, looking through upon the giant, 
 
 Too greatly feared, at first, to be compliant. 
 
 Orlando, seeing him thus agitated, 
 
 Said quickly, " Abbot, be thou of good cheer ; 
 He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated, 
 
 And hath renounced his Macon false " ; which 
 here 
 Morgante with the hands corroborated, — 
 
 A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear: 
 Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God adored, 
 Saying, " Thou hast contented me, O Lord ! " 
 
 He gazed ; Morgante's height he calculated, 
 And more than once contemplated his size ; 
 
 And then he said, "O giant celebrated, 
 
 Know, that no more my wonder will arise, 
 
 How you could tear and fling the trees you late 
 did, 
 When I behold your form with my own eyes. 
 
 You now a true and perfect friend will show 
 
 Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 
 
 "And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 
 Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 
 
 Till, one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 
 ' Why dost thou persecute me thus ? ' said 
 Christ ; 
 
 And then from his offence he was reclaimed, 
 And went for ever after preaching Christ, 
 
 And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 
 
 O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 
 
 " So, my Morgante, you may do likewise ; 
 
 He who repents — thus writes the Evange- 
 list — 
 Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 
 
 Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
 You may be sure, should each desire arise 
 
 With just zeal for the Lord, that you ". exist 
 Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
 But you were lost and damned to hell before ! " 
 
 And thus great honor to Morgante paid ' 
 
 The abbot. Many days they did repose. 
 
 One day, as with Orlando they both strayed, 
 And sauntered here and there, where'er they 
 chose, 
 
 The abbot showed a chamber, where arrayed 
 Much armor was, and hung up certain bows; 
 
 And one of these Morgante for a whim 
 
 Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him. 
 
 There being a want of water in the place, 
 Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 
 
 " Morgante, I could wish you, in this case, 
 To go for water." " You shall be obeyed 
 
538 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 In all commands," was the reply, " straight- 
 ways.'" 
 Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid, 
 And went out on his way unto a fountain, 
 Where he was wont to drink below the moun- 
 tain. 
 
 Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears, 
 Which suddenly along the forest spread; 
 
 Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 
 An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 
 
 And, lo ! a monstrous herd of swine appears, 
 And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 
 
 And to the fountain's brink precisely pours; 
 
 So that the giant's joined by all the boars. 
 
 Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 
 
 Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, 
 
 And passed unto the other side quite thorough ; 
 So that the boar, defunct, lay tripped up near. 
 
 Another, to revenge his fellow-farrow, 
 Against the giant rushed in fierce career, 
 
 And readied the passage with so swift a foot, 
 
 Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 
 
 Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 
 He gave him such a punch upon the head 
 
 As floored him so that he no more arose, 
 Smashing the very bone ; and he fell dead 
 
 Next to the other. Having seen such blows, 
 The other pigs along the valley fled. 
 
 Morga ite on his neck the bucket took, 
 
 Full from the spring, which neither swerved 
 nor shook. 
 
 The tun was on one shoulder, and there were 
 The hogs on t' other ; and he brushed apace 
 
 On to the abbey, though by no means near, 
 Nor spilt one drop of water in his race. 
 
 Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 
 
 With the dead boars, and with that brimful 
 vase, 
 
 Marvelled to see his strength so very great ; 
 
 So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 
 
 The monks, who saw the water fresh and good, 
 Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the 
 pork : 
 
 All animals are glad at sight of food. 
 
 They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 
 
 With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood, 
 That the flesh needs no salt beneath their 
 fork. 
 
 Of rankness and of rot there is no fear, 
 
 For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 
 
 As though they wished to burst at once, they 
 ate; 
 
 And gorged so, that, as if the bones had been 
 In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat, 
 
 Perceiving that they all were picked too clean. 
 The abbot, who to all did honor great, 
 
 A few days after this convivial scene, 
 Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well trained, 
 Wh'-.h he long time had for himself maintained. 
 
 The horse Morgante to a meadow led, 
 To gallop, and to put him to the proof; 
 
 Thinking that he a back of iron had, 
 
 Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough. 
 
 But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, 
 And burst, while cold on earth lay head and 
 hoof. 
 
 Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky cur ! " 
 
 And still continued pricking with the spur. 
 
 But finally he thought fit to dismount, 
 And said, "I am as light as any feather, 
 
 And he has burst : to this what say you, Count? " 
 Orlando answered, " Like a ship's mast rather 
 
 You seem to me, and with the truck for front. 
 Let him go; Fortune wills that we together 
 
 Should march, but you on foot, Morgante, still.' 
 
 To which the giant answered, " So I will. 
 
 " When there shall be occasion, you will see 
 How I approve my courage in the fight." 
 
 Orlando said, " I really think you '11 be, 
 
 If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight 
 
 Nor will you napping there discover me. 
 But never mind your horse ; though out of sight 
 
 'T were best to carry him into some wood, 
 
 If but the means or way I understood." 
 
 The giant said, "Then carry him I will, 
 Since that to carry me he was so slack, — 
 
 To render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 
 
 But lend a hand to place him on my back." 
 
 Orlando answered, "If my counsel still 
 May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 
 
 To lift or carry this dead courser, who, 
 
 As you have done to him, will do to you. 
 
 "Take care he do n't revenge himself, though 
 dead, 
 
 As Nessus did of old, beyond all cure : 
 I do n't know if the fact you 've heard or read : 
 
 But he will make you burst, you may be sure." 
 "But help him on my back," Morgante said, 
 
 "And you shall see what weight I can endure : 
 In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey, 
 With all the bells, 1 'd carry yonder belfry." 
 
 The abbot said, "The steeple may do well; 
 
 But for the bells, you 've broken them, I wot. 
 Morgante answered, " Let them pay in hell 
 
 The penalty who lie dead in yon grot." 
 And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, 
 
 He said, " Now look if I the gout have got, 
 Orlando, in the legs, — or if I have force ' : 
 And then he made two gambols with the hor&e. 
 
 Morgante was like any mountain framed ; 
 
 So if he did this, 't is no prodigy ; 
 But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 
 
 Because he was one of his family ; 
 And, fearing that he might be hurt or maimed, 
 
 Once more he bade him lay his burden by: 
 " Put down, nor bear him further the desert in.' 
 Morgante said, "I '11 carry h ; m, for certain." 
 
BOJARDO. — LORENZO DE' MEDICI. 
 
 539 
 
 He did ; and stowed him in some nook away, 
 And to the abbey then returned with speed. 
 
 Orlando said, " Why longer do we stay ? 
 Morgante, here is naught to do indeed." 
 
 The abbot by the hand he took one day, 
 And said, with great respect, he had agreed 
 
 To leave his Reverence; but for this decision 
 
 He wished to have his pardon and permission. 
 
 MATTEO MARIA BOJARDO. 
 
 Matteo Maria Bojardo, Conte di Scandi- 
 ano, sprung from an ancient and noble family 
 of Reggio, was born, according to Tiraboschi, 
 about the year 1430, at Fratta, near Ferrara. 
 According to others, his birth took place in 
 1434. Of his early life little is known. He 
 is said to have been a pupil of the celebrated 
 philosopher, Soccini Benzi, in the University of 
 Ferrara. He acquired a knowledge of the civil 
 law, and of the Greek and Latin languages. 
 His abilities and various accomplishments gained 
 the favorable notice of Borso, duke of Modena, 
 whom he accompanied on his journey to Rome 
 in 1471, when Borso received the investiture 
 of the dukedom of Ferrara. Hercules the First, 
 the successor of Borso, held Bojardo in equal 
 estimation, and sent him, with other nobles, to 
 conduct his future bride from Aragon to Ferrara. 
 He was employed on several other missions to 
 the most powerful princes of Italy. In 1478, 
 the duke made him governor of Reggio ; in 
 1481, captain in Modena; and afterwards, gov- 
 ernor of Reggio a second time. He died at 
 Reggio, in 1494. 
 
 Bojardo was one of the most accomplished 
 and able men of his age. He translated the 
 History of Herodotus from the Greek, and 
 from the Latin, "The Golden Ass " of Apule- 
 ius. He wrote many short poems both in Latin 
 and Italian, and a drama in five acts, called 
 "II Timone," founded on Lucian's "Misan- 
 thrope." But his fame rests chiefly upon the 
 celebrated poem, the "Orlando Innamorato," 
 which, though inferior in point of style to some 
 of his minor pieces, and though he did not live 
 to complete the plan, or to put the last touches 
 to the composition, shows a high poetical and 
 creative genius, and a fervid fancy. The poem 
 was afterwards recast by Berni, and received 
 with boundless applause. A part of it was trans- 
 lated into English by Robert Tofte, and pub- 
 lished in 1598. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Beautiful gift, and dearest pledge of love, 
 Woven by that fair hand whose gentle aid 
 Alone can heal the wound itself hath made, 
 And to my wandering life a sure guide prove ! 
 O dearest gift, all others far above, 
 Curioi'sly wrought in many-colored shade. 
 
 Ah ! why with thee has not the spirit stayed, 
 That with such tasteful skill to form thee strove? 
 Why have I not that lovely hand with thee ? 
 Why have I not with thee each fond desire 
 That did such passing beauty to thee give? 
 Through life thou ever shalt remain with me, 
 A thousand tender sighs thou shalt inspire, 
 A thousand kisses day and night receive. 
 
 I saw that lovely cheek grow wan and pale 
 At our sad parting, as at times a cloud, 
 Stealing the morn or evening sun to shroud, 
 Casts o'er his glorious light an envious veil. 
 I saw the rose's orient color fail, 
 Yielding to lilies wan its empire proud, 
 And saw, with joy elate, by sorrow bowed, 
 How from those eyes the pearls and crystal fell. 
 O precious words, and O sweet tears, that steep 
 In pleasing sadness my devoted heart, 
 And make it with its very bliss to weep ! 
 Love with you weeping sighed, and did impart 
 Such sweetness to you, that my sorrow deep 
 To memory comes devoid of sorrow's dart. 
 
 LORENZO DE' MEDICI. 
 
 Lorenzo de' Medici, distinguished by the 
 name of the Magnificent, was the son of Piero, 
 and grandson of Cosmo de' Medici, the founder 
 of the splendid political fortunes of that ancient 
 family. He was born January 1st, 1448. His 
 mother, Lucrezia Tornabuoni, superintended his 
 early education, and, with the assistance of able 
 teachers, inspired him with a taste for the fine 
 arts and for literature. At the age of sixteen, 
 Piero, then at the head of the republic of Flor- 
 ence, sent him to several courts, to prepare him 
 for his future station. Soon after his return, he 
 had the good fortune to defeat a powerful con- 
 spiracy which had been formed against Piero's 
 life. In 1471, on the death of his father, Lo- 
 renzo was acknowledged as the head of the 
 republic' The history of his wise and enlight- 
 ened administration of the government does 
 not belong to this place. His generous protec- 
 tion of arts and letters procured him the name 
 of the Augustus of Florence. He established 
 libraries, sparing no expense in procuring books, 
 caused academies to be opened, and supported 
 with liberal hand men of .science and letters. 
 He was himself a scholar of no mean attain- 
 ments, and in his youth distinguished himself 
 by his poetical compositions. He wrote son- 
 nets, dramas, canti carnascialeschi, or carnival 
 songs, and in all showed great talent and 
 taste. His influence made Florence the favored 
 seat of letters, science, and art. Philological 
 pursuits, and especially the study of Plato 
 flourished greatly under his fostering support. 
 "Nor," says Hallam,* "was mere philology the 
 
 * Introduction to the Literature of Europe, by Henry 
 Hallam (3 yols., London, 1840, 8vo.). Vol. I., pp. 243-245. 
 
b40 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 sole, or the leading pursuit, to which so truly 
 noble a mind accorded its encouragement. He 
 sought in ancient learning something more ele- 
 vated than the narrow, though necessary, re- 
 searches of criticism. In a villa overhanging the 
 towers of Florence, on the steep slope of that 
 lofty hill crowned by the mother city, the an- 
 cient Fiesole, in gardens which Tully might 
 have envied, with Ficino, Landino, and Politian 
 at his side, he delighted his hours of leisure 
 with the beautiful visions of Platonic philosophy, 
 for which the summer stillness of an Italian sky 
 ppears the most congenial accompaniment. 
 
 " Never could the sympathies of the soul 
 with outward nature be more finely touched ; 
 never could more striking suggestions be pre- 
 sented to the philosopher and the statesman. 
 Florence lay beneath them ; not with all the 
 magnificence that the later Medici have given 
 her, but, thanks to the piety of former times, 
 presenting almost as varied an outline to the 
 sky. One man, the wonder of Cosmo's age, 
 Brunelleschi, had crowned the beautiful city 
 with the vast dome of its cathedral ; a struc- 
 ture unthought of in Italy before, and rarely 
 since surpassed. It seemed, amidst clustering 
 towers of inferior churches, an emblem of the 
 Catholic hierarchy under its supreme head ; 
 like Rome itself, imposing, unbroken, unchange- 
 able, radiating in equal expansion to every 
 part of the earth, and directing its convergent 
 curves to heaven. Round this were numbered, 
 at unequal heights, the Baptistery, with its gates 
 worthy of paradise ; the tall and richly deco- 
 rated belfry of Giotto; the church of the Car- 
 mine, with the frescoes of Masaccio ; those of 
 Santa Maria Novella, beautiful as a bride, of 
 Santa Croce, second only in magnificence to 
 the cathedral, and of Saint Mark ; the San 
 Spirito, another great monument of the genius 
 of Brunelleschi ; the numerous convents that 
 rose within the walls of Florence, or were scat- 
 tered immediately about them. From these 
 the eye might turn to the trophies of a republi- 
 can government that was rapidly givjng way 
 before the citizen prince who now surveyed 
 them ; the Palazzo Vecchio, in which the seig- 
 niory of Florence held their councils, raised by 
 the Guelf aristocracy, the exclusive, but not 
 tyrannous faction, that long swayed the city; or 
 the new and unfinished palace which Brunel- 
 leschi had designed for one of the Pitti family, 
 before they fell, as others had already done, in 
 the fruitless struggle against the house of Me- 
 dici ; itself destined to become the abode of the 
 victorious race, and to perpetuate, by retaining 
 its name, the revolutions that had raised them 
 to power. 
 
 " The prospect, from an elevation, of a great 
 city in its silence, is one of the most impres- 
 sive, as well as beautiful, we ever behold. But 
 far more must it have brought home thoughts 
 of seriousness to the mind of one, who, by the 
 force of events, and the generous ambition of 
 his family, and his own, was involved in the 
 
 dangerous necessity of governing without the 
 right, and, as far as might be, without the sem- 
 blance of power; one who knew the vindictive 
 and unscrupulous hostility, which', at home and 
 abroad, he had to encounter. If thoughts like 
 these could bring a cloud over the brow of Lo- 
 renzo, unfit for the object he sought in tha 
 retreat, he might restore its serenity by other 
 scenes which his garden commanded. Moun- 
 tains, bright with various hues, and clothed with 
 wood, bounded the horizon, and, on most sides, 
 at no great distance ; but embosomed in these 
 were other villas and domains of his own; 
 while the level country bore witness to his 
 agricultural improvements, the classic diversion 
 of a statesman's cares. The same curious spirit 
 which led him to fill his garden at Careggi with 
 exotic flowers of the East, the first instance of a 
 botanical collection in Europe, had introduced 
 a new animal from the same regions. Herds 
 of buffaloes, since naturalized in Italy, whose 
 dingy hide, bent neck, curved horns, and low- 
 ering aspect contrasted with the grayish hue 
 and full, mild eye of the Tuscan oxen, pastured 
 in the valley, down which the yellow Arno steals 
 silently through its long reaches to the sea." 
 
 Lorenzo died in 1492, greatly honored and 
 beloved. His life has been written, among 
 others, by Fabroni, Pisa, in two volumes quar- 
 to ; and by William Roscoe, in two volumes 
 quarto, Liverpool, 1795. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Follow that fervor, O devoted spirit, 
 
 With which thy Saviour's goodness fires thy 
 breast ! 
 Go where it draws, and when it calls, O, hear 
 it! 
 It is thy Shepherd's voice, and leads to rest. 
 
 In this thy new devotedness of feeling, 
 Suspicion, envy, anger, have no claim; 
 
 Sure hope is highest happiness revealing, 
 With peace, and gentleness, and purest fame 
 
 For in thy holy and thy happy sadness 
 
 If tears or sighs are sometimes sown by thee, 
 
 In the pure regions of immortal gladness 
 Sweet and eternal shall thine harvest be. 
 
 Leave them to say, — " This people's meditation 
 Is vain and idle ! " — sit with ear and eye 
 
 Fixed upon Christ, in childlike dedication, 
 O thou inhabitant of Bethany ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Oft on the recollection sweet I dwell, — 
 Yea, never from my mind can aught efface 
 The dress my mistress wore, the time, the place, 
 Where first she fixed my eyes in raptured spell 
 How she then looked, thou, Love, rememberest 
 well, 
 
LORENZO DE' MEDICI. — POLIZIANO. 
 
 541 
 
 For thou her side hast never ceased to grace ; 
 Her gentle air, her meek, angelic face, 
 The powers of language and of thought excel. 
 When o'er the mountain-peaks deep-clad in 
 
 snow 
 Apollo pours a flood of golden light, 
 So down her white-robed limbs did stream her 
 
 hair : 
 The time and place 't were words but lost to 
 
 show ; 
 It must be day, where shines a sun so bright, 
 And paradise, where dwells a form so fair. 
 
 ORAZIONE. 
 
 All nature, hear the sacred song ! 
 
 Attend, O earth, the solemn strain ! 
 Ye whirlwinds wild that sweep along, 
 Te darkening storms of beating rain, 
 Umbrageous glooms, and forests drear, 
 And solitary deserts, hear ! 
 Be still, ye winds, whilst to the Maker's praise 
 The creature of his power aspires his voice to 
 raise ! 
 
 O, may the solemn-breathing sound 
 
 Like incense rise before the throne, 
 Where he, whose glory knows no bound, 
 
 Great Cause of all things, dwells alone! 
 'T is he I sing, whose powerful hand 
 Balanced the skies, outspread the land ; 
 Who spoke, — from ocean's stores sweet waters 
 
 came, 
 And burst resplendent forth the heaven-aspiring 
 flame. 
 
 One general song of praise arise 
 
 To him whose goodness ceaseless flows; 
 Who dwells enthroned beyond the skies, 
 
 And life and breath on all bestows ! 
 Great Source of intellect, his ear 
 Benign receives our vows sincere : 
 Rise, then, my active powers, your task fulfil, 
 And give to him your praise, responsive to my 
 will! 
 
 Partaker of that living stream 
 
 Of light, that pours an endless blaze, 
 O, let thy strong reflected beam, 
 
 My understanding, speak his praise ! 
 My soul, in steadfast love secure, 
 Praise him whose word is ever sure : 
 To him, sole just, my sense of right incline : 
 Join, every prostrate limb; my ardent spirit, 
 join ! 
 
 Let all of good this bosom fires, 
 
 To him, sole good, give praises due : 
 Let all the truth himself inspires 
 
 Unite to sing him only true: 
 To him my every thought ascend, 
 To him my hopes, my wishes, bend: 
 From earth's wide bounds let louder hymns 
 
 arise, 
 And his own word convey the pious sacrifice ! 
 
 In ardent adoration joined, 
 
 Obedient to thy holy will, 
 Let all my faculties combined, 
 
 Thy just desires, O God, fulfil ! 
 From thee derived, Eternal King, 
 To thee our noblest powers we bring: 
 O, may thy hand direct our wandering way ! 
 O, bid thy light arise, and chase the clouds away ' 
 
 Eternal Spirit, whose command 
 
 Light, life, and being gave to all, 
 O, hear the creature of thy hand, 
 
 Man, constant on thy goodness call ! 
 By fire, by water, air, and earth, 
 That soul to thee that owes its birth, — 
 By these, he supplicates thy blest repose : 
 Absent from thee, no rest his wandering spirit 
 knows. 
 
 ANGELO POLIZIANO. 
 
 This distinguished scholar was born July 
 24th, 1454, at Monte Pulciano, in the Florentine 
 republic. His learning and accomplishments 
 gained him the favor of Lorenzo the Magnifi- 
 cent, who made him tutor to his children. He 
 was well skilled in the Greek and Latin lan- 
 guages, and holds a preeminent rank among the 
 scholars of his time. Among his literary labors, 
 his translation of the " Iliad " into Latin hexam- 
 eters, and his commentary upon the " Pandects " 
 of Justinian, merit special mention. He also 
 wrote Latin epigrams; and a poem on rural life 
 entitled "Rusticus," upon which the highest 
 encomiums have been bestowed. His principal 
 poems in Italian are, the " Stanze sopra la Gi- 
 ostra di Giuliano," and the tragedy of" Orfeo," 
 which has already been noticed in the Intro- 
 duction, as the first regular drama of the Italian 
 stage. They were both written before the age 
 of nineteen, and are remarkable for the preco- 
 cious talent they display. His writings in gen- 
 eral are marked by elegance of expression and 
 elevation of sentiment. He died in 1492. 
 
 FROM THE STANZE SOPRA LA GIOSTRA. 
 
 Now, in his proud revenge exulting high, 
 Through fields of air Love speeds his rapid 
 flight, 
 And in his mother's realms the treacherous boy 
 
 Rejoins his kindred band of flutterers light; 
 That realm, of each bewitching grace the joy, 
 Where Beauty wreathes with sweets her 
 tresses bright, — 
 Where Zephyr importunes, on v/anton wing, 
 Flora's coy charms, and aids her flowers to 
 spring. 
 
 Thine, Erato, to Love's a kindred name, — 
 Of Love's domains instruct the bard to tell; 
 
 To thee, chaste Muse, alone 't is given to claim 
 Free ingress there, secure from every spell : 
 
 IT 
 
542 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Thou rul'st of soft amours the vocal frame, 
 
 And Cupid, oft as childish thoughts impel 
 To thrill with wanton touch its golden strings, 
 Behind his winged back his quiver flings. 
 
 A mount o'erlooks the charming Cyprian isle, 
 Whence, towards the morn's first blush, the 
 eye sublime 
 Might reach the sevenfold course of mighty Nile ; 
 But ne'er may mortal foot that prospect climb : 
 A verdant hill o'erhangs its highest pile, 
 
 Whose base, a plain, that laughs in vernal 
 prime ; 
 Where gentlest airs, 'midst flowers and herbage 
 
 g a y» 
 
 Urge o'er the quivering blade their wanton way. 
 
 A wall of gold secures the utmost bound, 
 
 And, dark with viewless shade, a woody vale ; 
 
 There, on each branch, with youthful foliage 
 
 crowned, 
 
 Some feathered songster chants his amorous 
 
 tale ; 
 
 And joined in murmurs soft, with grateful sound, 
 
 Two rivulets glide pellucid through the dale; 
 
 Beside whose streams, this sweet, that bitter 
 
 found, 
 His shaft of gold Love tempers for the wound. 
 
 No flowerets here decline their withered heads, 
 Blanched with cold snows, or fringed with 
 hoar-frost sere ; 
 
 No Winter wide his icy mantle spreads ; 
 No tender scion rends the tempest drear. 
 
 Here Spring eternal smiles ; nor varying leads 
 His change quadruple the revolving year: 
 
 Spring, with a thousand blooms her brows en- 
 twined, 
 
 Her auburn locks light fluttering in the wind. 
 
 The inferior band of Loves, a childish throng, 
 Tyrants of none, save hearts of vulgar kind, 
 
 Each other gibing with loquacious tongue, 
 On stridulous stones their barbed arrows grind : 
 
 Whilst Pranks and Wiles, the rivulet's marge 
 along, 
 Ply at the whirling wheel their task assigned ; 
 
 And on the sparkling stone, in copious dews, 
 
 Vain Hopes and vain Desires the lymph effuse. 
 
 There pleasing Pain and flattering fond Delight, 
 Sweet Broils, Caresses sweet, together go; 
 
 Sorrows, that hang their heads in doleful plight, 
 And swell with tears the bitter streamlet's 
 flow ; 
 
 Paleness all wan, and dreaming still of slight; 
 Affection fond, with Leanness, Fear, and Woe ; 
 
 Suspicion, casting round his peering eye; 
 
 And o'er the midway, dancing, wanton Joy. 
 
 Pleasure with Beauty gambols ; light in air, 
 Bliss soars inconstant; Anguish sullen sits; 
 
 Blind Error flutters, bat-like, here and there; 
 And Frenzy raves, and strikes his thigh by 
 fits ; 
 
 Repentance, of past folly late aware, 
 
 Her fruitless penance there ne'er intermits ; 
 Her hand with gore fell Cruelty distains, 
 And seeks Despair in death to end his pains. 
 
 Gestures and Nods, that inmost thoughts impart, 
 Illusions silent, Smiles that guile intend, 
 
 The Glance, the Look, that speak the impas- 
 sioned heart, 
 'Mid flowery haunts, for youth their toils sus- 
 pend ; 
 
 And never from his griefs Complaint apart, 
 Prone on his palm his face is seen to bend ; 
 
 Now hence, now thence, in unrestrained guise, 
 
 Licentiousness on wing capricious flies. 
 
 Such ministers thy progeny attend, 
 
 Venus, fair mother of each fluttering power ! 
 A thousand odors from those fields ascend, 
 While Zephyr brings in dews the pearly 
 shower, 
 Fanned by his flight, what time their incense 
 blend 
 The lily, violet, rose, or other flower; 
 And views with conscious pride the exulting 
 
 scene, 
 Its mingled azure, vermeil, pale, and green. 
 
 The trembling pansy virgin fears alarm ; 
 
 Downward her modest eye she blushing 
 bends : 
 The laughing rose, more specious, bold, and 
 warm, 
 Her ardent bosom ne'er from Sol defends ; 
 Here from the capsule bursts each opening 
 charm, 
 Full-blown, the invited hand she here attends ; 
 Here, she, who late with fires delightful glowed, 
 Droops languid, with her hues the mead be- 
 strewed. 
 
 In showers descending, courts the enamoured ait 
 The violet's yellow, purple, snowy hues; 
 
 Hyacinth, thy woes thy bosom's marks declare 
 His form Narcissus in the stream yet views; 
 
 In snowy vest, but fringed with purple glare, 
 Pale Clytia the parting sun pursues ; 
 
 Fresh o'er Adonis Venus pours her woes; 
 
 Acanthus smiles; her lovers Crocus shows. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN MAID. 
 
 "Maids of these hills, so fair and gay, 
 Say whence you come, and whither stray." 
 
 " From yonder heights : our lowly shed 
 Those clumps that rise so green disclose ; 
 
 There, by our simple parents bred, 
 We share their blessing and repose ; 
 Now, evening from the flowery close 
 
 Recalls, where late our flocks we fed." 
 
 " Ah, tell me, in what region grew 
 
 Such fruits, transcending all compare ? 
 Methinks, I Love's own offspring view, 
 
TIBALDEO. — DEL BASSO. 
 
 543 
 
 Such gTaces deck your shape and air; 
 Nor gold nor diamonds glitter there ; 
 Mean your attire, but angels you. 
 
 "Yet well such beaut'es might repine 
 'Mid desert hills and vales to bloom ; 
 
 What scenes, where pride and splendor shine, 
 Would not your brighter charms become ? . 
 But say, — with this your Alpine home, 
 
 Can ye, content, such bliss resign ? " 
 
 " Far happier we our fleecy care 
 Trip lightly after to the mead, 
 
 Than, pent in city walls, your fair 
 Foot the gay dance in silks arrayed: 
 Nor wish have we, save who should braid 
 
 With gayest wreaths her flowing hair." 
 
 EUROPA. 
 
 Beneath a snow-white bull's majestic euise, 
 Here Jove, concealed by Love's transforming 
 power, 
 
 Exulting bears his peerless, blooming prize : 
 With wild affright she views the parting 
 shore ; 
 
 Her golden locks the winds that adverse rise 
 In loose disorder spread her bosom o'er; 
 
 Light floats her vest, by the same gales upborne ; 
 
 One hand the chine, one grasps the circling horn. 
 
 Her naked feet, as of the waves afraid, 
 
 With shrinking effort, seem to avoid the main ; 
 
 Terror and grief in every act ; for aid 
 
 Her cries invoke the fair attendant train : 
 
 They, seated distant on the flowerv mead, 
 Frantic, recall their mistress loved, in vain, — 
 
 " Return, Europa ! " far resounds the cry: 
 
 On sails the god, intent on amorous joy. 
 
 ANTONIO TIBALDEO. 
 
 The birth of this scholar and poet has been 
 variously stated, — some placing it in 1456, and 
 others in 1463. The former date is the one 
 commonly adopted. He belonged to Ferrara, 
 and is said to have been educated as a physi- 
 cian ; but, as Corniani says, " he was more se- 
 quacious of Apollo, as the father of the Muses, 
 than as the progenitor of iEsculapius." Accord- 
 ing to one story, he was crowned as poet in 
 Ferrara, by the Emperor Frederic the Third, 
 in 1469 ; but this is disputed bv Tiraboschi on 
 strong grounds. He wrote poems both in Latin 
 and Italian. His earliest productions were in 
 his mother tongue, and were received with 
 great applause. He died at Rome, in 1537. 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 From Cyprus' isle, where Love owns every 
 bower, 
 
 Or from the neighbouring shores of Jove's do- 
 main, 
 
 Thou surely com'st, sweet Rose ; since this our 
 
 plain 
 Bears not the stem where bloomed so fair a 
 
 flower. 
 For I, who late was near my last sad hour, 
 No sooner from her hand the gift obtain, 
 Than thy sweet breath did charm away my pain, 
 And to my limbs restore their wonted power. 
 But mark one thing, that wakes a just surprise : 
 Thy pallid form with life but faintly glows, 
 That late of loveliest hue blushed vermeil dies 
 Haste, to the thoughtless fair go sorrowing, 
 
 Rose! 
 Bid her, by thy waned beauty taught, be wise ; 
 For her own good provide, and my repose. 
 
 Lord of my love ! my soul's far dearer part ! 
 As thou wilt live, and still enjov the dav, 
 Wouldst thou in peace I breathe my soul away? 
 Then moderate the grief that rends thy heart; 
 Thy sobs and tears give death a double smart. 
 If weep thou must, O, grant a short delay, 
 Till mv faint spirit leave this house of clay ! 
 E"en now I feel it struggling to depart. 
 This only boon I crave, ere I go hence : 
 Spotless maintain the bed of our chaste love, 
 Which cold I leave while youth refines each 
 
 sense ; 
 And, O, if e'er my will unduly strove 
 With thine, — as oft occurred, — forgive the 
 
 offence ! 
 
 ANDREA DEL BASSO. 
 
 Asdrea del Basso was an ecclesiastic of 
 
 Ferrara. He is known in literary history chief- 
 ly as a commentator on the " Teseide " of Boc- 
 caccio. Other works of the same kind, by him, 
 exist in manuscript. He flourished in the latter 
 half of the fifteenth century. Several of his 
 poetical compositions are found in the collection 
 of Baruffaldi. 
 
 ODE TO A DEAD BODY. 
 
 Rise from the loathsome and devouring tomb, 
 
 Give up thv body, woman without heart, 
 
 Now that its worldly part 
 
 Is over; and deaf, blind, and dumb, 
 
 Thou servest worms for food, 
 
 And from thine altitude 
 
 Fierce death has shaken thee down, and thou 
 
 dost fit 
 Thy bed within a pit. 
 Night, endless night, hath got thee 
 To clutch, and to enslut thee ; 
 And rottenness confounds 
 Thy limbs and their sleek rounds; 
 And thou art stuck there, stuck there, in despite, 
 Like a foul animal in a trap at night. 
 
544 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Come in the public path, and see how all 
 Shall fly thee, as a child goes shrieking back 
 From something long and black, 
 Which mocks along the wall. 
 See if the kind will stay, 
 To hear what thou wouldst say ; 
 See if thine arms can win 
 One soul to think of sin; 
 See if the tribe of wooers 
 Will now become pursuers, 
 And if, where they make way, 
 Thou 'It carry now the day ; 
 Or whether thou wilt spread not such foul night, 
 That thou thyself shalt feel the shudder and the 
 fright, — 
 
 Yes, till thou turn into the loathly hole, 
 
 As the least pain to thy bold-facedness. 
 
 There let thy foul distress 
 
 Turn round upon thy soul, 
 
 And cry, O wretch in a shroud, 
 
 That wast so headstrong proud, 
 
 This, this is the reward 
 
 For hearts that are so hard, 
 
 That flaunt so, and adorn 
 
 And pamper them, and scorn 
 
 To cast a thought down hither, 
 
 Where all things come to wither; 
 
 And where no resting is, and no repentance, 
 
 Even to the day of the last awful sentence. 
 
 Where is that alabaster bosom now, 
 That undulated once, like sea on shore ? 
 'T is clay ur.to the core. 
 Where are those sparkling eyes 
 That were like twins o' th' skies? 
 Alas ! two caves are they, 
 Filled only with dismay. 
 Where is the lip that shone 
 Like painting newly done? 
 Where the round cheek? and where 
 The sunny locks of hair? 
 
 And where the symmetry that bore them all ? 
 Gone, like the broken clouds when the winds 
 fall. 
 
 Did I not tell thee this, over and over, — 
 The time will come, when thou wilt not be fair, 
 Nor have that conquering air, 
 Nor be supplied with lover ? 
 Lo ! now behold the fruit 
 Of all that scorn of shame ; 
 Is there one spot the same 
 In all that fondled flesh ? 
 One limb that 's not a mesh 
 Of worms, and sore offence, 
 And horrible succulence? 
 Tell me, is there one jot, one jot remaining, 
 To show thy lovers now the shapes which thou 
 wast vain in ? 
 
 Love ? — Heaven should be implored for some- 
 thing else, — 
 For power to weep, and to bow down one's soul. 
 Love ? — 'T is a fiery dole ; 
 A punishment like hell's 
 
 Yet thou, puffed with thy power, 
 
 Who wert but as the flower 
 
 That warns us in the Psalm, 
 
 Didst think thy veins ran balm 
 
 From an immortal fount ; 
 
 Didst take on thee to mount 
 
 Upon an angel's wings, 
 
 When thou wert but as things 
 
 Clapped, on a day, in Egypt's catalogue, 
 
 Under the worshipped nature of a dog. 
 
 Ill would it help thee, now, were I to say, 
 
 Go, weep at thy confessor's feet, and cry, 
 
 " Help, father, or I die ! 
 
 See, see, he knows his prey, 
 
 Even he, the dragon old ! 
 
 O, be thou a stronghold 
 
 Betwixt my foe and me ! 
 
 For I would fain be free ; 
 
 But am so bound in ill, 
 
 That, struggle as I will, 
 
 It strains me to the last, 
 
 And I am losing fast 
 
 My breath and my poor soul ; and thou art he 
 
 Alone canst save me in thy piety." 
 
 But thou didst smile, perhaps, thou thing be- 
 sotted, 
 
 Because, with some, death is a sleep, a word. 
 
 Hast thou, then, ever heard 
 
 Of one that slept and rotted ? 
 
 Rare is the sleeping face 
 
 That wakes not as it was. 
 
 Thou shouldst have earned high heaven ; 
 
 And then thou might'st have given 
 
 Glad looks below, and seen 
 
 Thy buried bones, serene, 
 
 As odorous and as fair 
 
 As evening lilies are ; 
 
 And in the day of the great trump of doom, 
 
 Happy thy soul had been to join them at the 
 tomb. 
 
 Ode, go thou down and enter 
 
 The horrors of the centre : 
 
 Then fly amain, with news of terrible fate, 
 
 To those who think they may repent them late. 
 
 JACOPO SANNAZZARO. 
 
 Jacopo Sannazzaro belonged to an ancient 
 and distinguished Italian family. He was born 
 in 1458, at Naples. He received his early 
 instruction in Greek and Latin chiefly from 
 Giuniano Majo ; and on entering the Neapolitan 
 Academy, the head of which was Pontano, he 
 assumed the name of Actius Syncerus. At the 
 age of eight years, he conceived a childish pas- 
 sion for Carmasina Bonifacia, a girl of about 
 the same age, whose praises he afterwards sung, 
 under the names of Harmosina and Phillis. His 
 poems attracted the notice of King Ferdinand, 
 who received him into his house and became 
 
SANNAZZARO. 
 
 545 
 
 his warm friend. Frederic, who succeeded Fer- 
 dinand, bestowed on the poet the villa of Mer- 
 gotlino and a pension of six hundred ducats. 
 W hen his patron was ariven from the throne, in 
 '.501, Sannazzaro accompanied him to France, 
 and served him faithfully until the king's death. 
 A*"tar this, he returned to Naples, where he 
 died in 1530, or, accordi' g to others, in 1532. 
 
 Sannazzaro led a blameless life, and was dis- 
 tinguished both in Latin and Italian poetry. In 
 the former, his most original and elegant works 
 are the. " Piscatory Eclogues," and the poem 
 " De Partu Virginis" ; in the latter, he wrote 
 sonnets, canzoni, and the "Arcadia," a classical 
 work in the pastoral kind, and the first of any 
 importance in Italian. "If the 'Arcadia' of 
 Sannazzaro had never been written," says Ros- 
 coe,* " his sonnets and lyrical pieces would 
 have secured to him the distinction of one of 
 the chief poets that Italy has produced." 
 
 ELEGY FROM THE ARCADIA. 
 
 O, brief as bright, too early blest, 
 Pure spirit, freed from mortal care, 
 Safe in the far-off mansions of the sky, 
 There, with that angel take thy rest, 
 Thy star on earth ; go, take thy guerdon there ! 
 Together quaff the immortal joys on high, 
 Scorning our mortal destiny ; 
 Display thy sainted beauty bright, 
 'Mid those that walk the starry spheres, 
 Through seasons of unchanging years ; 
 By living fountains, and by fields of light, 
 Leading thy blessed flocks above ; 
 And teach thy shepherds here to guard their 
 care with love. 
 
 Thins, other hills and other groves, 
 And streams and rivers never dry, 
 On whose fresh banks thou pluck'st the am- 
 aranth flowers ; 
 While, following other Loves 
 Through sunny glades, the Fauns glide by, 
 Surprising the fond Nymphs in happier bow- 
 ers. 
 Pressing the fragrant flowers, 
 Androgeo there sings in the summer shade, 
 By Daphnis' and by Melibceus' side, 
 Filling the vaulted heavens wide 
 With the sweet music made ; 
 While the glad choirs, that round appear, 
 Listen to his dear voice we may no longer hear. 
 
 As to the elm is his embracing vine, 
 As their bold monarch to the herded kine, 
 As golden ears to the glad sunny plain, 
 Such wert thou to our shepherd youths, O 
 
 swain . 
 Remorseless Death ! ifthus thy flames consume 
 The best and loftiest of his race, 
 Who may escape his doom ? 
 
 * Life of Leo the Tenth, Vol. I., p. 61. 
 69 
 
 What shepherd ever more shall grace 
 The world like him, and with his magic strain 
 Call forth the joyous leaves upon the woods, 
 Or bid the wreathing boughs embower the sum- 
 mer floods ? 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Beloved, well thou know'st how many a year 
 I dwelt with thee on earth, in blissful love; 
 Now am I called to walk the realms above, 
 And vain to me the world's cold shows appear. 
 Enthroned in bliss, I know no mortal fear ; 
 And in my death with no sharp pangs I strove 
 Save when I thought that thou wert left to prove 
 A joyless fate, and shed the bitter tear. 
 But round thee plays a ray of heavenly light, 
 And, ah ! I hope that ray shall lend its aid 
 To guide thee through the dark abyss of night. 
 Weep, then, no more, nor be thy heart dismayed ; 
 When close thy mortal days, in fond delight 
 My soul shall meet thee, in new love arrayed. 
 
 thou, so long the Muse's favorite theme, 
 Expected tenant of the realms of light, 
 Now sunk for ever in eternal night, 
 
 Or recollected only to thy shame ! 
 From my polluted page thy hated name 
 
 1 blot, already on my loathing sight 
 Too long obtruded, and to purer white 
 Convert the destined record of thy fame. 
 On thy triumphant deeds far other strains 
 
 I hoped to raise ; but now defraud'st the song, 
 Ill-omened bird, that shunn'st the day's broad 
 
 eye ! 
 Go, then ; and whilst the Muse thy praise dis- 
 dains, 
 Oblivion's flood shall sweep thy name along, 
 And spotless and unstained the paper lie. 1 
 
 STANZE. 
 
 O pure and blessed soul, 
 
 That, from thy clay's control 
 Escaped, hast sought and found thy native sphere 
 
 And from thy crystal throne 
 
 Look'st down, with smiles alone, 
 On this vain scene of mortal hope and fear ! 
 
 Thy happy feet have trod 
 
 The starry spangled road, 
 Celestial flocks by field and fountain guiding ; 
 
 And from their erring track 
 
 Thou charm'st thy shepherds back, 
 With the soft music of thy gentle chiding. 
 
 O, who shall Death withstand, — 
 
 Death, whose impartial hand 
 Levels the lowest plant and loftiest pine? 
 
 When shall our ears again 
 
 Drink in so sweet a strain, 
 Our eyes behold so fair a form as thine? 
 
 i This sonnet is supposed to refer to the shameful abdi- 
 cation and flight of King Alphonso from Naples, in 1495. 
 tt2 
 
546 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 THIRD PERIOD.-CENTURY XVI. 
 
 PIETRO BEMBO 
 
 This distinguished person, known as an ec- 
 clesiastic, a historian, and a poet, was the son 
 of Bernardo Bembo, an illustrious member of 
 the Venetian aristocracy, and of Elena Marcella, 
 a lady of noble birth. He was born at Venice, 
 in 1470. At the age of eight years, he accom- 
 panied his father, who was sent as ambassador 
 to Florence. Returning to Venice two years 
 after, he was placed under the instruction of 
 Giovanni Alessandro Urticio, to learn the Latin 
 language and other branches of polite literature. 
 In 1489, he went with his father, who had 
 been appointed podesta in Bergamo, and re- 
 mained there two years. Being desirous of 
 learning the Greek language, he obtained per- 
 mission, in 1492, to visit Messina, in Sicily, 
 where the celebrated Constantine Lascaris 
 taught that language. He remained there until 
 1495, incessantly occupied with his studies, and 
 acquired so thorough a knowledge of the Greek, 
 that he not only read, but wrote it with facility. 
 Towards the end of 1495, he went to Padua 
 and cultivated philosophy in the school of Nic- 
 colo Leonico Tomeo. He was recalled to Ven- 
 ice in the following year by his father, and 
 took a part in the public business ; but soon 
 finding this career incompatible with his favor- 
 ite pursuits, he went to Ferrara, where he con- 
 tinued for two years employed in his studies, 
 and enjoying the intimate friendship of such 
 men as Ercole Strozzi, Antonio Tibaldeo, and 
 Jacopo Sadoleto. On his return to Venice, he 
 became one of the chief ornaments of the 
 academy, or literary society, established there by 
 the famous printer, Aldus Manutius. In 1506, 
 he went to the court of Urbino, where he lived 
 about six years. In 1512, he went to Rome 
 with Giuliano de' Medici, whose brother, Leo 
 the Tenth, made Bembo his secretary, with 
 Sadoleto for a colleague. At this time he formed 
 a connection with the beautiful Morosina, which 
 continued until her death, in 1525. He was 
 the confidential friend of the pontiff, who em- 
 ployed him not only as secretary, but on many 
 important missions. His labors having at 
 length affected his health, he removed, in 1520, 
 with the pope's advice and consent, to Padua, 
 where he speedily recovered. After the death 
 of Leo, Bembo lived at Padua, preferring the 
 tranquillity of a private and studious life to 
 public employments. He collected a library, a 
 cabinet of medals and antiquities, and made 
 his house the favorite resort of the members of 
 the University, and other learned men, both 
 itrangers and citizens of Padua. In 1529, the 
 office of Historiographer of the Venetian repub- 
 lic was bestowed upon him, and he was at the 
 
 same time appointed Librarian of Saint Mark. 
 His historical labors occupied him until Paul 
 the Third honored him with the Cardinal's hat, 
 in 1539, when he removed to Rome. From this 
 time Bembo devoted himself to the sacred stud- 
 ies which befitted his ecclesiastical office, con- 
 tinuing only the History of Venice. In 1541, 
 Paul bestowed on him the bishopric of Gub- 
 bio, whither he went in 1543, and would have 
 fixed his abode there, had not the pope by 
 express command recalled him to Rome. In 
 1544, he received the bishopric of Bergamo, 
 but remained in Rome until his death, which 
 took place in 1547. 
 
 Bembo, though not a man of original genius, 
 was an able scholar, and an elegant writer, both 
 in Latin and Italian. His most important works 
 are, " The History of Venice," written in both 
 languages; " Le Prose," a series of dialogues 
 on the principles of the Italian language; " Gli 
 Asolani," dialogues on Love; and "Le Rime," 
 a collection of sonnets and canzonets. A col- 
 lection of his works appeared at Venice in 
 1729, in four volumes, folio. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 TO ITALY. 
 
 Fair land, once loved of Heaven o'er all beside, 
 
 Which blue waves gird and lofty mountains 
 screen ! 
 
 Thou clime of fertile fields and sky serene, 
 
 Whose gay expanse the Apennines divide ! 
 
 What boots it now, that Rome's old warlike 
 pride 
 
 Left thee of humbled earth and sea the queen ? 
 
 Nations, that served thee then, now fierce con- 
 vene 
 
 To tear thy locks and strew them o'er the tide. 
 
 And lives there son of thine so base at core, 
 
 Who, luring foreign friends to thine embrace, 
 
 Stabs to the heart thy beauteous, bleeding frame ? 
 
 Are these the noble deeds of ancient fame ? 
 
 Thus do ye God's almighty name adore ? 
 
 O hardened age ! O false and recreant race ! 
 
 TURNING TO GOD. 
 
 If, gracious God, in life's green, ardent year, 
 A thousand times thy patient love I tried ; 
 With reckless heart, with conscience hard and 
 
 sere, 
 Thy gifts perverted, and thy power defied : 
 O, grant me, now that wintry snows appear 
 Around my brow, and youth's bright promise 
 
 hide, — 
 Grant me with reverential awe to hear 
 Thy holy voice, and in thy word confide ! 
 
BEMBO. — ARIOSTO. 
 
 547 
 
 Blot from my book of life its early stain ! 
 Since days misspent will never more return, 
 My future path do thou in mercy trace ; 
 So cause my soul with pious zeal to burn, 
 That all the trust, which in thy name I place, 
 Frail as I am, may not prove wholly vain ! 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 Dear, calm retreat ! where from the world I 
 
 steal, — 
 Where to myself I live, and dwell alone, — 
 Why seek thee not, when Phcebus, fiercer grown, 
 Has left the Twins behind his burning wheel? 
 With thee I rarely grief or anger feel ; 
 Nowhere my thoughts to heaven so oft have 
 
 flown ; 
 Nowhere my pen such industry has shown, 
 When to the Muse I chance to make appeal. 
 How truly sweet a state is solitude, 
 And how from cares to have my bosom free, 
 And live at ease, was taught me in thy school ! 
 Dear rivulet ! and thou delightful wood ! 
 O, that these parching sands, this glaring sea, 
 Were changed for your green shades and waters 
 
 cool ! 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Thou, the stern monarch of dismay, 
 Whom Nature trembles to survey, — 
 O Death ! to me, the child of grief, 
 Thy welcome power would bring relief, 
 
 Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. 
 And though thy stroke may thrill with pain 
 Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein; 
 The pangs that bid existence close, 
 Ah ! sure, are far less keen than those 
 
 Which cloud its lingering moments with despair. 
 
 POLITIANI TUMULUS. 
 
 Whilst, borne in sable state, Lorenzo's bier 
 The tyrant Death, his proudest triumph, brings, 
 
 He marked a bard, in agony severe, 
 
 Smite with delirious hand the sounding strings. 
 
 He stopped, — he gazed; — the storm of passion 
 raged, 
 And prayers with tears were mingled, tears 
 with grief; 
 For lost Lorenzo, war with fate he waged, 
 And every god was called o bring relief. 
 
 The tyrant smiled, — and mindful of the hour 
 When from the shades his consort Orpheus 
 led, 
 "Rebellious too wouldst thou usurp my power, 
 And burst the chain that binds the captive 
 dead ? " 
 
 He spoke, — and speaking, launched the shaft 
 of fate, 
 And closed the lips tha-„ glowed with sacred 
 fire : 
 His timeless doom 't was thus Politian met, — 
 Politian, master of the Ausonian lyre. 
 
 LODOVICO ARIOSTO. 
 
 This illustrious poet was the son of Niccol6 
 Ariosto, a nobleman of Ferrara, and of Daria 
 Maleguzzi, a lady of Reggio. He was born, 
 September 8th, 1474, at Reggio, where his fa- 
 ther was commander of the fortress and gov- 
 ernor of the territory, in the service of Hercules 
 the First. He was the oldest of ten children, 
 five sons and five daughters. From his earliest 
 years he gave proof of his poetical tendencies, 
 having in his childhood dramatized the story 
 of "Pyramus and Thisbe," and caused it to 
 be enacted by his brothers and sisters, " no 
 doubt as happily," says an English writer, "as 
 the same subject in the ' Midsummer Night's 
 Dream ' was enacted by Bottom the weaver 
 and his comrades, or rather, as happily as Obe- 
 ron, Titania, and their train could have done it 
 in fairy-land." Lodovico's father had held 
 judicial office in Ferrara, and naturally desired 
 his promising son to pursue the same career; 
 but after five years of useless and wearisome 
 study of the law, the youthful Ariosto was 
 allowed to follow his own inclination. He de- 
 voted himself ardently to the study of the Latin 
 language under the direction of Gregorio da 
 Spoleti, and wrote at an early age two come- 
 dies, entitled " La Cassaria " and " I Suppositi," 
 suggested by his studies in Plautus and Terence. 
 The departure of Gregorio to France in 1499, 
 and the death of his father, which took place in 
 1500, interrupted Ariosto's studies, and he was 
 left with small property, and with the whole 
 care of his brothers and sisters ; but he so well 
 discharged his duties towards them, that he por- 
 tioned his sisters, and provided for the educa- 
 tion of his brothers until they were able to 
 provide for themselves. In the midst, however, 
 of these onerous domestic duties, he found time 
 to carry forward his literary labors, and to write 
 poems both in Latin and Italian. His genius 
 and acquirements commended him to the favor 
 of the Cardinal Ippolito d' Este, brother o 
 Alphonso, duke of Ferrara. The duke em- 
 ployed him twice on important embassies to the 
 court of Pope Julius the Second, and he showed 
 on these occasions a courage and an intelligence 
 which increased the reputation he already en- 
 joyed at the court of Ferrara. When the war- 
 like pontiff sent his forces, and Venice des 
 patched her fleet in conjunction with the papal 
 troops, against Ferrara, Ariosto showed that he 
 possessed the valor to perform, as well as th 
 genius to celebrate, heroic deeds ; for he fough 
 bravely at the battle against the papal and 
 Venetian armaments, and captured one of the 
 largest vessels of the enemy. On his second 
 embassy, the pope was so violently irritated 
 with him, that he threatened to throw him into 
 the sea, unless he left the papal territories forth- 
 with, which Ariosto accordingly did. 
 
 Meantime, Ariosto's literary ambition beinj> 
 rekindled by the example of the scholars whom 
 
>48 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 ippolito had drawn around him, he conceived 
 he idea, when he was thirty years old, of 
 writing a poem which should place him among 
 the great authors of his country. His first plan 
 was, to celebrate the exploits of Obizzo, a young 
 and warlike member of the family of Este ; 
 and he actually began a poem on this subject 
 in lerza rima, but soon gave it up, and, turn- 
 ing his attention to Bojardo's "Orlando," de- 
 termined to continue the adventures of the 
 principal personages in that poem." Such was 
 the origin of that immortal work, the " Orlando 
 Furioso." His familiar acquaintance with the 
 old romance-writers, which had formed his 
 principal reading for many years, strengthened 
 his natural inclination for that species of com- 
 position, and furnished his mind with abundant 
 materials for his work. He communicated his 
 plan to Bembo, who urged him to write his 
 poem in Latin ; but Ariosto had the good sense 
 to reply, that he would rather be one of the first 
 poets in Italian than secondary to Ovid and 
 Virgil in Latin. When Leo the Tenth suc- 
 ceeded to the papal chair, in 1513, Ariosto, 
 who had long been on good terms with the 
 Medici family, hastened to Rome with the not 
 unreasonable hope of improving his fortunes 
 through the patronage of his ancient friend. He 
 was well received, but that seems to have been all. 
 At any rate, he soon left the city, and returning 
 by way of Florence, where he remained some 
 time, resumed his interrupted labors upon the 
 "Orlando," of which the first edition appeared 
 in 1516. When he presented a copy of the 
 work to Ippolito, the only acknowledgment 
 the surly cardinal made was, to ask him where 
 he had found all that stuff. Soon after this the 
 poet's connection with Ippolito was broken off, 
 by his refusal to accompany him to Hungary, 
 in 1518. This circumstance, and the conse- 
 quent loss of his salary, which, inconsiderable 
 as it was, formed an important part of his in- 
 come, induced him to take up his residence on 
 an estate of his kinsman, Maleguzzo, between 
 Reggio and Rubiera. After the death of Ip- 
 polito, on the invitation of Alphonso, Ariosto 
 returned to Ferrara, where he built a house, in 
 the midst of a large garden. During this period 
 of his life, the duke bestowed on him an ap- 
 pointment seemingly little adapted to his genius 
 or his tastes. It was the office of pacificator 
 of the disturbed province of Graffagnana. Ac- 
 cording to Sir John Harrington, he so well 
 succeeded, that "he left them all in good peace 
 and concord ; winning not only the love of the 
 better sort, but also a wonderful reverence of 
 the wilder people, and a great awe even in 
 robbers and thieves." 
 
 The following incident is said to have befall- 
 en him at this time. A gang of brigands met 
 him one day in a forest with a guard of only 
 five or six horsemen. He was suffered, how- 
 ever, to ride on unmolested ; but the leader of 
 the band, Philippo Pachione, a celebrated free- 
 booter, having learned from one of the attend- 
 
 ants that the distinguished-looking person who 
 had just passed him was his Excellency the 
 governor, immediately galloped up to him, and 
 addressing him with the greatest courtesy, apol- 
 ogized in his own name and that of his com- 
 pany for not having done due honors in passing, 
 as they did not know his Excellency's person. 
 He then was so obliging as to praise the "Or- 
 lando Furioso " in the most enthusiastic terms, 
 and offered his humble services to the author. 
 
 During this period, a proposition was made to 
 Ariosto to go a third time on an embassy to 
 Rome, and to reside, as the representative of his 
 sovereign, at the court of Clement the Seventh; 
 but he declined the honor. His government 
 lasted three years; at the expiration of which, 
 he returned with new ardor to his poetical 
 labors, giving much time and anxious care to 
 a revision of the "Orlando," and composing 
 several dramatic pieces. He amused himselt 
 also with gardening ; though, from all accounts, 
 he knew so little about the matter, that he often 
 watched the growth of some useless weed with 
 the greatest delight, fancying it, all the time, to 
 be a beautiful flower. The " Orlando " was, 
 during this period, making constant progress 
 towards the form which it finally assumed. Sir 
 John Harrington illustrates the poet's sensitive- 
 ness by the following anecdote. "As he him- 
 self could pronounce very well, so it was a 
 great penance to him to hear others pronounce 
 ill that which himself had written excellent 
 well. Insomuch as they tell of him, how, 
 coming one day by a potter's shop, that had 
 many earthen vessels, ready made, to sell on 
 his stall, the potter fortuned at that time to sing 
 some stave or other out of ' Orlando Furioso,' 
 I think where Rinaldo requesteth his horse to 
 tarry for him, in the first book, the thirty-sec- 
 ond stanza : — 
 
 'Ferma, Bajardo mio, deh ferma il piede ! 
 Che 1' esser senza te troppo mi nuoce,' 
 or some such grave matter, fit for a potter. But 
 he plotted the verses out so ill-favoredly (as 
 might well beseem his dirty occupation), that 
 Ariosto being, or at least making semblance to 
 be, in a great rage withal, with a little walking- 
 stick he had in his hand brake divers pots. 
 The poor potter, put quite beside his song and 
 almost beside himself, to see his market half 
 marred before it was a quarter done, in a pitiful 
 sour manner, between railing and whining, 
 asked what he meant, to wrong a poor man 
 that had never done him injury in all his life. 
 ' Yes, varlet ! ' quoth Ariosto, ' I am scarce even 
 with thee for the wrong thou hast done me 
 here before my face; for I have broken but 
 half a dozen base pots of thine, that are not 
 worth so many half-pence ; but thou hast broken 
 and mangled a fine stanza of mine, worth a 
 mark of gold.' " 
 
 Ariosto was employed by Alphonso to direct 
 the theatrical representations at his court. A 
 magnificent theatre was constructed on a plan 
 suggested by the poet, and a number of dramas 
 
ARIOSTO. 
 
 549 
 
 written by him were represented. But these 
 demands upon his time did not withdraw him 
 from the great work on which his future fame 
 was to rest. The "Orlando" had already 
 passed through several editions, since its first 
 appearance in 1516. The last edition which 
 was printed in his lifetime came out in 1532, 
 in forty-six cantos ; but it was so badly printed, 
 that he was accustomed to say he had been 
 assassinated by his printer. Immediately after 
 this, his health began rapidly to decline, and 
 he died, at the age of fifty-eight, June 6th, 1 533. 
 
 The great romantic epic, the " Orlando Furi- 
 oso," has been pronounced by excellent judges 
 the greatest poem of its kind in modern litera- 
 ture. It displays a wonderful richness and 
 splendor of invention, and the most marvellous 
 skill in narrative. These qualities, and the 
 extraordinary felicity of the style, have made it, 
 ever since its first publication, one of the most 
 popular poems that the world has seen. Ber- 
 nardo Tasso, in a letter to Varchi, written in 
 1559, says, "There is neither scholar, nor arti- 
 san, nor boy, nor girl, nor old man, who is con- 
 tent to read it only once. Are not those stanzas 
 of his the comfort of the exhausted traveller on 
 his weary journey, who relieves the cold and the 
 fatigues by singing them on his way ? Do you 
 not hear people every day singing them in the 
 streets and in the fields? I do not believe, that, 
 in the same length of time as has passed since 
 that most learned gentleman gave his poem to 
 the world, there have been printed or seen so 
 many Homers or Virgils as Furiosos." 
 
 The poem, however, has been censured for 
 want of unity in the action, and of a skilful 
 adjustment of the parts. It embodies so wide 
 and varied a circle of chivalrous adventures, 
 that the separate threads of the story are fre- 
 quently dropped and then again resumed. Ital- 
 ian critics have also charged the style with 
 errors of language, forced rhymes, and vulgar 
 expressions. But the most serious charge brought 
 against the poem is the licentiousness by which 
 it is in too many passages disgraced. In reply 
 to the former objections, Ginguene* strikingly 
 says : — 
 
 " To judge rightly of Ariosto, the reader must 
 figure to himself the court of Ferrara, one of 
 the most frequented and most polished that 
 could be found in Italy during the sixteenth 
 century. He must consider it as forming every 
 evening a brilliant circle, of which Alphonso 
 d' Este and the Cardinal Ippolito were the 
 centre ; he must forget the subsequent unkind- 
 ness of the Prince of the Church, and only 
 regard the splendor which surrounds him, his 
 supposed love of letters, and attachment to the 
 poet. In this noble and festive assembly he 
 must imagine the bard to be riveting the atten- 
 tion of all eyes and ears during an hour or 
 
 * Histoire Lilteraire d'ltalie, Tom. IV., pp. 481-484. 
 — Lives of the Italian Poets, by the Rev. Henry Steb- 
 bing (3 vols., London, 1832, 12mo.), Vol. II., pp. 84-86. 
 
 more for forty-six evenings. The first day, he 
 proposes his subject ; he addresses himself to 
 the cardinal, his patron ; he promises to cele- 
 brate the origin of his illustrious race ; he com- 
 mences the recital ; but as soon as he thinks 
 the attention of his audience may be wearied, 
 he stops, saying, that what remains to be told 
 is reserved for another canto. The next day, 
 the party again assemble, and wait with impa- 
 tience the appearance of the poet ; he enters, 
 and, after some short reflections on the ca- 
 priciousness of Love, resumes the thread of his 
 story. The third day, he changes his tone and 
 method, and consecrates this period of his song 
 to predicting the glory of the house of Este. 
 Having completed his complimentary stanzas, 
 he ceases, and, as usual, promises to renew the 
 recital in another canto, sometimes adding, 'I 
 it be agreeable to you to hear this story ' ; or, 
 ' You will hear the rest in another canto, if you 
 come again to hear me.' He found these forms 
 established by the custom of the oldest romantic 
 poets ; he considered them natural and con- 
 venient for his purpose, and he borrowed them. 
 Like these, his predecessors, he also avoids 
 losing sight of his audience, even in the course 
 of the recital. He addresses himself to the 
 princes who might be presiding at the meeting, 
 and to the ladies who graced it by their pres- 
 ence ; not unfrequently apologizing, when he 
 told some incident which seemed incredible, 
 with such words as these : ' This is very won- 
 derful ; you believe it not ; but I do not say it 
 of myself, but, Turpin having put it into his his- 
 tory, I put it into mine.' Place yourself in this 
 point of view; seat yourself in the midst of that 
 attentive assembly ; attend ; join in its admira- 
 tion of that fertile genius, — that inimitable 
 story-teller, — that adroit courtier, — that sub- 
 lime poet ; stop when he stops ; suffer your- 
 self to wander, to be elevated, to be inflamed, 
 as he does himself; lay aside the too severe 
 taste which might diminish your pleasure. 
 Hear Ariosto, above all, in his own language ; 
 study his niceties ; learn to perceive their grace, 
 their force, and harmony ; and you will then 
 know what to think of the atrabilious critics 
 who have dared to treat unjustly so true and 
 great a genius." 
 
 Besides the great poem of "Orlando," Ariosto 
 wrote satires of distinguished merit ; plays, a? 
 before mentioned ; and many other minor pieces. 
 The " Orlando Furioso " has been several time? 
 translated into English : by Sir John Harring- 
 ton, in 1591 ; by Henry Croker, 1755 ; by John 
 Hoole, 1783; and by W. S. Rose, 1825-27. 
 
 SONNET. 
 The sun was hid in veil of blackest dye, 
 That trailing swept the horizon's verge around. 
 The leaves all trailing moaned with hollow 
 
 sound, 
 And peals of thunder scoured along the sky ; 
 I saw fierce rain or icy storin was nigh, 
 
550 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Yet ready stood o'er the rough waves to bound 
 Of that proud stream that hides in tomb profound 
 The Delian lord's adventurous progeny ; 
 When, peering o'er the distant shore, the beam 
 I caught of thy bright eyes, and words I heard 
 That me Leander's fate may bring, one day: 
 Instant the gathered clouds dispersed away, 
 At once unveiled the sun's full orb appeared, 
 The winds were silent, gently flowed the stream. 
 
 FROM THE CAPITOLI AMOROSI. 
 THE LAUREL. 
 
 In that sweet season, when 't was spring-time 
 still, 
 A laurel slip I set, with careful hand, 
 On a small plain half up an easy hill. 
 
 Fortune smiled on it ; the bright air was bland ; 
 The sun upon it shone benignly too, 
 Both from the Indian and the Moorish strand. 
 
 Refreshing streams with patient zeal I drew 
 To where it stood, their grassy banks between, 
 And brought to it the earth where first it grew. 
 
 It faded not, — its leaves a cheerful green 
 Still wore; and, to reward my care and toil, 
 It took new root, and soon fresh buds were seen. 
 
 Nor Nature strove my earnest hopes to foil, 
 But breathed benignant on my rising tree, 
 Which seemed to flourish in a genial soil. 
 
 Sweet, lonely, faithful bowers it made for me, 
 Within whose shade I poured my plaints of love 
 From my fond heart, while none could hear or 
 see. 
 
 Venus ofttimes forsook her seat above, 
 And Cytherean fanes, where odors sweet 
 Of gums and rich Sabean spices strove, 
 
 The rose-linked Graces on this spot to meet; 
 And while the Loves above them plied the wing, 
 Danced round my laurel with unwearied feet. 
 
 Thither Diana her bright nymphs would bring ; 
 For she preferred my laurel to all those 
 That in the woods of Erymanthus spring. 
 
 Other fair deities its shadow chose, 
 To spend the sultry day in cool delight ; 
 Blessing the hand that placed it where it rose. 
 
 Whence came the early tempest thus to blight 
 My tree so loved ? and whence the pinching cold 
 That covered it with snow's untimely white .' 
 
 Ah, why did Heaven its favoring smile with- 
 hold ? — 
 My laurel drooped ; its foliage green was reft ; 
 A bare, bleak trunk it rose from barren mould ! 
 
 Still one small branch, with few pale leaves, 
 is left ; 
 And between hope and fear I still exist, 
 Lest even of that rude Winter should make theft. 
 
 Yet fear prevails, — hope is well-nigh dis- 
 missed, — 
 That icy frosts — not yet, I fear me, o'er — 
 This last and weakly spray can ne'er resist. 
 
 And are there none to teach me how, before 
 The sickly root itself is quite decayed, 
 Its former vigorous life I may restore ? 
 
 Phoebus, by whom the heavenly signs are 
 swayed, 
 By whom in Thessaly a laurel crown 
 So oft was borne, now lend this tree thine aid ! 
 
 Vertumnus and Pomona, both look down, 
 Bacchus, Nymphs, Satyrs, Fauns, and Dryads 
 
 fair, 
 On this, my tree, o'er which the Seasons frown ! 
 
 And all ye deities, that have in care 
 The woods and forests, bend a favoring eye 
 Towards my laurel ! I its fate must share ; 
 
 Living, I live with it, — or dying, die ! 
 
 FROM THE ORLANDO FURIOSO. 
 
 Orlando's madness. 
 
 The course in pathless woods, which, without 
 rein, 
 
 The Tartar's charger had pursued astray, 
 Made Roland for two days, with fruitless pain, 
 
 Follow him, without tidings of his way. 
 Orlando reached a rill of crystal vein, 
 
 On either bank of which a meadow lay ; 
 Which stained with native hues and rich he 
 
 sees, 
 And dotted o'er with fair and many trees. 
 
 The mid-day fervor made the shelter sweet 
 To hardy herd as well as naked swain ; 
 
 So that Orlando well beneath the heat 
 
 Some deal might wince, oppressed with plate 
 and chain. 
 
 He entered, for repose, the cool retreat, 
 And found it the abode of grief and pain ; 
 
 And place of sojourn more accursed and fell, 
 
 On that unhappy day, than tongue can tell. 
 
 Turning him round, he there, on many a tree, 
 Beheld engraved, upon the woody shore, 
 
 What as the writing of his deity 
 
 He knew, as soon as he had marked the lore 
 
 This was a place of those described by me, 
 Whither ofttimes, attended by Medore, 
 
 From the near shepherd's cot had wont to stray 
 
 The beauteous lady, sovereign of Catay. 
 
 In a hundred knots, amid those green abodes, 
 In a hundred parts, their ciphered names are 
 dight ; 
 
 Whose many letters are so many goads, 
 
 Which Love has in his bleeding heart-core 
 pight. 
 
 He would discredit, in a thousand modes, 
 That which he credits in his own despite ; 
 
 And would parforce persuade himself, that rind 
 
 Other Angelica than his had signed. 
 
 " And yet I know these characters," he cried, 
 " Of which I have so many read and seen ; 
 
 By her may this Medoro be belied, 
 
 And me, she, figured in the name, may mean.' 
 
 Feeding on such like phantasies, beside 
 The real truth, did sad Orlando lean 
 
 Upon the empty hope, though ill-contented, 
 
 Which he by self-illusions had fomented. 
 
ARIOSTO. 
 
 551 
 
 But stirred and aye rekindled it, the more 
 That he to quench the ill suspicion wrought, 
 
 Like the incautious bird, by fowler's lore, 
 Hampered in net or lime; which, in the 
 thought 
 
 To free its tangled pinions and to soar, 
 
 By struggling, is but more securely caught. 
 
 Orlando passes thither, where a mountain 
 
 O'erhangs in guise of arch the crystal fountain. 
 
 Splayfooted ivy, with its mantling spray, 
 And gadding vine, the cavern's entry case; 
 
 Where often in the hottest noon of day 
 
 The pair had rested, locked in fond embrace. 
 
 Within the grotto, and without it, they 
 Had oftener than in any other place 
 
 With charcoal or with chalk their names por- 
 trayed, 
 
 Or flourished with the knife's indenting blade. 
 
 Here from his horse the sorrowing county lit, 
 And at the entrance of the grot surveyed 
 
 A cloud of words, which seemed but newly writ, 
 And which the young Medoro's hand had 
 made. 
 
 On the great pleasure he had known in it, 
 This sentence he in verses had arrayed ; 
 
 Which in his tongue, I deem, might make pre- 
 tence 
 
 To polished phrase ; and such in ours the sense :— 
 
 " Gay plants, green herbage, rill of limpid vein, 
 And, grateful with cool shade, thou gloomy 
 cave, 
 
 Where oft, by many wooed with fruitless pain, 
 Beauteous Angelica, the child of grave 
 
 King Galaphron, within my arms has lain ; 
 For the convenient harbourage you gave, 
 
 I, poor Medoro, can but in my lays, 
 
 As recompense, for ever sing your praise ; 
 
 "And any loving lord devoutly pray, 
 Damsel and cavalier, and every one, 
 
 Whom choice or fortune hither shall convey, 
 Stranger or native, — to this crystal run, 
 
 Shade, caverned rock, and grass, and plants, to 
 say, 
 ' Benignant be to you the fostering sun 
 
 And moon, and may the choir of nymphs provide 
 
 That never swain his flock may hither guide ! ' " 
 
 In Arabic was writ the blessing said, 
 
 Known to Orlando like the Latin tongue, 
 
 Who, versed in many languages, best read 
 Was in this speech ; which oftentimes from 
 wrong, 
 
 And injury, and shame, had saved his head, 
 What time he roved the Saracens among. 
 
 But let him boast not of its former boot, 
 
 O'erbalanced by the present bitter fruit. 
 
 Three times, and four, and six, the lines im- 
 pressed 
 
 Upon the stone that wretch perused, in vain 
 Seeking another sense than was expressed, 
 
 And ever saw the thing more clear and plain ; 
 
 And all the while, within his troubled breast, 
 
 He felt an icy hand his heart-core strain. 
 With mind and eyes close fastened on the block, 
 At length he stood, not differing from the rock. 
 
 Then well-nigh lost all feeling, — so a prey 
 Wholly was he to that o'ermastering woe. 
 
 This is a pang — believe the experienced say 
 Of him who speaks — which does all griefs 
 outgo. 
 
 His pride had from his forehead passed away, 
 His chin had fallen upon his breast below; 
 
 Nor found he — so grief barred each natural 
 vent — 
 
 Moisture for tears, or utterance for lament. 
 
 Stifled within, the impetuous sorrow stays, 
 Which would too quickly issue ; so to abide 
 
 Water is seen, imprisoned in the vase 
 
 Whose neck is narrow and whose swell i 
 wide ; 
 
 What time, when one turns up the inverted base, 
 Towards the mouth so hastes the hurrying 
 tide, 
 
 And in the strait encounters such a stop, 
 
 It scarcely works a passage, drop by drop. 
 
 He somewhat to himself returned, and thought 
 How, possibly, the thing might be untrue ; 
 
 That some one (so he hoped, desired, and sought 
 To think) his lady would with shame pursue; 
 
 Or with such weight of jealousy had wrought 
 To whelm his reason, as should him undo; 
 
 And that he, whosoe'er the thing had planned, 
 
 Had counterfeited passing well her hand. 
 
 With such vain hope he sought himself to cheat, 
 And manned some deal his spirits and awoke ; 
 
 Then pressed the faithful Brigliadoro's seat, 
 As on the sun's retreat his sister broke. 
 
 Nor far the warrior had pursued his beat, 
 Ere eddying from a roof he saw the smoke, 
 
 Heard noise of dog and kine, a farm espied, 
 
 And thitherward in quest of lodging hied. 
 
 Languid, he lit, and left his Brigliador 
 To a discreet attendant : one undressed 
 
 His limbs, one doffed the gclden spurs he wore, 
 And one bore off, to clsan, his iron vest. 
 
 This was the homestead vrhere the young Me- 
 dore 
 Lay wounded, and was here supremely blest. 
 
 Orlando here, with other focd unfed, 
 
 Having supped full of sorrow, sought his bed. 
 
 The more the wretched sufferer seeks for ease, 
 He finds but so much mo,-e distress and pain ; 
 
 Who everywhere the loathed handwriting sees, 
 On wall, and door, and window : he would 
 fain 
 
 Question his host of this, JJt holds his peace ; 
 Because, in sooth, he oreads too clear, too 
 plain, 
 
 To make the thing, and this would rather shroud 
 
 That it may lejs offend him, with a cloud. 
 
552 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Little availed the count his self-deceit, 
 
 For there was one who spake of it unsought; 
 
 The shepherd swain ; who to allay the heat, 
 With which he saw his guest so troubled, 
 thought : 
 
 The tale which he was wonted to repeat, — 
 Of the two lovers, — to each listener taught, 
 
 A history which many loved to hear, 
 
 He now, without reserve, 'gan tell the peer : — 
 
 How, at Angelica's persuasive prayer, 
 
 He to his farm had carried young Medore, 
 
 Grievously wounded with an arrow ; where, 
 In little space, she healed the angry sore. 
 
 But while she exercised this pious care, 
 Love in her heart the lady wounded more 
 
 And kindled from small spark so fierce a fire, 
 
 She burnt all over, restless with desire : 
 
 Nor thinking she of mightiest king was born, 
 Who ruled in the East, nor of her heritage, 
 
 Forced by too puissant love, had thought no scorn 
 To be the consort of a poor foot-page. — 
 
 His story done, to' them in proof was borne 
 The gem, which, in reward for harbourage 
 
 To her extended in that kind abode, 
 
 Angelica, at parting, had bestowed. 
 
 A deadly axe was this unhappy close, 
 
 Which, at a single stroke, lopped off the head ; 
 
 When, satiate with innumerable blows, 
 
 That cruel hangman, Love, his hate had fed. 
 
 Orlando studied to conceal his woes ; 
 
 And yet the mischief gathered force and spread, 
 
 And would break out parforce in tears and sighs, 
 
 Would he, or would he not, from mouth and 
 eyes. 
 
 When he can give the rein to raging woe, 
 Alone, by others' presence unrepressed, 
 
 From his full eyes the tears descending flow, 
 In a wide stream, and flood his troubled breast. 
 
 'Mid sob and groan, he tosses to and fro 
 About his weary bed, in search of rest; 
 
 And vainly shifting, harder than a rock 
 
 And sharper than a nettle found its flock. 
 
 Amid the pressure of such cruel pain, 
 
 It passed into the wretched sufferer's head, 
 
 That oft the ungrateful lady must have lain, 
 Together with her leman, on that bed : 
 
 Nor less he loathed the couch in his disdain, 
 Nor from the down upstarted with less dread, 
 
 Than churl, who, when about to close his eyes, 
 
 Springs from the turf, if he a serpent spies. 
 
 In him, forthwith, such deadly hatred breed 
 That bed, that house, that swain, he will not 
 stay 
 
 Till the morn break, or till the dawn succeed, 
 Whose twilight goes before approaching day. 
 
 In haste Orlando takes his arms and steed, 
 And to the deepest greenwood wends his way; 
 
 And, when assured that he is there alone, 
 
 Gives utterance to his grief in shriek and groan. 
 
 Never from tears, never from sorrowing, 
 
 He paused; nor found he peace by night or 
 day : 
 
 He fled from town, in forest harbouring, 
 And in the open air on hard earth lay. 
 
 He marvelled at himself, how such a spring 
 Of water from his eyes could stream away, 
 
 And breath was for so many sobs supplied ; 
 
 And thus ofttimes, amid his mourning, cried: — 
 
 " These are no longer real tears which rise, 
 And which I scatter from so full a vein : 
 
 Of tears my ceaseless sorrow lacked supplies; 
 They stopped, when to mid-height scarce rose 
 my pain. 
 
 The vital moisture rushing to my eyes, 
 
 Driven by the fire within me, now would gain 
 
 A vent ; and it is this which I expend, 
 
 And which my sorrows and my life will end. 
 
 " No; these, which are the index of my woes, 
 These are not sighs, nor sighs are such ; they 
 fail 
 
 At times, and have their season of repose: 
 I feel my breast can never less exhale 
 
 Its sorrow : Love, who with his pinions blows 
 The fire about my heart, creates this gale. 
 
 Love, by what miracle dost thou contrive, 
 
 It wastes not in the fire thou keep'st alive ? 
 
 " I am not — am not what I seem to sight : 
 What Roland was is dead and under ground, 
 
 Slain by that most ungrateful lady's spite, 
 Whose faithlessness inflicted such a wound. 
 
 Divided from the flesh, I am his sprite, 
 
 Which in this hell, tormented, walks its round, 
 
 To be, but in its shadow left above, 
 
 A warning to all such as trust in Love." 
 
 All night about the forest roved the count, 
 And, at the break of daily light, was brought 
 
 By his unhappy fortune to the fount, 
 
 Where his inscription young Medoro wrought. 
 
 To see his wrongs inscribed upon that mount 
 Inflamed his fury so, in him was naught 
 
 But turned to hatred, frenzy, rage, and spite ; 
 
 Nor paused he more, but bared his falchion 
 bright; 
 
 Cleft through the writing; and the solid block 
 Into the sky, in tiny fragments, sped. 
 
 Woe worth each sapling and thatcaverned rock, 
 Where Medore and Angelica were read ! 
 
 So scathed, that they to shepherd or to flock 
 Thenceforth shall never furnish shade or bed. 
 
 And that sweet fountain, late so clear and pure, 
 
 From such tempestuous wrath was ill secure. 
 
 For he turf, stone, and trunk, and shoot, and lop, 
 Cast without cease into the beauteous source; 
 
 Till, turbid from the bottom to the top, 
 
 Never again was clear the troubled course. 
 
 At length, for lack of breath, compelled to stop, - 
 When he is bathed in sweat, and wasted force 
 
 Serves not his fury more, — he falls, and lies 
 
 Upon the mead, and, gazing upward, sighs. 
 
MIJHEL ANGELO. 
 
 553 
 
 Weaned and wobegone, he fell to ground, 
 And turned his eyes toward heaven ; nor 
 spake he aught, 
 
 Nor ate, nor slept, till in his daily round 
 
 The golden sun had broken thrice, and sought 
 
 His rest anew ; nor ever ceased his wound 
 To rankle, till it marred his sober thought. 
 
 At length, impelled by frenzy, the fourth day, 
 
 He from his limbs tore plate and mail away. 
 
 Here was his helmet, there his shield bestowed ; 
 
 His arms far off; and, farther than the rest, 
 His cuirass; through the greenwood wide was 
 strewed 
 
 All his good gear, in fine : and nest his vest 
 He rent; and, in his fury, naked showed 
 
 His shaggy paunch, and all his back and 
 breast ; 
 And 'gan that frenzy act, so passing dread, 
 Of stranger folly never shall be said. 
 
 So fierce his rage, so fierce his fury grew, 
 That all obscured remained the warrior's 
 sp right ; 
 
 Nor, for forge tfulness, his sword he drew, 
 Or wondrous deeds, I trow, had wrought the 
 knight : 
 
 But neither this, nor bill, nor axe to hew, 
 Was needed bv Orlando's peerless might. 
 
 He of his prowess gave high proofs and full, 
 
 Who a tall pine uprooted at a pull. 
 
 He many others, with as little let 
 
 As fennel, wallwort-stem, or dill, uptore ; 
 
 And ilex, knotted oak, and fir upset, 
 
 And beech, and mountain-ash, and elm-tree 
 hoar : 
 
 He did what fowler, ere he spreads his net, 
 Does, to prepare the champagne for his lore, 
 
 By stubble, rush, and nettle-stalk ; and broke, 
 
 Like these, old sturdy trees and stems of oak. 
 
 The shepherd swains, who hear the tumult nigh, 
 Leaving their flocks beneath the greenwood 
 tree, 
 
 Some here, some there, across the forest hie, 
 And hurry thither, all, the cause to see. — 
 
 But I have reached such point, my history, 
 If I o'erpass this bound, may irksome be; 
 
 And I my story will delay to end, 
 
 Rather than by my tediousness offend. 
 
 MICHEL ANGELO BUONAROTTI. 
 
 This extraordinary man belonged to an an- 
 cient family of the counts of Canosa. He was 
 born in 1474, at Caprese, or Chiusi. He was 
 early distinguished for the comprehensiveness 
 and sublimity of his genius. The details of his 
 history as an artist do not belong to this place. 
 It is sufficient, on this point, to say, that, for a 
 combination of powers, making him alike illus- 
 trious in architecture, painting, and sculpture, 
 
 he has no equal in the history of the human 
 mind. The building of Saint Peter's, which he 
 directed many years, the tomb of Julius the 
 Second, the statue of Moses, and the painting 
 of the Last Judgment in the Sistine chapel, are 
 works each of which is enough for immortality. 
 All the popes, from Julius the Second to Pius 
 the Fourth, made him the object of their mu- 
 nificence. Cosmo de' Medici many times at- 
 tempted by splendid offers to engage him in 
 the embellishment of Florence. Alphonso the 
 First, duke of Ferrara, the republic of Venice, 
 Francis the First, king of France, and even the 
 Sultan Solvman, vied with each other in the 
 tempting offers they held out to lure him into 
 their respective services. He was not only a 
 great genius in architecture, painting, and sculp- 
 ture, but was equally master of the arts of for- 
 tification and defence ; and, as if to put the 
 crowning glory to her work, nature bestowed 
 upon him the gift of poetry-, and thus, the mag- 
 nificent mausoleum erected by the Florentines in 
 the church of Saint Lorenzo, to do honor to his 
 memory, was properly decorated with statues, 
 representing Painting, Sculpture, Architecture, 
 and Poetry ; the last holding a lyre, and in the 
 costume of Calliope. He died at Rome, Feb- 
 ruary 17th, 1564. 
 
 The poems of Michel Angelo, consisting of 
 sonnets and canzoni, were published at Flor- 
 ence in 1623, and again in 1726. The compo- 
 sition of them was merely the amusement of 
 his leisure hours ; but they are in harmony 
 with the productions of his genius in the arts. 
 They are for the most part sonnets, written in 
 a severe and simple style, and seeming as if cut 
 from marble. He also wrote, in prose, lectures 
 and speeches, to be found in the collection of 
 "Prose Florentine," and letters, printed in Bot- 
 tari's "Lettere Pittoriche." 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Yes ! hope may with my strong desire keep 
 
 pace, 
 And I be undeluded, unbetrayed : 
 For if of our affections none find grace 
 In sight of Heaven, then wherefore hath God 
 
 made 
 The world which we inhabit? Better plea 
 Love cannot have, than, that, in loving thee, 
 Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, 
 Who such divinity to thee imparts 
 As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 
 His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 
 With beauty, which is varying every hour; 
 But in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the power 
 Of outward change, there blooms a deathless 
 
 flower, 
 That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 
 
 No mortal object did these eyes behold, 
 When first they met the placid light of thine. 
 
>54 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 And my soul felt her destiny divine, 
 
 And hope of endless peace in me grew bold : 
 
 Heaven-born, the soul a heavenward course 
 
 must hold ; 
 Beyond the visible world she soars to seek 
 (For what delights the sense is false and weak) 
 Ideal Form, the universal mould. 
 The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest 
 In that which perishes ; nor will he lend 
 His heart to aught which doth on time depend. 
 'T is sense, unbridled will, and not true love, 
 That kills the soul : love betters what is best, 
 Even here below, but more in heaven above. 
 
 The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed, 
 If Thou the spirit give by which I pray : 
 My unassisted heart is barren clay, 
 That of its native self can nothing feed: 
 Of good and pious works thou art the seed, 
 That quickens only where thou say'st it may : 
 Unless thou show to us thine own true way, 
 No man can find it; Father! thou must lead. 
 Do thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my 
 
 mind 
 By which such virtue may in me be bred 
 That in thy holy footsteps I may tread : 
 The fetters of my tongue do thou unbind, 
 That I may have the power to sing of thee, 
 And sound thy praises everlastingly. 
 
 My wave-worn bark through life's tempestuous 
 
 sea 
 Has sped its course, and touched the crowded 
 
 shore, 
 Where all must give account the Judge before, 
 And, as their actions merit, sentenced be. 
 At length from Fancy's wild enchantments free, 
 That made me Art as some strange god adore, 
 I deeply feel how vain its richest store, 
 Now that the one thing needful faileth me. 
 Vain dreams of Love ! once sweet, now yield 
 
 they aught, 
 If, earned by them, a twofold death be mine, — 
 This, doomed me here, — and that, beyond the 
 
 grave ? 
 Nor painting's art, nor sculptor's skill, e'er 
 
 brought 
 Peace to the soul that seeks that Friend Divine 
 Who on the cross stretched out his arms to save. 
 
 If it be true that any beauteous thing 
 Raises the pure and just desire of man 
 From earth to God, the eternal Fount of all, 
 Such I believe my love : for as in her 
 So fair, in whom I all besides forget, 
 I view the gentle work of her Creator, 
 I have no care for any other thing, 
 Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvellous, 
 Since the effect is not of my own power, 
 If the soul doth by nature, tempted forth 
 Enamoured through the eyes, 
 Repose upon the eyes which it resembleth, 
 
 And through them riseth to the primal love, 
 As to its end, and honors in admiring : 
 For who adores the Maker needs must love his 
 work. 
 
 O, blessed ye who find in heaven the joy, 
 The recompense of tears, earth cannot yield ! 
 Tell me, has Love still power over you ? 
 Or are ye freed by Death from his constraint? 
 The eternal rest to which we shall return, 
 When time has ceased to be, is a pure love, 
 Deprived of envy, loosed from sorrowing. 
 Then is my greatest burden still to live, 
 If, whilst I love, such sorrows must be mine. 
 If heaven 's indeed the friend of those who love, 
 The world their cruel and ungrateful foe, 
 O, wherefore was I born, with such a love ? 
 To live long years ? 'T is this appalleth me : 
 Few are too long for him who serveth well. 
 
 How, lady, can it be, — which yet is shown 
 
 By long experience, — that the imaged form 
 
 Lives in the mountain-stone, and long survives 
 
 Its maker, whom the dart of Death soon strikes? 
 
 The frailer cause doth yield to the effect, 
 
 And Nature is in this by Art surpassed. 
 
 I know it well, whom Sculpture so befriends, 
 
 Whilst evermore Time breaketh faith with me. 
 
 Perchance to both of us I may impart 
 
 A lasting life, in colors or in stone, 
 
 By copying the mind and face of each ; 
 
 So that, for ages after my decease, 
 
 The world may see how beautiful thou wert, 
 
 How much I loved thee, nor in loving erred. 
 
 Thou high-born spirit, on whose countenance, 
 Pure and beloved, is seen reflected all 
 That Heaven and Nature can on earth achieve, 
 Surpassing all their beauteous works with one, — 
 Fair spirit, within whom we hope to find, 
 As in thine outward countenance appears, 
 Love, piety, and mercy, things so rare 
 As with such faith were ne'er in beauty found ! 
 Love seizes me, and beauty chains my soul ; 
 The pitying love of thy blest countenance 
 Gives to my heart, it seems, firm confidence. 
 Thou faithless world, thou sad, deceitful life ! 
 What law, what envious decree, denies 
 That Death should spare a work so beautiful ? 
 
 Return me to the time when loose the curb, 
 And my blind ardor's rein was unrestrained ; 
 Restore the face, angelic and serene, 
 Which took from Nature all she had of charm; 
 Restore the steps, wasted with toil and pain, 
 That are so slow to one now full of years ; 
 Bring back the tears, the fire within my breast, 
 If thou wouldst see me glow and weep again. 
 Yet if 't is true, O Love, that thou dost live 
 Alone upon our sweet and bitter tears, 
 What canst thou hope from an old, dying man. 
 Now that my soul has almost reached the shore, 
 
MICHEL ANGELO. 
 
 555 
 
 'T is time to prove the darts of other love, 
 And become food of a more worthy fire. 
 
 Already full of years and heaviness, 
 I turn to former thoughts of young desires, 
 As weight that to its centre gravitates, 
 Which ere it reach, it findeth no repose. 
 Heaven holdeth out the key; 
 Love turns it, and unlocks to virtuous minds 
 The sanctuary of the Beautiful. 
 He chaseth from me every wrong desire, 
 And leads me on, feeble and weak with age, 
 And all unworthy, 'midst the good and great. 
 For from this Beauty there doth grace proceed 
 So strange, so sweet, and of such influence, 
 That he, who dies through her, through her doth 
 live. 
 
 If much delay doth oft lead the desire 
 To its attainment more than haste is wont, 
 Mine but afflicts and pains me in these years; 
 For late enjoyment lasteth little time. 
 'T is contrary to heaven, to nature strange, 
 To burn as I for lady do, in years 
 That are more used to freeze : therefore my sad 
 And solitary tears I balance with old age. 
 But, alas ! now that, at the close of day, 
 Already with the sun I 've almost passed 
 The horizon, amid dark and chilling shades, 
 If Love inflames us only in mid life, 
 Perchance that Love, thus aged and consumed, 
 May point the dial back to the noon hours. 
 
 I scarce beheld on earth those beauteous eyes, 
 
 That were two suns in life's dark pilgrimage, 
 
 Before the day when, closed upon the light, 
 
 Heaven hath reoped them to contemplate God. 
 
 I know, and grieve ; yet mine was not the fault 
 
 To admire too late the beauty infinite, 
 
 But cruel Death's. You he hath not despoiled, 
 
 But ta'en her from a blind and wicked world. 
 
 Therefore, Luigi, to eternalize 
 
 The unique form of that angelic face 
 
 In living stone, which now with us is earth, — 
 
 Since Love such transformations doth effect, 
 
 And Art the object cannot reach unseen, 
 
 'T is meet, to sculpture her, I copy you. 
 
 ON DANTE. 
 
 There is no tongue to speak his eulogy ; 
 
 Too brightly burned his splendor for our eyes : 
 
 Far easier to condemn his injurers, 
 
 Than for the tongue to reach his smallest worth. 
 
 He to the realms of sinfulness came down, 
 
 To teach mankind ; ascending then to God, 
 
 Heaven unbarred to him her lofty gates, 
 
 To whom his country hers refused to ope. 
 
 Ungrateful land ! to its own injury, 
 
 Nurse of his fate ! Well, too, does this instruct 
 
 That greatest ills fall to the perfectest. 
 
 And, 'midst a thousand proofs, let this suffice, — 
 
 That, as his exile had no parallel, 
 
 So never was there man more great than he. 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 So much, alas ! have I already wept 
 And mourned, I thought that all my grief 
 Had sighed itself away, or passed in tears. 
 But Death still nourishes the root and veins 
 With bitter waters from the fount of woe, 
 Renewing the soul's heaviness and pain. 
 Then let another grief, another pen, 
 Another tongue, distinguish in one point 
 A twofold bitterest regret for you. 
 Thy love, my brother, and the thought of thee, 
 Our common parent, weigh upon my heart, 
 Nor do I know my greater misery. 
 Whilst busy memory pictures forth the one, 
 Another love, betrayed in my pale looks, 
 Graves livingly the other on my soul. 
 'T is true, that, since to the serene abode 
 Ye are returned (as Love doth whisper me), 
 I ought to still the grief that fills my breast. 
 Unjust is grief, that welleth in the heart, 
 For those who bear their harvest of good deeds 
 To heaven, released from all earth's crooked 
 
 ways. 
 Yet cruel were the man that should not weep, 
 When he may never here behold again 
 Him who first gave him being, nourishment. 
 Our sufferings are more or less severe 
 In just proportion to our sense of pain ; 
 And thou, O Lord, dost know how weak I am 
 But if the soul to reason yield consent, 
 So cruel the restraint that checks my tears, 
 That the attempt but makes me suffer more. 
 And if the thought in which I steep my soul 
 Did not assure me that thou now canst smile 
 Upon the death thou 'st feared in this world, 
 I had no comfort : but the painful stroke 
 Is tempered by a firm abiding faith 
 That he who lives aright finds rest in heaven. 
 The infirmities of flesh so weigh upon 
 Our intellect, that death more sorrow brings, 
 The more with false persuasion sense prevails. 
 For ninety years had the revolving sun 
 In the far ocean yearly bathed his fires, 
 Ere thou wert gathered to the peace of heaven 
 Now heaven has ta'en thee from our misery, 
 Have pity still for me, though living, dead, 
 Since God hath willed me to be born through 
 
 thee. 
 Thou art released from death, and made divine, 
 Fearing no longer change of life or will : 
 Scarce can I write it without envying. 
 Fortune and Time attempt not to invade 
 Your habitation ; they conduct the steps 
 'Midst doubtful happiness and certain grief. 
 No cloud is there to intercept your light, 
 The measured hours pass o'er you unobserved, 
 Chance and necessity no longer rule. 
 Your splendor shineth unobscured by night, 
 Nor borroweth lustre from the eye of day, 
 When the high sun invigorates his fire. 
 Thy death reminds and teaches me to die, 
 O happy father ! I in thought behold thee, 
 Where the world rarely leads the wayfarer. 
 Death is not, as some think, the worst of ills 
 
556 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 To him whose closing day excels the first, 
 Through grace eternal from the mercy-seat. 
 There, thanks to God ! I do believe thee gone, 
 And hope to see thee, if my reason can 
 Draw this cold heart from its terrestrial clay. 
 And if pure love doth find increase in heaven 
 'Twixt son and father, with increase of virtue, 
 Rendering all glory to my Maker, there 
 I shall, with my salvation, share thine, too. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Mine eyes, ye ars assured 
 That the time passeth, and the hour is nigh 
 Which shuts the floodgates of the tears and sight. 
 Let gentle Pity keep ye still unclosed, 
 
 Whilst she, my heavenly fair, 
 Yet deigneth to inhabit upon earth. 
 
 But if the heaven dispart, 
 The singular and peerless beauty to receive 
 
 Of my terrestrial sun, — 
 If she return to heaven, amid the choir 
 )f blessed souls, 't is well that ye may close. 
 
 GALEAZZO DI TARSIA. 
 
 Galeazzo di Tarsia belonged to a noble 
 family in Cosenza. He was born in 1476. 
 Though a soldier by profession, he was devoted 
 to letters, and attained to high distinction as a 
 poet. He was, to a certain extent, an imitator 
 of Petrarch. Most of his pieces are addressed 
 either to Vittoria Colonna, of whom he was a 
 sort of platonic lover, or to Camilla Carrasa, 
 who was his wife. He was accustomed to em- 
 ploy the intervals of leisure, which his military 
 profession allowed him, in singing the praises 
 of these two ladies, in the retirement of his 
 castle of Belmonte, in Calabria. His death took 
 place, according to Crescimbeni, in 1530 ; ac- 
 cording to Ginguene, in 1535. His poetical 
 pieces consist of thirty-four sonnets and one 
 canzone. They are marked by originality and 
 elegance. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Tempestuous, loud, and agitated sea ! 
 
 In thy late peaceful calm and quiet, thou 
 
 Didst represent my happy state ; but now, 
 
 Art picture true of my deep misery ! 
 
 From thee is fled each joyous thing, the glee 
 
 Of sportive Nereid, and smooth-gliding prow: 
 
 From me, — what late made joy illume my 
 
 brow, 
 And makes these present hours so drear to be. 
 Alas ! the time is near, when will return 
 The season calm, and all thy waves be gay, 
 And thou this fellowship of woe forsake : 
 The mistress of my soul can never make 
 Serene the night for me, or clear the day, — 
 Whether the sun be hid, or cloudless burn. 
 
 GIROLAMO FRACASTORO. 
 
 This famous scholar, philosopher, physician, 
 astronomer, and poet was born at Verona, in 
 1483. After completing his education in his 
 native place, he went to Padua, and delivered 
 public lectures in the academy established 
 by D' Alviano, in Pordenone. About the year 
 1509, he returned to his native place and occu- 
 pied himself with scientific and literary pur- 
 suits. Some of his most celebrated Latin poetry 
 was written at this period. Paul the Third 
 made him the medical adviser of the Council 
 of Trent. Fracastoro died of apoplexy, at his 
 villa of Incaffi, in 1553. He is chiefly known 
 as a man of science and a Latin poet ; but he 
 wrote a few pieces in the mother tongue, which 
 show liveliness and facility of poetical composi 
 tion. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 Lady, the angelic hosts were all arrayed 
 In paradise, around boon Nature's throne, — 
 The silver moon, the sun, resplendent shone, 
 When faultless Beauty in thy form was made; 
 The air- was calm, the day without a shade; 
 Kind Venus gave her sire the magic zone; 
 And Love amid the Graces rose alone, 
 To view his future home in thee, fair maid ! 
 Henceforth, thy form's all-perfect symmetry 
 Was fixed the eternal model here below 
 Of Beauty, by the never-changing Fates. 
 Let others boast a beauteous hand or eye, 
 A lovely lip, or yet more lovely brow, — 
 But Heaven all others' charms by thine creates. 
 
 Poet of Greece ! whene'er thy various song, 
 In deep attention fixed, my eyes survey, — 
 Whether Achilles' wrath awake thy lay, 
 Or wise Ulysses and his wanderings long, 
 Seas, rivers, cities, villas, woods among, — 
 Methinks I view from top of mountain gray, 
 And here, wild plains, there', fields in rich ar 
 
 ray, 
 Teeming with countless forms, my vision throng. 
 Such various realms, their manners, rites, ex- 
 plores 
 Thy verse, and sunny banks, and grottos cold, 
 Valleys and mountains, promontories, shores, 
 'T would seem — so loves the Muse thy genius 
 
 bold — 
 That Nature's self but copied from thy stores, 
 Thou first great painter of the scenes of old ! 
 
 VITTORIA COLONNA. 
 
 This celebrated lady, the most distinguished 
 among the poetesses of Italy, was the daughtei 
 of Fabrizio Colonna, grand constable of the 
 
VITTORIA COLONNA. — TOLOMEI. 
 
 55? 
 
 kingdom of Naples, and of Anna di Montefeltro, 
 daughter of the duke of Urbino. She was born 
 in Marino, a fief of her family, about the year 
 1490. At the age of four years, she was be- 
 trothed to Ferdinando Francesco Davalos, mar- 
 quis of Pescara, a child of about the same age. 
 At a very early period of her life, her rare beau- 
 ty, her extraordinary mental endowments, and 
 the accomplishments which a most careful edu- 
 cation had bestowed upon her, rendered her 
 the object of universal admiration. Even sov- 
 ereign princes sought her hand in marriage ; 
 but she remained faithful to the object of her 
 parents' choice, and the youthful pair were 
 married at the age of seventeen. The marriage 
 proved eminently happy ; the noble and gallant 
 character of the marquis, the beauty, grace, and 
 virtue of Vittoria, the advantages of fortune, and 
 a perfect unanimity of feeling, were inexhausti- 
 ble sources of felicity. But this scene of peace- 
 ful happiness was soon overcast by the storms 
 of war. The hostilities that broke out between 
 the French and the Spanish called the marquis 
 from retirement, and, during his absence, Vit- 
 toria solaced the weary hours by study and com- 
 position. History, belles-lettres, and poetry 
 cheered her solitude, and the regrets of sepa- 
 ration were the subjects of her song. At the 
 battle of Ravenna, where the marquis had com- 
 mand of the cavalry, he was severely wounded, 
 and taken prisoner with the Cardinal de' Med- 
 ici, afterwards Leo the Tenth. After having 
 recovered his liberty by the friendly aid of Mar- 
 shal Trivulzio, he speedily gained the highest 
 military reputation. He entered the service of 
 the emperor, and was present at the battle of 
 Pavia, in 1525, where Francis the First was 
 taken prisoner. He displayed consummate 
 ability and bravery; but received a wound, of 
 which he died the same year, leaving a name 
 of historical eminence in the annals of the times, 
 though he has not escaped reproach for having 
 fought in the ranks of strangers, instead of in 
 the defence of his country. Vittoria found con- 
 solation for her bereavement in those pursuits 
 which had been the ornament of her prosperity, 
 and in celebrating the virtues and immortalizing 
 the memory of her husband in poetry. She 
 withdrew from the world to the tranquil retire- 
 ment of the island of Ischia, and firmly refused 
 all the offers of marriage which her beauty, her 
 genius, her virtues, and her fame induced several 
 persons of princely rank to make. The indul- 
 gence of her sorrows in solitude soon gave her 
 mind a strongly religious turn ; and though she 
 did not cease to exercise her poetical talents, they 
 were henceforth employed chiefly on sacred 
 themes. Among her friends she numbered many 
 of the most distinguished of her contemporaries. 
 She corresponded with the cardinals Bembo, 
 Contarini, and Polo; and the poets Guidiccioni, 
 Flaminio, Molza, and Alamanni were among 
 her intimates. That great genius, Michel An- 
 gelo, was one of her most devoted friends and 
 admirers, and to her many of his sonnets are 
 
 addressed. In 1541, desirous of finding a more 
 complete seclusion, she retired to a monastery 
 in Orvieto, and thence to that of Santa Catari- 
 na in Viterbo. She returned, however, once 
 more to Rome, where she died, towards the end 
 of February, 1547. 
 
 Her poems, which passed through four edi- 
 tions during her lifetime, place her in the first 
 rank of the followers of Petrarch. Her son- 
 nets show, besides the finished elegance of the 
 language, a vigor and vivacity of thought, a 
 tenderness of feeling, and a brilliancy of imag- 
 ination, which justify the admiration felt for 
 her by the most illustrious among her contem- 
 poraries. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Father of heaven ! if by thy mercy's grace 
 A living branch I am of that true vine 
 Which spreads o'er all, — and would we did 
 
 resign 
 Ourselves entire by faith to its embrace ! — 
 In me much drooping, Lord, thine eye will trace, 
 Caused by the shade of these rank leaves of 
 
 mine, 
 Unless in season due thou dost refine 
 The humor gross, and quicken its dull pace. 
 So cleanse me, that, abiding e'er with thee, 
 I feed me hourly with the heavenly dew, 
 And with my falling tears refresh the root. 
 Thou saidst, and thou art truth, thou 'dst with 
 
 me be : 
 Then willing come, that I may bear much fruit, 
 And worthy of the stock on which it grew. 
 
 Blest union, that in heaven was ordained 
 In wondrous manner, to yield peace to man, 
 Which by the spirit divine and mortal frame 
 Is joined with sacred and with love-strong tie 
 I praise the beauteous work, its author great ; 
 Yet fain would see it moved by other hope, 
 By other zeal, before I change this form, 
 Since I no longer may enjoy it here. 
 The soul, imprisoned in this tenement, 
 Its bondage hates; and hence, distressed, it can 
 Neither live here, nor fly where it desires. 
 My glory then will be to see me joined 
 With the bright sun that lightened all my path ; 
 For in his life alone I learned to live. 
 
 CLAUDIO TOLOMEI. 
 
 Claddio Tolomei was born of an ancient 
 and noble family in Siena, about 1492. He 
 was destined for the profession of the law; but, 
 after having taken his degree, he changed his 
 mind, and persisted in resigning the doctorate 
 with as much ceremony as he had received it ; 
 upon which Brunetti quaintly remarks, that, 
 "although he despoiled himself of the insignia, 
 he did not despoil himself of his learning, or 
 
 TO 2 
 
553 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 of his reputation, which is now greater than 
 ever." He then attached himself to the service 
 of Cardinal Ippolito de' Medici, and is supposed 
 to have had some part in the unsuccessful mili- 
 tary expedition undertaken by Clement the 
 Seventh against Siena, in 1526. At any rate, 
 a sentence of banishment from his native city 
 was passed upon him that year, which was not 
 revoked until 1542. In 1527, he interested 
 himself warmly for the imprisoned pontiff, in 
 whose behalf he composed five discourses ad- 
 dressed to the Emperor Charles the Fifth. In 
 1532, he was sent by Cardinal Ippolito, in his 
 own name, to Vienna. Some time after the 
 death of the cardinal, he is supposed to have 
 entered the service of Pier Luigi Farnese, duke 
 of Parma and Piacenza. He remained in Pia- 
 cenza, with the title of Minister of Justice, until 
 the tragical death of Pier Luigi, in 1547; he 
 then retired to Padua, where he remained until 
 the following year, when he went to Rome. In 
 1549, he was made bishop of Corzola, a small 
 island in the Adriatic Sea. In 1552, he was 
 again in Siena, and had the honor to be appoint- 
 ed one of the sixteen citizens who were intrust- 
 ed with the conservation of the public liberty. 
 He was also sent with three others to thank 
 the king of France for the protection he had 
 extended to the republic, and the discourse he 
 delivered to that monarch at Compiegne has 
 been preserved. He returned two years after, 
 and died in Rome, March 23d, 1555. 
 
 Tolomei was a writer of considerable merit. 
 He is well known for the part he took in the 
 violent controversy on the question, whether 
 the language should be called the Italian, or the 
 Tuscan, or the Vulgar; he proposed also to re- 
 form the alphabet by introducing several new 
 characters, and warmly advocated the applica- 
 tion of the ancient laws of versification to the 
 Italian. He published the rules and some speci- 
 mens of this kind of verse, defending them on 
 the principles of philosophy and music. But 
 apart from these vagaries, he was an active pro- 
 moter of learning, and deserves an honorable 
 place in literary history. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Blest Star of Love, bright Hesperus, whose glow 
 Serves for sweet escort through the still of night, 
 Of Love the living flame, the friendly light, 
 And torch of Venus when she walks below ! 
 Whilst to my mistress fair in stealth I go, 
 Who dims the sun in orient chambers bright, 
 Now that the moon is low, nor cheers the sight, 
 Haste, in her stead thy silver cresset show ! 
 I wander not these gloomy shades among, 
 Upon the wayworn traveller to prey, 
 Or graves dispeople with enchanter's song : 
 My ravished heart from cruel spoiler's sway 
 I would redeem : then, O, avenge my wrong, 
 Blest Star of Love, and beam upon my way ! 
 
 BERNARDO TASSO. 
 
 Bernardo Tasso, famous as a poet, but more 
 famous as the father of a greater poet, belonged 
 to an ancient and noble family, and was born 
 at Bergamo, November 11th, 1493. He was 
 early instructed by the celebrated grammarian, 
 Batista Pio, and made rapid progress in Greek 
 and Roman literature. His uncle, the Bishop 
 Luigi Tasso, who, after the death of Bernar- 
 do's father, had stood to him in the place of a 
 parent, having been assassinated in 1520, the 
 young man was compelled to leave his country 
 in search of some honorable means of support. 
 It was about this period that he hoped, per- 
 haps, to find in love some solace for his troubles, 
 and occupied himself for a season in loving 
 and celebrating in his verses Ginevra Malatesta. 
 But when he saw her united in marriage to 
 the Chevalier Degli Obizzi, and that this was 
 not the way to improve his condition, towards 
 1525, he entered the service of Guido Rangone, 
 at that time general of the pontifical armies. 
 On the marriage of Ginevra, " he bewailed his 
 misfortune," says Ginguene, "in a sonnet so 
 tender, that there was neither man nor woman 
 in all Italy who did not wish to know it by 
 heart."- Tasso was employed by Rangone in 
 the most delicate negotiations, both at the papal 
 court, and at the court of Francis the First. In 
 1529, he entered the service of the duchess of 
 Ferrara, but soon after went to Padua, and 
 thence to Venice, where he passed some time 
 in the society of his friends and the cultivation 
 of letters. While there, he published a collec- 
 tion of his poems, which rapidly spread his 
 fame throughout Italy, and gave him a distin- 
 guished rank among the poets of the country. 
 These poems made him known to Ferrante 
 Sanseverino, prince of Salerno, who offered 
 him the post of Secretary, with an honorable 
 salary. He accompanied the prince in various 
 expeditions. He was present with him at the 
 siege of Tunis, and distinguished himself by 
 feats of daring ; and he bore arms in Flanders 
 and Germany. He was afterwards sent on im- 
 portant business to Spain, and, after his return, 
 obtained permission to revisit his friends in 
 Venice, where he published a new collection 
 of poems, and remained about a year. Return- 
 ing to Salerno, he married Porzia de' Rossi, a 
 noble lady of great beauty and talents; and was 
 permitted by the prince, who desired to give 
 him an opportunity of pursuing his studies in 
 tranquillity, to retire to Sorrento. There he 
 lived until 1547, when the scene was sudden- 
 ly changed. , He was involved in the great 
 est embarrassments by the misfortunes of the 
 prince, who fell under the displeasure of the 
 Emperor Charles the Fifth, for opposing the 
 establishment of the Inquisition in Naples. 
 Tasso soon found himself deprived of all re- 
 sources ; was obliged to seek another place of 
 refuge, after having exerted himself to the ut 
 
BERNARDO T A SSO. — FIRENZUOL A. — AL AM ANNI. 
 
 559 
 
 most to maintain the cause of his unhappy mas- 
 ter ; was separated from his wife and children ; 
 and, to finish the climax of his misfortunes, lost 
 his wife, who died of sorrow in a convent to 
 which she had retired. At length he was invited 
 by Guidubaldo the Second, duke of Urbino, to 
 his court, and a charming residence was assigned 
 him in Pesaro, where be again occupied him- 
 self with letters, and put the last hand to his 
 "Amadigi," or Amadis. On the completion of 
 this poem, he went to Venice, where he was 
 received with every mark of esteem, became 
 a member of the Venetian Academy, and, in 
 1560, published a beautiful edition of the long 
 expected work. In 1563, the duke of Man- 
 tua invited Tasso to his court and appointed him 
 Chief Secretary, and subsequently governor of 
 Ostiglia, a small place on the Po ; but about a 
 month after this last appointment, he fell ill, and 
 died September 4th, 1569. 
 
 The principal work of Bernardo Tasso is the 
 "Amadigi," a romantic epic ; the " Floridante," 
 an episode of the preceding, was intended to be 
 formed into a separate poem, but, being left in- 
 complete at his death, was afterwards published 
 by his son. His other works are five books of 
 " Rime," with eclogues, elegies, hymns, and 
 odes ; a discourse on poetry, and three books 
 of letters. His style is distinguished for polish, 
 sweetness, and purity. In delineations of na- 
 ture, in the description of battles, and in the 
 narration of adventures, he excels. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 This shade, that never to the sun is known, 
 When in mid-heaven his eye all-seeing glows ; 
 Where myrtle-boughs with foliage dark inclose 
 A bed with marigold and violets strown ; 
 Where babbling runs a brook with tuneful moan, 
 And wave so clear, the sand o'er which it flows 
 Is dimmed no more than is the purple rose 
 When through the crystal pure its blush is 
 
 shown ; 
 An humble swain, who owns no other store, 
 To thee devotes, fair, placid god of sleep, 
 Whose spells the care-worn mind to peace re- 
 store, 
 If thou the balm of slumbers soft and deep 
 On these his tear-distempered eyes wilt pour, — , 
 Eyes, that, alas ! ne'er open but to weep. 
 
 AGNOLO FIRENZUOLA. 
 
 Agsolo, or Angelo, Firenzuola belonged to 
 an ancient Florentine family, and was born in 
 1493. He studied in Siena and Perugia, though 
 the greater part of his time was devoted to 
 pleasure. He was confirmed in his dissipat- 
 ed habits by the influence of Pietro Aretino, 
 with whom he became acquainted in Perugia, 
 
 and continued his intimacy afterwards in Rome 
 His biographers relate, that he entered upon 
 the ecclesiastical career; that he took the habit 
 in the monastery of Vallombrosa, obtained in 
 order several promotions, and finally became 
 an abate. Tiraboschi, without denying the truth 
 of the statement, questions the sufficiency of 
 the evidence. 
 
 The early debaucheries of Firenzuola broke 
 down his constitution. In a letter to Aretino, 
 written in 1541, he complains of a disease o 
 eleven years' standing. He died a few years 
 afterwards, in Rome. 
 
 The works of Firenzuola were published at 
 Florence in three volumes. They are partly 
 in prose, and partly in verse. He translated 
 the " Golden Ass" of Apuleius, adapting it to 
 the circumstances of his own age. Of hi3 
 poems, some are burlesque and some are seri- 
 ous. His style is light and graceful ; but the 
 tone of some of his pieces is free even to licen- 
 tiousness. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 thou, whose soul from the pure sacred stream, 
 Ere it was doomed thi= mortal veil to wear, 
 Bathed by the gold-haired god, emerged so fair, 
 That thou like him in Delos born didst seem ' 
 If zeal, that of my strength would wrongly deem, 
 Bade me thy virtues to the world declare. 
 And, in my highest flight, struck with despair, 
 
 1 sunk unequal to such lofty theme ; 
 Alas ! I suffer from the same mishap 
 
 As the false offspring of the bird that bore 
 The Phrygian stripling to the Thunderer's lap 
 Forced in the sun's full radiance to gaze, 
 Such streams of light on their weak vision pour, 
 Their eyes are blasted in the furious blaze. 
 
 LUIGI ALAMANNI. 
 
 Luigi Alamanni was born at Florence, in 
 1495. He belonged to one of the most distin- 
 guished families in the republic. Having been 
 concerned in a conspiracy against Cardinal Giu- 
 lio de' Medici, and the conspiracy being dis- 
 covered, he fled to Venice, and, on the acces 
 sion of the cardinal to the papal chair, took re- 
 fuge in France. He returned to Florence in 
 1527, but was again driven into exile by the 
 Duke Alessandro. He wi»s favorably received 
 by Francis the First, king of France, who sent 
 him as ambassador to the Emperor Charles the 
 Fifth. Henry the Second, also, held the talents 
 of Alamanni in high esteem, and intrusted him 
 with important public business. He died a* 
 Amboise, in 1556, where the French court was 
 at that time. 
 
 The works of Alamanni embrace almost 
 every species of poetry : two epics, " Girone 
 il Cortese " and "La Avarchide " ; a tragedy, 
 "L' Antigone"; lyric poems, satires, eclcgues, 
 
560 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 a didactic poem entitled " Coltivazione," and a 
 collection of epigrams. His works are charac- 
 terized by grace and elegance. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 TO ITALY. 
 
 Thanks be to God, my feet are now addressed, 
 Proud Italy, at least to visit thee, 
 After six weary years, since destiny 
 Forbids me in thy dear-loved lap to rest. 
 With weeping eyes, with look and heart de- 
 pressed, 
 Upon my natal soil I bend the knee, 
 While hope and joy my troubled spirit flee, 
 And anguish, rage, and terror fill my breast. 
 I turn me, then, the snowy Alps to tread, 
 And seek the Gaul, more kindly prompt to 
 
 greet 
 The child of other lands, than thou art thine : 
 Here, in these shady vales, mine old retreat, 
 I lay, in solitude, mine aching head, 
 Since Heaven decrees, and thou dost so incline. 
 
 PETRARCA S RETREAT. 
 
 Vaucluse, ye hills and glades and shady vale, 
 So long the noble Tuscan bard's retreat, 
 When warm his heart for cruel Laura beat, 
 As lone he wandered in thy beauteous dale ! 
 Ye flowers, which heard him oft his pains bewail 
 In tones of love and sorrow, sad, but sweet ! 
 Ye dells and rocks, whose hollow sides repeat, 
 Even yet, his ancient passion's moving tale ! 
 Fountain, which pourest out thy waters green 
 In ever-flowing streams the Sorgue to fill, 
 Whose charms the lovely Arno's emulate ! 
 How deeply I revere your holy scene, 
 Which breathes throughout the immortal poet 
 
 still, 
 Whom I, perchance all vainly, imitate ! 
 
 GIOVANNI GUIDICCIONI. 
 
 Giovanni Guidiccioni was born at Lucca, 
 in 1500. He studied successively at the Uni- 
 versities of Pisa, Padua, Bologna, and Ferrara, 
 at the last of which he took the degree of Doc- 
 tor of Law. His uncle, the Cardinal Bartolom- 
 meo, attached him to the service of Alexander 
 Farnese, afterwards Pope Paul the Third. At 
 the court of the cardinal, he cultivated the 
 friendship of the learned men who adorned it, 
 and especially of Annibale Caro. In 1533, he 
 retired to his own country ; but as soon as the 
 cardinal was elevated to the papal chair, was 
 summoned by him to Rome. From this time 
 forth, he was charged with important offices, the 
 duties of which he performed to the great sat- 
 isfaction of his employer, until his death, which 
 took place in 1541. 
 
 As a poet, Guidiccioni was an imitator of 
 
 Petrarch. His pieces have been published with 
 those of Bembo and Casa. They are not con- 
 fined to the expression of personal feelings, but 
 many of them breathe a patriotic spirit, and 
 bewail the misfortunes of Italy. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Thou noble nurse of many a warlike chief, 
 Who in more brilliant times the world subdued; 
 Of old, the shrines of gods in beauty stood 
 Within thy walls, where now are shame and 
 
 grief: 
 I hear thy broken voice demand relief, 
 And sadly o'er thy faded fame I brood, — 
 Thy pomps no more, — thy temples fallen and 
 
 rude, — 
 Thine empire shrunk within a petty fief. 
 Slave as thou art, if such thy majesty 
 Of bearing seems, thy name so holy now, 
 That even thy scattered fragments I adore, — 
 How did they feel, who saw thee throned on high 
 In pristine splendor, while thy glorious brow 
 The golden diadem of nations bore ? 
 
 TO ITALY. 
 
 From ignominious sleep, where age on age 
 Thy torpid faculties have slumbering lain, 
 Mine Italy, enslaved, ay, more, insane, — 
 Wake, and behold thy wounds with noble rage ! 
 Rouse, and with generous energy engage 
 Once more thy long-lost freedom to obtain ; 
 The path of honor yet once more regain, 
 And leave no blot upon my country's page ! 
 Thy haughty lords, who trample o'er thee now, 
 Have worn the yoke which bows to earth thy 
 
 neck, 
 And graced thy triumphs in thy days of fame. 
 Alas ! thine own most deadly foe art thou, 
 Unhappy land ! thy spoils the invader deck, 
 While self-wrought chains thine infamy pro- 
 claim ! 
 
 FRANCESCO BERNI DA BIBBIENA. 
 
 Francesco Berni, or Bernia, the great mas- 
 ter and perfecter of the humorous style in Ital- 
 ian poetry, was born in a small town of Tus- 
 cany, called Lamporecchio, about the end of 
 the fifteenth century. His family was noble, 
 but in reduced circumstances. He passed his 
 early youth in Florence, where he remained, 
 until he was nineteen years old, in a state of 
 great poverty. He then went to Rome and 
 entered the service of Cardinal Bernardo da 
 Bibbiena, to whom he was distantly related ; 
 and after the death of that ecclesiastic, attached 
 himself to Cardinal Angelo Bibbiena, but with 
 little advantage to his fortunes. Finally, he 
 became secretary to Ghiberti, bishop of Verona, 
 
BERNI. 
 
 561 
 
 who then held the office of Datary to the Ro- 
 man see. Berni remained with him seven 
 years, and, having assumed the ecclesiastical 
 habit, was employed by him in the affairs of his 
 distant benefices. But the occupations and re- 
 straints to which he was subjected agreed but 
 ill with his temperament, and he failed to de- 
 rive those advantages from his position which 
 might naturally have been expected. He was, 
 however, a great favorite with all who loved 
 literature and the arts, and became one of the 
 leading members of the learned and convivial 
 society called the Accademia de' Vignaiuoli, or 
 Club of the Vine-dressers, the members of 
 which, in the whimsical spirit of the age, as- 
 sumed names bearing some relation or allusion 
 to the vine ; — one, for instance, rejoiced in the 
 appellation of M Mosto, or Must ; another called 
 himself L' Agresto, or The Sour-grape ; and a 
 third, II Cotogno, or Quince, — Peter Quince, 
 perhaps. Among these jolly academicians were 
 numbered such men as Firenzuola, Delia Casa, 
 Mauro, and Molza. They met at the house of 
 Uberto Strozzi, and at his table, under the in- 
 spiration of wine and merriment, improvised 
 verses which are said to have astonished the 
 authors themselves, — a thing not at all im- 
 probable. He was living at Rome when that 
 city was attacked by the party of the Colonni, 
 and in the pillage of the Vatican he lost every 
 thing. At length, wearied out with the court 
 of Rome, he obtained the easy and profitable 
 station of Canon of Florence. To this city he 
 retired, and soon became intimate with the young 
 Cardinal Ippolito de' Medici, as well as with 
 the Duke Alessandro, the cardinal's mortal foe. 
 Here he led a life of ease and tranquil enjoy- 
 ment, until the hostility between his two pro- 
 tectors brought him into trouble, and, according 
 to the accounts of some biographers, led to his 
 death. As the story is usually told, one of the 
 rivals proposed to Berni to destroy the other by 
 poison ; and when he refused to participate in 
 the crime, poison was administered to him, of 
 which he died, July 26th, 1536. The statement, 
 however, has been doubted; for the cardinal 
 died in 1535, a year before the death of Berni, 
 and no very probable motive can be attribu- 
 ted to the duke for poisoning the poet at that 
 time. 
 
 The principal works of Berni are the " Orlan- 
 do Innamorato," which is the poem of Bojardo 
 remodelled, and the "Rime Burlesche." He 
 wrote also Latin verses with great facility and 
 elegance. In wit, humor, and burlesque, Berni 
 stands so preeminent among the poets of his 
 country, that the peculiar style in which he 
 wrote has been called the maniera Bernesca. 
 His versification is light and graceful, though 
 the excellence of his language is said to be the 
 result of repeated and careful corrections. The 
 great blemish of his works is their frequent and 
 gross licentiousness. 
 
 Berni's style has often been imitated, but by 
 Done more notoriously than by Lord Byron. 
 71 
 
 FROM THE ORLANDO INNAMORATO. 
 THE AUTHOR'S OWN PORTRAIT. 
 
 A boon companion, to increase this crew, 
 By chance, a gentle Florentine was led ; 
 
 A Florentine, although the father who 
 Begot him in the Casentine was bred; 
 
 Who, nigh become a burgher of his new 
 Domicil, there was well content to wed; 
 
 And so in Bibbiena wived, which ranks 
 
 Among the pleasant towns on Arno's banks. 
 
 At Lamporecchio he of whom I write 
 
 Was born, for dumb Masetto famed of yore ; 
 
 Thence roamed to Florence ; and in piteous 
 plight 
 There sojourned till nineteen, like pilgrim 
 poor ; 
 
 And shifted thence to Rome, with second flight, 
 Hoping some succour from a kinsman's store ; 
 
 A cardinal allied to him by blood, 
 
 And one that neither did him harm nor good. 
 
 He to the nephew passed, this patron dead, 
 Who the same measure as his uncle meted ; 
 
 And then again, in search of better bread, 
 With empty bowels from his house retreated ; 
 
 And hearing — for his name and fame were 
 spread — 
 The praise of one who served the pope re- 
 peated, 
 
 And in the Roman court Datario hight, 
 
 He hired himself to him to read and write. 
 
 This trade the unhappy man believed he knew; 
 
 But this belief was, like the rest, a bubble; 
 Since he could never please the patron who 
 
 Fed him, nor ever once was out of trouble. 
 The worse he did, the more he had to do, 
 
 And only made his pain and penance double: 
 And thus, with sleeves and bosom stuffed with 
 
 papers, 
 Wasted his wits, and lived oppressed with vapors. 
 
 Add for his mischief (whether 't was his little 
 
 Merit, misfortune, or his want of skill), 
 Some cures he farmed produced him not a tittle, 
 
 And only were a source of plague and ill : 
 Fire, water, storm, or devil, sacked vines and 
 victual, 
 Whether the luckless wretch would tithe or 
 till. 
 Some pensions, too, which be possessed, were 
 
 naught, 
 And, like the rest, produced him not a groat. 
 
 This notwithstanding, he his miseries slighted, 
 Like happy man who not too deeply feels; 
 
 And all, but most the Roman lords, delighted, 
 Content in spite of tempests, writs, or seals ; 
 
 And oftentimes, to make them mirth, recited 
 Strange chapters upon urinals and eels; 
 
 And other mad vagaries would rehearse, 
 
 That he had hitched, Heaven help him ! into 
 verse. 
 
562 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 His mood was choleric, and his tongue was vi- 
 cious; 
 
 But he was praised for singleness of heart, 
 Not taxed as avaricious or ambitious ; 
 
 Affectionate, and frank, and void of art, 
 A lover of his friends, and unsuspicious; 
 
 But where he hated, knew no middle part; 
 And men his malice by his love might rate : 
 But then he was more prone to love than hate. 
 
 To paint his person, — this was thin and dry; 
 
 Well sorting it, — his legs were spare and lean ; 
 Broad was his visage, and his nose was high, 
 
 While narrow was the space that was be- 
 tween 
 His eyebrows sharp; and blue his hollow eye, 
 
 Which for his bushy beard had not been seen, 
 But that the master kept this thicket cleared, 
 At mortal war with moustache and with beard. 
 
 No one did ever servitude detest 
 
 Like him ; though servitude was still his dole : 
 Since fortune or the Devil did their best 
 
 To keep him evermore beneath control. 
 While, whatsoever was his patron's hest, 
 
 To execute it went against his soul ; 
 His service would he freely yield, unasked, 
 But lost all heart and hope, if he were tasked. 
 
 Nor music, hunting-match, nor mirthful measure, 
 Nor play, nor other pastime, moved him aught; 
 
 And if 't was true that horses gave him pleasure, 
 The simple sight of them was all he sought, 
 
 Too poor to purchase ; and his only treasure 
 His naked bed ; his pastime to do naught 
 
 But tumble there, and stretch his weary length, 
 
 And so recruit his spirits and his strength. 
 
 Worn with the trade he long was used to slave in, 
 So heartless and so broken down was he, 
 
 He deemed he could not find a readier haven 
 Or safer port from that tempestuous sea, 
 
 Nor better cordial to recruit his craven 
 And jaded spirit, when he once was free, 
 
 Than to betake himself to bed, and do 
 
 Nothing, and mind and matter so renew. 
 
 On this, as on an art, he would dilate 
 
 In good set terms, and styled his bed a vest, 
 
 Which, as the wearer pleased, was small or great, 
 And of whatever fashion liked him best ; 
 
 A simple mantle, or a robe of state ; 
 
 With that a gown of comfort and of rest : 
 
 Since whosoever slipped his daily clothes 
 
 For this, put off with these all worldly woes. 
 
 He by the noise and lights and music jaded 
 Of that long revel, and the tramp and tread 
 
 (Since every guest in his desires was aided, 
 And knaves performed their will as soon as 
 said), 
 
 Found out a chamber which was uninvaded, 
 And bade those varlets there prepare a bed, 
 
 Garnished with bolsters and with pillows fair, 
 
 At its four borders, and exactly square. 
 
 This was six yards across by mensuration, 
 With sheets and curtains bleached by wave 
 and breeze, 
 
 With a silk quilt for farther consolation, 
 
 And all things fitting else : though hard to 
 please, 
 
 Six souls therein had found accommodation ; 
 But this man sighed for elbow-room and ease, 
 
 And here as in a bed was fain to swim, 
 
 Extending at his pleasure length and limb. 
 
 By chance, with him, to join the fairy's train, 
 A Frenchman and a cook was thither brought ; 
 
 One that had served in court with little gain, 
 Though he with sovereign care and cunning 
 wrought. 
 
 For him, prepared with sheet and counterpane, 
 Another bed was, like his fellow's, sought: 
 
 And 'twixt the two sufficient space was seen 
 
 For a fair table to be placed between. 
 
 Upon this table, for the pair to dine, 
 
 Were savory viands piled, prepared with art; 
 All ordered by this master-cook divine ; 
 
 Boiled, roast, ragouts and jellies, paste and tart : 
 But soups and syrups pleased the Florentine, 
 Who loathed fatigue like death, and, for his 
 part, 
 Brought neither teeth nor fingers into play ; 
 But made two varlets feed him as he lay. 
 
 Here couchant, nothing but his head was spied, 
 Sheeted and quilted to the very chin ; 
 
 And needful food a serving-man supplied 
 
 Through pipe of silver, placed the mouth 
 within. 
 
 Meantime the sluggard moved no part beside, 
 Holding all motion else were shame and sin; 
 
 And (so his spirits and his health were broke) 
 
 Not to fatigue this organ, seldom spoke. 
 
 The cook was Master Peter hight, and he 
 Had tales at will to while away the day ; 
 
 To him the Florentine: "Those fools, pardie, 
 Have little wit, who dance that endless Hay " ; 
 
 And Peter in return, " I think with thee." 
 Then with some merry story backed the say, 
 
 Swallowed a mouthful, and turned round in bed; 
 
 And so, by starts, talked, turned, and slept, and 
 fed. 
 
 And so the time these careless comrades cheated, 
 And still, without a change, ate, drank, and 
 slept, 
 
 Nor by the calendar their seasons meted, 
 Nor register of days or sennights kept : 
 
 No dial told the passing hours which fleeted, 
 Nor bell was heard ; nor servant overstepped 
 
 The threshold (so the pair proclaimed their will) 
 
 To bring them tale or tidings, good or ill. 
 
 Above all other curses, pen and ink 
 
 Were by the Tuscan held in hate and scorn 
 
 Who, worse than any loathsome sight or stink 
 Detested pen and paper, ink and horn : 
 
BERNI. 
 
 563 
 
 So deeply did a deadly venom sink, 
 
 So festered in his flesh a rankling thorn, 
 While, night and day, with heart and garments 
 
 rent, 
 Seven weary years the wretch in writing spent. 
 
 Of all their ways to baffle time and tide, 
 
 This seems the strangest of their waking 
 dreams : 
 Couched on their back, the two the rafters eyed, 
 And taxed their drowsy wits to count the 
 beams; 
 T is thus they mark at leisure which is wide, 
 Which short, or which of due proportion 
 seems ; 
 And which worm-eaten are, and which are 
 
 sound ; 
 And if the total sum is odd or round. 
 
 THE TWO FOUNTAINS IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 
 
 The alabaster vase was wrought with gold, 
 And the white ground o'erlaid with curious 
 care ; 
 
 While he who looked within it might behold 
 Green grove, and flowers, and meadow, pic- 
 tured there. 
 
 Wise Merlin made it, it is said, of old. 
 
 For Tristan, when he sighed for Yseult fair; 
 
 That, drinking of its wave, he might forego 
 
 The peerless damsel, and forget his woe. 
 
 But he, to his misfortune, never found 
 
 That fountain, built beneath the greenwood 
 tree ; 
 
 Although the warrior paced a weary round, 
 Encompassing the world by land and sea. 
 
 The waves which in the magic basin bound 
 Make him unlove who loves. Nor only he 
 
 Foregoes his former love ; but that, which late 
 
 Was his chief pride and pleasure, has in hate. 
 
 Mount Alban's lord, whose strength and spirits 
 sink, — 
 
 For yet the sun was high and passing hot, — 
 Stood gazing on the pearly fountain's brink, 
 
 Rapt with the sight of that delicious spot. 
 At length he can no more, but stoops to drink ; 
 
 And thirst and love are in the draught for- 
 got: 
 For such the virtue those cold streams impart, 
 Changed in an instant is the warrior's heart. 
 
 Him, with that forest's wonders unacquainted, 
 Some paces to a second water bring, 
 
 Of crystal wave with rain or soil untainted. 
 With all the flowers that wreath the brows 
 of Spring 
 
 Kind Nature had the verdant margin painted : 
 And there a pine and beech and olive fling 
 
 Their boughs above the stream, and form a 
 bower, 
 
 A grateful shelter from the noontide hour. 
 
 This was the stream of Love, upon whose shore 
 He chanced, where Merlin no enchantments 
 shed ; 
 
 But Nature here, unchanged by magic lore, 
 The fountain with such sovereign virtue fed, 
 
 That all who tasted loved: whence many, sore 
 Lamenting their mistake, were ill-bested. 
 
 Rinaldo wandered to this water's brink, 
 
 But, sated, had no further wish to drink. 
 
 Yet the delicious trees and banks produce 
 Desire to try the grateful shade ; and needing 
 
 Repose, he lights, and turns his courser loose, 
 Who roamed the forest, at his pleasure feeding ; 
 
 And there Rinaldo cast him down, at truce 
 With care; and slumber to repose succeeding, 
 
 Thus slept supine : when spiteful fortune brought 
 
 Her to the spot whom least the warrior sought. 
 
 She thirsts, and, lightly leaping from her steed, 
 Ties the gay palfrey to the lofty pine ; 
 
 Then plucking from the stream a little reed, 
 Sips, as a man might savor muscat wine ; 
 
 And feels, while yet she drinks (such marvel 
 breed 
 The waters fraught with properties divine), 
 
 She is no longer what she was before ; 
 
 And next beholds the sleeper on the shore. 
 
 MICROCOSMOS. 
 
 He, who the name of little world applied 
 To man, in this approved his subtle wit: 
 
 Since, save it is not round, all things beside 
 Exactly with this happy symbol fit ; 
 
 And I may say, that long and deep, and wide 
 And middling, good and bad, are found in it 
 
 Here, too, the various elements combined 
 
 Are dominant; snow, rain, and mist, and wind. 
 
 Now clear, now overcast. 'T is there its land 
 Will yield no fruit, here bears a rich supply, — 
 
 As the mixed soil is marl, or barren sand, 
 And haply here too moist, or there too dry. 
 
 Here foaming hoarse, and there with murmur 
 bland, 
 Streams glide, or torrents tumble from on high : 
 
 Such of man's appetites convey the notion; 
 
 Since these are infinite, and still in motion. 
 
 Two solid dikes the invading streams repel ; 
 
 The one is Reason, and the other Shame : 
 The torrents, if above their banks they swell, 
 
 Wit and discretion are too weak to tame : 
 The crystal waters, which so smoothly well, 
 
 Are appetites of things devoid of blame. 
 Those winds, and rains, and snows, and night, 
 
 and day, 
 Ye learned clerks, divine them as ye may. 
 
 Among these elements, misfortune wills 
 
 Our nature should have most of earth : for she, 
 
 Moved by what influence heaven or sun instils, 
 Is subject to their power ; nor less are we. 
 
564 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 In her, this star or that in barren hills 
 
 Produces mines in rich variety : 
 And those who human nature wisely scan 
 May this discern peculiarly in man. 
 
 Who would believe that various minerals grew, 
 And many metals, in our rugged mind; 
 
 From gold to nitre ? Yet the thing is true ; 
 But out, alas ! the rub is how to find 
 
 This ore. Some letters and some wealth pursue; 
 Some fancy steeds; some dream, at ease re- 
 clined ; 
 
 These song delights, and those the cittern's 
 sound : 
 
 Such are the mines which in our world abound. 
 
 As these are worthier, more or less, so they 
 Abound with lead or gold ; and practised 
 wight, 
 
 The various soil accustomed to survey, 
 Is fitted best to find the substance bright. 
 
 And such in our Apulia is the way 
 
 They heal those suffering from the spider's 
 bite, 
 
 Who strange vagaries play, like men possessed ; 
 
 Tarantulatcd, as 't is there expressed. 
 
 For this, 't is needful, touching sharp or flat, 
 To seek a sound which may the patients 
 please ; 
 
 Who, when they find the merry music pat, 
 Dance till they sweat away the foul disease. 
 
 And thus who should allure this man or that, 
 And still with various offer tempt and tease, 
 
 I wot, in little time, would ascertain 
 
 And sound each different mortal's mine and 
 vein. 
 
 'l was so Brunello with Rogero wrought, 
 Who offered him the armor and the steed. 
 
 Thus by the cunning Greek his aid was brought, 
 Who laid fair Ilion smoking on the mead : 
 
 Which was of yore in clearer numbers taught; 
 Nor shall I now repeat upon my reed, 
 
 Who from the furrow let my ploughshare stray, 
 
 Unheeding how the moments glide away. 
 
 As the first pilot by the shore did creep, 
 
 Who launched his boat upon the billows dark, 
 
 And where the liquid ocean was least deep, 
 And without sails, impelled his humble bark; 
 
 But seaward next, where foaming waters leap, 
 By little and by little steered his ark, 
 
 With nothing but the wind and stars to guide, 
 
 And round about him glorious wonders spied : 
 
 Thus I, who still have sung a humble strain, 
 And kept my little bark within its bounds, 
 
 Now find it fit to launch into the main, 
 
 And sing the fearful warfare which resounds 
 
 Where Africa pours out her swarthy train, 
 And the wide world with mustered troops 
 abounds; 
 
 And, fanning fire and forge, each land and nation 
 
 Sends forth the dreadful note of preparation. 
 
 BENEDETTO VARCHI. 
 
 Benedetto Varchi, one of the most labori- 
 ous men of letters in the sixteenth century, was 
 a native of Florence, where he was born in 
 1502. His father was a lawyer, and destined 
 him for the same profession. He was sent first 
 to the University of Padua, where he made 
 great progress in polite literature, and after- 
 wards to Pisa, for the purpose of studying the 
 law. On the death of his father, he abandoned 
 the law and gave himself wholly to literature. 
 Among other things, he studied Greek under 
 the learned Pier Vettori. When the civil wars 
 broke out, he joined the party opposed to the 
 Medici, and was driven into exile. He went to 
 Venice, then to Bologna, then to Padua, and 
 again to Bologna. In the two cities last men- 
 tioned he passed several years in study, and in 
 the society of the learned men who were there 
 in great numbers at that time. Notwithstanding 
 the part he had taken, Duke Cosmo the First 
 recalled him to Florence, and assigned him the 
 office of writing the history of the late revolu- 
 tions, with a fixed salary. While he was en- 
 gaged in this work, some persons, whose con- 
 duct was likely to appear in an unfavorable 
 light in his history, attacked him by night, and 
 attempted to assassinate him. He recovered 
 from his wounds, but refused to divulge the 
 names of the assailants, though they were well 
 known to him. Paul the Third invited him to 
 Rome, but he preferred remaining in Florence. 
 He died in 1565, of apoplexy. 
 
 The principal work of Varchi is his volumi- 
 nous history of Florence, from 1527 to 1538, 
 which was left unfinished at his death. He 
 also wrote many discourses, distinguished for 
 their purity of language. His poetical works 
 are "Rime," "Capitoli," eclogues, a comedy, 
 and several Latin poems ; besides which, he 
 translated parts of Seneca, and BoSthius " De 
 Consolatione." He read many papers before 
 the Florentine Academy, on morals, philosophy, 
 criticism, and the arts, which were marked by 
 erudition and elegance of style. 
 
 SONNET. 
 ON THE TOMB OP PETRARCA. 
 
 "Ye consecrated marbles, proud and dear, 
 Blest, that the noblest Tuscan ye infold, 
 And in your walls his holy ashes hold, 
 Who, dying, left none greater, — none his peer; 
 Since I, with pious hand, with soul sincere, 
 Can send on high no costly perfumed fold 
 Of frankincense, and o'er the sacred mould 
 Where Petrarch lies no gorgeous altars rear; 
 O, scorn it not, if humbly I impart 
 My grateful offering to these lovely shades, 
 Here bending low in singleness of mind ! " 
 Lilies and violets sprinkling to the wina, 
 Thus Damon prays, while the bright hill., and 
 
 glades 
 Murmur, " The gift is small, but rich the heart." 
 
DELLA CASA. — COSTANZO. 
 
 56E 
 
 GIOVANNI DELLA CASA. 
 
 Giovanni della Casa was descended, both 
 on the father's and mother's side, from the no- 
 blest families in Florence. He was born in 1503, 
 but the place of his nativity is unknown. The 
 troubles which agitated the city forced his pa- 
 rents to expatriate themselves for a time, and 
 he received his early education at Bologna. 
 Afterwards he returned to Florence, where, 
 about 1524, he was under the instruction of 
 Ubaldino Baldinelli. Having chosen the eccle- 
 siastical career, he went to Rome, and was ap- 
 pointed, in 1538, Clerk of the Apostolical Cham- 
 ber. Here he divided his time between study 
 and amusement, perfected his knowledge of 
 Latin and Greek, and had a son to whom he 
 gave the name of Quirinus. In 1540, he was 
 sent to Florence, as Apostolical Commissary, to 
 superintend the collection of the church tithes, 
 and on that occasion was enrolled in the Floren- 
 tine Academy, of which he was considered one 
 of the brightest ornaments. Returning to Rome, 
 he was promoted, three years after, in 1544, 
 to the archbishopric of Benevento, and was sent 
 in the same year, as Nuncio, to Venice. On the 
 death of Paul the Third, Della Casa returned to 
 Rome ; but falling into disgrace with Julius the 
 Third, retired to Venice, where he lived several 
 years in the tranquil pursuit of literature, inter- 
 rupted only by the gout. On the accession of 
 Paul the Fourth, he was recalled to Rome, and 
 nominated Secretary of State. He died there, 
 November 14th, 1556. 
 
 The early poetical writings of Delia Casa 
 were stained by the prevalent licentiousness of 
 the age, and have cast reproach upon his name. 
 But he was, nevertheless, an elegant and vigor- 
 ous writer, both in Latin and Italian. In his 
 " Rime," published two years after his death, 
 he surprised the world by a vigor of expression 
 and a boldness of imagery to which the Pe- 
 trarchists had long been strangers. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Sweet lonely wood, that like a friend art found 
 To soothe my weary thoughts that brood on 
 
 woe, 
 Whilst through dull days and short the north 
 
 winds blow, 
 Numbing with winter's breath the air and 
 
 ground ; 
 Thy lime-worn leafy locks seem all around, 
 Like mine, to whiten with old age's snow, 
 Now that thy sunny banks, where late did 
 
 grow 
 The painted flowers, in frost and ice are bound. 
 As I go musing on the dim, brief light 
 That still of life remains, then I, too, feel 
 The creeping cold my limbs and spirits thrill : 
 But I with sharper frost than thine congeal ; 
 Since ruder winds my winter brings, and night 
 Of greater length, and days more scant and chill. 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 These marble domes, by wealth and genius 
 graced 
 
 With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian 
 stone, 
 
 Were once rude cabins 'midst a lonely waste, 
 
 Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. 
 
 Pure from each vice, 't was here a virtuous train, 
 
 Fearless, in fragile barks explored the sea; 
 
 Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign : 
 
 They sought these island-precincts — to be free. 
 
 Ne'er in their souls ambition's flame arose; 
 
 No dream of avarice broke their calm repose ; 
 
 Fraud, more than death, abhorred each artless 
 breast : 
 
 O, now, since Fortune gilds their brightening 
 day, 
 
 Let not those virtues languish and decay, 
 
 O'erwhelmed by luxury, and by wealth op- 
 pressed ! 
 
 ANGELO DI COSTANZO. 
 
 This writer, known as a historian and a 
 poet, belonged to a noble family of Naples. 
 He was born about the year 1507. His ac- 
 quaintance with Sannazzaro and Poderico, 
 whose friendship he enjoyed, stimulated and 
 assisted him in his studies. He gained much 
 reputation by his poems; but the work which 
 chiefly occupied his attention was a history of 
 the kingdom of Naples, which he undertook 
 by the advice of his two friends, with whom 
 he retired to a villa in the neighbourhood of 
 Somma, during the plague of 1527. In the 
 midst of his literary labors he was exiled from 
 Naples, for some unknown cause, and probably 
 never returned. He spent more than forty 
 years in the preparation and composition of his 
 historical work, which appeared first in 1572, 
 and again, corrected and enlarged, in 1581. He 
 probably died about the year 1591. 
 
 Costanzo, as a poet, is ranked among the 
 best writers of sonnets in his age. His style is 
 lively and graceful. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The lyre that on the banks of Mincius sung 
 Daphnis and Meliboeus in such strains, 
 That never on Arcadia's hills or plains 
 Have rustic notes with sweeter echoes rung ; 
 When now its chords, more deep and tuneful 
 
 strung, 
 Had sung of rural gods to listening swains, 
 And that great Exile's deeds and pious pains 
 Who from Anchises and the goddess sprung, 
 The shepherd hung it on yon spreading oak, 
 Where, if winds breathe the sacred strings 
 
 among, 
 It seems as if some voice in anger spoke : 
 " Let none dare touch me of the unhallowed 
 
 throng : 
 
 vv 
 
566 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Unless some kindred hand ray strains awoke, 
 To Tityrus alone my chords belong." 
 
 BERNARDINO ROTA. 
 
 Bernardino Rota was a contemporary and 
 friend of Costanzo, and a Neapolitan. He was 
 born in 1509. In early youth he distinguished 
 himself by the elegance of his compositions, both 
 in Latin and in Italian. In his Italian pieces 
 he imitated the style of Petrarch. He wrote 
 sonnets and canzoni. Many of his poems are 
 consecrated to the memory of Porzia Capece, 
 his wife, to whom he was tenderly attached. 
 He died at Naples, in 1575. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OP PORZIA CAPECE. 
 
 My breast, my mind, my bursting heart shall be 
 Thy sepulchre, — and not this marble tomb, 
 Which I prepare for thee in grief and gloom: 
 No meaner grave, my wife, is fitting thee. 
 O, ever cherished be thy memory, — 
 And may thine image dear my path illume, 
 And leave my heart for other hopes no room, 
 While sad I sail o'er sorrow's troubled sea ! 
 Sweet, gentle soul, where thou wert used to 
 
 reign, 
 My spirit's queen, when wrapt in mortal clay, 
 There, when immortal, shalt thou rule again. 
 Let death, then, tear my love from earth away ; 
 Urned in my bosom, she will still remain, 
 Alive or dead, untarnished by decay. 
 
 LUIGI TANSILLO. 
 
 Luigi Tansillo was born in Venosa, about 
 the year 1510. He lived chiefly in Naples, 
 and served, successively, the viceroy, Don Pe- 
 dro de Toledo, and his son, Don Garcia, the 
 former of whom he accompanied in his Afri- 
 can expedition. He was a gentleman of many 
 noble qualities, and highly accomplished in the 
 sciences and in letters. His poems were much 
 praised in their time, some even preferring them 
 to Petrarch s. He has been called, also, the 
 inventor of the pastoral drama. His death oc- 
 curred about 1596. 
 
 FROM LA BALIA. 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 And can ye, then, whilst Nature's voice divine 
 Prescribes your duty, to yourselves confine 
 Your pleased attention ? Can ye hope to prove 
 More- bliss from selfish joys than social love ? 
 
 Nor deign a mother's best delights to share, 
 Though purchased oft with watchfulness and 
 
 care ? — 
 Pursue your course, nor deem it to your shame 
 That the swart African, or Parthian dame, 
 In her bare breast a softer heart infolds 
 Than your gay robe and cultured bosom holds : 
 Yet hear, and blush, whilst I the truth disclose. 
 Than you the ravening beast more pity knows. 
 Not the wild tenant of the Hyrcanian wood, 
 Intent on slaughter, and athirst for blood, 
 E'er turns regardless from her offspring's cries, 
 Or to their thirst the plenteous rill denies. 
 Gaunt is the wolf, — the tiger fierce and strong; 
 Yet, when the safety of their helpless young 
 Alarms their fears, the deathful war they wage 
 With strength unconquered and resistless rage. 
 One lovely babe your fostering care demands ; 
 And can ye trust it to a hireling's hands, 
 Whilst ten young wolvelings shelter find and 
 
 rest 
 In the soft precincts of their mother's breast, 
 'Till forth they rush, with vigorous nurture bold, 
 Scourge of the plain, and terror of the fold ? 
 
 Mark, too, the feathered tenants of the air : 
 What though their breasts no milky fountain 
 
 bear ? 
 Yet well may yours a soft emotion prove, 
 From their example of maternal love. 
 On rapid wing the anxious parent flies 
 To bring her helpless brood their due supplies. 
 See the young pigeon from the parent beak 
 With struggling eagerness its nurture take! 
 The hen, whene'er the long-sought grain is 
 
 found, 
 Calls with assiduous voice her young around; 
 Then to her breast the little stragglers brings, 
 And screens from danger by her guardian wings. 
 Safe through the day, beneath a mother's eye, 
 In their warm nests the unfledged cygnets lie ; 
 But when the sun withdraws his garish beam, 
 A father's wing supports them down the stream. 
 Yet still more wondrous (if the long-told tale 
 Hide not some moral truth in fiction's veil), 
 The pelican her proper bosom tears, 
 And with her blood her numerous offspring 
 
 rears ; 
 Whilst you the balmy tide of life restrain, 
 And truth may plead, and fiction court, in vain 
 
 Yon favorite lap-dog, that your steps attends, 
 Peru, or Spain, or either India sends. 
 What fears ye feel, as slow ye take your way, 
 Lest from its path the minion chance to stray ! 
 At home on cushions pillowed deep he lies, 
 And silken slumbers veil his wakeful eyes ; 
 Or still more favored, on your snowy breast 
 He drinks your fragrant breath, and sinks tc 
 
 rest: 
 Whilst your young babe, that from its mother'f 
 
 side 
 No threats should sever, and no force divide, 
 In hapless hour is banished far aloof 
 Not only from your breast, — but from your roof. 
 
TANSILLO. — GUARINI. 
 
 567 
 
 THE HIRELING NURSE. 
 
 What ceaseless dread a mother's breast alarms, 
 Whilst her loved offspring fills another's arms ! 
 Fearful of ill, she starts at every noise, 
 And hears, or thinks she hears, her children's 
 
 cries ; 
 Whilst, more imperious grown from day to day, 
 The greedy nurse demands increase of pay. 
 Vexed to the heart with anger and expense, 
 You hear, nor murmur at, her proud pretence ; 
 Compelled to bear the wrong with semblance 
 
 mild, 
 And soothe the hireling as she soothes your child. 
 But not the dainties of Lucullus' feast 
 Can gratify the nurse's pampered taste ; 
 Nor, though your babe, in infant beauty bright, 
 Spring to its mother's arms with fond delight, 
 Can all its gentle blandishments suffice 
 To compensate the torments that arise 
 From her to whom its early years you trust, 
 Intent on spoil, ungrateful, and unjust. 
 
 Were modern truths inadequate to show 
 That to your young a sacred debt you owe, 
 Not hard the task to lengthen out my rhymes 
 With sage examples drawn from ancient times. 
 Of Rome's twin founders oft the bard has sung, 
 For whom the haggard wolf forsook her young: 
 True emblem she of all the unnatural crew 
 Who to another give their offspring's due. 
 But say, when, at a Saviour's promised birth, 
 With secret gladness throbbed the conscious 
 
 earth, 
 Whose fostering care his infant wants repressed ? 
 Who laved his limbs, and hushed his cares to 
 
 rest ? 
 She, at whose look the proudest queen might 
 
 hide 
 Her gilded state, and mourn her humbled pride : 
 She all her bosom's sacred stores unlocked, 
 His footsteps tended, and his cradle rocked ; 
 Or, whilst the altar blazed with rites divine, 
 Assiduous led him to the sacred shrine : 
 And, sure, the example will your conduct guide, 
 If true devotion in your hearts preside. 
 
 But whence these sad laments, these mournful 
 
 sighs, 
 That all around in solemn breathings rise ? 
 The accusing strains, in sounds distinct and clear, 
 Wake to the sense of guilt your startled ear. 
 Hark in dread accents Nature's self complain, 
 Her precepts slighted, and her bounties vain ! 
 See, sacred Pity, bending from her skies, 
 Turns from the ungenerous deed her dewy eyes ! 
 Maternal fondness gives her tears to flow 
 In all the deeper energy of woe ; 
 Whilst Christian Charity, enshrined above, 
 Whose name is mercy and whose soul is love, 
 Feels the just hatred that your deeds inspire, 
 And where she smiled in kindness burns with 
 
 ire. 
 See, true Nobility laments his lot, 
 Indignant of the foul, degrading blot ; 
 
 And Courtesy and Courage o'er him bend, 
 And all the virtues that his state attend ! 
 But whence that cry that steals upon the sense ? 
 'T is the low wail of injured innocence ; 
 Accents unformed, that yet can speak their 
 
 wrongs 
 Loud as the pleadings of a hundred tongues. 
 See in dread witness all creation rise, 
 The peopled earth, deep seas, and circling skies ; 
 Whilst conscience, with consenting voice within, 
 Becomes accomplice and avows the sin ! 
 
 GIOVANNI BATTISTA GUARINI. 
 
 Giovanni Battista Guarini, the celebra- 
 ted author of the " Pastor Fido," was born at 
 Ferrara, in 1537. He studied at Ferrara, Pisa, 
 and Padua, and was for several years Professor 
 of Belles-lettres in the University of the first- 
 mentioned city. At the age of thirty, he enter- 
 ed the service of the duke of Ferrara, from whom 
 he received the honor of knighthood. In 1577, 
 he was sent to congratulate the new doge of 
 Venice, and the discourse which he delivered 
 on that occasion was printed. Guarini was 
 charged with many other important embassies 
 by the duke. He was sent successively to the 
 duke of Savoy, to the emperor, to Henry the 
 Third, when he was elected king of Poland, 
 and afterwards into Poland, to advocate the 
 claims of Duke Alphonso, when the throne of 
 that country had been abandoned by Henry. He 
 was appointed Secretary of State, in 1585, as a 
 reward for his services, but was dismissed from 
 office within two years. He was compelled, 
 through the influence of the duke, who had be- 
 come his enemy, to leave the courts of Savoy 
 and Mantua; but after Alphonso's death, went 
 to Florence, and was received with great honor 
 by the Grand Duke Ferdinand, into whose ser- 
 vice he entered in 1597. Quitting this service 
 in a short time, he went to Urbino, and then 
 returned to Ferrara. In 1605, he was sent by 
 his native city to congratulate Paul the Fifth on 
 his accession to the papal chair. He died in 
 1612, at Venice, whither he had been called by 
 a lawsuit in which he had involved himself. 
 
 Guarini is considered one of the best writers 
 of Italy. His style, both in prose and poetry, 
 is distinguished by purity and elegance. His 
 chief works are, letters, a dialogue called "II 
 Segretario," five orations in Latin, a comedy 
 entitled "Idropica," "Rime," and especially 
 the pastoral drama, already mentioned, called 
 "II Pastor Fido," by which he is principally 
 known to other nations. It has been translated 
 into most of the languages of Europe, and, among 
 the rest, five or six times into English. The 
 translation by Sir Richard Fanshaw, originally 
 published in 1647, has gone through several 
 editions, besides being several times remodelled 
 by other writers. 
 
568 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 FROM IL PASTOR FIDO. 
 
 How I forsook 
 Elis and Pisa after, and betook 
 Myself to Argos and Mycenae, where 
 An eartlily god I worshipped, with what there 
 I suffered in that hard captivity, 
 Would be too long for thee to hear, for me 
 Too sad to utter. Only thus much know ; — 
 I lost my labor, and in sand did sow : 
 I writ, wept, sung; hot and cold fits I had ; 
 I rid, I stood, I bore, now sad, now glad, 
 Now high, now low, now in esteem, now 
 
 scorned ; 
 And as the Delphic iron, which is turned 
 Now to heroic, now mechanic use, 
 I feared no danger, — did no pains refuse ; 
 Was all things, — and was nothing; changed 
 
 my hair, 
 Condition, custom, thoughts, and life, — but 
 
 ne'er 
 Could change my fortune. Then I knew at last, 
 And panted after, my sweet freedom past. 
 So, flying smoky Argos, and the great 
 Storms that attend on greatness, my retreat 
 I made to Pisa, — my thought's quiet port. 
 
 Who would have dreamed 'midst plenty to grow 
 
 poor ; 
 Or to be less, by toiling to be more ? 
 I thought, by how much more in princes' courts 
 Men did excel in titles and supports, 
 So much the more obliging they would be, 
 The best enamel of nobility. 
 But now the contrary by proofs I 've seen : 
 Courtiers in name, and courteous in their mien, 
 They are ; but in their actions I could spy 
 Not the least transient spark of courtesy. 
 People, in show, smooth as the calmed waves, 
 Yet cruel as the ocean when it raves: 
 Men in appearance only did I find, — 
 Love in the face, but malice in the mind ; 
 With a straight look and tortuous heart, and least 
 Fidelity where greatest was professed. 
 That which elsewhere is virtue is vice there : 
 Plain truth, fair dealing, love unfeigned, sincere 
 Compassion, faith inviolable, and 
 An innocence both of the heart and hand, 
 They count the folly of a soul that's vile 
 And poor, — a vanity worthy their smile. 
 To cheat, to lie, deceit and theft to use, 
 And under show of pity to abuse, 
 To rise upon the ruins of their brothers, 
 And seek their own by robbing praise from oth- 
 ers, 
 The virtues are of that perfidious race. 
 No worth, no valor, no respect of place, 
 Of age, or law, — bridle of modesty, — 
 No tie of love or blood, nor memory 
 Of good received ; nothing 's so venerable, 
 Sacred, or just, that is inviolable 
 By that vast thirst of riches, and desire 
 Unquenchable of still ascending higher. 
 Now I, not fearing, since I meant not ill, 
 And in court-craft not having any skill, 
 
 Wearing my thoughts charactered on my brow, 
 And a glass window in my heart, — judge thou 
 How open and how fair a mark my heart 
 Lay to their envy's unsuspected dart. 
 
 TORQUATO TASSO. 
 
 Torquato Tasso, whose genius is so splen- 
 did an ornament to the annals of his country, 
 and whose misfortunes fill one of the most af- 
 fecting chapters in the history of the human 
 mind, was born at Sorrento, March 11th, 1544. 
 His father was Bernardo Tasso, of whom a 
 notice has already been given ; his mother 
 was Porzia Rossi. The morning of his life 
 opened under the fairest auspices. His father 
 was distinguished and prosperous; high in rank, 
 and enjoying the smiles of fortune and the favor 
 of the great. Torquato was sent early to the 
 schools of the Jesuits in Naples, and his biogra- 
 phers describe his progress as rapid and marvel- 
 lous. Bernardo Tasso, having been obliged to 
 leave Naples, sent for his son to join him in 
 Rome, where his education was carefully contin- 
 ued under the superintendence of Maurizio Cat- 
 taneo, and he acquired a thorough knowledge of 
 the Latin and Greek languages. At the age of 
 twelve, he went by his father's direction to 
 Padua, to study the severer sciences, and ap- 
 plied himself with such diligence, that at the 
 age of seventeen he received the honors in the 
 four departments of ecclesiastical and civil law, 
 theology, and philosophy. The study of juris- 
 prudence was not, however, to his taste; his 
 genius attracted him to poetry, and, about a year 
 after, his epic poem " Rinaldo " appeared, which 
 he dedicated to the Cardinal Luigi d' Este. It 
 spread the reputation of the young poet rapidly 
 through Italy, and some pronounced it equal to 
 the best works of the kind that had been written 
 in Italian. Torquato was now permitted to de- 
 vote himself wholly to letters. He accepted an 
 invitation to the University of Bologna, recently 
 established by Pope Pius the Fourth and Pier 
 Donato Cesi, bishop of Narni. While pursuing 
 his studies earnestly at this seat of literature, and 
 enjoying the conversation of the learned men 
 who had been collected there, Tasso commenced 
 the execution of the plan he had previously 
 formed, of writing an epic poem on the Con- 
 quest of Jerusalem. Being falsely accused of 
 having written some satirical verses, lie left 
 Bologna, and went to Padua, on the invitation 
 of Scipio Gonzaga, who had founded an acade- 
 my in that city. Here he continued his literary 
 pursuits with unabated ardor, and made his 
 studies centre upon the epic poem which was 
 constantly in his mind. The dedication of his 
 " Rinaldo " to the Cardinal Luigi commended 
 hiin to the favorable notice of the powerful 
 family of Este, and, in 1565, he was invited 
 to the court of Alphonso the Second, duke of 
 
TORQUATO TASSO. 
 
 569 
 
 Ferrara, where he arrived in October, 1565, 
 and was present at the splendid festivities with 
 which the marriage of the duke and the arch- 
 duchess Barbara of Austria was celebrated. 
 Tasso was received with every demonstration 
 of respect. The sisters of the duke, Lucretia 
 and Leonora, gave him their friendship. The 
 duke assigned him lodgings and a handsome 
 support, being desirous that he should complete 
 the poem on which he had now been some 
 years engaged. In 1570, he accompanied the 
 cardinal to France, and received from the king, 
 Charles the Ninth, from the court, and from the 
 learned men of the University the most flat- 
 tering testimonials of regard. He acquired the 
 friendship, among others, of the poet Ronsard. 
 He returned to Italy the following year, and re- 
 sumed the composition of his poem. Soon 
 after this time, while Alphonso was absent on a 
 journey to Rome, Tasso wrote the idyllic drama, 
 " Aminta," which he had long been meditating. 
 On the return of the duke, it was represented 
 with the greatest splendor. Tasso then visited 
 Pesaro, where he was kindly welcomed by the 
 old prince Guidubaldo. He returned to Ferrara 
 in a few months, and occupied himself again 
 with his epic poem; but a fever which he con- 
 tracted in a journey to Venice interrupted his 
 labors. In 1575, however, he finished the 
 poem, and wishing to subject it to the criticism 
 of his friends, obtained leave to visit Rome, 
 where he was well received by Scipione di 
 Gonzaga, and the other eminent persons there. 
 On his return to Ferrara, the duke conferred 
 upon him the vacant office of Historiographer of 
 the house of Este, and at this time the young 
 and beautiful countess Leonora Sanvitale, whose 
 name is interwoven with Tasso's sad history, 
 arrived there. 
 
 And now commences the dark and inexpli- 
 cable period of Tasso's life. This is not the 
 place to enter at great length into the melan- 
 choly details. The poet's exquisitely organized 
 mind seems, by degrees, to have lost its bal- 
 ance ; the effects of repeated illness, and the 
 vexations caused by several imperfect and sur- 
 reptitious editions of his poems, reduced him to 
 a morbid and unhappy state ; he became gloomy, 
 suspicious, and irritable, and, at length, in 1577, 
 fled from Ferrara, and reaching Sorrento in a state 
 of great destitution, took refuge with his sister 
 Cornelia. He returned to Ferrara, but his mel- 
 ancholy again overcoming him, he escaped a 
 second time, and after seeking refuge in Man- 
 tua, Padua, and Venice, was received at the 
 court of Urbino ; but the kindness and friend- 
 ship with which he was treated were all in 
 vain. He left Urbino in a most unhappy state 
 and went to Turin. Finally, he returned again 
 to Ferrara, where he was coldly received, and 
 his misfortunes consequently rose to their height. 
 Irritated beyond endurance by this treatment, 
 he broke fortli into violent reproaches against 
 the duke and his court, and was arrested and 
 shut up in the hospital of Santa Anna as a 
 72 
 
 madman. The unfortunate poet was confined 
 in this dreary abode, surrounded by the most 
 appalling sights and sounds of human misery, 
 more than seven years, notwithstanding the 
 repeated and urgent intercessions of the most 
 eminent persons in Italy for his liberation. 
 During this time, he was visited by the most 
 distinguished men, who lightened his suffering 
 by spontaneous and heartfelt tributes to his 
 genius. Nor was his pen idle in this sad in- 
 terval. Innumerable letters, poetical composi- 
 tions, and admirable replies to the assailants 
 of his epic were written by him in his lucid 
 moments. The motive of this long and appar- 
 ently cruel imprisonment of Tasso, which has 
 left an indelible blot on the name of Alphonso, 
 has been the subject of many inquiries, but has 
 never been satisfactorily explained. The most 
 thorough and scholarlike investigation of this 
 part of the poet's history is contained in a work 
 by Richard Henry Wilde, entitled " Conjectures 
 and Researches concerning the Love, Madness, 
 and Imprisonment of Torquato Tasso " (2 vols. 
 12mo., New York, 1842), to which the reader 
 is referred. 
 
 At length, in 1586, Alphonso yielded to the 
 intercession of his brother-in-law, Vincenzo 
 Gonzaga, prince of Mantua, and liberated Tas- 
 so. He went in the autumn of the same year 
 to Mantua, where he was kindly received, and 
 resumed his literary labors, completing, among 
 other things, the poem of "Floridante," which 
 had been commenced by his father. After the 
 death of the duke of Mantua, Tasso went to 
 Rome, and in 1588, to Naples, for the purpose 
 of settling some lawsuits concerning the fortune 
 of his parents. The last years of his life were 
 divided between Rome and Naples, except a 
 few months in 1590, which he passed in Flor- 
 ence, by the invitationof the Grand Duke Fer- 
 dinand. His sufferings both of mind and body, 
 and the destitution to which he was often re- 
 duced, present one of the most piteous specta- 
 cles of the vicissitudes of fortune. He arrived 
 at Rome for the last time in November, 1594; 
 his friend, the cardinal Cintio Aldobrandini, 
 having procured for him from the pope the 
 honor of a coronation in the Capitol. The 
 ceremony was, however, postponed until the 
 spring. During the winter, his health rapidly 
 failed, and conscious that his death was ap- 
 proaching, he ordered himself to be carried to 
 the monastery of Saint Onofrio, where he died 
 April 25th, 1595, the day which had been fixed 
 for his coronation. 
 
 To high attributes of genius Tasso united a 
 passionate love of learning, and an industry in 
 its acquisition which made him one of the pro- 
 foundest scholars in an erudite age. His works 
 were wrought out with the most conscientious 
 care, and with consummate art. He had bril- 
 liant powers of invention, and a strength of 
 imagination unsurpassed ; he possessed at the 
 same time a love of order and a keen sense of 
 just proportion, which led him to a nice arrange- 
 vv2 
 
570 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 ment of the parts and a thorough elaboration of 
 his designs, and rarely permitted his exuberant 
 genius to transcend the bounds of good taste. 
 His writings are so numerous, that we find it dif- 
 ficult to conceive how he could have produced 
 them all in so short and troubled a life. They 
 embrace every species of verse and many kinds 
 of prose, — epic, lyric, and dramatic poetry, let- 
 ters, essays, and critical discourses. His great 
 work, " La Gerusalemme Liberata," though 
 criticised with unsparing severity on its first ap- 
 pearance, and since then by some of the ablest 
 French writers, — particularly by Boileau, — 
 has become one of the most popular epics in 
 modern literature, and may be placed very 
 nearly, if not quite, at the head of all the epics 
 that have been written since the days of Virgil. 
 His principal works have passed through innu- 
 merable editions, and have been transferred into 
 most of the languages of Europe. The " Ge- 
 rusalemme Liberata " has been translated into 
 English at least eight times. Of these transla- 
 tions, the most in repute is that of Fairfax. 
 
 FROM AMINTA. 
 
 THE GOLDEN AGE. 
 
 O lovely age of gold ! 
 Not that the rivers rolled 
 
 With milk, or that the woods wept honeydew ; 
 Not that the ready ground 
 Produced without a wound, 
 Or the mild serpent had no tooth that slew ; 
 Not that a cloudless blue 
 For ever was in sight, 
 Or that the heaven, which burns 
 And now is cold by turns, 
 Looked out in glad and everlasting light; 
 No, nor that even the insolent ships from far 
 Brought war to no new lands, nor riches worse 
 than war : 
 
 But solely that that vain 
 And breath-invented pain, 
 That idol of mistake, that worshipped cheat, 
 That Honor, — since so called 
 By vulgar minds appalled, — 
 Played not the tyrant with our nature yet. 
 It had not come to fret 
 The sweet and happy fold 
 Of gentle human-kind ; 
 Nor did its hard law bind 
 
 Souls nursed in freedom ; but that law of gold, 
 That glad and golden law, all free, all fitted, 
 Which Nature'3 own hand wrote, — What 
 pleases is permitted. 
 
 Then among streams and flowers 
 
 The little winged powers 
 
 Went singing carols without torch or bow; 
 
 The nymphs and shepherds sat 
 
 Mingling with innocent chat 
 
 Sports and low whispers ; and with whispers low, 
 
 Kisses that would not go. 
 
 The maiden, budding o'er, 
 
 Kept not her bloom uneyed, 
 Which now a veil must hide, 
 Nor the crisp apples which her bosom bore ; 
 And oftentimes, in river or in lake, 
 The lover and his love their merry bath would 
 take. 
 
 'T was thou, thou, Honor, first 
 
 That didst deny our thirst 
 
 Its drink, and on the fount thy covering set; 
 
 Thou bad'st kind eyes withdraw 
 
 Into constrained awe, 
 
 And keep the secret for their tears to wet ; 
 
 Thou gather'dst in a net 
 
 The tresses from the air, 
 
 And mad'st the sports and plays 
 
 Turn all to sullen ways, 
 
 And putt'st on speech a rein, in steps i care. 
 
 Thy work it is, — thou shade, that wilt not 
 
 move, — 
 That what was once the gift is now the theft 
 
 of Love. 
 
 Our sorrows and our pains, 
 These are thy noble gains. 
 But, O, thou Love's and Nature's masterer, 
 Thou conqueror of the crowned, 
 What dost thou on this ground, 
 Too small a circle for thy mighty sphere? 
 Go, and make slumber dear 
 To the renowned and high ; 
 We here, a lowly race, 
 Can live without thy grace, 
 After the use of mild antiquity. 
 Go, let us love ; since years 
 No truce allow, and life soon disappears; 
 Go, let us love ; the daylight dies, is born ; 
 But unto us the light 
 
 Dies once for all ; and sleep brings on eternal 
 night. 
 
 FROM LA GERUSALEMME. 
 ARRIVAL OF THE CRUSADERS AT JERUSALEM. 
 
 The purple morning left her crimson bed, 
 And donned her robes of pure vermilion hue ; 
 
 Her amber locks she crowned with roses red, 
 In Eden's flowery gardens gathered new; 
 
 When through the camp a murmur shrill was 
 spread : 
 " Arm ! arm ! " they cried ; " Arm ! arm ! " 
 the trumpets blew : 
 
 Their merry noise prevents the joyful blast ; 
 
 So hum small bees, before their swarms they cast. 
 
 Their captain rules their courage, guides their 
 heat, 
 Their forwardness he stayed with gentle rein ; 
 And yet more easy, haply, were the feat, 
 
 To stop the current near Charybdis' main, 
 Or calm the blustering winds on mountains great, 
 Than fierce desires of warlike hearts restrain ; 
 He rules them yet, and ranks them in theii 
 
 haste, 
 For well he knows disordered speed makes 
 waste. 
 
TORQUATO TASSO. 
 
 571 
 
 Feathered their thoughts, their feet in wings 
 were dight ; 
 
 Swiftly they marched, yet were not tired 
 thereby ; 
 For willing minds make heaviest burdens light: 
 
 But when the gliding sun was mounted high, 
 Jerusalem, behold, appeared in sight; 
 
 Jerusalem they view, they see, they spy ; 
 Jerusalem with merry noise they greet, 
 With joyful shouts, and acclamations sweet. 
 
 As when a troop of jolly sailors row, 
 
 Some new-found land and country to descry, 
 
 Through dangerous seas and under stars unknow, 
 Thrall to the faithless waves and trothless 
 sky; 
 
 If once the wished shore begin to show, 
 They all salute it with a joyful cry, 
 
 And each to other show the land in haste, 
 
 Forgetting quite their pains and perils past. 
 
 To that delight which their first sight did breed, 
 That pleased so the secret of their thought, 
 
 A deep repentance did forthwith succeed, 
 That reverend fear and trembling with it 
 . brought. 
 
 Scantly they durst their feeble eyes dispread 
 Upon that town, where Christ was sold and 
 bought, 
 
 Where for our sins he, faultless, suffered pain, 
 
 There where he died, and where he lived again. 
 
 Soft words, low speech, deep sobs, sweet sighs, 
 salt tears 
 Rose from their breasts, with joy and pleasure 
 mixed ; 
 For thus fares he the Lord aright that fears; 
 
 Fear on devotion, joy on faith is fixed : 
 Such noise their passions make, as when one 
 hears 
 The hoarse sea-waves roar hollow rocks be- 
 twixt ; 
 Or as the wind in holts and shady greaves 
 A murmur makes, among the boughs and leaves. 
 
 Their naked feet trod on the dusty way, 
 
 Following the ensample of their zealous guide ; 
 
 Their scarfs, their crests, their plumes, and feath- 
 ers gay 
 They quickly doffed, and willing laid aside; 
 
 Their molten hearts their wonted pride allay, 
 Along their watery cheeks warm tears down 
 slide, 
 
 And then such secret speech as this they used, 
 
 While to himself each one himself accused : — 
 
 "Flower of goodness, root of lasting bliss, 
 Thou well of life, whose streams were purple 
 blood, 
 
 That flowed here to cleanse the foul amiss 
 Of sinful man, behold this brinish flood, 
 
 That from my melting heart distilled is! 
 
 Receive in gree these tears, O Lord so good ! 
 
 For never wretch with sin so overgone 
 
 H*d fitter time or greater cause to moan." 
 
 This while the wary watchman looked over, 
 From top of Sion's towers, the hills and dales, 
 
 And saw the dust the fields and pastures cover, 
 As when thick mists arise from moory vales : 
 
 At last the sun-bright shields he 'gan discover, 
 And glistering helms, for violence none that 
 fails ; 
 
 The metal shone like lightning bright in skies, 
 
 And man and horse amid the dust descries. 
 
 Then loud he cries, " O, what a dust ariseth ! 
 
 O, how it shines with shields and targets clear ! 
 Up ! up ! to arms ! for valiant heart despiseth 
 
 The threatened storm of death, and danger 
 near ; 
 Behold your foes ! " Then further thus deviseth : 
 
 "Haste ! haste ! for vain delay increaseth fear 
 These horrid clouds of dust, that yonder fly, 
 Your coming foes do hide, and hide the sky." 
 
 The tender children, and the fathers old, 
 The aged matrons, and the virgin chaste, 
 
 That durst not shake the spear, nor target hold, 
 Themselves devoutly in their temples placed; 
 
 The rest, of members strong and courage bold, 
 On hardy breasts their harness donned in haste; 
 
 Some to the walls, some to the gates them dight; 
 
 Their king meanwhile directs them all aright. 
 
 ERMINIA S FLIGHT. 
 
 Erminia's steed this while his mistress bore 
 Through forests thick among the shady treen, 
 
 Her feeble hand the bridle-reins forlore, 
 Half in a swoon she was for fear I ween ; 
 
 But her fleet courser spared ne'er the more 
 To bear her through the desert woods unseen 
 
 Of her strong foes, that chased her through the 
 plain, 
 
 And still pursued, but still pursued in vain. 
 
 Like as the weary hounds at last retire, 
 
 Windless, displeased, from the fruitless chase, 
 
 When the sly beast, tapised in bush and brier, 
 No art nor pains can rouse out of his place ; 
 
 The Christian knights, so full of shame and ire, 
 Returned back, with faint and weary pace : 
 
 Yet still the fearful dame fled swift as wind, 
 
 Nor ever staid nor ever looked behind. 
 
 Through thick and thin, all night, all day, she 
 drived, 
 
 Withouten comfort, company, or guide ; 
 Her plaints and tears with every thought revived, 
 
 She heard and saw her griefs, but naught be- 
 side ; 
 But when the sun his burning chariot dived 
 
 In Thetis' wave, and weary team untied, 
 On Jordan's sandy banks her course she stayed 
 At last ; there down she light, and down she laid 
 
 Her tears her drink, her food her sorrowings, 
 This was her diet that unhappy night : 
 
 But sleep, that sweet repose and quiet brings 
 To ease the griefs of discontented wight, 
 
572 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Spread forth his tender, soft, and nimble wings, 
 
 In his dull arms folding the virgin bright, 
 And Love, his mother, and the Graces kept 
 Strong watch and ward, while this fair lady slept. 
 
 The birds awaked her with their morning song, 
 Their warbling music pierced her tender ear; 
 The murmuring brooks and whistling winds 
 among 
 The rattling boughs and leaves their parts did 
 bear; 
 Her eyes unclosed beheld the groves along, 
 Of swains and shepherd grooms that dwellings 
 were ; 
 And that sweet noise, birds, winds, and waters 
 
 sent, 
 Provoked again the virgin to lament. 
 
 Her plaints were interrupted with a sound 
 That seemed from thickest bushes to proceed ; 
 
 Some jolly shepherd sung a lusty round, 
 And to his voice had tuned his oaten reed ; 
 
 Thither she went; an old man there she found, 
 At whose right hand his little flock did feed, 
 
 Sat making baskets, his three sons among, 
 
 That learned their father's art, and learned his 
 song. 
 
 Beholding one in shining arms appear, 
 
 The seely man and his were sore dismayed; 
 
 But sweet Erminia comforted their fear, 
 Her vental up, her visage open laid : 
 
 "You happy folk, of Heaven beloved dear, 
 Work on," quoth she, "upon your harmless 
 trade ; 
 
 These dreadful arms I bear no warfare bring 
 
 To your sweet toil, nor those sweet tunes you 
 • sing. 
 
 " But, father, since this land, these towns and 
 towers, 
 
 Destroyed are with sword, with fire, and spoil, 
 How may it be, unhurt that you and yours 
 
 In safety thus apply your harmless toil ? " 
 " My son," quoth he, " this poor estate of ours 
 
 Is ever safe from storm of warlike broil; 
 This wilderness doth us in safety keep ; 
 No thundering drum, no trumpet, breaks our 
 sleep. 
 
 " Haply just Heaven's defence and shield of right 
 Doth love the innocence of simple swains; 
 
 The thunderbolts on highest mountains light, 
 And seld or never strike the lower plains : 
 
 So kings have cause to fear Bellona's might, 
 Not they whose sweat and toil their dinner 
 gains ; 
 
 Nor ever greedy soldier was enticed 
 
 By poverty, neglected and despised. 
 
 ■' O Poverty ! chief of the heavenly brood ! 
 
 Dearer to me than wealth or kingly crown! 
 No wish for honor, thirst of others' good, 
 
 Can move my heart, contented with mine 
 own : 
 
 We quench our thirst with water of this flood, 
 Nor fear we poison should therein be thrown; 
 These little flocks of sheep and tender goats 
 Give milk for food, and wool to make us coats. 
 
 " We little wish, we need but little wealth, 
 From cold and hunger us to clothe and feed ; 
 
 These are my sons, their care preserves from 
 stealth 
 Their father's flocks, nor servants more I need- 
 
 Amid these groves I walk oft for my health, 
 And to the fishes, birds, and beasts give heed, 
 
 How they are fed in forest, spring, and lake, 
 
 And their contentment for ensample take. 
 
 " Time was (for each one hath his doting time, — 
 These silver locks were golden tresses then) 
 
 That country life I hated as a crime, 
 
 And from the forest's sweet contentment ran ; 
 
 To Memphis' stately palace would I climb, 
 And there became the mighty caliph's man, 
 
 And though I but a simple gardener were, 
 
 Yet could I mark abuses, see and hear. 
 
 "Enticed on with hope of future gain, 
 
 I suffered long what did my soul displease ; 
 
 But when my youth was spent, my hope was 
 vain ; 
 I felt my native strength at last decrease ; 
 
 I 'gan my loss of lusty years complain, 
 
 And wished I had enjoy ed the country's peace ; 
 
 I bade the court farewell, and with content 
 
 My later age here have I quiet spent." 
 
 While thus he spake, Erminia, hushed and still, 
 His wise discourses heard with great atten- 
 tion ; 
 His speeches grave those idle fancies kill, 
 Which in her troubled soul bred such dissen- 
 sion. 
 After much thought reformed was her will, 
 Within those woods to dwell was her inten- 
 tion, 
 Till fortune should occasion new afford 
 To turn her home to her desired lord. 
 
 She said, therefore, — "O shepherd fortunate! 
 
 That troubles some didst whilom feel and 
 prove, 
 Yet livest now in this contented state, 
 
 Let my mishap thy thoughts to pity move, 
 To entertain me as a willing mate 
 
 In shepherd's life, which I admire and love ; 
 Within these pleasant groves perchance my heart 
 Of her discomforts may unload some part. 
 
 " If gold or wealth, of most esteemed dear, 
 If jewels rich thou diddest hold in prize, 
 
 Such store thereof, such plenty, have I here, 
 As to a greedy mind might well suffice." 
 
 With that down trickled many a silver tear, 
 Two crystal streams fell from her watery 
 eyes; 
 
 Part of her sad misfortunes then she told, 
 
 And wept, and with her wept that shepherd old. 
 
TORQUATO TASSO. 
 
 573 
 
 With speeches kind he 'gan the virgin dear 
 Towards his cottage gently home to guide ; 
 
 His aged wife there made her homely cheer, 
 Yet welcomed her, and placed her by her side. 
 
 The princess donned a poor pastora's gear, 
 A kerchief coarse upon her head she tied ; 
 
 But yet her gestures and her looks, I guess, 
 
 Were such as ill beseemed a shepherdess. 
 
 Not those rude garments could obscure and hide 
 The heavenly beauty of her angel's face, 
 
 Nor was her princely offspring damnified 
 Or aught disparaged by those labors base. 
 
 Her little flocks to pasture would she guide, 
 And milk her goats, and in their folds them 
 place ; 
 
 Both cheese and butter could she make, and 
 frame 
 
 Herself to please the shepherd and his dame. 
 
 But oft, when underneath the greenwood shade 
 Her flocks lay hid from Phoebus' scorching 
 rays, _ 
 Unto her knight she songs and sonnets made, 
 And them engraved in bark of beech and 
 bays ; 
 She told how Cupid did her first invade, 
 
 How conquered her, and ends with Tancred's 
 praise : 
 And when her passion's writ she over read, 
 Again she mourned, again salt tears she shed. 
 
 "You happy trees, forever keep," quoth she, 
 " This woful story in your tender rind ; 
 
 Another day under your shade, maybe, 
 Will come to rest again some lover kind, 
 
 Who, if these trophies of my griefs he see, 
 Shall feel dear pity pierce his gentle mind." 
 
 With that she sighed, and said, " Too late I prove 
 
 There is no truth in Fortune, trust in Love. 
 
 "Yet may it be, if gracious Heavens attend 
 The earnest suit of a distressed wight, 
 
 At my entreat they will vouchsafe to send 
 To these huge deserts that unthankful knight; 
 
 That, when to earth the man his eyes shall bend, 
 And see my grave, my tomb, and ashes light, 
 
 My woful death his stubborn heart may move 
 
 With tears and sorrows to reward my love. 
 
 "So, though my life hath most unhappy been, 
 At least yet shall my spirit dead be blest ; 
 
 My ashes cold shall, buried on this green, 
 Enjoy that good -this body ne'er possessed." 
 
 Thus she complained to tho senseless treen ; 
 Floods in her eyes, and fires were in her breast; 
 
 But he for whom these streams of tears she 
 shed 
 
 Wandered far off, alas ! as chance him led. 
 
 He followed on the footsteps he had traced, 
 Till in high woods and forests old he came, 
 
 Where bushes, thorns, and trees so thick were 
 placed, 
 And so obscure the shadows of the same, 
 
 That soon he lost the track wherein he paced; 
 Yet went he on, which way he could not ajm ; 
 But still attentive was his longing ear, 
 If noise of horse or noise of arms he hear. 
 
 If with the breathing of the gentle wind 
 An aspen-leaf but shaked on the tree, 
 
 If bird or beast stirred in the bushes blind, 
 Thither he spurred, thither he rode to see. 
 
 Out of the wood, by Cynthia's favor kind, 
 At last with travail great and pains got he, 
 
 And following on a little path, he heard 
 
 A rumbling sound, and hasted thitherward. 
 
 It was a fountain from the living stone, 
 
 That poured down clear streams in noble store, 
 
 Whose conduit pipes, united all in one, 
 Throughout a rocky channel ghastly roar. 
 
 Here Tancred stayed, and called, yet answered 
 none, 
 Save babbling echo from the crooked shore ; 
 
 And there the weary knight at last espies 
 
 The springing daylight red and white arise. 
 
 He sighed sore, and guiltless Heaven 'gan blame, 
 That wished success to his desires denied, 
 
 And sharp revenge protested for the same, 
 If aught but good his mistress fair betide. 
 
 Then wished he to return the way he came, 
 Although he wist not by what path to ride; 
 
 And time drew near when he again must fight 
 
 With proud Argantes, that vainglorious knight 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 TO THE PRINCESSES OF FERRARA. 
 
 Fair daughters of Bene! my song 
 
 Is not of pride and ire, 
 
 Fraternal discord, hate, and wrong, 
 
 Burning in life and death so strong, 
 
 From rule's accursed desire, 
 
 That even the flames divided long 
 
 Upon their funeral pyre : ' 
 
 But you I sing, of royal birth, 
 
 Nursed on one breast like them ; 
 
 Two flowers, both lovely, blooming forth 
 
 From the same parent stem, — 
 
 Cherished by heaven, beloved by earth, - 
 
 Of each a treasured gem ! 
 
 To you I speak, in whom we see 
 
 With wondrous concord blend 
 
 Sense, worth, fame, beauty, modesty, — 
 
 Imploring you to lend 
 
 Compassion to the misery 
 
 And sufferings of your friend. 
 
 The memory of years gone by, 
 
 O, let me in your hearts renew, — 
 
 The scenes, the thoughts o'er which I sigh, 
 
 The happy days I spent with you ! 
 
 And what, I ask, and where am I, — 
 
 i Eteocles and Polynices, who fell by each other's hands, 
 and whose ashes are said to have separated on the funeral 
 pile. 
 
574 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 And what I was, and why secluded, — 
 Whom did I trust, and who deluded ? 
 
 Daughters of heroes and of kings, 
 
 Allow me to recall 
 
 These and a thousand other things, — 
 
 Sad, sweet, and mournful all ! 
 
 From me few words, more tears, grief 
 
 wrings, — 
 Tears burning as they fall. 
 For royal halls and festive bowers, 
 Where, nobly serving, I 
 Shared and beguiled your private hours, 
 Studies, and sports, I sigh ; 
 And lyre, and trump, and wreathed flowers ; 
 Nay more, for freedom, health, applause, 
 And even humanity's lost laws ! 
 
 Why am I chased from human kind ? 
 What Circe in the lair 
 Of brutes thus keeps me spell-confined? 
 Nests have the birds of air, 
 The very beasts in caverns find 
 Shelter and rest, and share 
 At least kind Nature's gifts and laws; 
 For each his food and water draws 
 From wood and fountain, where, 
 Wholesome, and pure, and safe, it was 
 Furnished by Heaven's own care ; 
 And all is bright and blest, because 
 Freedom and health are there ! 
 
 I merit punishment, I own ; 
 
 I erred, I must confess it; yet 
 
 The fault was in the tongue alone, — 
 
 The heart is true. Forgive ! forget ! — 
 
 I beg for mercy, and my woes 
 
 May claim with pity to be heard ; 
 
 If to my prayers your ears you close, 
 
 Where can I hope for one kind word, 
 
 In my extremity of ill ? 
 
 And if the pang of hope deferred 
 
 Arise from discord in your will, 
 
 For me must be revived again 
 
 The fate ofMetius, and the pain. 2 
 
 I pray you, then, renew for me 
 
 The charm that made you doubly fair; 
 
 In sweet and virtuous harmony 
 
 Urging resistlessly my prayer 
 
 With him, for whose loved sake, I swear, 
 
 I more lament my fault than pains, 
 
 Strange and unheard-of as they are. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 If Love his captive bind with ties so dear, 
 How sweet to be in amorous tangles caught ! 
 If such the food to snare my freedom brought, 
 How sweet the baited hook that lured me near ! 
 How tempting sweet the limed twigs appear ! 
 The chilling ice that warmth like mine has 
 wrought ! 
 
 2 Metius was torn asunder by wild horses. 
 
 Sweet, too, each painful unimparted thought ! 
 The moan how sweet that others loathe to hear! 
 Nor less delight the wounds that inward smart, 
 The tears that my sad eyes with moisture stain, 
 And constant wail of blow that deadly smote. 
 If this be life, — I would expose my heart 
 To countless wounds, and bliss from each should 
 
 gain; 
 If death, — to death I would my days devote. 
 
 Thy unripe youth seemed like the purple rose 
 
 That to the warm ray opens not its breast, 
 
 But, hiding still within its mossy vest, 
 
 Dares not its virgin beauties to disclose; 
 
 Or like Aurora, when the heaven first glows,- 
 
 For likeness from above will suit thee best, — 
 
 When she with gold kindles each mountain crest, 
 
 And o'er the plain her pearly mantle throws. 
 
 No loss from time thy riper age receives, 
 
 Nor can young beauty decked with art's display 
 
 Rival the native graces of thy form : 
 
 Thus lovelier is the flower whose full-blown 
 
 leaves 
 Perfume the air, and more than orient ray 
 The sun's meridian glories blaze and warm. 
 
 I see the anchored bark with streamers gay, 
 The beckoning pilot, and unruffled tide, 
 The south and stormy north their fury hide, 
 And only zephyrs on the waters play : 
 But winds and waves and skies alike betray ; 
 Others who to their flattery dared confide, 
 And late when stars were bright sailed forth in 
 
 pride, 
 Now breathe no more, or wander in dismay. 
 I see the trophies which the billows heap, 
 Torn sails, and wreck, and graveless bones that 
 
 throng 
 The whitening beach, and spirits hovering round: 
 Still, if for woman's sake this cruel deep 
 I must essay, — not shoals and rocks among, 
 But 'mid the Sirens, may my bones be found ! 
 
 Three high-born dames it was my lot to see, 
 Not all alike in beauty, yet so fair, 
 And so akin in act, and look, and air, 
 That Nature seemed to say, " Sisters are we ! " 
 I praised them all, — but one of all the three 
 So charmed me, that I loved her, and became 
 Her bard, and sung my passion, and her name 
 Till to the stars they soared past rivalry. 
 Her only I adored, — and if my gaze 
 Was turned elsewhere, it was but to admire 
 Of her high beauty some far-scattered rays, 
 And worship her in idols, — fond desire, 
 False incense hid; — yet I repent my praise, 
 As rank idolatry 'gainst Love's true fire. 
 
 While of the age in which the heart but ill 
 Defends itself, — and in thy native land, 
 
TORQUATO TASSO. 
 
 575 
 
 Love and thine eyes unable to withstand, — 
 They won me, and, though distant, dazzle still. 
 Hither I came, intent my mind to fill 
 With wisdom, study-gathered from on high ; 
 But loathed to part, so that to stay or fly 
 Kept and still keep sore struggle in my will. 
 And now, all careless of the heat and cold, 
 With ceaseless vigils, Laura, night and day, 
 That thou a worthier lover may'st behold, 
 For thee to fame I strive to win my way : 
 Then love me still, and let me be consoled 
 With hope until I meet thine eyes' bright ray. 
 
 Till Laura 1 comes, — who now, alas! else- 
 where 
 Breathes, amid fields and forests hard of heart, — 
 Bereft of joy I stray from crowds apart 
 In this dark vale, 'mid grief and ire's foul air, 
 Where there is nothing left of bright or fair, 
 Since Love has gone a rustic to the plough, 
 Or feeds his flocks, — or in the summer now 
 Handles the rake, now plies the scythe with care. 
 Happy the mead and valley, hill and wood, 
 Where man and beast, and almost tree and 
 
 stone, 
 Seem by her look with sense and joy endued ! 
 What is not changed on which her eyes e'er 
 
 shone ? 
 The country courteous grows, the city rude, 
 Even from her presence or her loss alone. 
 
 TO HIS LADY, THE SPOUSE OF ANOTHER. 
 
 She, who, a maiden, taught me, Love, thy woes, 
 To-morrow may become a new-made bride, 
 Like, if I err not, a fresh-gathered rose, 
 Opening her bosom to the sun with pride : 
 But him, for whom thus flushed with joy it 
 
 blows, 
 Whene'er I see, my blood will scarcely glide; 
 If jealousy my ice-bound heart should close, 
 Will any ray of pity thaw its tide ? 
 Thou only know'st. And now, alas ! I haste 
 Where I must mark that snowy neck and breast 
 By envied fingers played with and embraced: 
 How shall I live, or where find peace or rest, 
 If one kind look on me she will not waste 
 To hint not vain my sighs, nor all unblest ? 
 
 TO THE DUCHESS OF FERRARA, WHO APPEARED 
 MASKED AT A FETE. 
 
 'T was night, and underneath her starry vest 
 The prattling Loves were hidden, and their arts 
 Practised so cunningly upon our hearts, 
 Thar never felt they sweeter scorn and jest: 
 Thousands of amorous thefts their skill attest, — 
 All kindly hidden by the gloom from day; 
 A thousand visions in each trembling ray 
 Flitted around, in bright, false splendor dressed. 
 
 i In this sonnet the reader will observe that there is a 
 play upon the name Laura; — L' aura signifying, in Ital- 
 ian, the breeze. 
 
 The clear, pure moon rolled on her starry way 
 Without a cloud to dim her silver light; 
 And high-born beauty made our revels gay, 
 Reflecting back on heaven beams as bright, — 
 Which even with the dawn fled not away, 
 When chased the sun such lovely ghosts from 
 night. 
 
 ON TWO BEAUTIFUL LADIES S ONE GAT AND 
 ONE SAD. 
 
 I saw two ladies once, — illustrious, rare; — 
 One a sad sun ; her beauties at mid-day 
 In clouds concealed ; — the other, bright and gay, 
 Gladdened, Aurora-like, earth, sea, and air. 
 One hid her light, lest men should call her fair, 
 And of her praises no reflected ray 
 Suffered to cross her own celestial way ; — 
 To charm and to be charmed, the other's care. 
 Yet this her loveliness veiled not so well, 
 But forth it broke ; — nor could the other show 
 All hers, which wearied mirrors did not tell. 
 Nor of this one could I be silent, though 
 Bidden in ire ; — nor that one's triumphs swell ; 
 Since my tired verse, o'ertasked, refused to flow. 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS OF SCANDIA. 
 
 Sweet pouting lip '. whose color mocks the rose, 
 Rich, ripe, and teeming with the dew of bliss, — 
 The flower of Love's forbidden fruit, which 
 
 grows 
 Insidiously to tempt us with a kiss. 
 Lovers, take heed ! shun the deceiver's art; 
 Mark between leaf and leaf the dangerous snare, 
 Where serpent-like he lurks to sting the heart; 
 His fell intent I see, and cry, " Beware ! " 
 In other days his victim, well I know 
 The wiles that cost me many a pang and sigh. 
 Fond, thoughtless youths '. take warning from 
 
 my woe ; 
 Apples of Tantalus, — those buds on high, 
 From the parched lips they court, retiring go; 
 Love's flames and poison only do not fly. 
 
 TO AN UNGRATEFUL FRIEND. 
 
 Fortune's worst shafts could ne'er have reached 
 
 me more, 
 Nor Envy's poisoned fangs. By both assailed, 
 In innocence of soul completely mailed, 
 I scorned the hate whose power to wound was 
 
 o'er ; 
 When thou — whom in my heart of hearts I 
 
 wore, 
 And as my rock of refuge often sought — 
 Turned on myself the very arms I wrought ; 
 And Heaven beheld, and suffered what I bore ! 
 O holy Faith ! O Love ! how all thy laws 
 Are mocked and scorned ! — I throw my shield 
 
 away, 
 Conquered by fraud. — Go, seek thy feat's ap- 
 plause, 
 
576 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Traitor! yet still half mourned, — with fond 
 
 delay. — 
 The hand, not blow, is of my tears the cause, 
 And more thy guilt than my own pain I weigh ! 
 
 TO LAMEERTO, AGAINST A CALUMNY. 
 
 False is the tale by envious Rumor spread, — 
 False are the hearts wherein it sprung and grew, 
 And false the tongues that first its poison shed, 
 And others to believe their malice drew. 
 But that the Furies lent it gall is true, — 
 And true it is that Megara supplies 
 Its thousand slanders, heaping old on new, 
 And grieving still she cannot add more lies : 
 O, were they ever to be reached by steel, 
 Shorn from her bust, on earth should writhe 
 
 and trail 
 Her slimy snake-like folds, — thus taught to 
 
 feel! 
 But thou, Lamberto, the detested tale 
 Wilt banish from men's minds with friendly 
 
 zeal, 
 And Falsehood's overthrow fair Truth shall 
 
 hail ! 
 
 HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO ULYSSES. 
 
 Wandering Ulysses on the storm-vexed shore 
 Lay amid wrecks, upon the sand scarce dry, 
 Naked and sad ; hunger and thirst he bore, 
 And hopeless gazed upon the sea and sky; 
 When there appeared — so willed the Fates on 
 
 high- 
 A royal dame to terminate his woe : 
 " Sweet fruits," she said, " sun-tinged with every 
 
 dye, 
 My father's garden boasts, — wouldst taste 
 
 them ? Go ! " 
 For me, alas ! though shivering in the blast 
 I perish, — a more cruel shipwreck mine, — 
 Who from the beach, where famishing I 'm cast, 
 Will point to royal roofs, for which I pine, 
 If 't is not thou, — moved by my prayers at 
 
 last ? — 
 What shall I call thee? — Goddess! by each 
 
 sign. • 
 
 TO ALPHONSO, DUZE OF FERRARA. 
 
 At thy loved name my voice grows loud and 
 
 clear, 
 Fluent my tongue as thou art wise and strong, 
 And soaring far above the clouds my song; 
 But soon it droops, languid and faint to hear ; 
 And if thou conquerest not my fate, I fear, 
 Invincible Alphonso, Fate ere long 
 Will conquer me, — freezing in death my tongue 
 \nd closing eyes, now opened with a tear. 
 Nor dying merely grieves me, let me own, 
 But to die thus, — with faith of dubious sound, 
 And buried name, to future times unknown. 
 In tomb or pyramid, of brass or stone, 
 For this, no consolation could be found; 
 My monument I sought in verse alone. 
 
 A hell of torment is this life of mine ; 
 My sighs are as the Furies breathing flame ; 
 Desires around my heart like serpents twine, 
 A bold, fierce throng no skill or art may tame. 
 As the lost race to whom hope never came, 
 So am I now, — for me all hope is o'er; 
 My tears are Styx, and my complaints and 
 
 shame 
 The fires of Phlegethon but stir the more. 
 My voice is that of Cerberus, whose bark 
 Fills the abyss, and echoes frightfully 
 Over the stream, dull as my mind, and dark: 
 In this alone less hard my fate may be, 
 That there poor ghosts are of foul fiends the 
 
 mark, 
 While here an earthly goddess tortures me. 
 
 TO THE DUKE ALPHONSO. 
 
 Mr gracious lord ! if you, indeed, complain 
 
 Of the rude license of my angry tongue, 
 
 Not from my heart, believe me, sprang the 
 
 wrong, — 
 It honors you, and feels itself the pain : 
 Nor should a few rash, daring words, and vain, 
 Weigh against praises, well matured and long, 
 By love and study woven into song, 
 Which neither ire nor avarice can stain. 
 Why tedious suffering, then, for transient crime, 
 And brief rewards for ever-during fame ? 
 Such was not royal guerdon in old time ! 
 Yet my right reasoning is perhaps to blame : 
 Honor you gave, not borrowed, from my 
 
 rhyme, — 
 Which to your merit's grandeur never came ! 
 
 TO THE DUKE ALPHONSO, ASKING TO BE 
 LIBERATED. 
 
 A new Ixion upon Fortune's wheel, 
 Whether I sink profound or rise sublime, 
 One never-ceasing martyrdom I feel, 
 The same in woe, though changing all the time. 
 I wept above, where sunbeams sport and climb 
 The vines, and through their foliage sighs the 
 
 breeze ; 
 I burned and froze, languished and prayed in 
 
 rhyme ; 
 Nor could your ire, nor my own grief appease : 
 Now in my prison, deep and dim, have grown 
 My torments greater still and keener far, 
 As if all sharpened on the dungeon-stone. 
 Magnanimous Alphonso ! burst the bar, 
 Changing my fate, and not my cell alone; 
 And let my fortune wheel me where you are ! 
 
 TO THE PRINCESSES OF FERRARA. 
 
 Sisters of great Alphonso ! to the west 
 Three times have sped the coursers of the sun, 
 Since sick and outraged I became a jest, 
 And sighed o'er all that cruel Fate has done : 
 Wretched and vile whatever meets my eye 
 
TORQUATO TASSO. — CHIABRERA. 
 
 577 
 
 Without me, wheresoe'er I gaze around ; 
 Within, indeed, my former virtues lie, 
 Though shame and torment 's the reward they 
 
 've found. 
 Ay ! in my soul are truth and honor still, — 
 Such as, if seen, the world were proud to own ; 
 And your sweet images my bosom fill : 
 But lovely idols ne'er content alone 
 True hearts ; and mine, though mocked and 
 
 scorned at will, 
 Is still your temple, altar, shrine, and throne. 
 
 TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AND SERENE LORD 
 DUKE. 
 
 I swore, my lord ! but my unworthy oath 
 Was a base sacrilege which cannot bind, 
 Since God alone directs and governs, both, 
 The greatest of his works, the human mind. 
 Reason I hold from Him. Who would not loathe 
 Such gift, a pledge in Power's vile hands to find ? 
 Do not forget, my lord, that even the sway 
 Of sovereign kings has bounds at which it ends ; 
 Past them they rule not, nor should we obey. 
 He, who to any mortal being bends, 
 
 One step beyond, sins 'gainst the light of day. 
 Thus, then, my soul her servile shackles rends! 
 And my sound mind shall henceforth none 
 
 obey 
 But Him whose reign o'er kings and worlds 
 
 extends. 
 
 TO SCIPIO GONZAGA. 
 
 Sure, Pity, Scipio, on earth has fled 
 
 From royal breasts to seek abode in heaven ; 
 
 For if she were not banished, scorned, or dead, 
 
 Would not some ear to my complaints be given? 
 
 Is noble faith at pleasure to be riven, 
 
 Though freely pledged that I had naught to 
 
 dread, 
 And I by endless outrage to be drhven 
 To worse than death, — the death-like life I 've 
 
 led? 
 For this is of the quick a grave ; and here 
 Am I, a living, breathing corpse, interred, 
 To go not forth till prisoned in my bier. 
 O earth ! O heaven ! if love and truth are heard, 
 Or honor, fame, and virtue worth a tear, 
 Let not my prayers be fruitless or deferred ! 
 
 FOURTH PERIOD.-FROM 1600 TO 1844. 
 
 GABRIELLO CHIABRERA. 
 
 Gabriello Chiabrera, called by Tirabos- 
 chi, the " honor of his country," was born at 
 Savona, June 8th, 1552. At the age of nine 
 years, he was sent to Rome and educated under 
 the eye of his father's brother. He completed 
 his studies under the Jesuits of the Roman 
 College, in his twentieth year. The friendship 
 he formed here with Muretus, Paulus Manutius, 
 Speroni, and other learned men, encouraged 
 him to prosecute further his literary studies. 
 After the death of his uncle, he entered the 
 service of Cardinal Cornaro, as Chamberlain; 
 but a quarrel he had with a Roman gentleman 
 compelled him to leave Rome and return to his 
 own country, where he quietly occupied himself 
 with his studies, and especially with Italian 
 poetry. At the age of fifty, he married Lelia 
 Pavese. He died, full of years and honors, 
 October 14th, 1637. 
 
 The poetical genius of Chiabrera was not 
 early developed. He was an excellent Greek 
 scholar, and especially admired Pindar, whom 
 he strove to imitate. He thus created a new 
 style in Italian poetry, and gained for himself 
 the name of the Italian Pindar. He says of 
 himself, that " he followed the example of his 
 73 
 
 countryman, Christopher Columbus ; that he 
 determined to discover a new world, or drown." 
 He was a voluminous author, there being scarce- 
 ly any species of poetry which he did not at- 
 tempt. But he owes his celebrity chiefly to his 
 canzoni. His larger works are, the " Italia Li- 
 berata," " Firenze," " Gothiade," or the Wars 
 of the Goths, " Amadeide," and "Ruggiero." 
 His " Opere " appeared at Venice, in six vol 
 umes, 1768; and in five volumes, 1782. Sin 
 gle works have been many times republished. 
 
 TO HIS MISTRESS'S LIPS. 
 
 Sweet, thornless rose, 
 
 Surpassing those 
 With leaves at morning's beam dividing ! 
 
 By Love's command, 
 
 Thy leaves expand 
 To show the treasure they were h ding. 
 
 O, tell me, flower, 
 
 When hour by hour 
 I doting gaze upon thy beauty, 
 
 Why thou the while 
 
 Dost only smile 
 On one whose purest love is duty ! 
 
 WW 
 
578 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Does pity give, 
 
 That I may live, 
 That smile, to show my anguish over? 
 
 Or, cruel coy, 
 
 Is it but joy 
 To see thy poor expiring lover ? 
 
 Whate'er it be, 
 
 Or cruelty, 
 Or pity to the humblest, vilest ; 
 
 Yet can I well 
 
 Thy praises tell, 
 If while I sing them thou but smilest. 
 
 When waters pass 
 
 Through springing grass, 
 With murmuring song their way beguiling; 
 
 And flowerets rear 
 
 Their blossoms near, — 
 Then do we say that Earth is smiling. 
 
 When in the wave 
 
 The Zephyrs lave 
 Their dancing feet with ceaseless motion, 
 
 And sands are gay 
 
 With glittering spray, — 
 Then do we talk of smiling Ocean. 
 
 When we behold 
 
 A vein of gold 
 O'erspread the sky at morn and even, 
 
 And Phoebus' light 
 
 Is broad and bright, — 
 Then do we say 't is smiling Heaven. 
 
 Though Sea and Earth 
 
 May smile in mirth, 
 And joyous Heaven may return it; 
 
 Yet Earth and Sea 
 
 Smile not like thee, 
 And Heaven itself has yet to learn it. 
 
 EPITAPHS. 
 
 Weep not, beloved friends ! nor let the air 
 For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life 
 Have I been taken ; this is genuine life, 
 And this alone, — the life which now I live 
 In peace eternal ; where desire and joy 
 Together move in fellowship without end. — 
 Francesco Ceni after death enjoined 
 That thus his tomb should speak for him. And 
 
 surely 
 Small cause there is for that fond wish of ours 
 Long to continue in this world, — a world 
 That keeps not faith, nor yet can point a hope 
 To good, whereof itself is destitute. 
 
 Perhaps some needful service of the state 
 Drew Titus from the depth of studious bowers, 
 And doomed him to contend in faithless courts, 
 
 Where gold determines between right ana 
 
 wrong. 
 Yet did at length his loyalty of heart, 
 And his pure native genius, lead him back 
 To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses, 
 Whom he had early loved. And not in vain 
 Such course he held. Bologna's learned schools 
 Were gladdened by the sage's voice, and hung 
 With fondness on those sweet Nestorian strains. 
 There pleasure crowned his days; and all his 
 
 thoughts 
 A roseate fragrance breathed. O human life, 
 That never art secure from dolorous change ! 
 Behold, a high injunction suddenly 
 To Arno's side hath brought him, and he charmed 
 A Tuscan audience : but full soon was called 
 To the perpetual silence of the grave. 
 Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood 
 A champion steadfast and invincible, 
 To quell the rage of literary war ! 
 
 O thott who movest onward with a mind 
 Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste! 
 'T will be no fruitless moment. I was born 
 Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood. 
 On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate 
 To sacred studies ; and the Roman Shepherd 
 Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous flock. 
 Well did I watch, much labored, nor had power 
 To escape from many and strange indignities ; 
 Was smitten by the great ones of the world, 
 But did not fall ; for Virtue braves all shocks, 
 Upon herself resting immovably. 
 Me did a kindlier fortune then invite 
 To serve the glorious Henry, king of France, 
 And in his hands I saw a high reward 
 Stretched out for my acceptance : but Death 
 
 came. 
 Now, reader, learn from this my fate, how 
 
 false, 
 How treacherous to her promise, is the world, 
 And trust in God, — to whose eternal doom 
 Must bend the sceptred potentates of earth. 
 
 There never breathed a man, who, when his life 
 Was closing, might not of that life relate 
 Toils long and hard. The warrior will report 
 Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the 
 
 field, 
 And blast of trumpets. He who hath been 
 
 doomed 
 To bow his forehead in the courts of kings 
 Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate, 
 Envy and heart-inquietude, derived 
 From intricate cabals of treacherous friends. 
 I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth, 
 Could represent the countenance horrible 
 Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage 
 Of Auster and Bootes. Fifty years 
 Over the well steered gallevs did I rule. 
 From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic Pillars, 
 
CHIABRERA. 
 
 579 
 
 Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown; 
 And the broad gulfs I traversed oft — and — oft. 
 Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir 
 I knew the force ; and hence the rough sea's pride 
 Availed not to my vessel's overthrow. 
 What noble pomp, and frequent, have not I 
 On regal decks beheld ! yet in the end 
 I learned that one poor moment can suffice 
 To equalize the lofty and the low. 
 We sail the sea of life, — a calm one finds, 
 And one a tempest, — and, the voyage o'er, 
 Death is the quiet haven of us all. 
 If more of my condition ye would know, 
 Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang 
 Of noble parents : seventy years and three 
 Lived I, — then yielded to a slow disease. 
 
 True is it that Ambrosio Salinero, 
 
 With an untoward fate, was long involved 
 
 In odious litigation ; and full long, 
 
 Fate harder still ! had he to endure assaults 
 
 Of racking malady. And true it is 
 
 That not the less a frank, courageous heart 
 
 And buoyant spirit triumphed over pain ; 
 
 And he was strong to follow in the steps 
 
 Of the fair Muses. Not a covert path 
 
 Leads to the dear Parnassian forest's shade, 
 
 That might from him be hidden ; not a track 
 
 Mounts to pellucid Hippocrene, but he 
 
 Had traced its windings. This Savona knows, 
 
 Tet no sepulchral honors to her son 
 
 She paid; for in our age the heart is ruled 
 
 Only by gold. And now a simple stone, 
 
 Inscribed with this memorial, here is raised 
 
 By his bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera. 
 
 Think not, O passenger who read'st the lines, 
 
 That an exceeding love hath dazzled me : 
 
 No, — he was one whose memory ought to spread 
 
 Where'er Permessus bears an honored name, 
 
 And live as long as its pure stream shall flow. 
 
 Destined to war from very infancy 
 Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took 
 In Malta the white symbol of the Cross. 
 Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun 
 Hazard or toil ; among the sands was seen 
 Of Libya, and not seldom, on the banks 
 Of wide Hungarian Danube, 't was my lot 
 To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded. 
 So lived I, and repined not at such fate: 
 This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong, 
 That stripped of arms I to my end am brought 
 On the soft down of my paternal home. 
 Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause 
 To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt 
 In thy appointed way, and bear in mind 
 How fleeting and how frail is human life ! 
 
 O flower of all that springs from gentle blood, 
 And all that generous nurture breeds, to make 
 
 Youth amiable ! O friend so true of soul 
 
 To fair Aglaia ! by what envy moved, 
 
 Lelius, has Death cut short thy brilliant day 
 
 In its sweet opening? and what dire mishap 
 
 Has from Savona torn her best delight ? 
 
 For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to 
 
 mourn ; 
 And, should the outpourings of her eyes suffice 
 
 not 
 For her heart's grief, she will entreat Sebeto 
 Not to withhold his bounteous aid, — Sebeto, 
 Who saw thee on his margin yield to death, 
 In the chaste arms of thy beloved love ! 
 What profit riches ? what does youth avail ? 
 Dust are our hopes ! — I, weeping bitterly, 
 Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to pray 
 That every gentle spirit hither led 
 May read them not without some bitter tears. 
 
 Not without heavy grief of heart did he 
 
 On whom the duty fell (for at that time 
 
 The father sojourned ir a distant land) 
 
 Deposit in the hollow of this tomb 
 
 A brother's child, most tenderly beloved! 
 
 Francesco was the name the youth had borne, — 
 
 Pozzobonnelli his illustrious house; 
 
 And when beneath this stone the corse was laid, 
 
 The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears. 
 
 Alas ! the twentieth April of his life 
 
 Had scarcely flowered : and at this early time, 
 
 By genuine virtue he inspired a hope 
 
 That greatly cheered his country ; to his kin 
 
 He promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts 
 
 His friends had in their fondness entertained 
 
 He suffered not to languish or decay. 
 
 Now is there not good reason to break forth 
 
 Into a passionate lament? O soul ! 
 
 Short while a pilgrim in our nether world, 
 
 Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air; 
 
 And round this earthly tomb let roses rise, — 
 
 An everlasting spring ! — in memory 
 
 Of that delightful fragrance which was once 
 
 From thy mild manners quietly exalted. 
 
 Pause, courteous spirit! — Balbi supplicates, 
 That thou, with no reluctant voice, for him 
 Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer 
 A prayer to the Redeemer of the world. 
 This to the dead by sacred right belongs; 
 All else is nothing. Did occasion suit 
 To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb 
 Would ill suffice: for Plato's lore sublime, 
 And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite, 
 Enriched and beautified his studious mind; 
 With Archimedes, also, he conversed, 
 As with a chosen friend; nor did he leave 
 Those laureate wreaths ungathered which the 
 
 Nymphs 
 Twine near their loved Permessus. Finally, 
 Himself above each lower thought uplifting, 
 His ears he closed to listen to the songs 
 
580 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Which Sion's kings did consecrate of old; 
 And his Permessus found on Lebanon. 
 A blessed man ! who of protracted days 
 Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep ; 
 But truly did he live his life. Urbino, 
 Take pride in him ! — O passenger, farewell ! 
 
 ALESSANDRO TASSONI. 
 
 Alessandro Tassoni was born at Modena, 
 of an ancient and noble family, September 28th, 
 1565. Bereaved of his parents in his child- 
 hood, and suffering from a feeble constitution, 
 he devoted himself, nevertheless, to the study 
 of Greek and Latin under the direction of Laz- 
 zaro Labadini, a celebrated teacher at that time 
 in Modena. About the year 1585, he went to 
 Bologna to study the severer sciences, and af- 
 terwards to Ferrara, where he attended chiefly 
 to jurisprudence. About the year 1597, he 
 entered the service of Cardinal Ascanio Colon- 
 na, in Rome, whom he accompanied to Spain 
 in 1600. During the cardinal's stay in Spain, 
 Tassoni was twice despatched to Italy by him 
 on important business ; and on one of these 
 journeys, he wrote his famous " Considerazioni 
 sopra il Petrarca." While in Rome, he was 
 elected a member of the Academy of Humor- 
 ists. For several years after the death of Car- 
 dinal Colonna, which happened in 1608, Tasso- 
 ni was without a patron ; and being destitute of 
 the means of an independent livelihood, he 
 entered the service of the duke of Savoy in 
 1613. He left this service in 1623, and devoted 
 the three following years to the tranquil pur- 
 suit of literature. In 1626, Cardinal Ludovi- 
 sio, a nephew of Gregory the Fifteenth, took 
 him into his service, and assigned him an annu- 
 al stipend of four hundred Roman scudi, with 
 lodgings in the palace. After the death of the 
 cardinal, in 1632, Tassoni was made a Coun- 
 cillor by his native sovereign, Duke Francis 
 the First, with an honorable allowance, and a 
 residence at court. He died three years after, 
 in 1635. 
 
 Tassoni wrote several works in prose. The 
 " Considerations on Petrarch," above mentioned, 
 gave rise to a vehement literary controversy. 
 His " Pensieri Diversi," a part of which, entitled 
 " Quesiti," was published in 1608, and again, 
 enlarged, in 1612, is a work marked by ingenu- 
 ity, wit, and elegance. But his fame rests upon 
 the poem entitled " Secchia Rapita," or the Rape 
 of the Bucket ; an heroi-comic poem, which 
 describes, in twelve burlesque cantos, the efforts 
 of the Bolognese to recover a bucket, which, 
 in a war of the thirteenth century, the Moden- 
 ■ese, having entered Bologna, carried off as a 
 trophy to Modena, where it is preserved down 
 to the present day. The life of Tassoni has 
 been written in English by J. C. Walker, Lon- 
 don, 1815. The "Secchia Rapita" was trans- 
 lated by Ozell, London, 1710. 
 
 FROM LA SECCHIA RAPITA. 
 
 THK ATTACK ON MODENA. 
 
 Now had the sun the heavenly Ram forsook, 
 Darting through wintry clouds his radiant look; 
 The fields with stars, the sky with flowers, 
 
 seemed dressed ; 
 The winds lay sleeping on the sea's calm breast; 
 Soft Zephyr only, breathing o'er the meads, 
 Kissed the young grass, and waved the tender 
 
 reeds ; 
 The nightingales were heard at peep of day, 
 And asses singing amorous roundelay : 
 When the new season's warmth, which cheers 
 
 the earth, 
 And moves the cricket-kind to wonted mirth, 
 The Bolonois to mischief did excite, 
 And, like a gathering storm, prepared their spite. 
 Under two chiefs they rushed in separate bands, 
 Armed, to lay waste Panaro's fruitful lands : 
 Fearless, like wading boys, they passed the 
 
 stream, 
 And broke with horrid rout Modenia's morning 
 
 dream. 
 
 Modenia in a spacious opening sits; 
 
 No hostile foot the south or west admits; 
 
 Nature those points has guarded with a line, — 
 
 The freezing back of woody Apennine : 
 
 That Apennine which shoves so high his head 
 
 To view the sun descending to his bed, 
 
 It seems as if upon his snowy face 
 
 The heavenly orbs had chose a resting-plaee. 
 
 The eastern bounder famed Panaro laves, 
 
 Noted for flowery banks and limpid waves ; 
 
 Bolonia opposite; and on the left 
 
 The stream where Phaeton fell thunder-cleft; 
 
 Nor'ward, meandering Secchia takes a range, 
 
 Unconstant to its bed, and fond of change : 
 
 Swallowing its banks, and strewing fruitless 
 
 sand, 
 The teeming fields become a barren strand. 
 The Modenois no watchful sentries kept, 
 But, fearless, like the ancient Spartans slept; 
 Nor walls, nor ramparts did the town inclose: 
 The ditch, filled up, was free for friends or foes. 
 
 No more let Tagus or the Mafise recite 
 The celebrated Cursio's feats in fight ! 
 Justly Panaro may in Gerard pride ! 
 Gerard did more than Cursio ever lied : 
 The sun ne'er saw so many on their backs. 
 The first he slew was Cuthbert, prince of quacks 
 Cuthbert for others, not himself, was born; 
 None drew a tooth like him, or cut a corn ; 
 He powder, washballs, passatempos made : 
 Better had Cuthbert far ha' kept his trade ! 
 Next him, Phil Littigo, deprived of day, 
 A fat, facetious pettifogger, lay : 
 As Phil had many others, during life, 
 So now the Devil drew Phil into a strife : 
 Yet honest Phil his calling ne'er belied ; 
 For, as he lived by quarrel, so he died. 
 Viano next he down the body cleft; 
 Then Doctor Hirco's face he noseless left 
 
TASSONI. 
 
 581 
 
 As for this doctor's nose, some authors write, 
 He lost it not in sword, but scabbard fight. 
 Left-handed Crispaline he then unsouls, 
 Renowned for making perching-sticks for owls. 
 Bartlet, sore wounded next, renounced the light ; 
 The well fed friar, in his own despite, 
 Fell headlong to the waves : fantastic death ! 
 That what his lips abhorred l should stop his 
 
 breath ! 
 Two fools in masks against Gerardo join, 
 A horseblock heave and hit him on the groin • 
 One dexterous blow despatched this loving pair; 
 Thrice sprung their headless bodies up in air ; 
 As if some engine had the sword controlled, 
 At once they fell, and o'er each other rolled. 
 Torrents of crimson hue ran pouring down, 
 And swelled Panaro's banks with streams un- 
 known : 
 So Trojan gore o'erflowed fair Xanthus' strand, 
 Tapped by the son of Thetis' wrathful hand ; 
 So, near the Theban walls, with hostile blood, 
 Hippomedon distained Asopus' flood. 
 Glutted with lists of dead, the Muse grows sick, 
 Nor can on all bestow the immortal prick. 
 Mine host o' th' Scritchowl, famed for musca- 
 dine, 
 Drew human blood as freely as his wine. 
 Hat he had none, and helmet he despised, 
 In a huge highway periwig disguised ; 
 Him Bruno met : Bruno, whose fertile thought 
 Your long, small sausage 2 to perfection brought. 
 Fortune awhile stood neuter to the strife ; 
 The Thrummy-sconce rebates the Chopping- 
 
 knife : 
 At length mine host, unperiwigged i' th' fray, 
 At once lost both his skull-cap and the day. 
 
 THE BUCKET OP BOLOGNA. 
 
 Meanwhile the Potta, where the battle droops, 
 Sends fresh detachments of his foremost troops. 
 Himself was mounted on a female mule, 
 Which, though a magistrate, he scarce could 
 
 rule : 
 She bit, and winched, and such excursions made, 
 As if her legs a game at draughts had played; 
 At length, not minding whether wrong or right, 
 Full speed she run amidst the thick o' th' fight. 
 About this time La Grace received a wound, 
 And, much against his will, went off the ground. 
 
 When the most ancient race of Boii saw 
 One captain prisoner made, and one withdraw; 
 They, who before had made a bold retreat, 
 Renounce their hands, and solely trust their feet. 
 Forwards the Potta urges with his spear, 
 And like some devil flashes in their rear. 
 Such quantities of blood the brook distained, 
 It many days both warm and red remained ; 
 That brook which heretofore had scarce a name, 
 Baptized in blood, R Tepido became. 
 
 1 Water. 
 
 2 At Modena are made this sort of sausages, at Bologna 
 the short an \ thick. Qui bene distinguit, bene docet. 
 
 Such crowds went' reeking to the Elysian shore, 
 
 Charon complained there was no room for more. 
 
 All the day long, and all the following night, 
 
 The poor Bolonians prosecute their flight. 
 
 Three hundred horse, Manfredi at their head, 
 
 Fill every road and river with their dead : 
 
 So close the warlike youth oppressed their heels, 
 
 Returning day the city walls reveals. 
 
 The gate Saint Felix, opening soon, admits, 
 
 In one confusion, foreigners and cits ; 
 
 So thick they crowd, the watch no difi"erence 
 
 knew ; 
 In went the conquered and the conquerors too 
 Far as an arrow's flight, and quick as thought, 
 Manfredi's men within the town were got : 
 Manfred, who ne'er left any thing to chance, 
 Halts at the gate, nor further would advance ; 
 By drums and trumpets sounding from the walls 
 The endangered troops he suddenly recalls. 
 
 Radaldo, Spinamont, Griffani fierce, 
 
 And other names too obstinate for verse, 
 
 Fainting with heat, and harassed with the chase 
 
 Espied a well belonging to the place : 
 
 They thanked the gods with lifted hands and 
 
 eyes; 
 Then hastily despatched to nether skies 
 The bone of discord, apple of the war, — 
 A bran new bucket, made of fatal fir. 
 Low was the water, and the well profound ; 
 The pulley, dry and broke, went hobbling round 
 The unlucky hemp, knotting, increased delay, 
 And all their hopes hung dangling in midway 
 Some with still sighs the bucket's absence mourn 
 Others, impatient, curse its slow return ; 
 At length it weeping comes, as if it knew 
 The sanguinary work that was to ensue. 
 Greedy they all advance to seize their prey : 
 Radaldo's happy lips first pulled away. 
 Scarce had he drunk, when, lo ! a numerous ring 
 Of adverse swords surround the ravished spring : 
 Rushing from every alley through the town, 
 " Kill ! kill ! " was all the cry, and " Knock 'em 
 
 down ! " 
 The Potta-men alarmed, with active feet 
 Regain their steeds, and leap into their seat : 
 Sipa, not liking much their threatening face, 
 Began to keep aloof, and slack their pace. 
 The bucket chanced to be at Griffon's nose : 
 His tip thus spoiled, away the water throws; 
 Cuts the retaining cord, and then applied 
 The vehicle to shield his near-hand side ; 
 His off-hand grasps a sword, and, thus prepared, 
 Defies the world, and stands upon his guard : 
 Nimbly the men of Potta intervene, 
 And from the foe their brave companion screen 
 
 Clear of this scrape, Manfredi's squadrons join, 
 And treading back their steps repass the Rhine. 3 
 Their captain, who no worthier spoils could 
 
 show 
 Than this same bucket conquered from the foe, 
 
 3 There is a little river near Bologna, called the Rhine. 
 Parvique Bononia Rheni. — Silius Italious. 
 ww2 
 
582 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Caused it in form of trophy to advance 
 Before the troops, sublime upon a lance : 
 To think how he in open day had scoured 
 Bolonia, and their virgin-spring deflowered; 
 To think how he had ravished from the place 
 An everlasting pledge of their disgrace ; 
 Elate and glorying in his slit-deal prize, 
 Not victory seemed so noble in his eyes. 
 Straight from Saraogia's plains he sends express 
 To Modena the news of his success; 
 And straight the town resolves in form to meet 
 The conquering army, and their general greet. 
 
 GIAMBATTISTA MARINI. 
 
 Giambattista Marini, or Marino, known 
 as the creator of a school of Italian poets-, who 
 have been called, from him, the Marinisft, was 
 born at Naples, in 1569. His father, a learned 
 lawyer, intended him for the same career; on 
 which Tiraboschi remarks, that it would have 
 been well for Italian poetry had it so fallen 
 out. But Marini, instead of following the in- 
 structions of the masters under whom he had 
 been placed, occupied himself constantly with 
 the study of the poets. His father, indignant 
 at such persevering resistance to his desires, 
 turned him out of his house ; but the duke of 
 Borino, the prince of Conca, and the marquis 
 of Villa, who admired his talents, gave him a 
 refuge for the next three years, at the end of 
 which time a youthful indiscretion led to his 
 arrest, and on obtaining his liberty he went to 
 Rome. He there received the patronage of the 
 Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini, whom he accom- 
 panied to Ravenna and Turin. In this latter 
 city he became notorious by the violent literary 
 controversies in which he was entangled. He 
 obtained such favor with the prince, that he 
 was made a knight of the order of Saint Mau- 
 rice and Saint Lazarus. This favor, however, 
 was interrupted by the intrigues of his rivals 
 and enemies. In 1615, Marini went to France, 
 on the invitation of Queen Margaret. When 
 he arrived, his patroness was dead, but he was 
 well received by Maria de' Medici, who set- 
 tled on him a pension of fifteen hundred scudi, 
 afterwards raised to two thousand. He remain- 
 ed in France until 1622, when, being invited 
 by the Cardinal Ludovisio, he returned to 
 Rome, where he was chosen President of the 
 Academy of Humorists. On the death of Pope 
 Gregory the Fifteenth, he went back to Naples, 
 where he was received in a friendly manner by 
 the viceroy, the duke of Alba. He died there, 
 March 25th, 1625. 
 
 Marini was a poet felicitously endowed by 
 nature ; but his genius was perverted by his 
 ambition to surpass all other poets. He had 
 wit, fancy, subtilty, and vivacity ; but his pas- 
 sion to say what was new and striking led 
 him into forced expressions, far-fetched figures, 
 and various affectations of style, on which he 
 
 relied for his effect. He was much applauded 
 in his day, and found many imitators, whose 
 influence was injurious to the language and 
 literature of Italy. Tiraboschi denounces him 
 as the " most pestilent corrupter of good taste 
 in Italy." Some of his sonnets, however, have 
 been greatly praised, and ranked among the 
 best in the language. Besides the fault of af- 
 fectation, Marini's writings are, in places, deep- 
 ly stained with licentiousness. His principal 
 works are the " Adone," first published at Paris, 
 in 1623, and a narrative poem on the slaughter 
 of the Innocents. Besides these, he wrote a 
 large number of miscellaneous pieces. 
 
 FADING BEAUTY. 
 Beauty — a beam, nay, flame, 
 Of the great lamp of light — 
 Shines for a while with fame, 
 But presently makes night : 
 Like Winter's short-lived bright, 
 Or Summer's sudden gleams ; 
 As much more dear, so much less lasting 
 beams. 
 
 Winged Love away doth fly, 
 And with him Time doth bear; 
 
 And both take suddenly 
 
 The sweet, the fair, the dear: 
 To shining day and clear 
 
 Succeeds the obscure night; 
 
 And sorrow is the heir of sweet delight. 
 
 With what, then, dost thou swell, 
 
 O youth of new-born day? 
 Wherein doth thy pride dwell, 
 
 O Beauty, made of clay? 
 
 Not with so swift a way 
 The headlong current flies, 
 As do the lively rays of two fair eyes. 
 
 That which on Flora's breast, 
 
 All fresh and flourishing, 
 Aurora newly dressed 
 
 Saw in her dawning spring; 
 
 Quite dry and languishing, 
 Deprived of honor quite, 
 Day-closing Hesperus beholds at night. 
 
 Fair is the lily ; fair 
 
 The rose, of flowers the eye ! 
 
 Both wither in the air, 
 
 Their beauteous colors die : 
 And so at length shall lie, 
 
 Deprived of former grace, 
 
 The lilies of thy breasts, the roses of thj 
 face. 
 
 Do not thyself betray 
 
 With shadows ; with thy years, 
 O Beauty (traitors gay ! ) 
 
 This melting life, too, wears,— 
 
 Appearing, disappears; 
 And with thy flying days, 
 Ends all thy good of price, thy fair of praise. 
 
MARINI. — REDI. 
 
 583 
 
 Trust not, vain creditor, 
 
 Thy oft deceived view 
 In thy false counsellor, 
 
 That never tells thee true : 
 
 Thy form and flattered hue, 
 Which shall so soon transpass, 
 Are far more frail than is thy looking-glass. 
 
 Enjoy thy April now, 
 
 Whilst it doth freely shine : 
 This lightning flash and show, 
 
 With that clear spirit of thine, 
 
 Will suddenly decline ; 
 And those fair murdering eyes 
 Shall be Love's tomb, where now his cra- 
 dle lies. 
 
 Old trembling age will come, 
 
 With wrinkled cheeks and stains, 
 
 With motion troublesome, 
 
 With void and bloodless veins ; 
 That lively visage wanes, 
 
 And, made deformed and old, 
 
 Hates sight of glass it loved so to behold. 
 
 Thy gold and scarlet shall 
 
 Pale silver-color be; 
 Thy row of pearls shall fall 
 
 Like withered leaves from tree; 
 
 And thou shalt shortly see 
 Thy face and hair to grow 
 All ploughed with furrows, over-swollen 
 with snow. 
 
 What, then, will it avail, 
 O youth advised ill, 
 
 In lap of beauty frail 
 
 To nurse a wayward will, 
 Like snake in sun-warm hill ? 
 
 Pluck, pluck betime thy flower, 
 
 That springs and parches in the self-same 
 hour. 
 
 FRANCESCO REDI. 
 
 Francesco Redi was a native of Arezzo, 
 where he was born February 18th, 1626. His 
 family was noble. He studied in the Univer- 
 sity of Pisa, where he took his degrees in phi- 
 losophy and medicine. The proofs he soon gave 
 of genius attracted the attention of those great 
 patrons of the sciences, the Grand Duke Fer- 
 dinand the Second, and Prince Leopold. By 
 the former, and afterwards by Cosmo the Third, 
 he was appointed principal physician, a place 
 he held until his death. Towards the end of 
 his life, he retired to Pisa for the benefit of the 
 air. He was found dead in his bed, on the 
 morning of March 1st, 1694. 
 
 Redi was especially distinguished bv the ex- 
 tent and variety of his attainments and discov- 
 eries in the natural sciences, his writings upon 
 which acquired great celebrity. Besides being 
 a member of numerous scientific societies, he 
 
 belonged to the Delia Cruscan Academy, and 
 rendered valuable contributions to the edition 
 of their Dictionary, published in 1691. As a 
 poet, he is distinguished by grace and elegance. 
 His most famous piece is the dithyrambic enti- 
 tled " Bacco in Toscana " ; a poem, in its kind, 
 scarcely equalled by any thing in Italian litera- 
 ture. It has been well translated by Leigh 
 Hunt. Should it be found too Bacchanalian 
 for the taste of the present age, let the reader 
 remember that Redi himself was one of the 
 most temperate men of his day, and never drank 
 wine without diluting it. 
 
 FR03I BACCHUS IN TUSCANY. 
 
 BACCHUS'S OPINION OF WINE, AND OTHER 
 BEVERAGES. 
 
 Give me, give me Buriano, 
 Trebbiano, Colombano, — 
 Give me bumpers, rich and clear ! 
 'T is the true old Aurum Potabile, 
 Gilding life when it wears shabbily : 
 Helen's old Nepenthe 't is, 
 That in the drinking 
 Swallowed thinking, 
 And was the receipt for bliss. 
 Thence it is, that ever and aye, 
 When he doth philosophize, 
 Good old glorious Rucellai 
 Hath it for light unto his eyes ; 
 He lifteth it, and by the shine 
 Well discerneth things divine : 
 Atoms with their airy justles, 
 And all manner of corpuscles ; 
 And, as through a crystal skylight, 
 How morning difFereth from evening twilight; 
 And further telleth us the reason why go 
 Some stars with such a lazy light, and some 
 with a vertigo. 
 
 O, how widely wandereth he, 
 
 Who in search of verity 
 
 Keeps aloof from glorious wine ! 
 
 Lo, the knowledge it bringeth to me ! 
 
 For Barbarossa, this wine so bright, 
 
 With its rich red look and its strawberry light, 
 
 So inviteth me, 
 
 So delighteth me, 
 
 I should infallibly quench my inside with it, 
 
 Had not Hippocrates 
 
 And old Andromachus 
 
 Strictly forbidden it 
 
 And loudly chidden it, 
 
 So many stomachs have sickened and died with it 
 
 Yet, discordant as it is, 
 
 Two good biggins will not come amiss; 
 
 Because I know, while I 'm drinking them down 
 
 What is the finish and what is the crown. 
 
 A cup of good Corsican 
 
 Does it at once ; 
 
 Or a glass of old Spanish 
 
 Is neat for the nonce : 
 
 Quackish resources are things for a dunce. 
 
584 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Talk of Chocolate ! 
 
 Talk of Tea! 
 
 Medicines, made — ye gods ! — as they are, 
 
 Are no medicines made for me. 
 
 I would sooner take to poison 
 
 Than a single cup set eyes on 
 
 Of that bitter and guilty stuff ye 
 
 Talk of by the name of Coffee. 
 
 Let the Arabs and the Turks 
 
 Count it 'mongst their cruel works : 
 
 Foe of mankind, black and turbid, 
 
 Let the throats of slaves absorb it. 
 
 Down in Tartarus, 
 
 Down in Erebus, 
 
 'T wa3 the detestable Fifty invented.it; 
 
 The Furies then took it 
 
 To grind and to cook it, 
 
 And to Proserpina al'. three presented it. 
 
 If the Mussulman in Asia 
 
 Doats on a beverage so unseemly, 
 
 I differ with the man extremely. 
 
 There 's a squalid thing, called Beer: 
 
 The man whose lips that thing comes near 
 
 Swiftly dies ; or falling foolish, 
 
 Grows, at forty, old and owlish. 
 
 She that in the ground would hide her, 
 
 Let her take to English Cider: 
 
 He who 'd have his death come quicker, 
 
 Any other Northern liquor. 
 
 Those Norwegians and those Laps 
 
 Have extraordinary taps : 
 
 Those Laps especially have strange fancies ; 
 
 To see them drink, 
 
 I verily think, 
 
 Would make me lose my senses. 
 
 But a truce to such vile subjects, 
 
 With their impious, shocking objects. 
 
 Let me purify my mouth 
 
 In a holy cup o' th' South; 
 
 In a golden pitcher let me 
 
 Head and ears for comfort get me, 
 
 And drink of the wine of the vine benign 
 
 That sparkles warm in Sansovine. 
 
 ICE NECESSARY TO WINE. 
 
 You know Lamporecchio, the castle renowned 
 For the gardener so dumb, whose works did 
 
 abound; 
 There 's a topaz they make there ; pray, let it 
 
 go round. 
 Serve, serve me a dozen, 
 But let it be frozen ; 
 Let it be frozen and finished with ice, 
 And see that the ice be as virginly nice 
 As the coldest that whistles from wintery skies. 
 Coolers and cellarets, crystal with snows, 
 Should always hold bottles in ready repose. 
 Snow is good liquor's fifth element ; 
 No compound without it can give content : 
 For weak is the brain, and I hereby scout it, 
 That thinks in hot weather to drink without it. 
 
 Bring me heaps from the Shady Valley : l 
 
 Bring me heaps 
 
 Of all that sleeps 
 
 On every village hill and alley. 
 
 Hold there, you satyrs, 
 
 Your beard-shaking chatters, 
 
 And bring me ice duly, and bring it me doubly, 
 
 Out of the grotto of Monte di Boboli. 
 
 With axes and pickaxes, 
 
 Hammers and rammers, 
 
 Thump it and hit it me, 
 
 Crack it and crash it me, 
 
 Hew it and split it me, 
 
 Pound it and smash it me, 
 
 Till the whole mass (for I 'm dead-dry, I think 
 
 Turns to a cold, fit to freshen my drink. 
 
 If with hot wine we insack us, 
 
 Say our name 's not Bacchus. 
 
 If we taste the weight of a button, 
 
 Say we 're a glutton. 
 
 He who, when he first wrote verses, 
 
 Had the Graces by his side, 
 
 Then at rhymers' evil courses 
 
 Shook his thunders far and wide 
 
 (For his great heart rose and burned, 
 
 Till his words to thunder turned), 
 
 He, I say, Menzini, 2 he 
 
 The marvellous and the masterly, 
 
 Whom the leaves of Phoebus crown, 
 
 Admirable Anacreon, — 
 
 He shall give me, if I do it, 
 
 Gall of the satiric poet, 
 
 Gall from out his blackest well, 
 
 Shuddering, unescapable. 
 
 But if still, as I ought to do, 
 
 I love any wine iced through and through, 
 
 If I will have it (and none beside) 
 
 Superultrafrostified, 
 
 He that reigns in Pindus then, 
 
 Visible Phoebus among men, 
 
 Filicaia, shalt exalt 
 
 Me above the starry vault ; 
 
 While the other swans divine, 
 
 Who swim with their proud hearts in wine, 
 
 And make their laurel groves resound 
 
 With the names of the laurel-crowned, 
 
 All shall sing, till our goblets ring, 
 
 " Long live Bacchus, our glorious king ! " 
 
 Evoe ! let them roar away ! 
 
 Evoe ! 
 
 Evoe ! 
 
 Evoe ! let the lords of wit 
 
 Rise and echo, where they sit, 
 
 Where they sit enthroned each, 
 
 Arbiters of sovereign speech, 
 
 Under the great Tuscan dame 
 
 Who sifts the flour and gives it fame : 3 
 
 > Vallombrosa. The convent there is as old as the time 
 of Ariosto, who celebrates the monks for their hospitality. 
 
 2 The poets, whose names here follow, were contempo- 
 raries and friends of Redi. 
 
 3 The Delia Cruscan Academy, professed sifters of words. 
 Hence their name, from the word crusca (bran), and theii 
 device of flour and a mill. 
 
REDI. 
 
 585 
 
 Let the shout by Segni be 
 Registered immortally, 
 And despatched by a courier 
 A Monsieur VAbbi Regnier. 4 
 
 BACCHUS GROWS MUSICAL IN HIS CUPS. 
 
 The ruby dew that stills 
 
 Upon Valdarno's hills 
 
 Touches the sense with odor so divine, 
 
 That not the violet, 
 
 With lips with morning wet, 
 
 Utters such sweetness from her little shrine. 
 
 When I drink of it, I rise 
 
 Far o'er the hill that makes poets wise, 
 
 And in my voice and in my song 
 
 Grow so sweet and grow so strong, 
 
 I challenge Phoebus with his Delphic eyes. 
 
 Give me, then, from a golden measure, 
 
 The ruby that is my treasure, my treasure ; 
 
 And like to the lark that goes maddening above, 
 
 I '11 sing songs of love : 
 
 Songs will I sing more moving and fine 
 
 Than the bubbling and quaffing of Gersole wine. 
 
 Then the rote shall go round, 
 
 And the cymbals kiss, 
 
 And I '11 praise Ariadne, 
 
 My beauty, my bliss ; 
 
 I '11 sing of her tresses, 
 
 I '11 sing of her kisses : 
 
 Now, now it increases, 
 
 The fervor increases, 
 
 The fervor, the boiling and venomous bliss. 
 
 The grim god of war and the arrowy boy 
 
 Double-gallant me with desperate joy : 
 
 Love, love, and a fight ! 
 
 I must make me a knight; 
 
 I must make me thy knight of the bath, fair 
 
 friend, 
 A knight of the bathing that knows no end. 
 
 GOOD WINE A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 O boys, this Tuscan land divine 
 
 Hath such a natural talent for wine, 
 
 We '11 fall, we '11 fall 
 
 On the barrels and all ; 
 
 We '11 fall on the must, we '11 fall on the presses, 
 
 We 'II make the boards groan with our grievous 
 
 caresses ; 
 No measure, I say ; no order, but riot ; 
 No waiting nor cheating; we '11 drink like a 
 
 Sciot : 
 Drink, drink, and drink when you 've done; 
 Pledge it and frisk it, every one ; 
 Chirp it and challenge it, swallow it down : 
 He that 's afraid is a thief and a clown. 
 Good wine 's a gentleman ; 
 He speedeth digestion all he can ; 
 No headache hath he, no headache, I say, 
 For those who talked with him yesterday. 
 
 4 Regnier Desmaraig, Secretary of the French Academy, 
 himself a writer of Italian verses. 
 74 
 
 If Signor Bellini, besides his apes, 
 Would anatomize vines, and anatomize grapes, 
 He 'd see that the heart that makes good wine 
 Is made to do good, and very benign. 
 
 THE PRAISE OF CHIANTI WINE, AND DENOUNCE- 
 MENT OF WATER. 
 
 True son of the earth is Chianti wine, 
 
 Born on the ground of a gypsy vine ; 
 
 Born on the ground for sturdy souls, 
 
 And not the lank race of one of your poles : 
 
 I should like to see a snake 
 
 Get up in August out of a brake, 
 
 And fasten with all his teeth and caustic 
 
 Upon that sordid villain of a rustic, 
 
 Who, to load my Chianti's haunches 
 
 With a parcel of feeble bunches, 
 
 Went and tied her to one of these poles, — 
 
 Sapless sticks without any souls ! 
 
 Like a king, 
 
 In his conquering, 
 
 Chianti wine with his red flag goes 
 
 Down to my heart, and down to my toes : 
 
 He makes no noise, he beats no drums ; 
 
 Yet pain and trouble fly as he comes. 
 
 And yet a good bottle of Carmignan, 
 
 He of the two is the merrier man ; 
 
 He brings from heaven such a rain of joy, 
 
 I envy not Jove his cups, old boy. 
 
 Drink, Ariadne ! the grapery 
 
 Was the warmest and brownest in Tuscany : 
 
 Drink, and whatever they have to say, 
 
 Still to the Naiads answer, Nay ! 
 
 For mighty folly it were, and a sin, 
 
 To drink Carmignano with water in. 
 
 He who drinks water, 
 
 I wish to observe, 
 
 Gets nothing from me ; 
 
 He may eat it and starve. 
 
 Whether it 's well, or whether it 's fountain, 
 
 Or whether it comes foaming white from the 
 
 mountain, 
 I cannot admire it, 
 Nor ever desire it ; 
 
 'T is a fool, and a madman, and impudent wretch, 
 Who now will live in a nasty ditch, 
 And then, grown proud and full of his whims, 
 Comes playing the devil and cursing his brims, 
 And swells and tumbles, and bothers his margins, 
 And ruins the flowers, although they be virgins. 
 Moles and piers, were it not for him, 
 Would last for ever, 
 If they 're built clever ; 
 
 But no, — it 's all one with him, — sink or swim 
 Let the people yclept Mameluke 
 Praise the Nile without any rebuke ; 
 Let the Spaniards praise the Tagus ; 
 I cannot like either, even for negus. 
 
 Away with all water, 
 Wherever I come ; 
 
>86 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 I forbid it ye, gentlemen, 
 
 All and some ; 
 
 Lemonade water, 
 
 Jessamine water, 
 
 Our tavern knows none of 'em : 
 
 Water 's a hum. 
 
 Jessamine makes a pretty crown ; 
 
 But as a drink, 't will never go down. 
 
 All your hydromels and flips 
 
 Come not near these prudent lips. 
 
 All your sippings and sherbets, 
 
 And a thousand such pretty sweets, 
 
 Let your mincing ladies take 'em, 
 
 And fops whose little fingers ache 'em. 
 
 Wine! Wine! is your only drink ; 
 
 Grief never dares to look at the brink; 
 
 Six times a year to be mad with wine, 
 
 I hold it no shame, but a very good sign. 
 
 A TUNE ON THE WATER. 
 
 O, what a thing 
 
 'T is for you and for me, 
 
 On an evening in spring, 
 
 To sail in the sea! 
 
 The little fresh airs 
 
 Spread their silver wings, 
 
 And o'er the blue pavement 
 
 Dance love-makings : 
 
 To the tune of the waters, and tremulous glee, 
 
 They strike up a dance to people at sea. 
 
 MONTEPULCIANO INAUGURATED. 
 
 A small glass, and thirsty ! Be sure never ask it : 
 Man might as well serve up soup in a basket. 
 This my broad, and this my high 
 Bacchanalian butlery 
 Lodgeth not, nor doth admit 
 Glasses made with little wit ; 
 Little bits of would-be bottles 
 Run to seed in strangled throttles : 
 Such things are for invalids, 
 Sipping dogs that keep their beds. 
 As for shallow cups like plates, 
 Break them upon shallower pates. 
 Such glassicles, 
 And vesicles, 
 
 And bits of things like icicles, 
 Are toys and curiosities 
 For babies and their gaping eyes ; 
 Things which ladies put in caskets, 
 Or beside 'em in work-baskets : 
 I do n't mean those who keep their coaches; 
 But those who make grand foot approaches, 
 With flowered gowns, and fine huge broaches. 
 'T is in a magnum's world alone 
 The Graces have room to sport and be known. 
 Fill, fill, let us all have our will ! 
 But with what, with what, boys, shall we fill ? 
 Sweet Ariadne, — no, not that one, — ah, no ! 
 Fill me the manna of Montepulciano : 
 Fill me a magnum, and reach it me. Gods ! 
 How it slides to my heart by the sweetest of 
 roads ! 
 
 O, how it kisses me, tickles me, bites me ! 
 
 O, how my eyes loosen sweetly in tears ! 
 
 I 'm ravished ! I 'm rapt ! Heaven finds me ad 
 
 missible ! 
 Lost in an ecstasy ! blinded ! invisible ! 
 
 Hearken, all earth ! 
 
 We, Bacchus, in the might of our great mirth, 
 
 To all who reverence us, and are right think 
 
 ers; — 
 Hear, all ye drinkers ! 
 
 Give ear, and give faith, to our edict divine: — 
 Montepulciano 's the King of all Wine. 
 
 At these glad sounds, 
 
 The Nymphs, in giddy rounds, 
 
 Shaking their ivy diadems and grapes, 
 
 Echoed the triumph in a thousand shapes. 
 
 The Satyrs would have joined them ; but, alas ! 
 
 They could n't ; for they lay about the grass, 
 
 As drunk as apes. 
 
 VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. 
 
 This excellent poet and estimable man was 
 born at Florence, in 1642. He commenced his 
 studies in the public schools of his native city, and 
 continued them at the University of Pisa, where 
 he gave proof of rare abilities, insatiable eager- 
 ness for learning, and ardent piety. On his re- 
 turn to Florence, he was chosen a member of 
 the Delia Cruscan Academy. At the age of 
 thirty-one, he married Anna Capponi. After 
 the death of his father, he retired to the coun- 
 try, where he lived in tranquillity, dividing his 
 time between the study of poetry, the education 
 of his children, and the duties of religion. He 
 wrote a great number of Latin and Italian po- 
 ems ; but his modesty was so great that he 
 hardly ventured to show them to a few friends, 
 who, however, made the secret known. The 
 beautiful canzoni, six in number, which he 
 wrote on the deliverance of Vienna from the 
 Turks by John Sobieski, king of Poland, and 
 the duke of Lorraine, excited universal admira- 
 tion, and established his fame as the first poet of 
 his age. Queen Christina, of Sweden, was so 
 charmed with them, that she sent him a letter 
 of congratulation ; and when, afterwards, he 
 wrote a magnificent canzone in her praise, she 
 loaded him with honors, enrolled him among 
 the members of the Academy she had estab- 
 lished at Rome, and charged herself with the 
 support of his two sons, on condition only that 
 the benefaction should not be disclosed to the 
 public, because she was ashamed to have it 
 known that she had done so little for so great a 
 man. The grand duke of Tuscany also gave 
 him the rank of Senator, and then made him 
 Governor of Volterra and Pisa. In these and 
 other offices with which he was honored, he 
 performed his duties with such fidelity, that he 
 secured at once the esteem of the prince and 
 
FILICAJA. 
 
 587 
 
 the affection of the people. Thus, enjoying the 
 love both of the great and the humble, he lived 
 to the age of sixty-five. He died at Florence, 
 September 24th, 1707. 
 
 As a poet, he was one of the most strenuous 
 opponents of the bad taste which had begun to 
 pervert the writings of his countrymen. His 
 style is lively, energetic, and elevated. He ex- 
 celled particularly in the canzone and the son- 
 net. At the time of his death, he was engaged 
 upon a revised edition of his works, which was 
 afterwards published by his son, under the title 
 of " Poesie Toscane di Vincenzo da Filicaja." 
 Another edition appeared in 1720, and a third 
 in 1762, which has been followed by several 
 other editions. 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF VIENNA. 
 
 How long, O Lord, shall vengeance sleep, 
 
 And impious pride defy thy rod ? 
 
 How long thy faithful servants weep, 
 
 Scourged by the fierce barbaric host? 
 
 Where, where, of thine almighty arm, O God, 
 
 Where is the ancient boast ? 
 
 While Tartar brands are drawn to steep 
 
 Thy fairest plains in Christian gore, 
 
 Why slumbers thy devouring wrath, 
 
 Nor sweeps the offender from thy path ? 
 
 And wilt thou hear thy sons deplore 
 
 Thy temples rifled, shrines no more, 
 
 Nor burst their galling chains asunder, 
 
 And arm thee with avenging thunder? 
 
 See the black cloud on Austria lower, 
 
 Big with terror, death, and woe ! 
 
 Behold the wild barbarians pour 
 
 In rushing torrents o'er the land ! 
 
 Lo ! host on host, the infidel foe 
 
 Sweep along the Danube's strand, 
 
 And darkly serried spears the light of day 
 
 o'erpower ! 
 There the innumerable swords, 
 The banners of the East unite ; 
 All Asia girds her loins for fight : 
 The Don's barbaric lords, 
 Sarmatia's haughty hordes, 
 Warriors from Thrace, and many a swarthy 
 
 file 
 Banded on Syria's plains, or by the Nile. 
 
 Mark the tide of blood that flows 
 
 Within Vienna's proud imperial walls ! 
 
 Beneath a thousand deadly blows, 
 
 Dismayed, enfeebled, sunk, subdued, 
 
 Austria's queen of cities falls : 
 
 Vain are her lofty ramparts to elude 
 
 The fatal triumph of her foes ; 
 
 Lo ! her earth-fast battlements 
 
 Quiver and shake; hark to the thrilling cry 
 
 Of war, that rends the sky, 
 
 The groans of death, the wild laments, 
 
 The sobs of trembling innocents, 
 
 Of wildered matrons, pressing to their breast 
 All which they feared for most and loved 
 the best ! 
 
 Thine everlasting hand 
 
 Exalt, O Lord, that impious men may learn 
 
 How frail their armor to withstand 
 
 Thy power, the power of God supreme ! 
 
 Let thy consuming vengeance burn 
 
 The guilty nations with its beam ! 
 
 Bind them in slavery's iron band ; 
 
 Or, as the scattered dust in summer flies, 
 
 Chased by the raging blast of heaven, 
 
 Before thee be the Thracians driven ! 
 
 Let trophied columns by the Danube rise, 
 
 And bear the inscription to the skies : 
 
 " Warring against the Christian Jove in vain, 
 
 Here was the Ottoman Typhosus slain 1 " 
 
 If Destiny decree, 
 
 If Fate's eternal leaves declare, 
 
 That Germany shall bend the knee 
 
 Before a Turkish despot's nod, 
 
 And Italy the jMoslem yoke shall bear, 
 
 I bow in meek humility, 
 
 And kiss the holy rod. 
 
 Conquer, if such thy will, — 
 
 Conquer the Scythian, while he drains 
 
 The noblest blood from Europe's veins, 
 
 And Havoc drinks her fill : 
 
 We yield thee trembling homage still ; 
 
 We rest in thy command secure ; 
 
 For thou alone art just, and wise, and pure. 
 
 But shall I live to see the day, 
 
 When Tartar ploughs Germanic soil divide, 
 
 And Arab herdsmen fearless stray 
 
 And watch their flocks along the Rhine, 
 
 Where princely cities now o'erlook his tide ' 
 
 The Danube's towers no longer shine, 
 
 For hostile flame has given them to decay : 
 
 Shall devastation wider spread? 
 
 Where the proud ramparts of Vienna swell, 
 
 Shall solitary Echo dwell, 
 
 And human footsteps cease to tread ? 
 
 O God, avert the omen dread ! 
 
 If Heaven the sentence did record, 
 
 O, let thy mercy blot the fatal word ! 
 
 Hark to the votive hymn resounding 
 Through the temple's cloistered aisles ! 
 See, the sacred shrine surrounding, 
 Perfumed clouds of incense rise ! 
 The pontiff opes the stately piles 
 Where many a buried treasure lies; 
 With liberal hand, rich, full, abounding, 
 He pours abroad the gold of Rome. 
 He summons every Christian king 
 Against the Moslemim to bring 
 Their forces leagued for Christendom : 
 The brave Teutonic nations come, 
 And warlike Poles like thunderbolts descend, 
 Moved by his voice their brethren to defend. 
 
 He stands upon the Esquiline, 
 And lifts to heaven his holy arm, 
 
588 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Like Moses, clothed in power divine, 
 
 While faith and hope his strength sustain. 
 
 Merciful God, has prayer no charm 
 
 Thy rage to soothe, thy love to gain ? 
 
 The pious king of Judah's line 
 
 Beneath thine anger lowly bended, 
 
 And thou didst give him added years ; 
 
 The Assyrian Nineveh shed tears 
 
 Of humbled pride, when death impended, 
 
 And thus the fatal curse forefended : 
 
 And wilt thou turn away thy face, 
 
 When Heaven's vicegerent seeks thy grace ? 
 
 Sacred fury fires my breast, 
 
 And fills my laboring soul. 
 
 Ye, who hold the lance in rest, 
 
 And gird you for the holy wars, 
 
 On, on, like ocean waves to conquest roll, 
 
 Christ and the Cross your leading star ! 
 
 Already he proclaims your prowess blest : 
 
 Sound the loud trump of victory, 
 
 Rush to the combat, soldiers of the Cross ! 
 
 High let your banners triumphantly toss; 
 
 For the heathen shall perish' and songs of the 
 
 free 
 Ring through the heavens in jubilee ! 
 Why delay ye ? Buckle on the sword and 
 
 targe, 
 And charge, victorious champions, charge ! 
 
 SONNETS. 
 TO ITALY. 
 
 Italia, O Italia! hapless thou, 
 
 Who didst the fatal gift of beauty gain, 
 
 A dowry fraught with never-ending pain, — 
 
 A seal of sorrow stamped upon thy brow : 
 
 O, were thy bravery more, or less thy charms ! 
 
 Then should thy foes, they whom thy loveliness 
 
 Now lures afar to conquer and possess, 
 
 Adore thy beauty less, or dread thine arms! 
 
 No longer then should hostile torrents pour 
 
 Adown the Alps ; and Gallic troops be laved 
 
 In the red waters of the Po no more ; 
 
 Nor longer then, by foreign courage saved, 
 
 Barbarian succour should thy sons implore, — 
 
 Vanquished or vk.tors, still by Goths enslaved. 
 
 ON THE EARTHQUAKE OF SICILY. 
 Thou buried city, o'er thy site I muse ! — 
 What ! does no monumental stone remain, 
 To say, " Here yawned the earthquake-riven 
 
 plain, 
 Here stood Catania, and here Syracuse " ? 
 Along thy sad and solitary sand, 
 I seek thee in thyself, yet find instead 
 Naught but the dreadful stillness of the dead. 
 Startled and horror-struck, I wondering stand, 
 And cry : O, terrible, tremendous course 
 Of God's decrees ! I see it, and I feel it here : 
 Shall I not comprehend and dread its force ? 
 Rise, ye lost cities, let your ruins rear 
 Their massy forms on high, portentous corse, 
 That trembling ages may behold and fear ! 
 
 I saw a mighty river, wild and vast, 
 
 Whose rapid waves were moments, which did 
 
 glide 
 So swiftly onward in their silent tide, 
 That, ere their flight was heeded, they were 
 
 past ; 
 A river, that to death's dark shores doth fast 
 Conduct all living with resistless force, 
 And, though unfelt, pursues its noiseless course, 
 To quench all fires in Lethe's stream at last. 
 Its current with creation's birth was born; 
 And with the heavens commenced its march 
 
 sublime 
 In days and months, still hurrying on untired. — 
 Marking its flight, I inwardly did mourn, 
 And of my musing thoughts in doubt inquired 
 The river's name : my thoughts responded, 
 
 Time. 
 
 BENEDETTO MENZINI. 
 
 Benedetto Menzini was born of humble 
 parents in Florence, March 29th, 1646. Not- 
 withstanding his poverty, he studied in the pub- 
 lic schools, and made such progress that his 
 abilities attracted the attention of the Marquis 
 Gianvincenzo Salviati, who took him into his 
 house. When still very young, he was appoint- 
 ed Professor of Eloquence in Florence and Pra- 
 to, and greatly distinguished himself. Being 
 disappointed in his hope of obtaining a chair in 
 the University of Pisa, he went to Rome in 
 1685, where the queen of Sweden took him 
 into her service, and enrolled him in her Acad- 
 emy. For some years, he occupied himself 
 quietly with his studies, and during this period 
 wrote the greater part of his poems. But after 
 the death of his protectress, he found himself 
 again without resources, and was obliged to 
 support himself by writing for pay. In 1691, 
 Cardinal Ragotzchi invited Menzini to accom- 
 pany him to Poland as his secretary; but being 
 unwilling to leave Italy, he finally obtained, 
 through the friendly offices of Cardinal Gian- 
 francesco Albani, afterwards Pope Clement the 
 Eleventh, the patronage of Pope Innocent the 
 Twelfth. He died September 7th, 1708. 
 
 Menzini attempted various kinds of poetry. 
 He wrote sonnets, canzoni, elegies, hymns, sat 
 ires, and a " Poetica " in terza rima. Though 
 inferior to Chiabrera and Filicaja in lyric poe- 
 try, his style is lively and elegant. His works, 
 Italian and Latin, were published at Florence, 
 in four volumes, in 1731. 
 
 CUPID'S REVENGE. 
 
 Listen, ladies, listen ! 
 
 Listen, while I say 
 How Cupid was in prison 
 
 And peril, t' other day : 
 
MENZINI.— GUIDI. 
 
 589 
 
 All ye who jeer and scoff him, 
 Will joy to hear it of him. 
 
 Some damsels proud, delighted, 
 Had caught him, unespied; 
 
 And, by their strength united, 
 His hands behind him tied : 
 
 His wings of down and feather 
 
 They twisted both together. 
 
 His bitter grief, I 'm fearful, 
 
 Can never be expressed, 
 Nor how his blue eyes tearful 
 
 Rained down his ivory breast • 
 To naught can I resemble 
 What I to think of tremble. 
 
 These fair but foul murdresses 
 Then stripped his beamy wings, 
 
 And cropped his golden tresses 
 That flowed in wanton rings : 
 
 He could not choose but languish, 
 
 While writhing in such anguish. 
 
 They to an oak-tree took him, 
 Its sinewy arms that spread, 
 
 And there they all forsook him, 
 To hang till he was dead : 
 
 Ah, was not this inhuman? 
 
 Yet still 't was done by woman ' 
 
 This life were mere vexation, 
 Had Love indeed been slain, 
 
 The soul of our creation! 
 The antidote of pain ! 
 
 Air, sea, earth, sans his presence, 
 
 Would lose their chiefest pleasance. 
 
 But his immortal mother 
 
 His suffering chanced to see ; 
 
 First this band, then the other, 
 She cut, and set him free. 
 
 He vengeance vowed, and kept it ; 
 
 And thousands since have wept it. 
 
 For, being no forgiver, 
 
 With gold and leaden darts 
 
 He filled his rattling quiver, 
 
 And pierced with gold the hearts 
 
 Of lovers young, who never 
 
 Could hope, yet loved for ever. 
 
 With leaden shaft, not forceless, 
 'Gainst happy lovers' state 
 
 He aimed with hand remorseless, 
 And turned their love to hate : 
 
 Their love, long cherished, blasting 
 
 With hatred everlasting. 
 
 Ye fair ones, who so often 
 
 At Cupid's power have laughed, 
 Your scornful pride now soften, 
 
 Beware his vengeful shaft ! 
 His quiver bright and burnished 
 With love or hate is furnished. 
 
 ALESSANDRO GUIDI. 
 
 Alessandro Guidi was born in Pavia, in 
 1650. He studied at Parma, where he enjoyed 
 the protection of Duke Ranuccio the Second, 
 and where, at the age of thirty-one, he published 
 some of his lyrical poems, and a drama entitled 
 "Amalasunta in Italia." These works were 
 in the prevalent style of the age. Soon after 
 this he went to Rome, and attracting the favor- 
 able notice of Queen Christina, entered her 
 service, and in 1685, took up his abode in 
 Rome, with the consent of Ranuccio. Here 
 he connected himself with several distinguished 
 poets, and resolved, in conjunction with them, 
 to effect a revolution in the popular taste. He 
 gave himself up ardently to the study of Pindar, 
 the qualities of whose style he endeavoured to 
 transfuse into his own. By command of the 
 queen, he composed his " Endymion," a pas- 
 toral drama, in which Christina inserted some 
 of her own verses. He made an unsuccessful 
 attempt in tragedy, taking for his subject the 
 fortunes of Sophonisba. After this he began a 
 translation of the Psalms, but was interrupted 
 by a mission which was intrusted to him by 
 Pavia, his native place, to the court of Eugenio, 
 the governor of Lombardy, in which he was so 
 successful that he was rewarded by being raised 
 to the ranks of nobility. On his return to 
 Rome, he set about the completion of a trans- 
 lation he had some time before begun of the 
 homilies of Clement the Eleventh. When this 
 was printed, he set out for Castel Gandolfo, 
 where the pope was then staying, to present his 
 Holiness a copy ; but as he was reading the 
 book on the way, he found it full of errors; 
 and his vexation was so excessive, that he fell 
 ill, on his arrival at Frascati, and died there of 
 apoplexy, June 12th, 1712. 
 
 The poems of Guidi are full of spirit and 
 enthusiasm. Tiraboschi says, "He is one of 
 the few who have happily succeeded in trans- 
 fusing the inspiration and the fire of Pindar into 
 Italian poetry." 
 
 CANZONI. 
 
 A lady, like to Juno in her state, 
 Upon the air her golden tresses streaming, 
 And with celestial eyes of azure beaming, 
 Entered whilere my gate. 
 Like a barbaric queen 
 On the Euphrates' shore, 
 In purple and fine linen was she palled ; 
 Nor flower nor laurel green, 
 Her tresses for their garland wore 
 The splendor of the Indian emerald. 
 But through the rigid pride and porcp unbending 
 Of beauty and of haughtiness, 
 Sparkled a flittery sweet and condescending ; 
 And, from her inmost bosom sent, 
 Came accents of most wondrous gentleness, 
 xx 
 
590 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY 
 
 Officious and intent 
 
 To thrall my soul in soft imprisonment. 
 
 And, "Place," she said, "thy hand within my 
 
 hair, 
 And all around thou 'It see 
 Delightful Chances fair 
 On golden feet come dancing unto thee. 
 Me Jove's daughter shalt thou own, 
 That with my sister Fate 
 Sits by his side in state 
 On the eternal throne. 
 
 Great Neptune to my will the ocean gives : 
 In vain, in well appointed strength secure, 
 The Indian and the Briton strives 
 The assaulting billows to endure ; 
 Unless their flying sails I guide 
 Where over the smooth tide 
 On my sweet spirit's wings I ride. 
 I banish to their bound 
 The storms of dismal sound, 
 And o'er them take my stand with foot serene; 
 The jEolian caverns under 
 The wings of the rude winds I chain, 
 And with my hand I burst asunder 
 The fiery chariot-wheels of the hurricane : 
 And in its fount the horrid, restless fire 
 I quench, ere it aspire 
 To heaven to color the red comet's train. 
 
 " This is the hand that forged on Ganges' shore 
 The Indian's empire ; by Orontes set 
 The royal tiar the Assyrian wore ; 
 Hung jewel's on the brow of Babylon; 
 By Tigris wreathed the Persian's coronet, 
 And at the Macedonian's foot bowed every 
 
 throne. 
 It was my lavish gift, 
 The triumph and the song 
 Around the youth of Pella loud uplift, 
 When he through Asia swept along, 
 A torrent swift and strong; 
 With me, with me the conqueror ran 
 To where the sun his golden course began ; 
 And the high monarch left on earth 
 A faith unquestioned of his heavenly birth ; 
 By valor mingled with the gods above, 
 And made a glory of himself to his great father 
 
 Jove. 
 
 " My royal spirits oft 
 
 Their solemn mystic round 
 
 On Rome's great birthday wound ; 
 
 And I the haughty eagles sprung aloft, 
 
 Unto the star of Mars upborne, 
 
 Till, poising on their plumy sails, 
 
 They 'gan their native vales 
 
 And Sabine palms to scorn ; 
 
 And I on the Seven Hills to sway 
 
 That senate-house of kings convened. 
 
 On rne, their guide and stay, 
 
 Ever the Roman counsels leaned, 
 
 In danger's lofty way: 
 
 I guerdoned the wise delay 
 
 Of Fabius with the laurel crown, 
 
 And not Marcellus' fiercer battle-tone ; 
 And I on the Tarpeian did deliver 
 Afric a captive, and through me Nile flowed 
 Under the laws of the great Latin river, 
 And of his bow and quiver 
 The Parthian reared a trophy high and broad ; 
 The Dacian's fierce inroad 
 Against the gates of iron broke ; 
 Taurus and Caucasus endured my yoke : 
 Then my vassal and my slave 
 Did every native land of every wind become, • 
 And when I had o'ercome 
 All earth beneath my feet, I gave 
 The vanquished world in one great gift to 
 Rome. 
 
 "I know that in thine high imagination 
 
 Other daughters of great Jove 
 
 Have taken their imperial station, 
 
 And queen-like thy submissive passions move : 
 
 From them thou hop'st a high and godlike 
 
 fate ; 
 From them thy haughty verse presages 
 An everlasting sway o'er distant ages, 
 And with their glorious rages 
 Thy mind intoxicate 
 Deems 't is in triumphal motion 
 On courser fleet or winged bark 
 Over earth and over ocean. 
 While in shepherd hamlet dark 
 Thou liv'st, with want within, and raiment coarse 
 
 without, 
 And none upon thy state hath thrown 
 Gentle regard ; I, I alone, 
 To new and lofty venture call thee out : 
 Then follow, thus besought; 
 Waste not thy soul in thought ; 
 Brooks nor sloth nor lingering 
 The great moment on the wing." 
 
 " A blissful lady, and immortal, born 
 
 From the eternal mind of Deity," 
 
 I answered bold and free, 
 
 " My soul hath in her queenly care : 
 
 She mine imagination doth upbear, 
 
 And steeps it in the light of her rich morn, 
 
 That overshades and sicklies all thy shining. 
 
 And though my lowly hair 
 
 Presume not to bright crowns of thy entwin 
 
 ing, 
 Yet in my mind I bear 
 Gifts nobler and more rare 
 Than the kingdoms thou canst lavish, 
 Gifts thou canst nor give nor ravish. 
 And though my spirit may not comprehend 
 Thy Chances bright and fair, 
 Yet neither doth her sight offend 
 The aspect pale of miserable Care. 
 Horror to her is not 
 
 Of this coarse raiment and this humble cot: 
 She with the golden Muses doth abide; 
 And, O, the darling children of thy pride 
 Shall then be truly glorified, 
 When they may merit to be wrapt around 
 With my Poesy's eternal sound ! " 
 
GUIDI. 
 
 591 
 
 She kindled at my words, and flamed, as when 
 
 A cruel star hath wide dispread 
 
 Its locks of bloody red ; 
 
 She burst in wrathful menace then : 
 
 " Me fears the Dacian, me the band 
 
 Of wandering Scythians fears, 
 
 Me the rough mothers of barbaric kings; 
 
 In woe and dread amid the rings 
 
 Of their encircling spears 
 
 The purple tyrants stand ; 
 
 And a shepherd here forlorn 
 
 Treats my proffered boons with scorn, 
 
 And fears he not my wrath ? 
 
 And knows he not my works of scath ; 
 
 Nor how with angry foot I went, 
 
 Of every province in the Orient 
 
 Branding the bosom with deep tracks of death ? 
 
 From three empresses I rent 
 
 The tresses and imperial wreath, 
 
 And bared them to the pitiless element. 
 
 Well I remember, when, his armed grasp 
 
 From Afric stretched, rash Xerxes took his 
 
 stand 
 Upon the formidable bridge, to clasp 
 And manacle sad Europe's trembling hand : 
 In the great day of battle there was I, 
 Busy with myriads of the Persian slaughter, 
 The Salaminian Sea's fair face to dye, 
 That yet admires its dark and bloody water: 
 Full vengeance wreaked I for the affront 
 Done Neptune at the fettered Hellespont. 
 To the Nile then did I go, 
 The fatal collar wound 
 
 The fair neck of the Egyptian queen around; 
 And I the merciless poison made to flow 
 Into her breast of snow. 
 Ere that, within the mined cave, 
 I forced dark Afric's valor stoop 
 Confounded, and its dauntless spirit droop, 
 When to the Carthaginian brave, 
 With mine own hand, the hemlock draught I 
 
 gave. 
 And Rome through me the ravenous flame 
 In the heart of her great rival, Carthage, cast, 
 That went through Lybia wandering, a scorned 
 
 shade, 
 Till, sunk to equal shame, 
 Her mighty enemy at last 
 A shape of mockery was made; 
 Then miserably pleased, 
 
 Her fierce and ancient vengeance she appeased, 
 And even drew a sigh 
 Over the ruins vast 
 Of the deep-hated Latin majesty. 
 I will not call to mind the horrid sword, 
 Upon the Memphian shore, 
 Steeped treasonously in great Pompey's gore; 
 Nor that for rigid Cato's death abhorred ; 
 Nor that which in the hand of Brutus wore 
 The first deep coloring of a Caesar's blood. 
 Nor will I honor thee with my high mood 
 Of wrath, that kingdoms doth exterminate ; 
 Incapable art thou of my great hate, 
 As my great glories. Therefore shall be thine 
 Of my revenge a slighter sign ; 
 
 Yet will I make its fearful sound 
 
 Hoarse and slow rebound, 
 
 Till seem the gentle pipings low 
 
 To equal the fierce trumpet's brdzen glow.' 
 
 Then sprung she on her flight, 
 
 Furious; and, at her call, 
 
 Upon my cottage did the storms alight, 
 
 Did hurricanes and thunders fall. 
 
 But I, with brow serene, 
 
 Beheld the angry hail, 
 
 And lightning flashing pale, 
 
 Devour the promise green 
 
 Of my poor native vale. 
 
 TO THE TIBER. 
 
 Tiber ! my early dream, 
 My boyhood's vision of thy classic stream, 
 Had taught my mind to think 
 That over sands of gold 
 Thy limpid waters rolled, 
 And ever-verdant laurels grew upon thy brink 
 
 But in far other guise 
 The rude reality hath met mine eyes : 
 Here, seated on thy bank, 
 All desolate and drear 
 Thy margin doth appear, 
 With creeping weeds, and shrubs, and vegeta- 
 tion rank. 
 
 Fondly I fancied thine 
 The wave pellucid, and the Naiad's shrine, 
 In crystal grot below ; 
 
 But thy tempestuous course 
 Runs turbulent and hoarse, 
 And, swelling with wild wrath, thy wintry wa 
 ters flow. 
 
 Upon thy bosom dark, 
 Peril awaits the light, confiding bark, 
 In eddying vortex swamped ; 
 
 Foul, treacherous, and deep, 
 Thy winding waters sweep, 
 Enveloping their prey in dismal ruin prompt 
 
 Fast in thy bed is sunk 
 The mountain pine-tree's broken trunk, 
 Aimed at the galley's keel ; 
 
 And well thy wave can waft 
 Upon that broken shaft 
 The barge, whose shattered wreck thy bosom 
 will conceal. 
 
 The dog-star's sultry power, 
 The summer heat, the noontide's fervid hour, 
 That fires the mantling blood, 
 
 Yon cautious swain can't urge 
 To tempt thy dangerous surge, 
 Or cool his limbs within thy dark, insidious 
 flood. 
 
 I 've marked thee in thy pride, 
 When struggle fierce thy disemboguing tide 
 With Ocean's monarch held ; 
 
592 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 But quickly overcome 
 By Neptune's masterdom, 
 Back thou hast fled as oft, ingloriously repelled. 
 
 Often athwart the fields 
 A giant's strength thy flood redundant wields, 
 Bursting above its brims, — 
 
 Strength that no dike can check : 
 Dire is the harvest-wreck ! 
 Buoyant, with lofty horns, the affrighted bullock 
 swims. 
 
 But still thy proudest boast, 
 Tiber, and what brings honor to thee most 
 Is, that thy waters roll 
 
 Fast by the eternal home 
 Of Glory's daughter, Rome ; 
 And trtat thy billows bathe the sacred Capitol. 
 
 Famed is thy stream for her, 
 Clcelia, thy current's virgin conqueror; 
 And him who stemmed the march 
 Of Tuscany's proud host, 
 When, firm at honor's post, 
 He waved his blood-stained blade above the 
 broken arch. 
 
 Of Romulus the sons 
 To torrid Africans, to frozen Huns, 
 Have taught thy name, O flood ! 
 And to that utmost verge 
 Where radiantly emerge 
 Apollo's car of flame and golden-footed stud. 
 
 For so much glory lent, 
 Ever destructive of some monument, 
 Thou makest foul return ; 
 
 Insulting with thy wave 
 Each Roman hero's grave, 
 And Scipio's dust that fills yon consecrated urn ! 
 
 CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO. 
 
 Cornelio Bentivoglio was born at Ferrara, 
 n 1668. He distinguished himself early by 
 his taste in the fine arts, and by his literary 
 acquirements. Clement the Eleventh appointed 
 him Secretary to the Apostolical Chamber. In 
 1712, he was sent as Nuncio to Paris. In 1719, 
 he received a cardinal's hat. He died at Rome, 
 in 1732. 
 
 Cardinal Bentivoglio amused his leisure with 
 poetry. He wrote sonnets, and translated the 
 " Thebais " of Statius into Italian. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The sainted spirit, which from bliss on high 
 Descends like dayspring to my favored sight, 
 Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky, 
 Scarce do I know that form intensely bright ! 
 But with the sweetness of her well known 
 
 smile, — 
 That smile of peace! — she bids my doubts de- 
 part, 
 
 And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while, 
 And heaven's full glory pictures to my heart 
 Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold, 
 And now, e'en now, in thought my wings un 
 
 fold 
 To soar with her and mingle with the blest: 
 But, ah ! so swift her buoyant pinion flies, 
 That I, in vain aspiring to the skies, 
 Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds de 
 
 pressed. 
 
 GIOVANNI COTTA. 
 
 Giovanni Cotta was born at Verona, in 
 1668. His family was in humble circumstances. 
 He distinguished himself in letters and poetry, 
 and made considerable progress in the mathe- 
 matics. His poems are few in number, but 
 they have enjoyed considerable reputation. He 
 died at the early age of twenty-eight. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 "There is no God," the fool in secret said : 
 "There i3 no God that rules or earth or sky." 
 Tear off" the band that folds the wretch's head, 
 That God may burst upon his faithless eye ! 
 Is there no God ? — the stars in myriads spread, 
 If he look up, the blasphemy deny ; 
 Whilst his own features, in the mirror read, 
 Reflect the image of Divinity. 
 Is there no God ? — the stream that silver flows, 
 The air he breathes, the ground he treads, the 
 
 trees, 
 The flowers, the grass, the sands, each wind 
 
 that blows, 
 All speak of God ; throughout one voice agrees, 
 And eloquent his dread existence shows: 
 Blind to thyself, ah, see him, fool, in these ' 
 
 GIOVANNI BARTOLOMMEO CASAREGI 
 
 This poet was born at Genoa, in 1676. From 
 his earliest youth, he devoted himself to the 
 study of belles-lettres. At the age of twenty- 
 three, he went to Rome, where the elegance 
 of his poetical productions made him known, 
 and he was admitted into the Arcadian Acade- 
 my. In 1716, he went to Siena, and thence 
 to Florence, where he appears to have estab- 
 lished himself. He became a member of the 
 Florentine and Delia Cruscan Academies. He 
 seems to have been a person of pure char- 
 acter and agreeable conversation, and to have 
 enjoyed the friendship of the principal literary 
 men of his time. He died at Florence, in 1755. 
 
 The principal works of Casaregi are, an 
 Italian translation of Sannazzaro's poem, " De 
 Partu Virginis," " Sonetti e Canzoni," and a 
 translation of the Proverbs of Solomon. 
 
CASAREGI. — METASTASIO. 
 
 593 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Jft the dull joys that maddening crowds en- 
 chain 
 [ fly, and, seated in some lonely place, 
 Traverse in thought the wide-extended space, 
 Where ancient monarchs held successive reign. 
 I range o'er Persia and Assyria's plain, 
 And of their mighty cities find no trace ; 
 And when toward Greece and Rome I turn my 
 
 face, 
 What scanty relics of their power remain ! 
 Arise, proud Asia's lords, avenge the wrong ! 
 Up, Philip's son ! great Caesars, where are ye, 
 To whom the trophies of the world belong? 
 Dust are they all ! If such their destiny, 
 Who founded thrones, and heroes ranked among, 
 Say, Spoiler Time, what ruin threatens me ? 
 
 PIETRO METASTASIO. 
 
 Pietro Metastasio, whose original name 
 was Trapassi, was born at Assisi, in 1698. His 
 parents were poor, but respectable. His talents 
 for poetry were early displayed, and gained 
 him the favor of Gravina, who took him under 
 his protection, superintended his education, and, 
 dying in 1717, made him his heir. Metastasio, 
 being now placed in easy circumstances, re- 
 nounced the study of the law, which he had 
 undertaken in compliance with the wishes of 
 his patron, and occupied himself with poetry 
 and the pleasures of society. Some time after- 
 wards he removed to Naples, and resumed the 
 study of the law for a short period ; but the 
 brilliant success of a dramatic poem, publish- 
 ed by him anonymously, on the celebration of 
 the birthday of the Empress Elizabeth Chris- 
 tina, and the persuasions of the singer Mari- 
 anna Bulgarelli, who had detected the author- 
 ship of the piece, at length fixed his determina- 
 tion to give himself wholly to poetry. In 1724, 
 he produced his " Didone Abbandonata." Soon 
 after this, he accompanied Marianna to Rome, 
 where he remained until 1729. In this inter- 
 val he composed several of his dramas, and his 
 reputation had so much increased, that Charles 
 the Sixth invited him to Vienna, made him 
 Poet Laureate, and settled on him a pension of 
 four thousand guilders. In 1730, he took up 
 Ii is residence at the imperial court, where he 
 was received with every mark of admiration 
 and regard. His life now was prosperous, and, 
 on the whole, happy ; his affluent genius and 
 great industry secured him the highest public 
 estimation ; and the long series of dramatic 
 poems, which were brought out with the great- 
 est magnificence, and which surrounded the 
 court of Vienna with the glories of literature, 
 placed him in a position beyond the reach of 
 rivalry. He enjoyed the uninterrupted favor 
 of Charles the Sixth, Maria Theresa, and Joseph 
 the Second. He died April 12th, 1782. 
 75 
 
 Metastasio may be said to have created the 
 modern Italian opera. The purity, sweetness, 
 grace, and harmony of his style have made 
 him a classic in Italian poetry, though his pres- 
 ent reputation is far from according with the 
 wonderful success he enjoyed in his lifetime. 
 His works were published at Venice, in sixteen 
 volumes, in 1781. His " Opere Postume " ap- 
 peared at Vienna, in three volumes, in 1795. 
 Several of his pieces have been translated into 
 English. An edition containing eighteen plays, 
 translated by John Hoole, appeared in London, 
 in 1767. Other translations have been made 
 by Olivari and Beloe. 
 
 FROM THE DRAMA OF TITUS. 
 
 TITUS, PUBLIUS, ANNIUS, AND SEXTUS. 
 
 [The scene represents a place before the temple of Jupiter 
 Stator, celebrated for the meeting of the Senate: behind 
 is a view of part of the Roman Forum, decorated with 
 arches, obelisks, and trophies : on the side is a distant 
 prospect of the Palatine Hill, and a great part of the Sa- 
 cred Way : a front view of the Capitol, which is ascended 
 by a magnificent flight of steps. 
 
 Publius and the Roman Senators; the deputies of the sub- 
 ject provinces attending to present their annual tribute 
 to the Senate. While the ensuing Chorus is sung, Titus 
 descends from the Capitol, preceded by the Lictors, fol- 
 lowed by the Praetors, and surrounded by a numerous 
 crowd of people.] 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 O guardian gods ! in whom we trust 
 
 To watch the Roman fate ; 
 Preserve in Titus, brave and just, 
 
 The glory of the state ! 
 For ever round our Caesar's brows 
 
 The sacred laurel bloom ; 
 In him, for whom we breathe our vows, 
 
 Preserve the weal of Rome ! 
 Long may your glorious gift remain 
 
 Our happy times to adorn : 
 So shall our age the envy gain 
 
 Of ages yet unborn ! 
 
 PUBLIUS. 
 
 This day the Senate style thee, mighty Caesar 
 The father of thy country ; never yet 
 More just in their decree. 
 
 ANNIUS. 
 
 Thou art not only 
 
 Thy country's father, but her guardian god: 
 
 And since thy virtues have already soared 
 
 Beyond mortality, receive the homage 
 
 We pay to Heaven ! The Senate have decreed 
 
 To build a stately temple, where thy name 
 
 Shall stand enrolled among the powers divine, 
 
 And Tiber worship at the fane of Titus. 
 
 PUBLIUS. 
 
 These treasures, gathered from the annual tribute 
 Of subject provinces, we dedicate 
 To effect this pious work : disdain not, Titus, 
 This public token of our grateful homage, 
 xx 2 
 
594 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Romans . believe that every wish of Titus 
 
 Is centred in your love ; but let not, therefore, 
 
 Your love, forgetful of its proper bounds, 
 
 Reflect disgrace on Titus, or yourselves./ 
 
 Is there a name more dear, more tender to me, 
 
 Than father of my people? Yet even this 
 
 I rather seek to merit than obtain. 
 
 My soul would imitate the mighty gods 
 
 By virtuous deeds, but shudders at the thought 
 
 Of impious emulation. He who dares 
 
 To rank himself their equal forfeits all 
 
 His future title to their guardian care. 
 
 O, fatal folly, when presumptuous pride 
 
 Forgets the weakness of mortality ! 
 
 Yet think not I refuse your proffered treasures : 
 
 Their use alone be changed. Then hear my 
 
 purpose. 
 Vesuvius, raging with unwonted fury, 
 Pours from her gaping jaws a lake of fire, 
 Shakes the firm earth, and spreads destruction 
 
 round 
 The subject fields and cities ; trembling fly 
 The pale inhabitants, while all who 'scape 
 The flaming ruin meagre want pursues. 
 Behold an object claims our thoughts ! dispense 
 These treasures to relieve your suffering breth- 
 ren ; 
 Thus, Romans, thus your temple build for Titus. 
 
 ANNIUS. 
 
 O, truly great ! 
 
 PUBLIUS. 
 
 How poor were all rewards, 
 How poor were praise, to such transcendent 
 virtue ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 O guardian gods ! in whom we trust, 
 
 To watch the Roman fate ; 
 Preserve in Titus, brave and just, 
 
 The glory of the state ! 
 
 TITUS. 
 
 Enough, — enough ! — Sextus, my friend, draw 
 
 near ; 
 Depart not, Annius ; all besides, retire. 
 
 annius (aside to Sextus). 
 Now, Sextus, plead my cause. 
 
 SEXTUS. 
 
 And could you, Sir, 
 
 Resign your beauteous queen ? 
 
 TITUS. 
 
 Alas, my Sextus ! 
 
 That moment, sure, was dreadful, — yet I 
 
 thought 
 
 No more, — 't is past ; the struggle 's o'er ! she 
 
 's gone ! 
 Thanks to the gods, I 've gained the painful 
 
 conquest ! 
 'T is just I now complete the task begun ; 
 The greater part is done ; the less remains. 
 
 SEXTUS. 
 
 What more remains, my lord ? 
 
 To take from Rome 
 
 The least suspicion that the hand of Titus 
 
 Shall e'er be joined in marriage to the queen 
 
 SEXTUS. 
 
 For this the queen's departure may suffice. 
 
 TITUS. 
 
 No, Sextus ; once before, she left: our city, 
 And yet returned; twice have we met, — the 
 
 third 
 May prove a fatal meeting ; while my bed 
 Receives no other partner, all who know 
 My soul's affection may with show of reason 
 Declare the place reserved for Berenice. 
 Too deeply Rome abhors the name of queen, 
 But wishes on the imperial seat to view 
 A daughter of her own; — let Titus, then, 
 Fulfil the wish of Rome. Since love in vain 
 Formed my first choice, let friendship fix the 
 
 second. 
 Sextus, to thee shall Caesar's blood unite ; 
 This day thy sister is my bride 
 
 SEXTUS. 
 
 Servilia ? 
 
 TITUS. 
 
 Servilia. 
 
 annius (aside). 
 Wretched Annius ! 
 
 SEXTUS. 
 
 O ye gods ! 
 Annius is lost ! 
 
 TITUS. 
 
 Thou hear'st not; speak, my friend, — 
 What means this silence ? 
 
 Can I speak, my lord ? 
 
 Thy goodness overwhelms my grateful mind,- 
 
 Fain would I 
 
 annius (aside). 
 Sextus suffers for his friend ! 
 
 Declare thyself with freedom, — every wish 
 Shall find a grant. 
 
 sextus (aside). 
 Be just, my soul, to Annius ! 
 
 annius (aside). 
 Annius, be firm ! 
 
 SEXTUS. 
 
 Titus ! 
 
 ANNIUS. 
 
 Mighty Caesar ! 
 
 1 know the heart of Sextus : from our infancy, 
 A mutual tenderness has grown between us. 
 
 I read his thoughts ; with modest estimation 
 He rates his worth, as disproportioned far 
 To such alliance, nor reflects that Caesar 
 Ennobles whom he favors. Sacred Sir ! 
 Pursue your purpose. Can a bride be found 
 More worthy of the empire or yourself? 
 Beauty and virtue in Servilia meet; 
 
METASTASIS — GOLDONI. 
 
 595 
 
 She seemed, whene'er I viewed her, born to 
 
 reign ; 
 And what I oft presaged your choice confirms. 
 
 sextus (aside). 
 Is this the voice of Annius? Do I dream ? 
 
 TITUS. 
 
 'T is well : thou, Annius, with despatchful care, 
 Convey the tidings to her. Come, my Sextus, 
 Cast every vain and cautious doubt aside ; 
 Thou shalt with me so far partake of greatness, 
 I will exalt thee to such height of honor, 
 That little of the distance shall remain 
 At which the gods have placed thee now from 
 Titus. 
 
 SEXTUS. 
 
 Forbear, my lord ! O, moderate this goodness ! 
 Lest Sextus, poor and bankrupt in his thanks, 
 Appear ungrateful for the gifts of Caesar. 
 
 TITUS. 
 
 What wouldst thou leave me, friend, if thou 
 
 deni'st me 
 The glorious privilege of doing good? 
 
 This fruit the monarch boasts alone, 
 The only fruit that glads a throne : 
 All, all besides is toil and pain, 
 Where slavery drags the galling chain. 
 
 Shall I my only joy forego ? 
 
 No more my kind protection show 
 
 To those by fortune's frown pursued ? 
 No more exalt each virtuous friend, 
 No more a bounteous hand extend, 
 
 To enrich the worthy and the good ? 
 
 annius (alone). 
 Shall I repent? — O, no ! — I 've acted well, 
 As suits a generous lover; had I now 
 Deprived her of the throne, to insure her mine, 
 I might have loved myself, but not Servilia. 
 Lay by, my heart, thy wonted tenderness! 
 She who was late thy mistress is become 
 Thy sovereign ; let thy passion, then, be changed 
 To distant homage ! — But, behold, she 's here ! 
 O Heaven ! methinks she ne'er before appeared 
 So beauteous in my eyes ! 
 
 ANNIUS AND SERVILIA. 
 
 servilia. 
 Mr life ! my love ! 
 
 ANNIUS. 
 
 Cease, cease, Servilia; for 't is criminal 
 To call me still by those endearing names. 
 
 And wherefore ? 
 
 SERVILIA. 
 
 ANNIUS. 
 
 Caesar has elected thee — 
 
 O, torture ! — for the partner of his bed. 
 
 He bade me bring, myself, — I cannot bear it ! — 
 
 The tidings to thee. — O, my breaking heart! 
 
 And I — I have been once 1 cannot speak ! 
 
 Empress, farewell ! 
 
 SERVILIA. 
 
 What can this mean? — Yet stay, — 
 Servilia Caesar's wife ? — Ah! why? 
 
 ANNIUS. 
 
 Because 
 
 Beauty and virtue never can be found 
 
 More worthy of the throne. — My life! — O 
 Heaven ! 
 
 What would I dare to say? — Permit me, em- 
 press, 
 
 Permit me to retire. 
 
 SERVILIA. 
 
 And wilt thou leave me 
 In this confusion? Speak, — relate at full 
 By what strange means, — declare each circum- 
 stance 
 
 ANNIUS. 
 
 I 'm lost, unless I go. — My heart's best treasure 
 
 My tongue its wonted theme pursues, 
 Accustomed on thy name to dwell; 
 
 Then let my former love excuse 
 What from my lips unwary fell. 
 
 I hoped that reason would suffice 
 
 To calm the emotions love might raise : 
 
 But, ah ! unguarded, fond surprise 
 Each secret I would hide betrays. 
 
 servilia (alone). 
 Shall I be wife to Caesar? in one moment 
 Shake off my former chains ? consign to oblivion 
 Such wondrous faith ? — Ah, no! from me the 
 
 throne 
 Can never merit such a sacrifice ! 
 Fear it not, Annius, — it shsll never be ! 
 
 Thee long I 've loved, and still I '11 love; 
 Thou wert the first, and thou shalt prove 
 
 The last dear object of my flame : 
 The love which first our breast inspires, 
 When free from guilt, such strength acquires, 
 
 It lasts till death consumes our frame. 
 
 CARLO GOLDONI. 
 
 Carlo Goldoni, the greatest writer of com- 
 edy in the Italian language, was born at Ven- 
 ice, in 1707. He showed an early predilection 
 for the drama; but his father, though delighted 
 with the manifestations of genius given by the 
 boy, wished him to study his own profession, 
 that of medicine. This did not agree with the 
 young poet's inclination, and he soon gained 
 permission to study the law at Venice. He 
 went afterward to the University of Pavia; but 
 having been detected in writing a satire upon 
 some of the most respectable families there, he 
 was expelled from the University. At the age 
 of twenty-two, he received an appointment in 
 Feltre, where he amused his leisure by appear- 
 ing in private theatricals at the governor's pal- 
 ace. He settled afterwards in the practice of 
 
596 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 the law at Venice, where he had considerable 
 success. He was soon forced, however, by an 
 intrigue in which he involved himself, to leave 
 Venice. He took with him to Milan an opera 
 he had written, entitled " Amalasonta," by 
 which he had hoped to make his fortune. Being 
 disappointed in the reception he met with, he 
 composed the musical interlude of "The Vene- 
 tian Gondolier," which was successful. He 
 was driven from place to place by the Italian 
 wars in 1733, and, finally, meeting a troop of 
 comedians in Verona, he returned with them to 
 Venice, where he brought out his tragedies of 
 " Belisarius " and "Rosamund." In 1736, he 
 married the daughter of a notary in Genoa, and, 
 establishing himself in Venice, began to culti- 
 vate comedy, on which his fame is chiefly found- 
 ed. In 1741, he was obliged to leave Venice, 
 and seek the means of subsistence elsewhere. 
 For some time he was director of the theatre at 
 Rimini. He then went to Florence and Siena, 
 where he was well received. At Pisa he re- 
 turned to the law, in which for a time he had 
 an extensive business. He then accompanied a 
 troop of players to Mantua, and again returned 
 to Venice after an absence of five years. In 
 1758, he was invited to Parma, where he wrote 
 some operas that were set to music. In 1761, 
 he went to Paris, where his pieces were re- 
 ceived with great applause, and he procured the 
 appointment of reader and Italian teacher to the 
 daughters of Louis the Fifteenth. Three years 
 after, he received a pension of three thousand 
 six hundred livres, which was discontinued at 
 the breaking out of the Revolution ; it was re- 
 stored, however, by a decree of the Convention, 
 January 7th, 1793. But Goldoni, being now 
 in his eighty-sixth year, died the next day. 
 His widow received the arrears of his pension, 
 and a pension for herself. 
 
 Goldoni's writings are distinguished for fer- 
 tility of invention and excellent delineation of 
 character. As a reformer of the Italian theatre, 
 by resisting the predominant taste for masques 
 and extemporary pieces, and substituting for 
 them the regular comedy, his merits are very 
 great. A complete edition of his works was 
 published at Lucca, in 1809, in twenty-six vol- 
 umes. Several of his pieces have been translat- 
 ed intc most of the languages of Europe. 
 
 CECILIA'S DREAM. 
 
 I dreamed that in a garden I reposed, 
 Beside a fount fed by a mountain stream 
 Precipitous ; where the waves' murmuring flow 
 And music of sweet birds my heart entranced 
 'Twixt joy and grief. Then to the air, me- 
 
 thought, 
 And to the woods, I uttered my complaint ; 
 Reproached my cold heart with its long disdain, 
 And called on Heaven to sway my lover's heart 
 To reconcilement, and to soothe mine own 
 To kindness, — when amid the laurel bowers, — 
 O, blissful chance! — sudden my love appeared 
 
 And fell before my feet. " Forgive," he cried, 
 "The transport of mine anger, in the hour 
 Thou bad'st me wait upon the midnight air; 
 And, for the future, cheerfully I 'II brave 
 The scorching sunbeams or the evening dews, 
 Or linger the lone night beneath these walls ; — 
 Thy day be mine, or clouded or serene. 
 Ah ! then, relent, and let my heart have rest ! " 
 At these sweet words, how shall I tell my joy ? 
 I called him to my side. He rose, approached, 
 And trembling seized the hand I proffered him, 
 A pledge of reconciled love; and, ah ! 
 So fervent kissed it, that my very heart 
 Leaped in my bosom ; then full many a sigh 
 He breathed, with sweet regards and fond caress. 
 
 CARLO GOZZI. 
 
 Count Carlo Gozzi was born at Venice 
 about 1718. He showed very early a poetical 
 spirit, and acquired a command of the Tuscan 
 style. The condition of his family made it 
 necessary for him to enter the military service 
 in his sixteenth year. Three years after, he 
 returned to Venice and resumed his studies. 
 He was hostile to the taste created by Chiari's 
 bombastic dramas, and defended the commedia 
 delU arte and the harlequin Sacchi against the 
 attacks of Goldoni. He drew the materials of 
 his own dramatic compositions from the fairy 
 tales, by which he produced great popular ef- 
 fects. His pieces are rather sketches than 
 complete artistic productions. About the year 
 1771, he deserted his original career, and began 
 to translate from the French, and other lan- 
 guages, in order to adapt tragic parts for the 
 actress Signora Ricci, who had acquired great 
 influence over him. He died about the year 
 1800. An edition of his works was published 
 in eight volumes, in 1772 ; to which he added a 
 ninth, in 1799. 
 
 FROM TURANDOT. 
 
 [A march. Truffaldin, the chief of the eunuchs, advances, 
 his scymitar on his shoulder, followed by blacks, and by 
 several female slaves beating drums. After them Adelma 
 and Zelima, the former in Tartar costume, both veiled. 
 Zelima bears a tray with various sealed papers. Truffal- 
 din and the eunuchs prostrate themselves before the em- 
 peror as they pass, and then rise up ; the female slaves 
 kneel with their hands on their foreheads. At length 
 appears Turandot, veiled, in rich Chinese costume, with 
 a haughty and majestic air. The councillors and doctors 
 throw themselves down before her, with their faces to 
 the earth. Altoum rises; the princess makes an obei- 
 sance to him with her hand on her brow, and then seats 
 herself upon her throne. Zelima and Adelma take their 
 places on each side of her, the latter nearest to the spec- 
 tators. Truffaldin takes the tray from Zelima, and dis- 
 tributes with comic ceremony the billets among the doc- 
 tors, then retires with the same obeisance as before, and 
 the march ceases.] 
 
 tdrandot (after a long pause). 
 Where is this new adventurer, who thus, 
 Despite the sad experience of the past, 
 
GOZZI. 
 
 597 
 
 Would vainly strive to solve my deep enigmas, 
 And comes to swell the catalogue of death ? 
 
 altoum (pointing to Calaf, who stands, as if struck with 
 
 astonishment, in the centre of the divan). 
 There, daughter, — there he stands, and worthy, 
 
 too, 
 To be the husband of thy choice, without 
 This frightful test, which clouds the land with 
 
 mourning, 
 And fills with sharpest pangs thy father's breast. 
 
 turandot (after gazing at him for some time — aside to 
 Zelima). 
 
 Heaven ! what feeling 's this, my Zelima? 
 
 ZELIMA. 
 
 What is the matter, Princess ? 
 
 TURANDOT. 
 
 Never yet 
 
 Did mortal enter this divan, whose presence 
 
 Could move my soul to pity, until now. 
 
 ZELIMA. 
 
 Three simple riddles, then, and pride farewell ! 
 
 TURANDOT. 
 
 Presumptuous girl, dost thou forget my honor ? 
 
 adelma (who has in the mean time been regarding the 
 
 prince with astonishment — aside). 
 Is this a dream ? Great God, what do I see ? 
 'T is he, the youth whom at my father's court 
 
 1 knew but as a slave. He was a prince, 
 A monarch's son. My heart foreboded it. 
 Love's deep presentiments are ever sure. 
 
 TURANDOT. 
 
 Still there is time, O Prince ; abandon yet 
 This wild attempt, — turn from this hall for ever. 
 Heaven knows, those tongues belie me that ac- 
 cuse 
 My heart of harshness or of cruelty. 
 I am not cruel, I would oniy live 
 In freedom, — would not be another's slave ; 
 That right, which even the meanest of man- 
 kind 
 [nherits from his mother's womb, would I, 
 The daughter of an emperor, maintain. 
 I see, throughout the East, unhappy woman 
 Degraded, bent beneath a slavish yoke ; 
 I will avenge my sex's injuries 
 On haughty man, whose sole advantage o'er us 
 Lies, like the brute's, in strength. Yes, nature's 
 
 self 
 Hath armed me with the weapons of invention 
 And subtilty, and skill to guard my freedom. 
 Of man I '11 hear no more. I hate him, — 
 
 hate 
 His pride and his presumption. Every treasure 
 He grasps with greedy hand ; whate'er, for- 
 sooth, 
 His fancy longs for, he must straight possess. 
 O, why did Heaven endow me with these graces, 
 These gifts of mind, if noblest natures still 
 A.re doomed on earth to be the mark at which 
 
 Each savage hunter aims, while meaner things 
 
 Lie tranquil in their insignificance? 
 
 Shall beauty be the prize of one ? No, rather 
 
 Free as the universal sun in heaven, 
 
 Which lightens all, which gladdens every eye, 
 
 But is the slave and property of none. 
 
 CALAF. 
 
 Such lofty thought, such nobleness of soul, 
 Enshrined in such a godlike form ! O, who 
 Shall censure the fond youth who gladly sets 
 His life upon a cast for such a prize ? 
 The merchant, for a little gain, will venture 
 His ships and crews upon the stormy sea; 
 The hero hunts the shadow of renown 
 Across the gory field of death ; and shall 
 Beauty alone be without peril won, — 
 Beauty, the best, the brightest good of all ? 
 Princess, I charge thee not with cruelty ; 
 But blame not thou, in turn, the youth's pre- 
 sumption, — 
 O, hate him not, that with enamoured soul 
 He strives for that which is invaluable ! 
 Thyself hast fixed the treasure's price; the lists 
 Are open to the worthiest. I am 
 A prince, — I have a life to hazard for thee, — 
 No happy one, but 't is my all, — and had I 
 A thousand lives, I 'd sacrifice them all. 
 
 zelima (aside to Turandot). 
 
 Princess, dost thou hear ? For Heaven's sake, 
 Three simple riddles, — he deserves it of thee. 
 
 adelma (aside). 
 What nobleness ! what loving dignity ! 
 O, that he might be mine, — that I had known 
 
 him 
 To be a prince, when at my father's court 
 
 1 dwelt of yore in freedom and in joy ! 
 How love flames up at once within my heart, 
 Now that I know his lineage equals mine ! 
 Courage, my heart ! I must possess him still. 
 
 [To Turandot. 
 Princess, thou art confused, — thou 'rt silent. 
 
 Think, 
 Think of thy glory ; honor is at stake. 
 
 turandot (aside). 
 
 And none till now had moved me to compas- 
 sion. — 
 
 Hush, Turandot! — thou must suppress thy 
 feelings. 
 
 Presumptuous youth, so be it, then, — prepare! 
 
 altoum. 
 Prince, is thy purpose fixed ? 
 
 CALAF. 
 
 Fixed as the pole. 
 
 Or death, or Turandot. 
 
 ALTOUM. 
 
 Then read aloud 
 
 The fatal edict; hear it, Prince, and tremble. 
 
 [Tartaglia takes the Book of the Law out of his bosom 
 lays it on his breast, then on his forehead, and de 
 livers it to Pantalon. 
 
598 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 pantalon (receives the book, prostrates himself, then rises, 
 and reads aloud). 
 The hand of Turandot to all is free, 
 But first three riddles must the suitor read; 
 Who solves them not must on the scaffold 
 bleed, 
 And his head planted o'er the gate shalt be ; 
 Solves he the riddles, then the bride is won : 
 So runs the law, — we swear it by the Sun. 
 
 altoum (raising his right hand, and laying it upon the 
 book). 
 
 bloody law, sad source of grief to me, 
 
 1 swear by Fo that thou fulfilled shalt be ! 
 [Tartaglia puts the book again in his bosom. A long 
 
 pause. 
 
 turandot (rising, and in a declamatory tone). 
 The tree within whose shadow 
 
 Men blossom and decay, 
 Coeval with creation, 
 
 Yet still in green array; — 
 One side for ever turneth 
 Its branches to the sun, 
 But coal-black is the other, 
 
 And seeks the light to shun. 
 New circles still surround it, 
 
 So often as it blows ; 
 The age of all around it, 
 It tells us as it grows ; 
 And names are lightly graven 
 
 Upon its verdant rind, 
 Which, when its bark grows shrivelled, 
 
 Man seeks in vain to find. 
 Then tell me, Prince, — this tree, 
 What may its likeness be ? 
 
 [Sits down. 
 calaf (after considering for a time, with his eyes raised, 
 
 makes his obeisance to the princess). 
 Too happy, Princess, would thy slave be, if 
 No riddles more obscure than this await him. 
 The ancient tree that still renews its verdure ; 
 On which men blossom and decay ; whose leaves 
 On one side seek, on the other flee the sun ; 
 On whose green rind so many names are graven, 
 Which only last so long as it is green, — 
 That tree is Time, with all its nights and days. 
 
 pantalon (joyfully). 
 Tartaglia, he has hit it ! 
 
 TARTAGLIA. 
 
 To a hair ! 
 
 doctors (breaking open the sealed packet). 
 Optime, optime, optime! — Time, Time, Time, 
 It is Time. 
 
 [Music. 
 altoum (joyfully). 
 
 The favor of the gods go with thee, son, 
 And help thee also through the other riddles ! 
 
 zelima. 
 O Heaven, assist him ! • 
 
 adelma (aside). 
 Heaven assist him not! 
 Let it not be, that she, the cruel one, 
 Should gain him, and the loving-hearted lose. 
 
 turandot (in anger). 
 And shall he conquer? shall my pride be hum 
 
 bled ? 
 No, by the gods! — Thou self-contented fool, 
 
 [To Calaf. 
 Joy not so early. Listen and interpret. 
 
 [Rises again and declaims as before. 
 Know'st thou the picture softly rounded 
 That lights itself with inward gleam, 
 Whose hues are every moment changing, 
 
 Yet ever fair and perfect seem ; 
 Within the narrowest panel painted, 
 Set in the narrowest frame alone, 
 Yet all the glorious scenes around us 
 
 Are only through that picture shown ? 
 Or know'st thou that serenest crystal 
 
 Whose brightness shames the diamond's 
 blaze, 
 That shines so clear, yet never scorches, 
 
 That draws a world within its rays ; 
 The blue of heaven its bright reflection 
 
 Within its magic mirror leaves, 
 And yet the light that sparkles from it 
 Seems lovelier oft than it receives ? 
 
 calaf (bending low to the princess, after a short consid- 
 eration). 
 Chide not, exalted beauty, that thy servant 
 Thus dares again to hazard a solution. 
 This tender picture, which, with smallest frame 
 Encompassed, mirrors even immensity ; 
 The crystal in which heaven and earth are 
 
 painted, 
 Yet renders back things lovelier even than they ; 
 It is the Eye, the world's receptacle, — 
 Thine eye, when it looks lovingly on me. 
 
 pantalon (springing up joyfully). 
 Tartaglia, by my soul, he hath hit the mark, 
 Even in the centre ' 
 
 tartaglia. 
 As I live, 't is true ! 
 
 doctors (opening the packet). 
 Optime, optime, optime! — the Eye, the Eye, it 
 is the Eye. 
 
 [Music. 
 altoum. 
 
 What unexpected fortune !' Gracious gods, 
 Let him but reach the mark once more ! 
 
 zelima. 
 O, that it were the last ! 
 
 ADELMA. 
 
 Woe 's me, he conquers ! he is lost to me ! 
 
 [To Turandot. 
 Princess, thy glory is departed. Canst thou 
 Submit to this? shall all thy former triumphs 
 Be tarnished in a moment ? 
 
 turandot (rising in the highest indignation) 
 Sooner shall 
 
 Earth crumble into ruin ! No ! I tell thee, 
 Presumptuous youth, I do but hate thee more, 
 The more thou hop'st to conquer — to possess me 
 Wait not my last enigma. Fly at once. 
 Leave this diva.n for ever. Save thyself. 
 
GOZZL — PARINI. 
 
 599 
 
 It is thy hate alone, adored Princess, 
 That could appall or agitate my heart; 
 Let my unhappy head sink in the dust, 
 If it unworthy be to touch thy bosom. 
 
 ALTOUM. 
 
 O, yield, beloved son, and tempt no farther • 
 
 The gods, who twice have favored thee ! Now 
 safe, 
 
 Nay, crowned with honor, thou canst leave the 
 field. 
 
 Two conquests naught avail thee, if the third, 
 
 The all-decisive, be not won. The nearer 
 
 The summit, still the heavier is the fall. 
 
 And thou, — O, be content with this, my daugh- 
 ter ! 
 
 Desist, and try him with no more enigmas. 
 
 He hath done what never prince before him did. 
 
 Give him thy hand, then, — he is worthy of it, — 
 
 And end the trial. 
 
 [Zelima makes imploring, and Adelma menacing ges- 
 tures to Turandot. 
 
 TURANDOT. . 
 
 End the trial, say'st thou ? 
 
 Give him my hand ? No, never. Three enigmas 
 
 The law hath said. The law shall take its course. 
 
 Let the law take its course. My life is placed 
 In the gods' hands. Death, then, or Turandot. 
 
 TURANDOT. 
 
 Death be it, then, — death. Dost thou hear me, 
 Prince ? 
 
 [Rising and proceeding to declaim as before. 
 What is the weapon, prized by few, 
 Which in a monarch's hand we view ; 
 Whose nature, like the murderous blade, 
 To trample and to wound seems made, 
 Yet bloodless are the wounds it makes; 
 To all it gives, from none it takes ; 
 It makes the stubborn earth our own, 
 It gives to life its tranquil tone ; 
 Though mightiest empires it hath grounded, 
 Though oldest cities it hath founded, 
 The flame of war it never lit, 
 And happy they who hold by it? 
 Say, Prince, what may that weapon be, 
 Or else farewell to life and me. 
 
 [With these last words she tears off her veil. 
 
 Look here, and, if thou canst, preserve thy senses. 
 
 Die, or unfold the riddle ! 
 
 calaf (confused, and holding his hand before his eyes). 
 O dazzling light of heaven ! O blinding beauty ! 
 
 God ! he grows confused, — his senses wander ; 
 Compose thyself, my son, collect thy thoughts. 
 
 ZELIMA. 
 
 How my heart beats ! 
 
 adelma (aside). 
 Mine art thou yet, beloved, — 
 
 1 '11 save thee yet. Love will find out the way. 
 
 pantalon (to Calaf). 
 O, for the love of Heaven, let not his senses 
 Take leave of him ! Courage, look up, my 
 
 prince ! — 
 O, woe is me ! I fear me all is over ! 
 
 tartaglia (with mock gravity to himself). 
 Would dignity permit, we 'd fly in person 
 To fetch him vinegar. 
 
 turandot (looking with a steady countenance on the 
 
 prince, who still stands immovable). 
 Unfortunate ! 
 Thou vvouldst provoke thy ruin, — take it, then 
 
 calaf (who hag recovered his composure, turns with a 
 
 calm smile and obeisance to Turandot). 
 It was thy beauty only, heavenly Princess, 
 That with its blinding and o'erpowering beam 
 Burst on me so, and for a moment took 
 My senses prisoners. I am not vanquished. 
 That iron weapon, prized of few, yet gracing 
 The hand of China's emperor itself, 
 On the first day of each returning year ; 
 That weapon, which, more harmless than the 
 
 sword, 
 To industry the stubborn earth subjected ; — 
 Who, from the wildest wastes of Tartary, 
 Where only hunters roam and shepherds pas- 
 ture, 
 Could enter here, and view this blooming land, 
 The green and golden fields that wave around us, 
 Its many hundred many-peopled towns 
 Blest in the calm protection of the law, 
 Nor reverence that goodliest instrument, 
 That gave these blessings birth, — the gentle 
 Plough ? 
 
 pantalon. 
 O, God be praised at last ! Let me embrace thee , 
 I scarcely can contain myself for joy. 
 
 tartaglia. 
 God bless his Majesty the emperor ! All 
 Is over; sorrow has an end at last. 
 
 doctors (breaking open the packet). 
 The Plough, the Plough, it is the Plough ! 
 
 [All the instruments join in a loud crash. Turandot 
 sinks upon her throne in a swoon. 
 
 GIUSEPPE PARINI. 
 
 Giuseppe Parini was born at Busisio, a Mi- 
 lanese village, in 1729. He studied at Milan, 
 and devoted himself to theology in compliance 
 with his father's desires. He early made some 
 poetical attempts, and, in 1752, published a 
 collection of his pieces, which occasioned his 
 being admitted into the Academy of the Arca- 
 dians at Rome. Being appointed preceptor in 
 the Borromeo and Serbelloni families, he was 
 placed more at his ease, and had more leisure 
 for his studies. He died in 1799. 
 
 The principal work of Parini is the didactir 
 
ooo 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 satire en .itled " II Giomo," or The Day, in 
 which '.e attempts a delineation of the manners 
 of the great. It is divided into " II Mattino," 
 or Morning, "II Mezzogiorno," or Noon, " II 
 Vespero," or Evening, and " La Notte," or 
 Night. This poem gave him a great reputation, 
 and procured him a professorship of belles-let- 
 tres in the Palatine School in Milan. He was 
 a writer of profound feeling, delicate taste, and 
 correct judgment. His language is simple, well 
 chosen, and beautiful. His works were pub- 
 lished by Reina, in six volumes, at Milan, 
 1801-4. 
 
 FROM IL GIORNO. 
 
 Already do the gentle valets hear 
 Thy tinkling summons, and with zealous speed 
 Haste to unclose the barriers that exclude 
 The gairish day, — yet soft and warily, 
 Lest the rude sun perchance offend thy sight. 
 Now raise thee gently, and recline upon 
 The obsequious pillow that doth woo thy weight; 
 Thine hand's forefinger lightly, lightly pass 
 O'er thine half-opened eyes, and chase from 
 
 thence 
 The cursed Cimmerian that durst yet remain ; 
 And bearing still in mind thy delicate lips, 
 Indulge thee in a graceful yawn betimes. 
 In that luxurious act if once beheld 
 By the rude captain, who the battling ranks 
 Stentorian-like commands, what shame would 
 
 seize 
 On the ear-rending, boisterous son of Mars ! 
 Such as of old pipe-playing Pallas felt, 
 When her swollen cheek and lip the fount be- 
 trayed. 
 
 B'<t now, behold, thy natty page appears, 
 Anxious to learn what beverage thou wouldst 
 
 sip. 
 If that thy stomach need the sweet ferment, 
 Restorative of heat, and to the powers 
 Digestive so propitious, — choose, I pray, 
 The tawny chocolate, on thee bestowed 
 By the black Carib of the plumed crown. • 
 Or should the hypochondria vex my lord, 
 Or round his tapering limbs the encroaching 
 
 flesh 
 Unwelcome gather, let his lip prefer 
 The roasted berry's juice, that Mocha sends, — 
 Mocha, that of a thousand ships is proud. 
 'T was fate decreed that from the ancient world 
 'Adventurers should sail, and o'er the main, 
 'Gainst storm and doubt, and famine and despair, 
 Should have achieved discovery and conquest; — 
 'T was fate ordained that Cortes should despise 
 The blood of sable man, and through it wade, 
 O'erturning kingdoms and their generous kings, 
 That worlds, till then unknown, their fruits and 
 
 flowers 
 Should cater to thy palate, gem of heroes ! 
 But Heaven forefend, that, at this very hour 
 To coffee and to breakfast dedicate, 
 Some menial indiscreet should chance admit 
 
 The tailor, — who, alas ! is not contented 
 To have with thee divided his rich stuffs, 
 And now with infinite politeness comes, 
 Handing his bill. Ahime ! unlucky ! 
 The wholesome liquor turns to gall and spleen, 
 And doth at home, abroad, at play or park, 
 Disorganize thy bowels for the day. 
 
 But let no portal e'er be closed on him 
 Who sways thy toes, professor of the dance. 
 He at his entrance stands firm on the threshold ; 
 Up mount his shoulders, and down sinks his 
 
 neck, 
 Like to a tortoise, while with graceful bow 
 His lip salutes his hat's extremity. 
 Nor less be thy divine access denied 
 To the sweet modulator of thy voice, 
 Or him for whom the harmonious string vibrates, 
 Waked into music by his skilful bow. 
 But, above all, let him not fail to join 
 The chosen synod of my lord's levee, 
 Professor of the idiom exquisite : 
 He, who from Seine, the mother of the Graces, 
 Comes generous, laden with celestial sounds, 
 To grace the lips of nauseous Italy. 
 Lo ! at his bidding, our Italian words, 
 Dismembered, yield the place unto their foe; 
 And at his harmony ineffable, 
 Lo ! in thy patriot bosom rises strong 
 Hate and disgust of that ignoble tongue, 
 Which in Valchiusa to the echoes told 
 The lament and the praise of hopeless love. 
 Ah ! wretched bard, who knew not yet to mix 
 The Gallic graces with thy rude discourse ; 
 That so to delicate spirits thou might'st be 
 Not grating as thou art, and barbarous ! 
 
 Fast with this pleasant choir flits on the morn, 
 Unvexed by tedium or vacuity, 
 While 'tvvixt the light sips of the fragrant cup 
 Is pleasantly discussed, — What name shall bear, 
 Next season, the theatric palm away ? 
 And is it true that Frine has returned, — 
 She that has sent a thousand dull Milords, 
 Naked and gulled, unto the banks of Thames? 
 Or comes the dancer, gay Narcissus, back 
 (Terror of gentle husbands)^ to bestow 
 Fresh trouble to their hearts, and honors to their 
 heads? 
 
 LUIGI VITTORIO SAVIOLI. 
 
 Lcigi Vittorio Savioli, a politician as well 
 as poet, was born at Bologna, in 1729. Although 
 he manifested an early passion for poetry, he 
 involved himself in the opposition of the aris- 
 tocracy to the reforms of Cardinal Buoncam- 
 pagni, and was one of the number of disgraced 
 senators under the papal government. He be- 
 came, however, more docile under the Cispadan 
 republic, and was sent as a deputy to Paris to 
 treat with the Directory. He was afterwards 
 made Professor of Diplomacy in the University 
 of Bologna. He died September 1st, 1804. 
 
SAVIOLL — ALFIERI. 
 
 bOl 
 
 The poems of Savioli were published in his 
 youth, under the title of " Ainori." They had 
 an immense success, and placed him among the 
 first Anacreontic writers of the age. His style 
 is gay and elegant. He also wrote a translation 
 of Tacitus, and began a historical work enti- 
 tled "Annali Bolognesi," which was interrupt- 
 ed by his death. 
 
 TO SOLITUDE. 
 
 Away with fabled names that shine 
 
 In modern knightly story ; 
 I tune my lyre to sing the deeds 
 
 Of nobler ancient glory. 
 
 Old Sparta, sternly virtuous, made 
 The pure and spotless maiden 
 
 To join the wrestler's ring, by naught 
 But nature's vesture laden. 
 
 No crimson hues along the cheek 
 
 Arose to mar her beauty ; 
 Why feel dishonest shame, if true 
 
 To honor and to duty? 
 
 Nor word, nor look, betrays the fire 
 
 Which in the bosom gathers 
 Of Lacedsmon's youths, who sit 
 
 Beside their warlike fathers. 
 
 But Beauty yielded not the palm 
 
 To gold or false devices ; 
 "Arm in your country's cause ! " they cried ; 
 
 And Hope each heart entices. 
 
 How boldly fought the Spartan host, 
 When Love the victor cherished, 
 
 And tears of secret grief were shed 
 O'er the brave men who perished'. 
 
 O, wherefore have ye fled, ye days 
 
 Pure, holy, ever glorious ; 
 While avarice, luxury, and fraud 
 
 Now reign o'er all victorious ? 
 
 Then haste away, O dearest one, 
 To scenes where peace abideth ; 
 
 Far from the haunts of haughty men, 
 The day in calmness glideth. 
 
 Lo ! there, 'mid lovely verdant slopes, 
 On high the mountain towers; 
 
 Penelope, in all her pride, 
 Dwelt in less regal bowers. 
 
 The cypress there, pale Hecate's tree, 
 
 Its sacred leaves uncloses ; 
 And, o'er each rocky dell, the fir 
 
 Dark shade to shade opposes. 
 
 There, too, the tree, which, as it sighed 
 
 Above the lonely fountain, 
 The Berecynthian goddess loved 
 
 To hear on Phrygia's mountain. 
 
 Erst a lone grot, with native marks 
 Of rudeness on it clinging, 
 
 Was opened by the living stream, 
 Fresh from the soil upspringing. 
 
 'T was found by Art, who emulous 
 With Nature joined her treasure; 
 
 And Thetis drew from all her stores 
 To deck the abode of pleasure. 
 
 In tranquil grace, beside the cave, 
 Its guardian Naiad, standing, 
 
 Pours from her mossy shell a fount 
 To silvery streams expanding. 
 
 VITTORIO ALFIERI. 
 
 This remarkable man, whose diversified life 
 presents an eminent example of the power of 
 resolution in overcoming difficulties, belonged 
 to a rich and noble family of Asti, in Piedmont. 
 He was born January 17th, 1749. He lost his 
 father before he was a year old. In 1758, he 
 was sent, by the advice of his uncle, the Cava- 
 lier Pellegrino Alfiero, to a school in Turin, 
 where his education was miserably neglected 
 by those to whose care he was intrusted, and, 
 after several years wasted in idleness and fri- 
 volity, he left the academy nearly as ignorant as 
 he had entered it. In 1766, he joined a pro- 
 vincial regiment; but finding the duties, though 
 few and unimportant, uncongenial to his taste, 
 and being irreconcilably averse to military sub- 
 ordination, he at length, and after some opposi- 
 tion, obtained the king's permission to travel. 
 He set out on his journey in October, 1766, 
 and, having visited the principal cities of Italy, 
 extended his travels to France, England, and 
 Holland. On his return, two years afterwards, 
 he attempted, from mere weariness, to amuse 
 himself by reading ; but hi3 ignorance was so 
 great, and his mind was so undisciplined, that 
 he was able to turn this resource to very little 
 account. His knowledge of the Italian was so 
 slight, that he could not appreciate the works of 
 Dante, Petrarch, and Tasso ; but he gained 
 some acquaintance with the writings of Rous 
 seau, Voltaire, and Helvetius, and read with 
 great interest the " Lives " of Plutarch. 
 
 Having now come into possession of his for 
 tune, he commenced his travels anew in 1769, 
 and visited Austria, Prussia, Denmark, Sweden, 
 Russia, and, again passing through Germany 
 and Holland, crossed over to England. Of his 
 mode of life in England he has left in his Me- 
 moirs a minute and not unamusing account, 
 which presents, however, not only a striking pic- 
 ture of his own frivolous pursuits, but of the cor- 
 rupt manners of the higher classes of English 
 society at that time. The public exposure of an 
 intrigue caused him to leave England, and be 
 went by way of Brussels to Paris. From Paris, 
 after a short stay, he passed into Spain and Por- 
 y vr 
 
602 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 tugal. In Lisbon, he became acquainted with 
 the Abate Tommaso di Caluso, a person of at- 
 tractive manners and elegant tastes, in whose 
 society he spent the greater part of his time, pre- 
 ferring his conversation to all the amusements 
 which the capital afforded. "It was on one of 
 those most dulcet evenings," says Alfieri, in his 
 Memoirs, " that I felt in my inmost heart and 
 soul a true Phcebean impulse of enthusiastic 
 ravishment for the art of poetry; it was, how- 
 ever, only a brief flame, which was immediately 
 extinguished, and slept under the ashes many 
 a long year afterwards. The kind and worthy 
 Abate was reading to me that magnificent ode to 
 Fortune, by Guidi ; a poet, of whom I had not 
 even heard the name until that day. Some 
 stanzas of that canzone, and especially the very 
 beautiful one on Pompey, transported me to an 
 indescribable degree ; so that the good Abate 
 persuaded himself, and told me, that I was born 
 to make verses, and that by studying I should 
 succeed in making very good ones. But when 
 that momentary excitement had passed away, 
 finding all the powers of my mind so rusted, 
 I did not believe the thing would ever be pos- 
 sible, and thought no more about it." 
 
 After his return to his native place, in 1772, 
 retiring from the military service with some dif- 
 ficulty, he made various efforts to supply the de- 
 ficiencies of his education. The success which 
 a few slight satirical compositions had among a 
 circle of friends, who were accustomed to as- 
 semble at his house, awakened the desire and 
 the hope of one day producing something that 
 should deserve to live. His first dramatic attempt 
 was the "Cleopatra," which was performed at 
 Turin in 1775. From this time, he determined, 
 with a resolution never to be shaken, to make 
 himself a tragic poet. Aware of his deficiencies, 
 he spared no pains to make them good. He 
 set about acquiring the Tuscan and the Latin 
 languages ; for, though an Italian, he knew only 
 the barbarous dialect of his native province ; 
 and though a Master of Arts, educated in the 
 Academy and University of Turin, where " the 
 Italian was a contraband," he was not sufficient- 
 ly master of the Latin to understand the tritest 
 quotations. He studied the Latin with a teach- 
 er, and went to Florence to acquire the Tuscan, 
 in 1776. After a brief residence, he went back 
 to Turin ; but returning once more to Florence, 
 he became acquainted with the beautiful count- 
 ess of Albany, the wife of the Pretender, Charles 
 Stuart, to whom he became deeply attached. 
 The description of this lady, and of her influ- 
 ence over his character, forms the most beautiful 
 part of Alfieri's Memoirs. The countess lived 
 unhappily with her husband, but there appears 
 to have been nothing to censure in her rela- 
 tions, at this time, with Alfieri. She obtained 
 the pope's permission to retire to a convent in 
 Florence, and afterwards entered one in Rome. 
 Her husband lived until 1788. 
 
 Alfieri had determined to remain permanent- 
 ly in Florence, and to labor uninterruptedly at 
 
 his self-imposed literary tasks. But the feudal 
 tenure of an estate subjected him to certain ob- 
 ligations which were irksome and odious to his 
 impatient spirit. Among the rest, it was pro- 
 hibited by law to the vassals of the sovereign 
 of Piedmont to leave his States without special 
 permission in writing ; another law forbade the 
 printing of books in any other States, under a 
 heavy penalty. These restrictions were so in- 
 tolerable to Alfieri, that he made an arrange- 
 ment with his sister's husband, by which he 
 transferred the estate to him, on the condition 
 of receiving an annual payment of about half 
 his present income. 
 
 The departure of the countess of Albany to 
 Rome interrupted his studies in Florence, and 
 he followed her thither, determining to estab- 
 lish himself there. During this residence, he 
 composed several of his tragedies. The "An- 
 tigone " was performed in 1782, by amateurs, 
 in a private theatre, and received much ap- 
 plause. In 1783, he submitted four tragedies ■ 
 to the ordeal of the press. In the same year, 
 he left Rome, on account of the scandal which 
 his frequent visits to the countess created, and 
 went first to Siena, without well knowing what 
 further course his journey would take. In Siena 
 he remained about three weeks, with a friend 
 named Gori ; and then set out for Venice, by 
 way of Florence and Bologna. While in Ven- 
 ice, he heard of the peace concluded between 
 England and America, and wrote the fifth ode 
 of his "America Libera." From Venice he 
 went to Padua, " and this time," he says in his 
 Memoirs, " I did not, as I had done twice be- 
 fore, omit to visit the house and tomb of our 
 sovereign master of love, in Arqua." In Padua 
 he became acquainted with Cesarotti, the trans- 
 lator of Ossian. From Padua, he returned to 
 Bologna, passing through Ferrara, for the pur- 
 pose of performing another poetic pilgrimage, 
 that of visiting the tomb and examining the 
 manuscripts of Ariosto. He then went to Milan 
 and Turin ; then returned to Milan, where 
 he saw much of Parini ; thence to Florence, 
 "where," he says, "the wiseacres gave me 
 distinctly to understand, that, if my manuscripts 
 had been corrected by them before printing, I 
 should have written well." 
 
 Returning to Siena, he published six more of 
 his tragedies, and then determined to visit 
 France and England, — the latter country for 
 the purpose of buying horses. Immediately 
 on his arrival in London, he set about the 
 business, and soon had purchased fourteen, to 
 gratify a whimsical desire of owning as many 
 horses as he had written tragedies. He left 
 London in April, 1784, " with this numerous 
 caravan," and returned to Siena, by way ot 
 Calais, Paris, Lyons, and Turin. The account 
 he gives of the troubles and vexations he en- 
 dured in conducting these animals through the 
 country reminds one of poor Mr. Pickwick's 
 horror at the thought of being followed about 
 all day by a " dreadful horse." He plumed 
 
ALFIERI. 
 
 603 
 
 himself not a little upon getting them safely 
 aver the Alps, and, comparing this exploit to 
 Hannibal's celebrated passage, says that it cost 
 him as much wine for the guides, assistants, and 
 jockeys, as it cost that commander vinegar to 
 transport his slaves and elephants. He found his 
 health much benefited, though "the horses had 
 rapidly carried him back to the primitive ass." 
 
 Remaining a short time in Turin, he was 
 present at a representation of "Virginia." The 
 countess of Albany had now left Rome, and 
 taken up her residence in Alsatia, and he could 
 not resist the temptation to visit her. During 
 the few months which he passed with her, he 
 wrote the three tragedies, " Agis," " Sophonis- 
 ba," and " Mirra." The news, which he re- 
 ceived at this time, of the death of his friend 
 Gori, in Siena, to whom he was warmly at- 
 tached, overwhelmed him with sorrow. He 
 returned to Siena, and then removed to Pisa, 
 where he wrote, among other things, the " Pan- 
 sgyric on Trajan." The countess, having visited 
 Paris in the mean time, and being unwilling to 
 return to Rome, determined to make her resi- 
 dence in France. She went into Alsatia in 
 August, 1785, and was there rejoined by Alfieri, 
 who wrote, at this time, the tragedies of the First 
 and the Second Brutus. After a few months, 
 the countess returned to Paris, and Alfieri re- 
 mained solitary at his villa; but in August, 
 1786, she came back, and they were never sep- 
 arated more. In December of the same year, 
 they went together to Paris, where they remain- 
 ad only six or seven months. About the same 
 time, he made an arrangement with Didot for 
 the publication of his collected tragedies. In 
 the summer of 1787, he received a visit, at his 
 villa near Colmar, from his friend the Abate 
 Caluso; but his pleasure in the society of this 
 amiable man was interrupted by a long and se- 
 vere illness, which nearly proved fatal. At the 
 close of the year they went again to Paris, and 
 finding it convenient to remain for the purpose 
 of superintending the press, Alfieri took a house. 
 
 He continued his literary occupations until 
 1791, when, in company with the countess, he 
 made his fourth journey to England. Though 
 they admired the freedom, industry, and energy 
 of the people, they were displeased with the 
 manner of living among the upper classes ; 
 "always at table ; sitting up till two or three 
 j'clock in the morning; a life wholly opposed 
 to letters, to genius, to health." Alfieri was 
 Desides tormented by a " flying gout, which is 
 truly indigenous in that blessed island." His 
 pecuniary affairs were also somewhat embar- 
 rassed by the disturbances in France. They 
 Accordingly returned, by way of Holland, to 
 Paris, after having made, in August, a short 
 tour, in the course of which they visited Bath, 
 Bristol, and Oxford. 
 
 He found it, however, impossible to continue 
 his literary labors amidst the bloody scenes of 
 the Revolution. With some difficulty, he ob- 
 tained passports for himself and the countess, 
 
 and fled from Paris on the 18th of August, 1792. 
 Their property was seized and confiscated, and 
 they were immediately proscribed as emigrants. 
 On the third of November, they arrived in Flor- 
 ence. Overjoyed at having escaped from " that 
 self-styled republic, born in terror and in blood," 
 and having reached in safety " the beautiful 
 country where sounds the si," Alfieri resumed 
 his occupations, and by degrees collected an- 
 other library to replace that of which he had 
 been plundered in Paris. He remained in or 
 near Florence, the rest of his life. At the age 
 of forty-six, he determined to learn the Greek 
 language, and such was the strength of his reso- 
 lution, that he mastered it sufficiently to read 
 Homer and the Tragedians. His exhausting 
 labors, the anxieties caused by the political state 
 of Italy, and by the victorious arms of the French, 
 whom he abhorred, together with the bad effects 
 of an injurious system of meagre living, began 
 to undermine his health Notwithstanding the 
 urgent remonstrances of his friends, he persisted 
 in his course, until the 8th of October, 1803, 
 when he died, at the age of fifty-five. 
 
 The following summary of Alfieri's character 
 is taken from Mr. Mariotti's " Italy." 
 
 " When we think of Alfieri, we must bring 
 ourselves back to his age ; we must for a mo- 
 ment enter into his classical views. Alfieri 
 was in Italy the last of classics; and happy was 
 it for that school, that it could, at its close, 
 shed so dazzling a light as to shroud its down- 
 fall in his glory, and trouble, for a long while, 
 with jealous anxiety, the triumph of its hyper- 
 borean rival, — the Romantic school. 
 
 " When we number the greatest tragedian ol 
 Italy among the classics, we consider him only 
 in regard to the form and style of his dramas, 
 not to the spirit that dictated them. Properly 
 speaking, he belonged to no school, and found- 
 ed none. He stands by himself, the man of all 
 ages, the man of no age. Whatever might be 
 the shape which his education, or the antique 
 cast of his genius, led him to prefer in his pro- 
 ductions, no poet ever contributed more power- 
 fully to the reformation of the character of his 
 countrymen. For that object, he only needed 
 to throw before them the model of his own 
 character. It mattered little, whether it was 
 drawn with the pencil, or carved with the chis- 
 el ; whether it was wrapped up in the Roman 
 gown of Brutus, or in the Florentine cassock 
 of Raimondo de Pazzi. 
 
 "Alfieri's character was an anomaly in his 
 age. Notwithstanding some symptoms of bold- 
 ness and energy of mind shown by some of his 
 contemporaries, or his immediate predecessors, 
 such as Giannone or Parini, still the regenera- 
 tion of the Italian character was yet merely 
 intellectual and individual ; and Alfieri was 
 born out of that class which was the last to 
 feel its redeeming influence. He belonged to 
 a nobility used to make day of night, and night 
 of day ; to divide their hours between the 
 prince's antechamber and the boudoir of the 
 
604 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 reigning beauty ; to waste their energies in a 
 life of insolence, idleness, and unlawful excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " Penetrated with the utter impossibility of 
 distinguishing himself by immediate action in 
 that age, Alfieri, like many other noblemen of 
 his country, was forced to throw himself on the 
 last resources of literature. 
 
 "But he had lofty ideas of its duties and in- 
 fluence ; he had exalted notions of the dignity 
 of man, — an ardent, though a vague and ex- 
 aggerated, love of liberty, and of the manly vir- 
 tues which it is wont to foster. He felt, that, 
 of all branches of literature, the theatre had 
 the most immediate effect on the illiterate mass 
 of the people. He invaded the stage. He 
 drove from it Metastasio and his effeminate 
 heroes. He substituted dramatic for melodic 
 poetry; manly passions for enervate affections; 
 ideas for sounds. He wished to effect upon 
 his contemporaries that revolution which his 
 own soul had undergone ; he wished to rouse 
 them, to wake them from their long lethargy 
 of servitude, to see them thinking, willing, 
 striving, resisting. 
 
 " To a man that wrote, actuated by such feel- 
 ings, the mere form was nothing. It was only 
 at the age of twenty-nine, that, tormented by 
 that disease of noble minds, fame, and ground- 
 ing his hopes on what he calls his ' determined, 
 obstinate, iron will,' he formed the resolution 
 to be a tragic poet ; and began his poetical ca- 
 reer by resuming his long-abandoned studies 
 from the very elements of grammar. 
 
 "He had no dramatic models before him but 
 Corneille and Racine, to which he added a very 
 imperfect knowledge of the ancient classics. 
 For Shakspeare he, indeed, evinced an indefin- 
 able admiration. He felt overawed by the ex- 
 traordinary powers, but was deterred and dis- 
 tracted by the eccentric flights, of that sovereign 
 fancy. The day of Shakspeare had not yet 
 dawned. The great crisis of Romanticism was 
 not mature ; nor was it in Alfieri's power to 
 foresee it. 
 
 "Alfieri's poetry was sculpture. His trage- 
 dies are only a group of four or five statues ; 
 his characters are figures of marble, incorrupti- 
 ble, everlasting ; but not flesh, nothing like flesh, 
 having nothing of its freshness and hue. 
 
 " He describes no scene. Those statues stand 
 by themselves, isolated on their pedestals, on a 
 vacant ideal stage, without background, without 
 contrast of landscape or scenery ; all wrapped 
 in their heroic mantles; all moving, breathing 
 statues perhaps, still nothing but statues. 
 
 " Wherever be the scene, whoever the hero, 
 it is always the poet that speaks ; it is always 
 his noble, indomitable soul, reproduced under 
 various shapes ; it is always one and the same 
 object, pursued under different points of view, 
 but to which every other view is subservient ; 
 the struggle between the oppressor and the 
 
 oppressed. The genii of good and evil have 
 waged an eternal war in his scenes. Philip, 
 Creon, Gomez, Appius, and Cosmo de' Medici, 
 can equally answer his purposes as the agents 
 of crime. Don Carlos, Antigone, Perez, Icilius, 
 and Don Garzia, are indifferently chosen to 
 stand forth as the champions of virtue." 
 
 The tragedies of Alfieri have been translated 
 by Charles Lloyd, in three volumes, London, 
 1815. 
 
 The tragedy of " The First Brutus," from 
 which the following extract is taken, was dedi 
 cated to Washington in the following terms. 
 
 "TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AND FREE CITIZEN 
 GENERAL WASHINGTON. 
 
 " The name of the deliverer of America alonf 
 can stand on the title-page of the tragedy of thr 
 deliverer of Rome. 
 
 " To you, excellent and most rare citizen, ] 
 therefore dedicate this; without first hinting a.' 
 even a part of the so many praises due to your- 
 self, which I now deem all comprehended in 
 the sole mention of your name. Nor can this 
 my slight allusion appear to you contaminated 
 by adulation ; since, not knowing you by per- 
 son, and living disjoined from you by the im- 
 mense ocean, we have but too emphatically 
 nothing in common between us but the love of 
 glory. Happy are you, who have been able to 
 build your glory on the sublime and eternal 
 basis of love to your country, demonstrated by 
 actions. I, though not born free, yet having 
 abandoned in time my lares, and for no other 
 reason than that I might be able to write loftily 
 of liberty, I hope by this means at least to have 
 proved what might have been my love for my 
 country, if I had indeed fortunately belonged 
 to one that deserved the name. In this single 
 respect, I do not think myself wholly unworthy 
 to mingle my name with yours. 
 
 " Vittorio Alfieri. 
 "Paris, 3ist December, 1788." 
 
 FROM THE FIRST BRUTUS. 
 BRUTUS AND COLLATINUS. 
 
 COLLATINUS. 
 
 Ah ! where, — ah ! where, O Brutus, woulds* 
 
 thou thus 
 Drag me by force ? Quickly restore to me 
 This sword of mine, which with beloved blood 
 Is reeking yet. In my own breast 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Ah ! first 
 
 This sword, now sacred, in the breast of others 
 
 Shall be immerged, I swear to thee. Meanwhile 
 
 'T is indispensable that in this Forum 
 
 Thy boundless sorrow, and my just revenge, 
 
 Burst unreservedly before the eyes 
 
 Of universal Rome. 
 
 COLLATINUS. 
 
 Ah, no ! I will 
 
 Withdraw myself from every human eve 
 
To my unparalleled calamity 
 
 All remedies are vain : the sword, this sword, 
 
 Alone can put an end to my distress. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 O Collatinus, a complete revenge 
 Would surely be some solace ; and I swear 
 To thee, that that revenge thou shalt obtain. — 
 O, of a chaste and innocent Roman lady 
 Thou sacred blood, to-day shalt thou cement 
 The edifice of Roman liberty ! 
 
 COLLATINUS. 
 
 Ah ! could my heart indulge a hope like this, — 
 The hope, ere death, of universal vengeance ! 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Hope ? be assured of it. At length, behold, 
 The morn is dawning of the wished-for day : 
 To-day my lofty, long-projected plan 
 At length may gain a substance and a form. 
 Thou, from a wronged, unhappy spouse, may'st 
 
 now 
 Become the avenging citizen : e'en thou 
 Shalt bless that innocent blood : and then if thou 
 Wilt give thy own, it will not be in vain 
 For a true country shed, — a country, yes, 
 Which Brutus will to-day create with thee, 
 Or die with thee in such an enterprise. 
 
 COLLATINUS. 
 
 O, what a sacred name dost thou pronounce ' 
 [, for a genuine country's sake alone, 
 Could now survive my immolated wife 
 
 Ah ! then resolve to live ; cooperate 
 
 With me in this attempt. A god inspires me; 
 
 A god infuses ardor in my breast, 
 
 Who thus exhorts me : "It belongs to thee, 
 
 Collatinus, and to thee, O Brutus, 
 To give both life and liberty to Rome." 
 
 COLLATINUS. 
 
 Worthy of Brutus is thy lofty hope : 
 
 1 should be vile, if I defeated it. 
 
 Or from the impious Tarquins wholly rescued, 
 
 Our country shall from us new life obtain, 
 
 Or we — but first avenged — with her will fall. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 "Whether enslaved or free, we now shall fall 
 Illustrious and revenged. My horrible oath 
 Verhaps thou hast not well heard; the oath I 
 
 uttered, 
 When from Lucretia's palpitating heart 
 The dagger I dislodged which still I grasp. 
 Deaf from thy mighty grief, thou, in thy house, 
 Scarce heardest it ; here once more wilt thou 
 
 hear it, 
 By my own lips, upon the inanimate corse 
 Of thy unhappy immolated wife, 
 And in the presence of assembled Rome, 
 More strenuously, more solemnly renewed. 
 Already, with the rising sun, the Forum 
 With apprehensive citizens is filled ; 
 
 Already, by Valerius' means, the cry 
 
 Is to the multitude promulgated 
 
 Of the impious catastrophe ; the effect 
 
 Will be far stronger on their heated hearts, 
 
 When they behold the chaste and beauteous lady 
 
 With her own hands destroyed. In their disdain, 
 
 As much as in my own, shall I confide. 
 
 But, more than every man, thou shouldst be 
 
 present : 
 Thine eyes from the distracting spectacle 
 Thou may'st avert : to thy affliction this 
 May be allowed; yet here shouldst thou re 
 
 main; 
 E'en more than my impassioned words, thy mute 
 And boundless grief is fitted to excite 
 The oppressed spectators to indignant pity. 
 
 COLLATINUS. 
 
 Brutus ! the divinity which speaks 
 In thee to lofty and ferocious rage 
 
 Hath changed my grief already. The last words 
 Of the magnanimous Lucretia seem, 
 In a more awful and impressive sound, 
 To echo in my ears, and smite my heart. 
 Can I be less inflexible to avenge, 
 Than she to inflict, her voluntary death? 
 In the infamous Tarquinii's blood alone 
 Can I wash out the stigma of the name 
 Common to me and them ! 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Ah ! I, too, spring 
 
 From their impure and arbitrary blood : 
 
 But Rome shall be convinced that I 'm her son 
 
 Not of the Tarquins' sister; and as far 
 
 As blood not Roman desecrates my veins, 
 
 1 swear to change it all by shedding it 
 For my beloved country. — But, behold, 
 The multitude increases ; hitherward 
 Numbers advance ; now it is time to speak. 
 
 BRUTUS, COLLATINUS, AND PEOPLE. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Romans, to me, — to me, O Romans, come ! 
 Great things have I to impart to you. 
 
 Brutus ! 
 
 Can that, indeed, which we have heard, be true ? 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Behold ! this is the dagger, — reeking yet, 
 Yet warm, with the innocent blood-drops of f> 
 
 chaste 
 And Roman lady, slain by her own hands. 
 Behold her husband ! he is mute; yet weeps 
 And shudders. Yet he lives, but lives alone 
 For vengeance, till he sees by your hands torn, 
 The heart torn piece-meal of that impious Sex- 
 
 tius, 
 That sacrilegious ravisher and tyrant. 
 And I live yet; but only till the day, 
 When, wholly disencumbered of the Tarquins, 
 
 1 see Rome free once more. 
 
 tt2 
 
606 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 most unparalleled, 
 Calamitous catastrophe ! 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 1 see 
 
 That all of you upon the unhappy spouse 
 Have fixed your motionless and speaking eyes, 
 Swimming with tears, and by amazement glazed. 
 Tes, Romans, look at him ; ah, see in him. 
 Ye brothers, fathers, and ye husbands, see 
 Your infamy reflected ! Thus reduced, 
 Death on himself he cannot now inflict; 
 Nor can he life endure, if unavenged. — 
 But vain, inopportune, desist from tears, 
 And from astonishment. — Romans, towards me, 
 Turn towards me, Romans, your ferocious looks : 
 Perhaps from my eyes, ardent with liberty, 
 Ye may collect some animating spark 
 Which may inflame you with its fostering heat. 
 I Junius Brutus am, — whom long ye deemed, 
 Since I so feigned myself, bereft of reason ; 
 And such I feigned myself, since, doomed to live 
 The slave of tyrants, I indulged a hope 
 One day to rescue, by a shock of vengeance, 
 Myself and Rome from their ferocious claws. 
 At length, the day, predestined by the gods, 
 The hour, for my exalted scheme is come. 
 From this time forth 't is in your power to rise 
 From slaves (fdr such ye were) to men. I ask 
 Alone to die for you ; so that I die 
 The first free man and citizen in Rome. 
 
 What have we heard ? What majesty, what 
 force, 
 
 Breathe in his words ! But we, alas ! are pow- 
 erless : 
 
 Can we confront armed and ferocious tyrants? 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Ye powerless, — ye ? What is it that you say ? 
 What! do ye, then, so little know yourselves? 
 The breast of each already was inflamed 
 With just and inextinguishable hate 
 Against the impious Tarquins : now, e'en now, 
 Ye shall behold before your eyes displayed 
 The last, most execrable, fatal proof 
 Of their flagitious, arbitrary power. 
 To-day to your exalted rage, the rage 
 Of Collatinus, and my own, shall be 
 A guide, an impulse, a pervading spirit. 
 Ye have resolved on liberty; and ye 
 Deem yourselves powerless ? And do you es- 
 teem 
 The tyrants armed? What force have they, — 
 
 what arms ? 
 The arms, the force of Romans? Who is there, 
 The Roman who, that would not sooner die, 
 Than here, or in the camp, for Rome's oppres- 
 sors 
 Equip himself with arms? — By my advice, 
 Lucretius with his daughter's blood aspersed, 
 Hath to the camp repaired ; this very moment, 
 By the brave men besieging hostile Ardea 
 Hath he beer heard : and certainly, 
 
 In hearing him, and seeing him, those men 
 Have turned their arms against their guilty ty- 
 rants, 
 Or, swift in our defence, abandoning 
 Their impious banners, hitherward they fly. 
 The honor of the earliest enterprise 
 Against the tyrants, citizens, would ye 
 Consent indeed to yield to other men ? 
 
 PEOPLE. 
 
 O, with what just and lofty hardihood 
 
 Dost thou inflame our breasts ! — What can we 
 
 fear, 
 If all have the same will ? 
 
 COLLATINUS. 
 
 Your noble rage, 
 
 Your generous indignation, thoroughly 
 Recall me back to life. Nothing can I 
 Express — to you, — for tears — forbid — my 
 
 utterance ; — 
 But let my sword be my interpreter : 
 I first unsheathe it; and to earth I cast, 
 Irrevocably cast, the useless scabbard. 
 O sword, I swear to plunge thee in my breast, 
 Or in the breast of kings ! — O husbands, fathers 
 Be ye the first to follow me ! — But, ah ! 
 What spectacle is this ? 
 
 [In the farther part of the stage the body of Lucretl* 
 is introduced, followed by a great multitude. 
 
 PEOPLE. 
 
 Atrocious sight! 
 
 Behold the murdered lady in the Forum ! 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 Yes, Romans, fix — if ye have power do it — 
 
 Fix on that immolated form your eyes. 
 
 That mute, fair form, that horrible, generous 
 
 wound, 
 That pure and sacred blood, ah ! all exclaim, 
 " To-day resolve on liberty, or ye 
 Are doomed to death ! Naught else remains! ' 
 
 PEOPLE. 
 
 All, all,— 
 
 Yes, free we all of us will be, or dead ! 
 
 BRUTUS." 
 
 Then listen now to Brutus. — The same dagger 
 
 Which from her dying side he lately drew, 
 
 Above that innocent, illustrious lady 
 
 Brutus now lifts; and to all Rome he swears 
 
 That which first on her very dying form 
 
 He swore already. — While I wear a sword, 
 
 While vital air I breathe, in Rome henceforth 
 
 No Tarquin e'er shall put his foot ; I swear it 
 
 Nor the abominable name of king, 
 
 Nor the authority, shall any man 
 
 Ever again possess. — May the just gods 
 
 Annihilate him here, if Brutus is not 
 
 Lofty and true of heart! — Further I swear, 
 
 Many as are the inhabitants of Rome, 
 
 To make them equal, free, and citizens ; 
 
 Myself a citizen, and nothing more : 
 
 The laws alone shall have authority, 
 
 And I will be the first to yield them homage. 
 
MONTI. 
 
 607 
 
 PEOPLE. 
 
 The laws, the laws alone ! We with one voice 
 To thine our oaths unite. And be a fate 
 Worse than the fate of Collatinus ours, 
 If we are ever perjured ' 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 These, these are 
 
 True Roman accents. Tyranny and tyrants, 
 
 At your accordant hearty will alone, 
 
 All, all have vanished. Nothing now is needful, 
 
 Except 'gainst them to close the city gates ; 
 
 Since Fate, to us propitious, had already 
 
 Sequestered them from Rome. 
 
 PEOPLE. 
 
 But you, meanwhile, 
 
 Will be to us at once consuls and fathers; 
 You to us wisdom, we our arms to you, 
 Our swords, our hearts, will lend. 
 
 BRUTUS. 
 
 In your august 
 
 And sacred presence, on each lofty cause, 
 We always will deliberate ; there cannot 
 From the collected people's majesty 
 Be any thing concealed. But it is just 
 That the patricians and the senate bear 
 A part in every thing. At the new tidings, 
 They are not all assembled here : enough 
 (Alas ! too much so) the iron rod of power 
 Has smitten them with terror : now yourselves 
 To the sublime contention of great deeds 
 Shall summon them. Here, then, we will unite, 
 Patricians and plebeians ; and by us 
 Freedom a stable basis shall receive. 
 
 PEOPLE. 
 
 From this day forth, we shall begin to live. 
 
 VINCENZO MONTI. 
 
 This poet, one of the most famous among 
 the modern Italians, was born near Fusigna- 
 no, a town of Romagna, February 19th, 1754. 
 His earliest years were passed under the in- 
 struction of hi3 parents, who belonged to the 
 class of small landholders. He was then put 
 to school in Faenza, where he learned the Lat- 
 in language. He was destined by his father 
 to the labors of agriculture ; but showing an 
 invincible repugnance to occupations of this 
 «ort, he was sent to the University of Ferrara, 
 to study the law or medicine. He attempted 
 in vain to interest himself in professional 
 studies, and then gave himself wholly up to 
 literature and poetry. His talents attracted the 
 attention of Cardinal Borghese, the legate at 
 Ferrara, who took him to Rome, with the elder 
 Monti's consent. Young Monti soon became 
 known for his poetical talent, was elected a 
 member of the Arcadia, and received the ap- 
 pointment of secretary to Luigi Braschi, the 
 pope's nephew. While in this situation itft f/"a 
 
 tinued his studies, and, eager to emulate Alfieri, 
 produced his tragedies of " Aristodemo " and 
 " Galeotto Manfredi." About this time, he mar- 
 ried Theresa Pichler, daughter of the celebrat. 
 ed artist. The murder of the French minister, 
 Basseville, at Rome, gave occasion to his poem 
 entitled " Bassevilliana," the style of which is 
 modelled on that of Dante. This work gained 
 him at once a high reputation as a poet. In 
 1797, notwithstanding the Anti-gallic tone of 
 his previous writings, he went to Florence with 
 General Marmont, who had been sent with let- 
 ters from Bonaparte to Rome, and became Sec- 
 retary of the Directory of the Cisalpine Repub- 
 lic. Suwarrow's invasion of Italy, in 1799, 
 compelled Monti to take refuge in France 
 He was reduced, for a time, to the n;ost misera- 
 ble state of destitution ; but the victories of 
 Napoleon, after his return from Egypt, revived 
 his hopes. He returned to Italy after the bat- 
 tle of Marengo, and received a professorship 
 in the University of Pavia, which he held 
 three years, when he was invited to Milan, 
 and appointed by Napoleon Assessor of the 
 Ministry of the Interior, Court Poet, Knight 
 of the Iron Crown, member of the Legion 
 of Honor, and Historiographer of the king- 
 dom. He thereupon wrote the first six cantos 
 of the "Bardo della Selva Nera," which ap- 
 peared in 1806. In 1805, when Napoleon was 
 crowned king of Italy, he celebrated the event 
 in a poem of great merit, entitled " II Benefi- 
 cio." On occasion of the battle of Jena, he 
 wrote the triumphal ode, called " Spada di 
 Federico," of which ten editions were sold in 
 five months. He celebrated the occupation of 
 Spain by the French, in the "Palingenesi." 
 He also wrote the " Jerogamia," and the "Api 
 Panacridi." Having joined Joseph Bonaparte 
 at Naples, he published the seventh canto of 
 the "Bardo." Soon after this, he undertook 
 to translate the " Satires " of Juvenal, and the 
 "Iliad" of Homer. In executing the latter task, 
 as he was ignorant of the Greek, he was oblig- 
 ed to avail himself of the existing literal trans- 
 lations, and of the able assistance which Mus- 
 toxidi, a Greek friend, disinterestedly rendered 
 him. These works added much to his repu- 
 tation. On the downfall of Napoleon, Monti 
 lost his employments ; but having written, at 
 the request of the city of Milan, in 1815, a 
 poem in honor of the Emperor Francis, he was 
 allowed an income sufficient to enable him 
 to pursue his studies. In conjunction with his 
 accomplished son-in-law, Count Giulio Perti- 
 cari, he engaged in a warm controversy with 
 the Delia Cruscans, on the question between 
 the Tuscan and the Italian. He also published 
 a new edition of the " Convito " of Dante. 
 Returning to poetical composition, he wrote an 
 idyl on the Nuptials of Cadmus. His poetic 
 labors were interrupted in April, 1826, by a 
 sudden stroke of apoplexy ; but he lingered on 
 until 1828, and died in October of that year, 
 at the age of seventy-four 
 
608 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Of all Monti's writings, the " Bassevilliana" 
 enjoys the greatest and widest reputation. As 
 remarked above, it is founded on the murder of 
 the French minister, Basseville, whose soul, 
 the author supposes, is condemned to wander 
 over the French provinces, and behold the des- 
 olation produced by the Revolution, the death 
 of Louis the Sixteenth in Paris, and the armies 
 of the Holy Alliance marching toward France 
 to restore the Bourbons. The poern is divided 
 into four cantos of three hundred lines each, 
 and, like its model, the "Divina Commedia," 
 written in terza rima. It was translated into 
 English by the Rev. Henry Boyd, London, 
 1805. 
 
 FROM THE BASSEVILLIANA. 
 THE SOUL'S DOOM. 
 
 Hell had been vanquished in the battle 
 fought ; 
 The spirit of the abyss in sullen mood 
 Withdrew, his frightful talons clutching naught; 
 
 He roared like lion famishing for food; 
 The Eternal he blasphemed, and, as he Hed, 
 Loud hissed around his brow the snaky brood. 
 
 Then timidly each opening pinion spread 
 The soul of Basseville, on new life to look, 
 Released from members with his heart's blood 
 red. 
 
 Then on the mortal prison, just forsook, 
 The soul turned sudden back to gaze awhile, 
 And, still mistrustful, still in terror shook. 
 
 But the blessed angel, with a heavenly smile, 
 Cheering the soul it had been his to win 
 In dreadful battle waged 'gainst demon vile, 
 
 Said, " Welcome, happy spirit, to thy kin ! 
 Welcome unto that company, fair and brave, 
 To whom in heaven remitted is each sin ! 
 
 "Fear not; thou art not doomed to sip the 
 wave 
 Of black Avernus, which who tastes, resigned 
 All hope of change, becomes the demon's slave. 
 
 " But Heaven's high justice, nor in mercy 
 blind, 
 Nor in severity scrupulous to gauge 
 Each blot, each wrinkle, of the human mind, 
 
 " Has written on the adamantine page 
 That thou no joys of paradise may'st know, 
 Till punished be of France the guilty rage. 
 
 " Meanwhile, the wounds, the immensity of 
 woe, 
 That thou hast helped to work, thou, penitent, 
 Contemplating with tears, o'er earth must go : 
 
 " Thy sentence, that thine eyes be ceaseless 
 bent 
 Upon flagitious France, of whose offence 
 The stench pollutes the very firmament." 
 
 THE SOUL'S ARRIVAL IN PARIS. 
 
 Wondering, the spirit sees that from the eyes 
 Of his angelic leader tears have gushed, 
 Whilst o'er the city streets dread silence lies. 
 
 Hushed is the sacred chime of bells, and 
 hushed 
 The works of day, — hushed every various sound 
 Of creaking saw, of metal hammer-crushed. 
 
 There fears and whisperings alone are found, 
 Questionings, looks mistrustful, discontent, 
 Dark melancholy that the heart must wound, 
 
 Deep accents of affections strangely blent : 
 Accents of mothers, who, foreboding ill, 
 Clasp to their bosoms each loved innocent; 
 
 Accents of wives, who, even on the door's sill, 
 Strive their impetuous husbands to detain ; 
 With tears and fond entreaties urging still. 
 
 But nuptial love and tenderness in vain 
 May strive ; too strong the powers of hell, I 
 
 ween ; 
 They free the consort whom fond arms enchain. 
 
 For now, in dance ferocious and obscene, 
 Are flitting busily from door to door 
 A phantom band of heart-appalling mien. 
 
 Phantoms of ancient Druids, steeped in gore, 
 Are these, who, still nefariously athirst 
 For blood of wretched victims, as of yore, 
 
 To Paris throng to revel on the worst 
 Of all the crimes whose magnitude has fed 
 The pride of their posterity accursed. 
 
 With human life their garments are dyed red, 
 And, blood and rottenness from every hair 
 Dripping, a loathsome shower around them shed. 
 
 Some firebrands, others scourges, toss i' th' 
 air, 
 Twisted of every kind of coiling snake ; 
 Some sacrificial knives, some poison bear. 
 
 Firebrands and serpents they o'er mortals 
 shake ; 
 And as the blow alights on brow, neck, side, 
 Boils in each vein the blood, fierce passions 
 wake. 
 
 Then from their houses, like a billowy tide, 
 Men rush enfrenzied, and, from every breast 
 Banished, shrinks Pity weeping, terrified. 
 
 Now the earth quivers, trampled and oppressed 
 By wheels, by feet of horses and of men ; 
 The air in hollow moans speaks its unrest ; 
 
 Like distant thunder's roar, scarce within 
 ken, 
 Like the hoarse murmurs of the midnight surge, 
 Like north wind rushing from its far-off den. 
 
 Through the dark crowds that round the 
 scaffold flock, 
 The monarch see with look and gait a.ppear 
 That might to soft compassion melt a rock ; 
 Melt rocks, from hardest flint draw pity's 
 tear, — 
 But not from Gallic tigers : to what fate, 
 Monsters, have ye brought him who loved you 
 dear ! 
 
 THE PASSION OF CHRIST. 
 Sad thought, that from the lorn funereal 
 mount, 
 Whereon a victim god thou didst behold, 
 urn:* more returnest, with thy downcast front, 
 
MONTI. 
 
 609 
 
 Weeping vain tears' — O, whither dost thou 
 hold 
 Thy wayward course, and, 'midst yon mournful 
 
 plain, 
 What scene of grief and terror dost unfold ? 
 
 Lo ! the vast hills their laboring fires unchain, 
 Whilst from afar the ocean's thunders roar; 
 Lo ! the dark heavens above lament in rain 
 
 The mortal sin ; and, from her inmost core, 
 Earth, tremulous and uncertain, rocks with fear, 
 Lest the abyss her ancient deluge pour. 
 
 Ah me ! — revealed within my soul I hear 
 Prophetic throbs, the signs of wrath divine, 
 Tumultuous as though Nature's end were near. 
 
 I see the paths of impious Palestine ; 
 I see old Jordan, as each shore he laves, 
 Turbid and slow, towards the sea decline. 
 
 Here passed the ark o' th' covenant, and 
 waves 
 Rolled backward reverent, and their secrets 
 
 bared, 
 Leaving their gulfs and their profoundest caves. 
 
 Here folded all the flock, whose faith repaired 
 To Him, that Shepherd whom the all-hoping 
 
 one 
 'Midst woods and rocks to the deaf world de- 
 clared. 
 
 Him, after labors long, the glorious Son, 
 The Lord of Nazareth, joined, and, quickly 
 
 known, 
 Closed what his great precursor had begun. 
 
 Then sudden through the serene air there 
 shone 
 A lamp, and, lo ! " This is my Son beloved ! " 
 From the bright cloud a voice was heard to own. 
 
 River divine ! which then electric moved 
 From out thine inmost bowers to kiss those feet, 
 Blessing thy waters with that sight approved : 
 
 Tell me, where did thy waves divided meet, 
 Enamoured, — and, ah ! where upon thy shore 
 Were marked the footsteps of my Jesus sweet? 
 
 Tell me, where now the rose and lilies hoar, 
 Which, wheresoe'er the immortal footsteps trod, 
 Sprang fragrant from thy dewy emerald floor? 
 
 Alas ! thou moanest loud, thy willows nod, 
 Thy gulfs in hollow murmurs seem to say, 
 That all thy joy to grief is changed by God. 
 
 Such wert thou not, O Jordan, when the sway 
 Of David's line, along thy listening flood, 
 Portentous signs from heaven confirmed each 
 day. 
 
 Then didst thou see how fierce the savage 
 brood 
 Of haughty Midian and proud Moab's line, 
 Conquered and captive, on thy bridges stood. 
 
 Then Sion's warriors, listed round her shrine, 
 Gazed from their towers of strength, and viewed 
 
 afar 
 The scattered hosts of the lost Philistine ; 
 
 Whilst, terror of each giant conqueror, 
 Roared Judah's lion, leaping in his pride, 
 Midst the wild pomp of their barbaric war. 
 
 But Salem's glory faded, as the tide 
 Of waves that ebb and flow, and naught remains 
 Save a scorned word for scoffers to deride. 
 77 
 
 The splendor of Mount Carmel treads her 
 plains, 
 The Saviour of lost Israel now appears, 
 And faithless Sion all his love disdains. 
 
 The Proud One would not that her prophet's 
 tears 
 Should be remembered, nor the voice inspired, 
 Which, wailing for her wrong, late filled her 
 ears ; 
 
 When, with prophetic inspiration fired, 
 The cloud that forms the future's dark disguise 
 Fled, and unveiled the Lamb of God desired. 
 
 Daughter of foul iniquity ! the guise 
 Of impious Babylon did thy garment make, 
 And on the light of truth sealed up thine eyes. 
 
 But he, that God, dishonored for thy sake, 
 Soon shalt thou, in omnipotent disdain, 
 Behold him vengeance for his Son awake. 
 
 Under his feet the heavens and starry train 
 Tremble and roll; the howling whirlwinds fly, 
 Calling each tempest-winged hurricane, 
 
 Chanting its thunder-psalm throughout the 
 sky; 
 And, filled with arrows of consuming fire, 
 His quiver he hath slung upon his thigh. 
 
 As smoke before the storm's ungoverned ire, 
 The mountains melt before his dread approach, 
 The rapid eye marks not the avenging Sire ; 
 
 Whilst, burning to remove the foul reproach, 
 Now from Ausonia's strand the troop departs 
 On the inviolate temple to encroach. 
 
 Cedron afar the murmur hears, and starts 
 But, lifting not to heaven his trembling font, 
 Through Siloa's slender brook confounded darts. 
 
 Now, scorning to attire with splendor wont 
 Thy plains, the sun eclipses, and the brand 
 God from the sheath draws on thine impious 
 front. 
 
 I see his lightnings flash upon the band 
 Of armies round thy synagogue impure, 
 Thine altars blazing as the fires expand ! 
 
 I see where War, and Death, and Fear, secure 
 'Midst the hoarse clang of each terrific sound, 
 Gigantic stalk through falling towers obscure ! 
 
 Like deer, when sharp the springing tigers 
 bound 
 Upon their timid troop, thy virgin trains 
 And sires unwarlike every fane surround. 
 
 With glaring eyeballs and distended veins, 
 Forth Desperation flies from throng to throng, 
 And frantic life at his own hand disdains. 
 
 Disorder follows fast, and shrieks prolong 
 The hideous tumult. Then the city falls, 
 Avenging horribly her prophet's wrong. 
 
 Amidst the carnage, on the toppling walls, 
 Howls and exults and leaps wild Cruelty, 
 And priest and youth and age alike appalls. 
 
 With naked swords, and through a blood-red 
 sea, 
 Flowing around the mountains of the dead, 
 Victorious rides the insulting enemy. 
 
 The flames, the buildings, temple, soon o'er- 
 spread 
 With divine fury, and the heavens despised 
 Smile on the horror which their tempest bred. 
 
610 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Thus with foul scorn, dishonored and dis- 
 guised, 
 The conquering Latin eagles bore enchained 
 Jerusalem's disloyal ark chastised; 
 
 And she now lies with frightful footsteps 
 stained, 
 Buried 'midst thorns and sand, and the hot sun 
 Scares the fierce dragon where her Judge once 
 reigned. 
 Thus when from heaven the fatal bolt hath 
 done 
 Sad desolation in some glorious wood, 
 Striking the boughs which upwa.ds highest run ; 
 Though scorched and burnt, still o'er its 
 neighoourhood 
 Majestic towers aloft the giant oak, 
 As poised by its own ponderous weight it stood, 
 Waiting the thunder of a second stroke. 
 
 IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE. 
 
 Ippolito Pindemonte was the descendant 
 of a noble family in Verona. He was born in 
 that city, November 13th, 1753. He was early 
 imbued with the love of literature, and was 
 sent to complete his studies at the Collegio de' 
 Nobili in Modena. His first attempt in poe- 
 try was a translation of Racine's "Berenice," 
 which gained him great reputation. At the 
 age of twenty-four, he made the tour of Italy, 
 and extended his travels to Malta and the 
 East ; and, in 1788, set out on a journey 
 through the North of Europe, England, and 
 France. In the last named country he passed 
 the greater part of 1789, living on intimate 
 terms with Alfieri. Having completed his 
 travels, he returned to Verona. At this pe- 
 riod, he wrote a great portion of his " Poesie 
 Campestri," finished the tragedy of " Arminio," 
 and began several other works. In 1807, he 
 took up his abode in Venice, and became a 
 member of the Italian Institute. His life was 
 wholly occupied with the quiet pursuits of lit- 
 erature. Among his best works are the lyric 
 poems and epistles, which display profound 
 thought and warm feelings, and exhibit traces 
 of the influence of English literature, with 
 which he was very familiar. He died in Vero- 
 na, November 13th, 1828. His works are pub- 
 lished in the Milan edition of the "Classici 
 Italiani " ; and his " Poesie Campestri " and lyric 
 poems, in the " Parnaso degl' Italiani Viventi " 
 24 vols., Pisa, 1798-1802, 12mo. 
 
 FROM THE TRAGEDY OF ARMINIO. 
 LAMENT OF THE AGED BARDS. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 In us the martial flame is fading ; 
 
 Feeble our arms, our steps are slow ; 
 'Midst blood and death, our brethren aiding, 
 
 No longer is it ours to go. 
 
 FIRST EARD. 
 
 Alas ! how swift has flown 
 
 That brightly happy age, 
 
 When with my voice alone 
 
 I woke the battle's rage ! 
 
 I, who reclined in shady mead, 
 
 Can now but sing the hero's deed. 
 
 Then did this good right hand 
 
 Oft lay the harp aside, 
 To grasp the deadly brand ; 
 
 This hand, which can but glide 
 Now languidly, with failing skill, 
 O'er chords scarce answering to my will. 
 
 Like the swelling wrath of a mountain river, 
 That bounds, in the pride of its conscious 
 power, 
 So fiercely from height to height, 
 That to dust the thundering waters shiver, 
 Then aloft rebound in a silvery shower, 
 Was my rushing in youth to the fight. 
 
 But now, little heeding 
 
 Mine earlier force, 
 My foot is receding, 
 
 And years in their course 
 Scatter snows o'er my head. 
 
 Though now broadly sweeping, 
 The Rhine thus shall wane, 
 
 And through swamps feebly creeping, 
 Scarce lingeringly gain 
 Of old Ocean the bed. 
 
 SECOND BARD. 
 
 Life's latter days are desolate and drear ; 
 Man, wretched man, in early youth must die, 
 Or see the tomb inclose all he holds dear. 
 
 This world is but a vale of misery, 
 Where the poor wanderer scarcely hopes to gain 
 One smile for many tears of agony. 
 
 He sees death all around extend his reign : 
 Here droops a brother, sickening day by day ; 
 There fades a consort; there a child lies slain. 
 
 A grave at every step yawns in my way, 
 And mine incautious foot tramples on bones 
 Of friends and kindred, hastening to decay. 
 
 And kinsmen turn to foes ! hearts, than 
 stones 
 More hard ! throw, throw those murderous spears 
 
 aside, 
 Whose slightest blows call forth your country's 
 groans ! 
 
 But, if this brothers' battle must be tried, 
 May freedom's cause with victory be crowned ! 
 Or underground these hoary locks abide, 
 
 Ere I in fetters see my country bound ! 
 
 THIRD BARD. 
 
 What deeds of high emprise 
 
 Did my youth's comrades share ! 
 Feats of such lofty guise 
 In later days are rare. 
 Ah, those were gallant battles ! those 
 Were fierce encounters, deadly blows ! 
 
PINDEMONTE. 
 
 611 
 
 Strong arms and hearts of flame 
 
 These rival chiefs display ; 
 But the Cheruscan name 
 Declines from day to day ; 
 And vainly should we hope to view 
 The son his father's fame renew. 
 
 But even the bravest man, 
 
 Though high 'midst heroes placed, 
 Would scarce outlast his span 
 Of life, by bard ungraced ; 
 Nor would the stranger's earnest eye 
 Ask where the honored ashes lie. 
 
 The dazzling sun at eve, 
 
 When sinking in the sea, 
 No lasting track can leave 
 Of radiance on the lea : 
 Such were the proudest hero's fate, 
 Prolonged not verse his glory's date. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 In us the martial flame is fading ; 
 
 Feeble our arms, our steps are slow ; 
 'Midst blood and death, our brethren aiding, 
 
 No longer is it ours to go. 
 
 LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF BALDUR. 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Cold, dark, and lowly is the bed, 
 On which, unhappy youth, thy head 
 
 Must now for ever rest ! 
 But on the bard's immortal lay 
 Shall, even to time's remotest day, 
 
 Thy glory live impressed. 
 
 FIRST BARD. 
 
 Not the bird, whose melodious voice 
 Erst bade thee rejoice, 
 
 As he hailed the first blushes of morn ; 
 Nor the sun shooting golden rays, 
 Whose refulgent blaze 
 
 Hut, palace, and grove adorn ; 
 
 Nor the trumpet's loud call to the fight, 
 At whose sound with delight 
 
 The heart of the warrior glows ; 
 Nor the tenderest maiden's address, 
 Nor her timid caress, 
 
 Evermore shall disturb thy repose. 
 
 For hers, thy sad mother's grief, 
 What hope of relief? 
 
 Yet deeper her anguish must prove, 
 If, bewildered by sorrow, her ear 
 Deem an instant to hear 
 
 Thy footsteps, O son of her love ! 
 
 At the social board with a sigh 
 She sits, for her eye 
 
 Beholds not the face of her child ; 
 Though conscious her search must be vain, 
 She seeks thee with pain, 
 
 Though thickets entangled and wild. 
 
 No tempest's terrible power 
 This plant scarce in flower 
 
 Broke down with resistless force; 
 He fell like the stars, that, on high 
 As they traverse the sky, 
 
 Spontaneously shoot from their course. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Cold, dark, and lowly is the bed, 
 On which, unhappy youth, thy head 
 
 Must now for ever rest ! 
 But on the bard's immortal lay 
 Shall, even to time's remotest day, 
 
 Thy glory live impressed. 
 
 SECOND BARD. 
 
 By untimely doom, 
 
 To great Odin's hall 
 Is a spirit come : 
 Where, in that large space, 
 
 'Mid the heroes all, 
 Is the stranger's place ? 
 
 THIRD BARD. 
 
 A thousand damsels, clad in spotless white, 
 With crowns of flowers upon their tresses fair, 
 
 With naked arms, and scarfs of azure bright 
 Around their loins, to every hero there, 
 
 In skulls of foes subdued in earthly fight, 
 Minister draughts abundant, rich, and rare. 
 
 Thus for that chosen company combine 
 
 Love, glory, vengeance, with the joys of wine. 
 
 FOURTH BARD. 
 
 Thy playmates of an earlier year, 
 With thee, who by our river's side 
 
 First bent the bow, or hurled the spear, 
 Or with light foot in swiftness vied, 
 
 Now wander with dejected eye, 
 
 Call upon Baldur's name, and sigh. 
 
 Let not the story of our woe 
 
 To hostile strangers be conveyed : 
 
 Too much it will rejoice the foe 
 To hear that he, an empty shade, 
 
 Is idly flitting on the gale, 
 
 In arms who turned their warriors pale. 
 
 Upon the field of martial fame 
 
 Too short, alas ! has been thy race : 
 
 Yet still, in characters of flame, 
 
 Lives of that brief career the trace. 
 
 Even upon thy mother's knee, 
 
 Thy soul from childishness was free. 
 
 Thus the strong eagle's callow brood, 
 With tender talons yet untried, 
 
 With beaks yet never dipped in blood, 
 Display their nature's inborn pride, 
 
 By gazing with undazzled eye 
 
 Upon the sun in noonday sky. 
 
 Cold, dark, and lowly is the bed, 
 On which, unhappy youth, thy head 
 Must now for ever rest ! 
 
612 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 But on the bard's immortal lay- 
 Shall, even to time's remotest day, 
 Thy glory live impressed. 
 
 NICCOLO UGO FOSCOLO. 
 
 This distinguished poet and scholar, some of 
 whose works are written in English, and form 
 a valuable part of English critical literature, 
 was born in Zante, of a family which originated 
 from Venice. The date of his birth is variously 
 stated, as having occurred in 1775, '76, '77, or 
 '78. After his father's death, his mother re- 
 moved to Venice, and there Foscolo acquired 
 the elementary branches of education. He 
 studied afterwards at the University of Padua, 
 under Cesarotti. 
 
 In 1797, he commenced his career as a poet 
 with the tragedy of " Tieste," in which he 
 imitated the simplicity of Alfieri and the Greeks. 
 This work, though of no great merit, was re- 
 ceived at the time, on account of the political 
 allusions it was supposed to contain, and the 
 youth of the author, with unbounded enthusi- 
 asm. The attention of the government being 
 attracted to him by these circumstances, he found 
 it prudent to leave Venice, and retired to Flor- 
 ence. He then went to Milan, the capital of the 
 so called Cisalpine Republic, where he took an 
 earnest and active part in the political agitations 
 of the times. Here he fell in love with a 
 young Roman lady of uncommon beauty, and 
 described his passion in a work entitled " Let- 
 tere di due Amanti," which was the basis of 
 the later and more celebrated production, the 
 " Ultime Lettere di Jacopo Ortis." He joined 
 the Lombard legion, accompanied the govern- 
 ment of the Cisalpine Republic when they 
 retreated to Genoa, and endured with the rest 
 all the hardships of the nine months' siege of 
 that city, during which, however, he composed 
 several of his poems. On the surrender of the 
 city, in June, 1800, Foscolo went with the 
 other members of the republic to Antibes. He 
 remained there but a short time. Napoleon's 
 return from Egypt changed the face of Italian 
 affairs, and Foscolo was restored to Milan, and 
 about this time wrote the " Letters of Jacopo 
 Ortis," which produced a great sensation among 
 his countrymen. In 1802, he composed an ora- 
 tion addressed to Bonaparte, remarkable chiefly 
 for the pomp and pedantry of its style. When 
 Napoleon formed the camp at Boulogne with 
 the purpose of invading England, the division 
 of the Italian army to which Foscolo belonged 
 constituted a portion of the assembled forces. 
 He held the rank of captain in the staff of Gen- 
 eral Tullie, and was stationed with his division 
 at Saint Omer, where he began the study of 
 the English language. 
 
 In 1805, he returned to Italy, and for some 
 time resided in Brescia, where he wrote " Dei 
 Sepolcri Carme," the most admired of his 
 
 poems, and a translation of a part of the " Il- 
 iad." In 1808, he was appointed Professor of 
 Eloquence in Pavia ; but the professorship being 
 abolished a year afterwards, he retired to the 
 Borgo di Vico, on Lake Como, and resumed his 
 poetical occupations. Here he became intimately 
 acquainted with the family of an accomplished 
 nobleman, Count Giovio, whose society helped 
 to dissipate the gloom and melancholy which at 
 times overshadowed him. The lively daughter 
 of the count wittily called Foscolo " a sentiment- 
 al thunderbolt." While residing at the Borgo 
 di Vico, he wrote the tragedy of " Ajax," which 
 was brought out at Milan, but proved an entire 
 failure. He went afterwards to Florence, where 
 he was well received, and wrote the tragedy 
 of "La Ricciarda," — also unsuccessful, — and 
 about the same time published his " Hymn to 
 the Graces." 
 
 Soon after the overthrow of Napoleon, and 
 the transfer of Lombardy to Austria, he left his 
 home, went to Switzerland, and lived two years 
 in Zurich. In 1815, he went to England, 
 and was hospitably received by the leading lib- 
 erals, and by the most eminent literary men in 
 London. Here he wrote many articles in the 
 principal journals, and took part in the famous 
 discussion about the Digamma ; from which cir- 
 cumstance, he gave to the cottage he afterwards 
 built and occupied in Regent's Park the name of 
 Digamma Cottage. He also delivered a course 
 of lectures on Italian literature, which brought 
 him in a thousand pounds. But his imprudences 
 and extravagance soon involved him in great 
 pecuniary embarrassments, which harassed him 
 during the rest of his life. His " Essays on 
 Petrarch," an admirable work, was published in 
 London in 1821, and his "Discorso sul Testo 
 di Dante," a valuable piece of criticism, ap- 
 peared in 1826. He died, September 10th, 
 1827, in a cottage he had taken at Turnham 
 Green, in the neighbourhood of London. 
 
 TO LUIGIA PALLAVICINI. 
 
 As when forth beams from ocean's caves 
 The star to Love's own mother dear ; 
 Her dew-bespangled tresses waves, 
 
 Scattering the night-shades dun and drear, 
 And far illumes her heavenly way 
 With light poured from the eternal founts of day: 
 
 So Beauty from the curtained couch, 
 
 Her charms divine, and features rare, 
 More lovely with the shadowing touch 
 Of sorrow that yet lingers there, 
 Revives, — and radiant glads our eyes, 
 Still, sweetest soother of man's woe-born sighs. 
 
 Soon, like the roses on thy cheek, 
 The buds of joy again unfold, — 
 Those large dark eyes, so wild, yet meek, — 
 Bewitching smiles and looks untold, — 
 With all those wiles that wake again 
 Each mother's fears, and lover's keener pain. 
 
FOSCOLO.— MANZONI. 
 
 613 
 
 The Hours that late hung o'er thee, sad, — 
 
 The ministers of sighs and pain, — 
 Bring thee fresh charms, with splendor clad, 
 'Mid Eastern state and jewelled train ; 
 On bracelets, gems, and rings out shine 
 The sculptured gods, in godlike Greek design. 
 
 Charms of more sovereign power you share, — 
 
 The tragic fiction's stirring theme; 
 In whose rich chorus, seen most fair, 
 
 Thou, goddess, art the youth's fond dream, 
 Who, gazing, checks the magic dance, 
 To drink soft pain and rapture from thy glance. 
 
 Or when thou wak'st the soul of song 
 
 That slumbers in thy harpstrings wild, 
 Or with heaven's witcheries sweep'st along 
 The aisles of holier music mild, 
 Or gladd'st the dance with rapturous tone, — 
 'T is still thy voice, in murmured sighs we own. 
 
 If peril here for lovers be, 
 
 What when thou weav'st the airy dance, 
 Yielding thy form of symmetry 
 
 To grace, — while beams thy sunny glance 
 Through thy loose veil ; — and, 0, thy neck and 
 
 hair 
 Shine forth in loveliness and beauty rare ! 
 
 See ! from her graceful headdress slow 
 
 Escape those tresses fragrant, bright, — 
 Ambrosial locks, that lovely flow 
 
 From 'neath their rosy garland light, 
 Whose flowers were April's early token 
 Of joy and health and dreams of bliss unbroken. 
 
 Handmaids of pleasure and of love, — 
 
 Thus woo you, fluttering near, 
 The envied Hours, where'er you move : 
 And let the Graces here 
 Frown on him who beauty's balm 
 And life's swift flight recalls, and death's deep 
 calm. 
 
 Mortal goddess, guide and queen 
 Of the ocean's virgin train, — 
 On Parrhasian mount was seen 
 Chaste Artemis, o'er the plain, 
 The forest's terror, chasing far 
 Her prey with sounding bow, in sylvan war. 
 
 Old Fame hath given her birth divine; 
 Olympian offspring, goddess fair, — 
 Hers the fount, and sacred shrine, 
 Elysian ; hers the mountain air, 
 Chasing the wild deer of the wood, 
 With fate-winged dart, o'er hill and vale and 
 flood. 
 
 And altars to that goddess rose, — 
 
 Bellona, once the Amazon ; 
 Hers the ^gis ; round her brows 
 Palms wreathed by vocal Helicon : 
 Her Gorgon terrors now she rears, 
 To sha'te the British shores, and measure hos- 
 tile spears. 
 
 And she, whose image now thy hands 
 
 With sacred myrtle-boughs adorn, 
 Devoted, lovely, seems to 6tand 
 Benignant as the rosy morn : 
 But 'midst thy household deities dost thou, 
 Sole priestess, stand arrayed with beauty on thy 
 brow ! 
 
 She, the queen of Cyprus' isle, 
 
 And sweet Cythera, where the spring 
 For ever odorous reigns, — where smile 
 Those wood-crowned isles, whose bold sides 
 fling 
 The Ionian waves and east winds back, 
 Which urge the white sails on their far-borne 
 track. 
 
 First cradled was I in that sea, 
 
 Whence the bright spirit earthless flew 
 Of Phaon's gi' ; — the night-wind free, 
 Oft as it sti.s those waters blue, 
 Most gently murmurs to the lonely shore, 
 With plaintive voice which woful lovers' spirits 
 pour. 
 
 I hear, I feel the sacred air, — 
 
 My native air of love and fire, — 
 And wake the iEolian chords to share 
 Their music with that deep-toned lyre 
 Ausonian, till their vows to thee, 
 Beauty divine, Love's votaries long decree ! 
 
 ALESSANDRO MANZONI. 
 
 Alessandro Manzoni, distinguished as a 
 lyrist, tragic poet, and novelist, was born at 
 Milan, in 1784. He belongs to a noble family, 
 and his mother was the daughter of the cele- 
 brated Marquis Beccaria. When very young, 
 he showed his poetical talent in the " Versi 
 Sciolti " on the death of his foster-father, Im- 
 bonati. In 1810, appeared his "Inni Sacri," 
 in which he created a new species of Italian 
 lyric poetry. His tragedies have placed him 
 at the head of the living Italian dramatists. 
 His tragedy, "II Conte di Carmagnola," writ- 
 ten in eleven-syllable iambics, published in 
 1820, made a great sensation, not only in Italy, 
 but in Germany and England. This was fol- 
 lowed by the " Adelchi," which appeared in 
 1823. In both of these pieces he has thrown 
 off the restraints of the French school, and used 
 the chorus with great lyrical effect. His ode 
 on the death of Napoleon, entitled " II Cinque 
 Maggio," is the best known of his miscellane- 
 ous pieces. It has been several times translated 
 into English. His excellent novel, "I Promessi 
 Sposi," appeared at Milan in 1827. It has been 
 translated into most of the languages of Europe, 
 and holds the highest rank among the Italian 
 romances. Theological subjects have of late 
 withdrawn Manzoni from poetry. 
 
614 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 IL CLN'QUE MAGGIO. 
 
 He was. — As motionless as lay, 
 First mingled with the dead, 
 The relics of the senseless clay, 
 Whence such a soul had fled, — 
 The Earth astounded holds her breath, 
 Struck with the tidings of his death : 
 
 She pauses the last hour to see 
 Of the dread Man of Destiny ; 
 Nor knows she when another tread, 
 Like that of the once mighty dead, 
 Shall such a footprint leave impressed 
 As his, in blood, upon her breast. 
 
 I saw him blazing on his throne, 
 Yet hailed him not: by restless fate 
 Hurled from the giddy summit down ; 
 Resume again his lofty state : 
 Saw him at last for ever fa. 1 ', 
 Still mute amid the shouts i "all: 
 
 Free from base flattery, when he rose; 
 From baser outrage, when he fell : 
 Now his career has reached its close, 
 My voice is raised, the truth to tell, 
 And o'er his exiled urn will try 
 To pour a strain that shall not die. 
 
 From Alps to Pyramids were thrown 
 His bolts, from Scylla to the Don, 
 From Manzanares to the Rhine, 
 From sea to sea, unerring hurled; 
 And ere the flash had ceased to shine, 
 Burst on their aim, — and shook the world. 
 
 Was this true glory? — The high doom 
 Must be pronounced by times to come: 
 For us, we bow before His throne, 
 Who willed, in gifting mortal clay 
 With such a spirit, to display 
 A grander impress of his own. 
 
 His was the stormy, fierce delight 
 To dare adventure's boldest scheme ; 
 The soul of fire, that burned for might, 
 And could of naught but empire dream; 
 And his the indomitable will 
 That dream of empire to fulfil, 
 And to a greatness to attain 
 'T were madness to have hoped to gain : 
 All these were his; nor these alone; — 
 Flight, victory, exile, and the throne; — 
 Twice in the dust by thousands trod, 
 Twice on the altar as a god. 
 
 Two ages stood in arms arrayed, 
 Contending which should victor be : 
 He spake : — his mandate they obeyed, 
 And bowed to hear their destiny. 
 He stepped between them, to assume 
 The mastery, and pronounce their doom, 
 
 Then vanished, and inactive wore 
 Life's remnant out on that lone shore. 
 What envy did his palmy state, 
 What pity his reverses move, 
 Object of unrelenting hate, 
 And unextinguishable love! 
 
 As beat innumerable waves 
 
 O'er the last floating plank that saves 
 
 One sailor from the wreck, whose eye 
 
 Intently gazes o'er the main, 
 
 Far in the distance to descry 
 
 Some speck of hope, — but all in vain; 
 
 Did countless waves of memory roll 
 Incessant, thronging on his soul : 
 Recording, for a future age, 
 The tale of his renown, 
 How often on the immortal page 
 His hand sank weary down ! 
 
 Oft on some sea-beat cliff alone 
 He stood, — the lingering daylight gone, 
 And pensive evening come at last, — 
 With folded arms, and eyes declined ; 
 While, O, what visions on his mind 
 Came rushing — of the past! 
 
 The rampart stormed, — the tented field,— 
 His eagles glittering far and wide, — 
 His columns never taught to yield, — 
 His cavalry's resistless tide, 
 Watching each motion of his hand, 
 Swift to obey the swift command. 
 
 Such thoughts, perchance, last filled his breast, 
 
 And his departing soul oppressed, 
 
 To tempt it to despair ; 
 
 Till from on high a hand of might 
 
 In mercy came to guide its flight 
 
 Up to a purer air, — 
 
 Leading it, o'er hope's path of flowers, 
 To the celestial plains, 
 Where greater happiness is ours 
 Than even fancy feigns, 
 And where earth's fleeting glories fade 
 Into the shadow of a shade. 
 
 Immortal, bright, beneficent, 
 Faith, used to victories, on thy roll 
 Write this with joy ; for never bent 
 Beneath death's hand a haughtier soul ; 
 Thou from the worn and pallid clay 
 Chase every bitter word away, 
 That would insult the dead : 
 His holy crucifix, whose breath 
 Has power to raise and to depress, 
 Send consolation and distress, 
 Lay by him on that lowly bed 
 And hallowed it in death. 
 
 CHORUS FROM THE CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 
 
 Hark ! from the right bursts forth a trumpet's 
 sound ; 
 
 A loud, shrill trumpet from the left replies : 
 On every side hoarse echoes from the ground 
 
 To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors 
 rise, 
 Hollow and deep, — and banners all around 
 
 Meet hostile banners waving to the skies 
 Here steel-clad bands in marshalled order shine, 
 And there a host confronts their glittering line. 
 
MANZONI. 
 
 61i 
 
 Lo ! half the field already from the sight 
 
 Hath vanished, hid from closing groups of foes; 
 
 Swords crossing swords flash lightning o'er the 
 fight, 
 And the strife deepens, and the life-blood 
 flows ! 
 
 O, who are these ? What stranger in his might 
 Comes bursting on the lovely land's repose ? 
 
 What patriot hearts have noblv vowed to save 
 
 Their native soil, or make its dust their grave ? 
 
 One race, alas ! these foes, one kindred race, 
 Were born and reared the same fair scenes 
 among ! 
 The stranger calls them brothers, — and each 
 face 
 That brotherhood reveals; — one common 
 tongue 
 Dwells on their lips; — the earth on which we 
 trace 
 Their heart's blood is the soil from whence 
 they sprung. 
 One mother gave them birth, — this chosen land, 
 Circled with Alps and seas by Nature's guar- 
 dian hand. 
 
 O, grief and horror ! who the first could dare 
 Against a brother's breast a sword to wield ? 
 
 What cause unhallowed and accursed, declare, 
 Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field ? 
 
 Think'st thou the)' know? — They but inflict 
 and share 
 Misery and death, the motive unrevealed: 
 
 Sold to a leader, sold himself to die, 
 
 With him they strive, they fall, — and ask not 
 why. 
 
 But are there none who love them ? Have they 
 none, 
 No wives, no mothers, who might rush be- 
 tween, 
 And win with tears the husband and the son 
 Back to his home from this polluted scene ? 
 And they, whose hearts, when life's bright day 
 is done, 
 Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene, 
 Thoughts of the tomb, — why cannot they assuage 
 The storms of passion with the voice of age? 
 
 Ask not! — The peasant at his cabin door 
 Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud 
 
 Which skirts the horizon, menacing to pour 
 Destruction down o'er fields he hath not 
 ploughed : 
 
 Thus, where no echo of the battle's roar 
 Is heard afar, even thus the reckless crowd 
 
 In tranquil safety number o'er the slain, 
 
 Or tell of cities burning on the plain. 
 
 There may'st thou mark the boy, with earnest 
 gaze 
 Fixed on his mother's lips, intent to know 
 By names of insult those whom future davs 
 Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest 
 foe. 
 
 There proudly many a glittering dame displays 
 Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow, 
 By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borne, 
 From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn. 
 
 Woe to the victors and the vanquished, woe ! 
 
 The earth is heaped, is loaded with the slain ; 
 Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow ; 
 
 A sea of blood is swelling o'er the plain. 
 But from the embattled front already, lo ! 
 
 A band recedes, — it flies, — all hope is vain ; 
 And vernal hearts, despairing of the strife, 
 Wake to the love, the clinging love of life. 
 
 As the lijht grain disperses in the air, 
 
 Borne by the winnowing of the gales around, 
 
 Thus flv the vanquished, in their wild despair, 
 Chased, severed, scattered, o'er the ample 
 ground. 
 
 But mightier bands, that lav in ambush there, 
 Burst on their flight, — and hark! the deep- 
 ening sound 
 
 Of fierce pursuit! — still nearer and more near, 
 
 The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear ! 
 
 The day is won ! — they fall, — disarmed they 
 yield, 
 
 Low at the conqueror's feet all suppliant ly- 
 ing ! 
 'Midst shouts of victory pealing o'er the field, 
 
 Ah ! who may hear the murmurs of the dying ? 
 Haste ! let the tale of triumph be revealed ! 
 
 E'en now the courier to his steed is flying ; 
 He spurs, — he speeds, — with tidings of the day 
 To rouse up cities in his lightning way. 
 
 Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes, 
 O eager multitudes, around him pressing, — 
 Each hurrying where his breathless courser 
 foams, 
 Each tongue, each eye infatuate hope confess- 
 ing? 
 Know ye not whence the ill-omened herald 
 comes, 
 And dare ye dream he comes with words of 
 blessing? — 
 Brothers, bv brothers slain, lie low and cold ! — 
 Be ye content ! the glorious tale is told. 
 
 I hear the voice of joy, the exulting cry ! 
 
 They deck the shrine, they swell the choral 
 strains ; 
 E'en now the homicides assail the sky 
 
 With paeans, which indignant Heaven dis- 
 dains ! — 
 But from the soaring Alps the stranger's eye 
 Looks watchful down on our ensanguined 
 plains, 
 And, with the cruel rapture of a foe, 
 Numbers the mighty stretched in death below. 
 
 Haste ! from your lines again, ye brave and true ' 
 
 Haste, haste, — your triumphs and your jcys 
 
 suspending ! 
 
 The invader comes ! your banners raise anew ! 
 
 Rush to the strife, your country's call attending ' 
 
616 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Victors, why pause ye ? Are ye weak and 
 few ? — 
 Ay ! such he deemed you ; and for this de- 
 scending, 
 He waits you on the field ye know too well, — 
 The same red war-field where your brethren 
 fell. 
 
 O thou devoted land, that canst not rear 
 
 In peace thy offspring ! thou, the lost and won, 
 
 The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear 
 Too narrow still for each contending son ! 
 
 Receive the stranger in his fierce career, 
 
 Parting thy spoils ! thy chastening has begun ! 
 
 And, vvrestingfrom thy kings the guardian sword, 
 
 Foes, whom thou ne'er hadst wronged, sit proud- 
 ly at thy board '. 
 
 Are these infatuate too? — O, who hath known 
 
 A people e'er by guilt's vain triumph blessed ? 
 
 The wronged, the vanquished, suffer not alone ; 
 
 Brief is the joy that swells the oppressor's 
 
 breast. 
 
 What though not yet his day of pride be flown, 
 
 Though yet Heaven's vengeance spare his 
 
 haughty crest ? 
 
 Well hath it marked him, — and decreed the 
 
 hour, 
 When his last sigh shall own the terror of its 
 power. 
 
 Are we not creatures of one hand divine, 
 
 Formed in one mould, to one redemption 
 born, — 
 Kindred alike, where'er our skies may shine, 
 
 Where'er our sight first drank the vital morn ? 
 
 Brothers, — one bond around our souls should 
 
 twine ; 
 
 And woe to him by whom that bond is torn, 
 
 Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to 
 
 earth, 
 Who bows down spirits of immortal birth ! 
 
 GIOVANNI BATTISTA NICCOLINI. 
 
 This poet of liberalism in Italy was born 
 near Pisa, December 31st, 1785. He belongs 
 to a noble Florentine family, and is a descend- 
 ant of Filicaja, by the mother's side. He stud- 
 ied first in Florence, and afterwards at the Uni- 
 versity of Pisa, where he took his degree in 
 jurisprudence, and then devoted himself to the 
 study of classical literature. He was then ap- 
 pointed Professor of History and Mythology in 
 the Academy of the Fine Arts at Florence, and 
 wrole several valuable discourses on the sub- 
 jects of his professorship. But though his prose 
 works are written in an elegant and vigorous 
 style, his inclination led him decidedly to dra- 
 matic poetry. His first tragedy, " Pnlyxena," 
 was crowned with the prize of the Delia Crus- 
 can Academy, in 1810. This was followed by 
 the " Ino e Themisto," " Medea," " Mathilde," 
 
 and "Antonio Foscarini." This last tragedy, 
 taken from a well known passage in Venetian 
 history, was received with great enthusiasm, and 
 established Niccolini's reputation. His "Gio- 
 vanni da Procida " was performed at Florence 
 in 1830; "Ludovico il Moro " appeared in 
 1834; and "Rosmunda" in 1839. His works, 
 in three volumes, containing the tragedies, the 
 written lyrical poems, and prose essays, were 
 published in 1831. He died in 1861. 
 
 FROM THE TRAGEDY OF NABUCCO. 
 
 NABUCCO 
 
 Hence, trembling slaves ! I do not pardon you, 
 But scorn to punish. 
 
 [The Senate withdraws. 
 
 ARSACES. 
 
 Murder me thou may'st, 
 But not debase. 
 
 NABUCCO. 
 
 Thou hop'st such glorious death 
 
 In vain. I with thy blood pollute my sword 
 
 ARSACES. 
 
 'T were for thine arm a novel enterprise. 
 As yet thou hast but shed the blood of slaves 
 
 NABUCCO. 
 
 And what art thou, Assyrian? 
 
 I deserve 
 
 A different, kingless country. 
 
 NABUCCO. 
 
 So ! A rebel ! 
 
 ARSACES. 
 
 Such were I, 'midst thy slaves a jocund flatterer 
 Thou hadst beheld me, bending low my head 
 Before the worshipped throne ; and in thy power 
 I thus might share. Thou with their fears didst 
 
 bargain, 
 That made thee king, and that maintain thee 
 
 tyrant. 
 
 NABUCCO^ 
 
 Bethink thee, if this sword, on which the fate 
 Of Asia hangs, strike not rebellious slaves, 
 Thousands of weapons wait upon my word. 
 
 ARSACES. 
 
 Then why delay'st thou? Call them. — I be 
 
 Iieved thee 
 Worthy to hear the truth. Do thou chastise 
 So gross an error. 
 
 NABUCCO. 
 
 He who on this earth 
 
 No equal knows may tolerate thy boldness 
 
 Say on. 
 
 ARSACES. 
 
 Wert thou a vulgar tyrant, hung not 
 
 Assyria's fate on thee, Arsaces then 
 
 Could slay or scorn thee. I, who in thy ranks 
 
NICCOLINL — PELLICO. 
 
 617 
 
 Have fought, have seen thee general and soldier, 
 And on the battle-field a god in arms 
 Admired, upon the throne abhor thee. 
 
 Of liberty what talk'st thou to the king? 
 
 In me our country dwells; then speak of me. 
 
 To thee I speak, Nabucco ; to thy fortune 
 Others have spoken. Asia's ills thou seest, — 
 Not thine. The sea of blood deluging earth 
 Touches thy throne ; it totters ; dost not feel it? 
 For us I ask not pity ; on thyself, 
 Nabucco, have compassion. 
 
 NABUCCO. 
 
 Did I prize 
 
 My power above my fame, I were at peace, 
 
 And you in chains. 
 
 ARSACES. 
 
 The founder thou wouldst be 
 
 Of a new empire, and a high emprise 
 
 This seems to thy ferocious pride. Thou 'rt great, 
 
 If thou succeed; if in the attempt thou fall, 
 
 Audacious. Well I know that splendid ruins 
 
 To man yield glory, but not genuine fame. 
 
 NABUCCO. 
 
 I upon victory would found mine empire, 
 Not owe it to the charity of kings. 
 Assyria, conquered, boasts not as her monarch 
 Nabucco. On this head my crown must blaze 
 With all the terrors of its former brightness, 
 Or there be crushed. Wherefore chose not 
 
 Assyria 
 Her king amongst the unwarlike Magi? Then, 
 When to this hand, trained but to wield the 
 
 sword, 
 The sceptre she committed, she pronounced 
 Her preference of glory to repose. 
 Is glory ever bloodless? Would ye now 
 Return to your effeminate studies, ply 
 The distaff, break our arms ? Who my reverses 
 Could not support never deserved my fortune. 
 
 If I am vanquished? to unwarlike leaders, 
 To venal satraps, Asia must be slave. 
 Whom seest thou on the throne worthy a throne ? 
 Where is the crown on which I have not tram- 
 pled ? 
 
 ARSACES. 
 
 To me dost thou recall the arts of kings, 
 And vileness? To Arsaces such a crime 
 Royalty seems, that scarce could he in thee 
 Forgive it, did thy virtue match thy valor. 
 But is 't the sole reward of so much blood, 
 That we may choose our tyrant, and our sons 
 Be born to a new yoke? 
 
 NABUCCO. 
 
 My reign attests 
 That ye were free. 
 
 ARSACES. 
 
 O, direst lot of slaves ! 
 
 ' 78 
 
 Slavery, to him who has lived free, is shame. 
 
 But why my wounds reopen ? I address not 
 
 The citizen, 't is to the king I speak. 
 
 To thee Assyria has given her crimes, 
 
 Her valor, virtue, rights, and fortune. Rich 
 
 Art thou through ancient ills, rich in her wealth 
 
 The harvest of the past, the future's hopes, 
 
 Are placed in thee 
 
 The urn of fate God to thy powerful hand 
 Committed, and forsook the earth. But was 't 
 Guerdon or punishment? Heavens! Dar'stthoi. 
 
 stake 
 The world's last hope on doubtful battle ? now, 
 When in the tired Assyrian courage flags, 
 And fair pretexts are wanting, other sons 
 Demand of mothers, wrapt in mourning weeds, 
 With tear-dimmed eyes? For what should we 
 
 now battle ? 
 Cold are our altars or o'erthrown, the gods 
 Uncertain ; slain or prisoners our sons ; 
 Not e'en their graves are given to our affliction ; 
 The Scythian snows conceal our brave Assyri- 
 ans ; 
 And our ancestral monuments are buried 
 Beneath the ruins of our temples. Say, 
 What should the Assyrian now defend ? 
 
 NABUCCO. 
 
 His crimes ! 
 
 I with my dazzling glory fill the throne, 
 
 Hiding the blood with which by you 't was 
 
 stained. 
 'T will redden if I fall, and for revenge 
 Call on your murdered sovereign's servile heir, 
 Ay, and obtain it. But, with minds unstable, 
 Ye look for pardon of past crimes, of new ones 
 For recompense. 
 
 ARSACES. 
 
 Nor fear nor hope are mine. 
 
 His sword secures Arsaces from all kings. 
 
 SILVIO PELLICO. 
 
 Silvio Pellico, known to all the world by 
 the beautiful history of his imprisonment in the 
 Spielberg, was born in 1789, at Saluzzo, in 
 Piedmont. Encouraged by his father, who had 
 gained reputation by his lyrical compositions, 
 he wrote verses in early youth. At the age 
 of sixteen, he went to Lyons, where his sister 
 had married. Foscolo's poem, " I Sepolcri,' 
 reawakened his love of country to such a de- 
 gree, that he returned forthwith to Italy. He 
 lived at Milan, in the family of Count Luigi 
 Porro Lambertenghi, whose children he in- 
 structed. His tragedies of " Laodicea " and 
 " Francesca da Rimini " gave him an honora- 
 ble rank among the Italian poets. The asso- 
 ciations which he enjoyed with the scholars 
 and writers who were aiming at the regenera- 
 tion of Italy led to the establishment of the 
 journal entitled "II Conciliatore," in which 
 zz2 
 
618 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 Pellico's " Eufemio di Messina" was first print- 
 ed, as well as Manzoni's " Conte di Carmagno- 
 la." The liberal tone of these productions was 
 offensive to the government, and Pellico, with 
 others, was arrested on the 13th of October, 
 1820. After severe investigations and long pro- 
 tracted delays, Pellico was finally condemned 
 to imprisonment in the Spielberg, as a com- 
 mutation of the punishment of death, to which 
 the judges had sentenced hinj. The details of 
 his sufferings, while undergoing this barbarous 
 infliction, often years' duration, are universally 
 known. He was released in 1830, and per- 
 mitted to return to Turin. His works were 
 published in Padua, in two volumes, 1831, and 
 at Leipsic, in one volume, 1834. Three new 
 tragedies appeared at Turin, in 1832. They 
 are entitled, " Gismondo da Mendrisio," " Le- 
 oniero da Dertona," and " Erodiade." A very 
 correct and elegant translation of " Le Mie 
 Prigioni " — as he entitled the history of his 
 imprisonments — was published at Cambridge, 
 in 1836. He died in 1854. 
 
 CANZONE, WRITTEN IN PRISON. 
 The love of song what can impart 
 To the lone captive's sinking heart? 
 Thou Sun ! thou fount divine 
 Of light ! the gift is thine ! 
 
 O, how, beyond the gloom 
 
 That wraps my living tomb, 
 
 Through forest, garden, mead, and grove, 
 
 All nature drinks the ray 
 
 Of glorious day, — 
 
 Inebriate with love ! 
 
 The jocund torrents flow 
 
 To distant worlds that owe 
 
 Their life to thee ! 
 
 And if a slender ray 
 
 Chance through my bars to stray, 
 
 And pierce to me, 
 
 My cell, no more a tomb, 
 
 Smiles in its caverned gloom, — 
 
 As nature to the free ! 
 
 If scarce thy bounty yields 
 To these ungenial fields 
 The gift divine, 
 O, shed thy blessings here, 
 Now while in dungeon drear 
 Italians pine ! 
 
 Thy splendors faintly known, 
 Sclavonia may not own 
 For thee the love 
 Our hearts must move, 
 Who from our cradle learn 
 To adore thee, and to yearn 
 With passionate desire 
 (Our nature's fondest prayer, 
 Needful as vital air) 
 To see thee, or expire. 
 
 Beneath my native, distant sky, 
 The captive's sire and mother sigh ; 
 O, never there may darkling cloud 
 With veil of circling horror shroud 
 The rising day ; 
 
 But thy warm beams, still glowing bright, 
 Enchant their hearts with joyous light, 
 And charm their grief away ! 
 
 TOMMASO SGRICCI. 
 
 Tommaso Sgricci has been called the firs 
 of modern improvvisatores. Among his extem- 
 porary productions, " La Morte di Carlo I." and 
 " L' Ettore " were taken down by short-hand 
 writers, and published in Florence, in 1825. 
 "La Morte di Carlo I." was itnprovvisated at 
 Paris, in the presence of the principal men of 
 letters in that capital. 
 
 In one of the notes to the fourth canto of 
 " Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," Lord Byron re- 
 lates the following anecdote. "In the autumn 
 of 1816, a celebrated improvvisatore exhibited 
 his talents at the opera-house of Milan. The 
 reading of the theses handed in for the subjects 
 of his poetry was received by a very numerous 
 audience, for the most part, in silence, or with 
 laughter ; but when the assistant, unfolding 
 one of the papers, exclaimed, ' The apotheosis 
 of Victor Alfieri,' the whole theatre burst into 
 a shout, and the applause was continued for 
 some moments. The lot did not fall on Alfieri; 
 and the Signor Sgricci had to pour forth his 
 extemporary commonplaces on the bombard- 
 ment of Algiers.— The choice, indeed," the poet 
 goes on to remark, "is not left to accident quite 
 so much as might be thought, from a first view 
 of the ceremony; and the police not only takes 
 care to look at the papers beforehand, but, in 
 case of any prudential afterthought, steps in to 
 correct the blindness of chance. The proposal 
 for deifying Alfieri was received with immedi- 
 ate enthusiasm, the rather because it was con- 
 jectured there would be no opportunity of car- 
 rying it into effect." 
 
 FROM LA MORTE DI CARLO I. 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 My queen, behold, the day of triumph ripnns 
 Behold the moment of our victory ! 
 The faithful bands of Douglas fill the city , 
 Impetuously rushing on the palace, 
 Soon from death's satellites they '11 snatch the 
 king. 
 
 HENRIETTA. 
 
 My gentle friend, the throbbings of my heart 
 Speak other language. Into thy true breast, 
 O, let me pour the terror that subdues me ! 
 I dare not tell my husband. 'T were too crue 
 To add imaginary pains to his, 
 So many and so real. Iron souls 
 
SGRICC I. — MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 619 
 
 Have they who joy to enhance the afflicted's 
 
 sorrows ; 
 Yet of this hidden torture I, perforce, 
 Must ease my heart. 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 Speak on, my queen. No bliss 
 
 Has earth for me like tempering thy tears, 
 
 By mingling them with mine. 
 
 HENRIETTA. 
 
 Hither returning, 
 
 Weary and panting with the tedious way, 
 
 And quite subdued by tenderness and pity, 
 
 Which, as I met my consort, woke within me, 
 
 Almost resistlessly mine eyelids closed. 
 
 Yet doubtfully, and scarcely closed they were, 
 
 Ere shaken were the curtains of my bed, — 
 
 Shaken and opened. Then me seemed, — me 
 
 seemed, 
 Or 't was so, — that before me present stood 
 A royal dame, of countenance majestic 
 As melancholy. Brow, and eyes, and hair 
 That hung dishevelled, shone resplendently 
 In mystic light. Hast thou observed the moon 
 With a circumfluous white crown in heaven ? 
 Such she appeared. She looked on me, and 
 
 smiled 
 A smile of anguish. So, 'twixt clouds and rain, 
 Glimmers a pallid sunbeam. Then my hand 
 She took, to her unmoving gelid breast 
 Pressing it; and my heart throbbed at the touch 
 With deathly palpitation. Thus she spoke : 
 " Lady, perchance in early youth thine eye 
 
 Has tearfully on my sad image dwelt, 
 Placed in the palace of thine ancestors. 
 Once Scotland's queen was I, and of the fair 
 Was fairest deemed by an admiring world. 
 The thought, the sigh, of every royal heart, 
 Of each exalted soul, I was. I saw 
 Flashing upon my brow three kingdoms' crowns, 
 And gloried in 't, and my presumptuous folly 
 In youthfulness bewildered me. From God 
 I turned away, wandering deliriously 
 In worldly paths. Thus long from precipice 
 To precipice I strayed, — lost my heart s peace, 
 Mine own esteem, — and all, — all, save that 
 
 virtue, 
 Which, buried in the inmost heart, awaits 
 Fit place and season o'er the conquered senses 
 Her empire to recover. In my heart 
 She spoke, misfortune her interpreter. — 
 Me this abhorrent land received. A dungeon, 
 
 For twenty winters, was my palace. Then " 
 
 She said ; and pausing, grasped with both her 
 
 hands 
 Her beauteous head, from off her beauteous neck 
 Lifted, and placed it in my hands. 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 O, horror ! 
 
 HENRIETTA. 
 
 Soul-stricken by the terrors of the vision, 
 I started from my pillow, and mine eyes 
 Bent on my husband's picture. To the neck 
 It was illumined by the sun's glad beam : 
 The head was wrapt in shadow, and appeared 
 As from the shoulders it were separated. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS IN THE ITALIAN DIALECTS. 
 
 CALABRIAN. 
 
 POPULAR SONG. 
 
 I saw a tigress in a woodland dell, 
 
 And at my grief the monster's fury slept ; 
 
 Where drop by drop my tears of anguish fell, 
 The marble rude was softened as I wept; — 
 
 But thou, that art a creature young and pretty, 
 
 Dost laugh at griefs which move even stones 
 to pity. 
 
 NEAPOLITAN. 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 When Christ was born in Bethlehem, 
 'T was night, but seemed the noon of day ; 
 The stars, whose light 
 Was pure and bright, 
 Shone with unwavering ray ; 
 But one, one glorious star 
 Guided the Eastern Magi from afar. 
 
 Then peace was spread throughout the land; 
 
 The lion fed beside the tender lamb; 
 
 And with the kid, 
 
 To pasture led, 
 
 The spotted leopard fed ; 
 
 In peace the calf and bear, 
 
 The wolf and lamb, reposed together there. 
 
 As shepherds watched their flocks by night, 
 
 An angel, brighter than the sun's own light, 
 
 Appeared in air, 
 
 And gently said, 
 
 " Fear not, — be not afraid, — 
 
 For, lo ! beneath your eyes, 
 
 Earth has become a smiling paradise." 
 
 SOLDIER'S SONG. 
 
 " Who knocks, — who knocks at my door — 
 Who knocks, and who can it be ? " 
 
 "Thy own true lover, betrothed for ever 
 So open the door to me." 
 
620 
 
 ITALIAN POETRY. 
 
 " My mother is not at home, 
 
 So I cannot open to thee." 
 " Why make me wait so long at the gate ? 
 
 For mercy's sake open to me." 
 
 "Thou canst not come in so late ; 
 
 From the window I '11 listen to thee." 
 "My cloak is old, and the wind blows cold; 
 
 So open the door to me." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 One morning, on the seashore as I strayed, 
 
 My heart dropped in the sand beside the sea; 
 I asked of yonder mariners, who said 
 
 They saw it in thy bosom, — worn by thee. 
 And I am come to seek that heart of mine, 
 
 For I have none, and thou, alas ! hast two ; 
 
 If this be so, dost know what thou shalt do ? — 
 Still keep my heart, and give me, give me thine. 
 
 FLORENTINE. 
 
 FRaM THE TANCIA OF MICHEL ANGELO. 
 
 If I am fair, 't is for myself alone; 
 
 I do not wish to have a sweetheart near me, 
 Nor would I call another's heart my own, 
 
 Nor have a gallant lover to revere me. 
 For, surely, I will plight my faith to none, 
 
 Though many an amorous cit would jump to 
 hear me ; 
 For I have heard that lovers prove deceivers, 
 When once they find that maidens are believers. 
 
 Yet should I find one that in truth could please 
 me, 
 
 One whom I thought my charms had power 
 to move, 
 Why, then, I do confess, the whim might seize me 
 
 To taste for once the porringer of love. 
 Alas ! there is one pair of eyes that tease me ; 
 
 And then that mouth ! — he seems a star above, 
 He is so good, so gentle, and so kind, 
 And so unlike the sullen, clownish hind. 
 
 What love may be indeed I cannot tell, 
 
 Nor if I e'er have known his cunning arts; 
 
 But true it is, there 's one I like so well, 
 
 That, when he looks at me, my bosom starts, 
 
 And if we meet, my heart begins to swell ; 
 And the green fields around, when he departs, 
 
 Seem like a nest from which the bird has flown : 
 
 Can this be love ? — say, ye who love have 
 known ! 
 
 MILANESE. 
 
 FROM THE FUGGITIVA OF TOMMASO GROSSI. 
 
 'T was silence all, when on the distant plain 
 Heart-rending groans were heard ; in tears I ran 
 
 And found a hungry dog among the slain, 
 Lappiig the life-blood of a dying man. 
 
 Upon the groaning victim, who in vain 
 
 Struggled to throw the burden off, a wan 
 And ghastly corpse was lying, and its blood 
 Over the face of the expiring flowed. 
 
 The corpse, that on the dying soldier lay, 
 
 Was smeared with blood, and headless ; and 
 beneath, — 
 Jesu Maria ! — does my reason stray? — 
 
 That dress ! — that color! — in the grasp of 
 death 
 Lay my true love ! — I wildly pushed away 
 The hair from his pale forehead, — gasped for 
 breath, 
 And like a stone fell prostrate on his breast, 
 Kissed his cold form, and to my bosom pressed. 
 
 His heart still beat ; and kneeling by his side, 
 
 I tore away the garment that he wore ; 
 Upon his breast a ghastly wound, and wide, 
 Cut to the bone, streamed with his clotted 
 gore. 
 Then slowly he unclosed his eyes, and sighed, — 
 Gazed steadily, and knew my face once 
 more % — 
 And, with a smile upon his pale lips, tried 
 To press my hand against his heart, — and 
 died. 
 
 His heart no longer beat, — his breath had fled. 
 
 I strove to rise, — but, reeling, fell again, 
 And rolled upon a grim dissevered head ; 
 
 With feeble strength I sought, nor sought in 
 vain, 
 To gaze upon the features of the dead ; 
 
 Though foul with dust, and many a crimson 
 stain, 
 I recognized the face, — it was my brother ! — 
 Jesu Maria, help ! — help, Virgin Mother ! — 
 
 GENOESE. 
 SONG. 
 
 BY CICALA CASERO. 
 
 Whenever a fresh, mild, and pleasant breeze, 
 
 In spring, the loveliest season of the year, 
 Soft-moving through the green and leafy trees, 
 And filling the whole heart with love, I hear; 
 To her my thoughts are given, 
 Who less of earth than heaven 
 Possesses, when the soft wind dallying plays 
 Amid her flowing hair, in many a tangled maze. 
 
 And sometimes, when I hear the wild-birds 
 sing, — 
 The nightingale slow warbling in the grove, 
 Till far around the shadowy woodlands ring, 
 All vocal with the melody of love; 
 Then the soft, winning tone 
 Of that ungrateful one 
 Resounds within my heart, — each gentle word 
 More sad than the complaint of the forsaken 
 bird. 
 
SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETBY. 
 
 Much uncertainty rests upon the question, 
 What was the primitive language of Spain ? 
 Some maintain that it was the Chaldean ; oth- 
 ers, the Greek; others, the Teutonic; others, the 
 Basque, or lengua Vascongada ; and others, the 
 ancient Latin.* From all that has been written 
 upon the subject, however, it appears pretty 
 evident, that various languages, and not one 
 alone, were spoken in the Spanish peninsula 
 before the Roman conquest.t Among these, 
 doubtless, was the Vascongada. J 
 
 Whatever may have been the languages 
 spoken in Spain before the Roman conquest, 
 there is abundant proof to show, that, after that 
 event, the Latin became the general language 
 ■jf the country. § Nor is it wonderful, that, 
 during the six centuries of the Roman sway, — 
 from the year 216 before Christ, when the first 
 Roman army entered Spain, till the year 416 
 
 * Aldrete. Del Origen i Principio de la Lengua Cas- 
 tellana (Roma, 1606, 4to.). Lib. II., Cap. x. 
 
 t Aldrete. Lib. II., Cap. x. — Mayans i Siscar. Orige- 
 nes de la Lengua Espanola (2 vols., Madrid, 1737, 16mo.). 
 Tom. I., Sect. 14, et seq. 
 
 t The lengua Vizca, Vizcaino., Vasctcence, Vascongada, 
 or Euscara, as it is indifferently called, or, in other words, 
 the Basque language, has, we believe, undisputed claims to 
 the title of a primitive tongue, — so far, at least, as the ori- 
 gin of languages can be traced back. There seems to be 
 no affinity between it and any dialect either of the Gothic 
 or Celtic stem. This opinion is confirmed by an " Essay 
 on the Antiquity of the Irish Language," by Mr. Vallen- 
 cay, in which the Basque and Irish languages are collated. 
 — Collectanea de Rebus Hibemicis, Vol. II., pp. 232, et 
 seq. — Still farther confirmation is given by the ample 
 vocabularies in a small tract by Goldmann, comparing 
 together the Basque, the Cimbric, and the Gaelic. — 
 G. A. F. Goldmann, De Linguis Vasconum, Belgarum, et 
 Celtarum (Gottingaj, 1S07, 4to.). — Juan Bautista de Erro, 
 a Spanish writer of the present century, maintains that 
 the Basque language is a perfect idiom, and consequently 
 could not have been invented by man, but must have been 
 inspired by the Creator. According to his theory, it was 
 brought to Spain by the first emigrants from the plain of 
 Shinar. — See the Alphabet of the Primitive Language of 
 Spain. An extract from the works of Juan Bautista de 
 Erro. Translated by Geo. W. Ervin<3 (Boston, 1829, 8vo.). 
 Part II., Chap. 2.; Part I., Chap. 3. — It would, however, 
 be foreign to our purpose to enter into any discussion upon 
 these points. 
 
 The Basque is still a living language. It is spoken in 
 the provinces of Navarre, Guipuzcoa, Alava, and Biscay, 
 generally called the Provincias Vascongadas. It is also 
 spoken in the cantons of Labour, Soule, and Basse-Na- 
 varre, in the South of France. Of course it is not uniform 
 throughout these provinces, but is diversified by numerous 
 dialects. 
 
 5 Aldrete. Lib. I. Cap. xiv., xv., xx. — Mayans i 
 Siscar. Tom. I., Sect. 34, and the authors there cited. 
 
 after Christ, at which time the first Gothic 
 army crossed the Pyrenees, — the Latin lan- 
 guage should have swept away nearly every 
 vestige of more ancient tongues. We say near- 
 ly, — for the Basque still maintains its dominion 
 in the more solitary and mountainous prov- 
 inces of the North ; and even as late as the 
 eighth century, when the Romance had already 
 exhibited its first forms, some wrecks of the 
 ancient languages of the Peninsula seem to 
 have been preserved.* When the Northern 
 nations overran the South of Europe, Spain 
 suffered the fate of the other Roman colonies. 
 The conquerors became in turn the conquered. 
 Their language, like their empire, was dismem- 
 bered. The Goths, the Suevi, the Alani, and 
 the Vandals possessed the soil, from the Tomb 
 of the Scipios to the Pillars of Hercules ; and 
 during their dominion of three centuries, the 
 Latin language lost in a great degree its original 
 character, and became the Romance. 
 
 Such, in few words, was the origin of the 
 Spanish Romance, a branch of the Roman Rus- 
 tic, which took the place of the Latin through- 
 out the South and West of Europe. The name 
 of Roman or Romance is not an arbitrary one, 
 but indicates its origin from the Latin. It is 
 used by some of the earliest writers in the 
 Spanish language, when speaking of the tongue 
 in which they wrote. Thus, Gonzalo de Ber- 
 ceo says, — 
 
 "Quiero fer una prosa en roman paladino, 
 En qual suele el pueblo fablar a su vecino." t 
 
 As early as the commencement of the eighth 
 century, three different dialects of the Romance 
 were spoken in Spain. In the eastern provin- 
 ces of Catalonia, Aragon, and Valencia, the 
 Lemosin prevailed, — a form or dialect of the 
 Provencal or langue d'Oc of France; — in the 
 centre, that is, in the provinces of Castile and 
 Leon, and thence southward, the Castilian, 
 from which the modern Spanish originated ; — 
 and in Galicia, and the provinces bordering on 
 the Atlantic, the Gallego, from which sprang 
 the Portuguese. Then came from the South 
 
 * The historian Luitprand, as cited by Raynouard, 
 Tom. I., xiij., speaking of the year 728, says, "At that 
 time there were in Spain ten languages, as under Augustus 
 and Tiberius : 1. The ancient Spanish; 2. The Cantabrian ; 
 3. The Greek; 4. The Latin; 5. The Arabic; 6. The Chal- 
 dean ; 7. The Hebrew ; 8. The Celtiberian ; 9. The Valen- 
 cian ; and 10. The Catalan." 
 
 The expression, "as under Augustus and Tiberius," ren 
 ders this passage obscure. The Valencian and the Catalan 
 were the Romance. 
 
 t Vida de Santo Domingo de Silos, vv. 5, 6. 
 
622 
 
 SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 another wave of the fluctuating tide of empire, 
 
 — the invasion of the Moors, — who extended 
 their power over all Spain, with the exception 
 of Leon, the mountains of Asturias, and some 
 strongholds in Aragon and Catalonia. 
 
 The Moorish dominion of nearly seven cen- 
 turies left its traces in the language of Spain, 
 as well as its ruins and alcazars. "And this 
 name, albogues," says Don Quixote, in one of 
 his conversations with his squire, "is Moorish, 
 as are all those in our native Castilian tongue, 
 which begin with al ; as, for example, almohaza, 
 almorzar, alhombra, alguacil, alhuzema, alma- 
 cen, alcancia, arid the like ; — but there are 
 only three Moorish words in the language with- 
 out the prefix al, which end in z, and these are 
 borcegui, zaquizami, and maravedi ; the words 
 alheli and alfaqui are known as Arabic, both 
 by their commencement in al and their termina- 
 tion in I."* The nature of most of the Arabic 
 words preserved in the Spanish language would 
 be a proof, were proof wanting, of the intimate 
 relations which existed between the Moors in 
 Spain and their Christian subjects, or Mozara- 
 bes, as they were denominated. Such are the 
 words, according to Weston, ataud, a coffin, 
 from the Arabic atud; — azaleja, now obsolete, 
 a towel, from azulet, wiping ; — bellota, an 
 acorn, from bellut ; — borcegui, a buskin, from 
 borzeghi ; — taza, a cup, from tas ; — Usted, Sir, 
 
 — not, as generally supposed, contracted from 
 Vuestra Merced (Your Grace), but derived from 
 the Arabic usted, master ; zumbar, to buzz, from 
 zumbour,a bee, &c.t 
 
 At the present day, the three dialects of the 
 Spanish Romance thus divide the country : 
 1. The Castilian is spoken in Old and New 
 Castile, Leon, Aragon, part of Navarre, La 
 Mancha, and Andalusia; — 2. The Lemosin 
 prevails in Catalonia, Valencia, and the Bale- 
 aric Islands; — 3. The Gallego still maintains 
 its solitary province in the northwestern corner 
 of the Peninsula. 
 
 I. The Castilian. The Castilian is the 
 court language of Spain, and the depository of 
 all her classic literature. Its golden age was 
 the sixteenth century. Then the hands of Gar- 
 cilaso, Herrera, Cervantes, and Lope de Vega 
 stamped it with the image and superscription 
 of immortality, so far as the changing forms of 
 language are capable of receiving such an im- 
 press. By them it was carried to its highest 
 state of perfection ; and though, since their day, 
 some words have become obsolete, and forms 
 of orthography have changed, yet he who would 
 read the noble Castilian tongue in all its beauty 
 and sonorous majesty must go back to the writ- 
 ers of the sixteenth century. 
 
 The striking characteristics of the Castilian 
 language are its musical terminations, the high- 
 sounding march of its periods, the great copi- 
 
 * Don Quixote. Part II., Cap. 67. 
 t Remains of Arabic in the Spanish and Portuguese Lan- 
 {uages. By Stephen Weston. 
 
 ousness of its vocabulary, and its richness in 
 popular proverbs and vulgar phrases, or dicha- 
 rachos. The first of these are amply proved by 
 all the classic writers of the language; — for 
 the rest, the reader is referred to Sancho Panza, 
 and to the " Cuento de Cuentos " of Quevedo. 
 
 The Castilian is spoken in its greatest purity 
 in the province of Old Castile. Most of the 
 other provinces of the realm have something 
 peculiar in their language or pronunciation, by 
 which they are easily distinguished. In Anda- 
 lusia, for instance, the ce, ci are pronounced 
 se, si, and the z has invariably the sound of s. 
 An Andaluz cerrado, or genuine Andalusian, 
 aspirates the mute h at the beginning of words ; 
 so much so that it has passed into a proverb, 
 and they say, " El que no diga jacha, jorno, y 
 jiguera (hacha, homo, y higuera) no es de mi 
 tierra." 
 
 Setting aside these provincialisms, which are 
 hardly sufficient to constitute a new dialect, the 
 Castilian may be said to have but one subordi- 
 nate dialect. This is the dialecto de los Gitanos, 
 or Gypsy dialect, a kind of slang, which bears 
 the same resemblance to the Castilian as the 
 flash language of London does to the English. 
 In this slang, or, as the Spaniards call it, cald, 
 the word dguila (eagle) signifies an astute rob- 
 ber; — buyes (oxen) are cards; — ermitano de 
 camino (hermit of the highway), a bandit; — 
 Jinibusterre (ends of the earth), a gallows; — 
 hormigas (ants), dice; — lanternas (lanterns), 
 eyes ; &c. Quevedo and other Spanish wits 
 have amused themselves by writing songs in 
 this dialect, in imitation of the old Spanish 
 ballads. These have been collected and pub- 
 lished in a volume.* 
 
 II. The Lemosin. The Lemosin, or len- 
 gua Lcmosina,} was originally the same as the 
 langue d'Oc, or language of the Troubadours 
 of the South of France, though doubtless many 
 local peculiarities distinguished the language as 
 spoken on the northern and the southern slope 
 of the Pyrenees. The fact, that this dialect 
 prevailed so extensively in the eastern provinces 
 of Spain, must be attributed to geographical sit- 
 uation and political causes. From their very 
 situation, there must have been free and con- 
 stant intercourse, both by sea and land, between 
 the South of France, and the northeastern cor- 
 ner of Spain. Early in the twelfth century 
 (1113), the kingdoms of Provence and Barcelona 
 were united under one crown ; and before the 
 middle of the same century (1137), the king- 
 dom of Aragon was joined with them. In the 
 
 * Romances de Germania de varios Autores, con el Vo- 
 cabulario etc., para Declaracion de sus Terminos y Lengua. 
 Compuesto por Joan Hidalgo, etc. Madrid, 1779. Sro. 
 
 t La tercera, lengua maestra de las de Espana, es la 
 
 Lemosina, y mas general que todas ; por ser la que se 
 
 hablava en Proenza, y toda la Guiyana, y la Francia G6U- 
 ca, y la que agora se habla en el principado de Calaluna, 
 reyno de Valencia, islas de Mallorca, Minorca, etc. — Er 
 colano. Hist, de Valencia, cited by Raynouard. Tom. I., 
 p. 13. 
 
SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 623 
 
 beginning of the thirteenth century (1220 — 
 1238), Majorca, Minorca, and Valencia passed 
 under the same government. These political 
 changes could not have been without their ef- 
 fect upon the language. The court of Provence 
 introduced into Spain the fascinating poetry of 
 the Troubadours. Kings and princes became 
 its admirers and imitators. Among these were 
 Alfonso the Second, king of Aragon, and his 
 son Peter the Second, who died fighting for the 
 Albigenses, many of whom — and amongst 
 them a great multitude of Troubadours — took 
 refuge at his court. During the next century, 
 the same patronage was afforded by the court of 
 Aragon, under Peter the Third, and his son, 
 James the First, who is spoken of as a great 
 admirer of the poesia Catalana, and himself 
 no mean poet. It will be readily understood 
 why circumstances of this kind should have 
 established and perpetuated the language of the 
 Troubadours in Spain. 
 
 The lengua Lemosina exhibits itself in Spain 
 under the form of three separate dialects.* These 
 are, 1. The Catalan ; 2. The Valencian ; and, 
 3. The Majorcan, or dialect of the Islas Bale- 
 ares. Of these we shall say a few words, in 
 the order in which we have named them. 
 
 1. The Catalan. This dialect, which is now 
 confined to the province of Catalonia, formerly 
 extended also through the neighbouring prov- 
 ince of Aragon, though at the present day the 
 language of that province is the Castilian, with 
 some slight traces of the elder dialect. 
 
 2. The Valencian. This dialect seems for- 
 mer! v to have been identically the same as the 
 Catalan ; and even at the present day, so slight 
 is the difference between them, that the inhabit- 
 ants of the two provinces understand each oth- 
 er with perfect facility. In the " Notas al Canto 
 de Turia," in the " Diana Enamorada " of Gas- 
 par Gil Polo, we find the following passage, 
 which bears upon this point: "As Maestro 
 Piodriguez has well observed, in his Bill. Va- 
 lent., pp. 26, 27, under the name of Catalancs 
 are included both Catalonians and Valencians, 
 for both spake the same language from the com- 
 mencement of the conquest, and for more than 
 two hundred years afterwards ; and even at the 
 present day the two languages cannot be dis- 
 tinguished from each other, save in some par- 
 ticular forms and idioms; and this is the reason 
 why many authors have been confounded to- 
 gether, and some who were in reality Valen- 
 cians have been considered as natives of Cata- 
 lonia." + 
 
 3. The Majorcan. This is the name gen- 
 erally given to the dialect spoken in the three 
 islands of Majorca, Minorca, and Iviza. Even 
 this patois is not uniform in these three islands, 
 but has some local peculiarities. Dr. Ramis y 
 Ramis, speaking of this dialect, says : " It is evi- 
 
 * Mayans i Siscar. Tom. I., p. 53. 
 t La Diana Enamorada, Notas al Canto de Turia. Adi- 
 cion vii., p. 490. 
 
 dent, that, although our language is derived from 
 the ancient Lemosin, which is spoken alike by 
 Catalonians, Valencians, and Majorcans, this 
 does not excuse us from the necessity of having 
 some elementary reading-book in our own pecu- 
 liar dialect ; since there is a difference between 
 it and that spoken by them, both in the pronun- 
 ciation and the orthography." * 
 
 III. The Galician. The name of this dia- 
 lect — Gallego or lingoa Gallega — sufficient- 
 ly indicates its native province. Originally, 
 however, it was not confined, as now, to the 
 northwestern corner of Spain, but extended 
 southward along the Atlantic seacoast through 
 what is now the kingdom of Portugal, t From 
 the old Galician Romance the Portuguese lan- 
 guage had its origin. The Galician dialect is 
 now confined to a single province, and even 
 there limited to the peasantry and common 
 people; — among the educated classes the Cas- 
 tilian is spoken. A strong resemblance appears 
 to exist between the Gallego and the Catalan. 
 "The bishop of Orense," says Raynouard,t 
 "having been requested to examine the vulgar 
 dialect of Galicia, and to ascertain whether it 
 bore an) r resemblance to the Catalan, answered, 
 that the common people, by whom alone the 
 vulgar idiom of Galicia is spoken, employ not 
 only nouns and verbs, and other parts of speech, 
 identically the same as those of the Catalan, 
 but even entire phrases." This dialect has been 
 very little employed in literature. Alfonso the 
 Tenth, however, composed in it a book of" Can- 
 ticas ; " § and Camoens two or three sonnets. || 
 Some other writers are mentioned in the letter 
 of the Marques de Santillana.** 
 
 The history of Spanish poetry may be divid- 
 ed into three periods. I. From 1150 to 1500. 
 II. From 1500 to 1700. III. From 1700 to 
 the present time. 
 
 I. From 1150 to 1500. The earliest literary 
 production of the Spanish tongue, which has 
 reached our day, is the " Poema del Cid. " ft 
 The name of its author is unknown, and its 
 date is not very definitely fixed. It is supposed 
 to have been written about the middle of the 
 twelfth century, and consequently about fifty 
 years after the death of the hero whose name 
 and achievements it celebrates. It is the only 
 literary monument of the twelfth century in 
 Spain now remaining, and exhibits the Castilian 
 language in its rudest state, uncouth in structure, 
 harsh in termination, and unpolished by the uses 
 of song and literary composition, but is full of 
 
 * Pr'mcipis de la Lectura Menorquina. Per un Malio- 
 nes. Mahd, 1804. 
 
 f Aldrete. Lib. II. Cap. 3. 
 
 : Tome VI. Piscours Prelim., p. 36. 
 
 § Sanchez. Tom. I. p. 150. 
 
 || Obras do Grande Luis de CamSes. Tom. III. pp. 
 148. 149. 
 
 ** Sanchez. Tom. I. p. 53. 
 
 tt It is published in the first volume of Sanchez. Colec- 
 cion de Poesias Castellanas anleriores al Siglo XV. 4 volj 
 Madrid, 1779-90. 8vo. 
 
624 
 
 SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 simple beauty and antique Castilian dignity ; 
 and is, moreover, remarkable as being the earli- 
 est epic in any modern language. 
 
 Two poets of very modest pretensions to 
 immortality meet us upon the threshold of the 
 thirteenth century, — Gonzalo de Berceo, and 
 Juan Lorenzo Segura de Astorga. The former 
 sane the lives of saints, the mysteries of the 
 faith, and the miracles of the Virgin, in some- 
 thing more than thirteen thousand unmusical 
 alexandrines;* and the latter immortalized Al- 
 exander the Great in a historic poem of about 
 ten thousand, hardly less unpolished. t Their 
 language, though less inharmonious and un- 
 couth than that of the "Poema del Cid," is 
 still rude and barbarous, — though, perhaps, we 
 ought not to use this word without some quali- 
 fication. " In truth," says Sanchez, the mod- 
 ern editor of these ancient poets, " we ought 
 not to call the style of our old Castilian poets 
 either barbarous or unpolished, since it was 
 not so, when compared with the most polish- 
 ed style and language of the times in which 
 they lived, though it may appear so now in 
 comparison with our own. If Don Gonzalo 
 de Berceo should visit the world again, pre- 
 serving still the language of his own age, and 
 should read the best of our modern writings, 
 he would doubtless think our style and language 
 rude and barbarous in comparison with his own, 
 and would probably lament that the noble Span- 
 ish tongue should have so far degenerated from 
 its original character." 
 
 About the middle of the thirteenth century, 
 lived and reigned Alfonso the Tenth, king of 
 Castile and Leon. From his knowledge in the 
 abstruse sciences, particularly chemistry and 
 asirology, he was surnamed the Wise. "He it 
 wa»," says Quintana, " who raised his native 
 language to its due honors, when he gave com- 
 mand that the public instruments, which until 
 his day had been written in Latin, should 
 thei.ceforth be engrossed in Spanish." His 
 writings are various, both in verse and prose. 
 In the Castilian language, he either himself 
 compiled, or caused to be compiled under his 
 direction, the earliest code of the Spanish Cor- 
 tes, giving the work the well known title of 
 "Las Siete Partidas." 
 
 In the first half of the fourteenth century, 
 flourished Don Juan Manuel, the grandson of 
 Saint Ferdinand, and nephew of Alfonso the 
 Tenth. He was one of the most celebrated 
 men of his age, both as a warrior and an author. 
 His most remarkable work, " El Conde Luca- 
 nor," is a collection of fables and tales, in 
 prose, inculcating various moral and political 
 maxims. It exhibits the Castilian language un- 
 der its most favorable aspect, at the commence- 
 ment of the fourteenth century. 
 
 Contemporaneously with Juan Manuel flour- 
 ished Juan Ruiz, Arcipreste de Hita, a poet of a 
 
 * Published in Sanchez, Vol. II. 
 t Ibid., Vol. HI. 
 
 lively imagination, great satirical acuteness, and 
 a poetic talent of a superior order.* 
 
 To the latter half of the fourteenth century 
 is generally assigned the great mass of the an- 
 cient historic, romantic, and Moorish ballads of 
 Spain; not that they were all written at so late 
 a period, but because the language in which 
 they now exist indicates no higher antiquity 
 These ancient ballads are, for the most part, 
 anonymous. Lope de Vega calls them " Iliads 
 without a Homer." As we have had occasion 
 to remark elsewhere, t they hold a prominent 
 place in the literary history of Spain. Their 
 number is truly astonishing, and may well startle 
 the most enthusiastic lover of popular song. 
 The "Romancero General " f contains upwards 
 of a thousand; and though upon many of these 
 may justly be bestowed the encomium which 
 honest Izaak Walton pronounces upon the old 
 English ballad of "The Passionate Shepherd," 
 
 — "old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good," 
 
 — yet, as a whole, they are, perhaps, more re- 
 markable for their number than for their beau- 
 ty. Every great historic event, every marvel- 
 lous tradition, has its popular ballad. Don Rod- 
 erick, Bernardo del Carpio, and the Cid Cam- 
 peador are not more the heroes of ancient chron- 
 icle than of ancient song; and the imaginary 
 champions of Christendom, the Twelve Peersof 
 Charlemagne, have found a historian in the 
 wandering ballad-singer no less authentic than 
 the good Archbishop Turpin. 
 
 Most of these ancient ballads had their origin 
 during the dominion of the Moors in Spain. 
 Many of them, doubtless, are nearly as old as 
 the events they celebrate ; though in their pres- 
 ent form the greater part belong to the four- 
 teenth century. The language in which they 
 are now preserved indicates no higher antiqui- 
 ty ; but who shall say how long they had been 
 handed down by tradition, ere they were taken 
 from the lips of the wandering minstrel, and 
 recorded in a more permanent form ? 
 
 The seven centuries of the Moorish sove- 
 reignty in Spain are the heroic ages of her his- 
 tory and her poetry. What the warrior achieved 
 with his sword the minstrel published in his 
 song. The character of those ages is seen in 
 the character of their literature. History casts 
 its shadow far into the land of song ; indeed, 
 the most prominent characteristic of the ancient 
 Spanish ballads is their warlike spirit ; they 
 shadow forth the majestic lineaments of the 
 warlike ages; and through every line breathes 
 a high and peculiar tone of chivalrous feeling. 
 It is not the piping sound of peace, but a blast, 
 a loud, long blast, from the war-horn, — 
 "A trump with a stern breath, 
 Which is cleped the trump of death." 
 
 And with this mingles the voice of lamentation, 
 
 * Published in Sanchez, Vol. IV. 
 t Outre Mer, Vol. II., p. 4. 
 
 I Romancero General, en que se contiene todos los Ro- 
 mances que andan impresos. Madrid, 1604. 4to. 
 
SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 625 
 
 the requiem for the slain, with a melancholy 
 
 gweelness : — 
 
 Rio Verde, Rio Verde ! 
 
 Many a corpse is bathed in thee, 
 Both of Moore and eke of Christians, 
 
 Slain with swords most cruelly. 
 
 And thy pure and crystal waters 
 Dappled are with crimson gore ; 
 
 For between the Moors and Christians 
 Long has been the fight, and sore. 
 
 Dukes and counts fell bleeding near thee, 
 Lords of high renown were slain, 
 
 Perished many a brave hidalgo 
 Of the noblemen of Spain. 
 
 Another prominent characteristic of these an- 
 cient ballads is their energetic and beautiful 
 simplicity. A great historic event is described 
 in the fewest possible words : there is no orna- 
 ment, no artifice. The poet's intention was to 
 narrate, not to embellish. It is truly wonder- 
 ful to observe what force, and beauty, and dra- 
 matic power are given to the old romances by 
 this single circumstance. When Bernardo del 
 Carpio leads forth his valiant Leonese against 
 the hosts of Charlemagne, he animates their 
 courage by alluding to their battles with the 
 Moors, and exclaims, " Shall the lions that 
 have bathed their paws in Libyan gore now 
 crouch before the Frank ? " When he enters 
 the palace of the treacherous Alfonso, to up- 
 braid him for a broken promise, and the king 
 orders him to be arrested for contumely, he 
 lays his hand upon his sword and cries, " Let 
 no one stir! I am Bernardo; and my sword is 
 not subject even to kings! " When the Count 
 Alarcos prepares to put to death his own wife 
 at the king's command, she submits patiently to 
 her fate, asks time to say a prayer, and then 
 exclaims, " Now bring me my infant boy, that 
 I may give him suck, as my last farewell ! " Is 
 there in all the writings of Homer an incident 
 more touching, or more true to nature ? 
 
 The ancient Spanish ballads naturally divide 
 themselves into three classes, — the Historic, 
 the Romantic, and the Moorish. It must be 
 confessed, however, that the line of demarca- 
 tion between these three classes is not well de- 
 fined ; for many of the Moorish ballads are his- 
 toric, and many others occupy a kind of de- 
 batable ground between the historic and the 
 romantic. 
 
 The historic ballads are those which recount 
 the noble deeds of the early heroes of Spain : 
 of Bernardo del Carpio, the Cid, Martin Pelaez, 
 Garcia Perez de Vargas, Alonso de Aguilar, 
 and many others whose names stand conspicu- 
 ous in Spanish history. Indeed, these ballads 
 may themselves be regarded in the light of his- 
 toric documents; they are portraits of long- 
 departed ages, and if at times their features are 
 exaggerated and colored with too bold a con- 
 trast of light and shade, yet the free and spirited 
 touches of a master's hand are recognized in all. 
 They are instinct, too, with the spirit of Castil- 
 79 
 
 ian pride, with the high and dauntless spirit of 
 liberty that burned so bright of old in the heart 
 of the brave hidalgo. 
 
 The same gallant spirit breathes through al> 
 the historic ballads; but, perhaps, most ferven 
 ly in those which relate to Bernardo del Carpio. 
 How spirit-stirring are all the 'speeches which 
 the ballad-writers have put into the mouth of 
 this valiant hero! "Ours is the blood of the 
 Goth," says he to King Alfonso; "sweet to us 
 is liberty, and bondage odious!" "The king 
 may give his castles to the Frank, but not his 
 vassals; for kings themselves hold no dominion 
 over the free will ! " He and his followers would 
 rather die freemen than live slaves ! If these 
 are the common watchwords of liberty at the 
 present day, they were no less so among the 
 high-born and high-souled Spaniards of the 
 eighth century. 
 
 The next class of the ancient Spanish bal- 
 lads is the romantic, including those which re- 
 late to the Twelve Peers of Charlemagne and 
 other imaginary heroes of the days of chivalry. 
 There is an exaggeration in the prowess of these 
 heroes of romance, which is in accordance with 
 the warmth of a Spanish imagination ; and the 
 ballads which celebrate their achievements still 
 go from mouth to mouth among the peasantry of 
 Spain, and are hawked about the streets by the 
 blind balladmonger. 
 
 Among the romantic ballads, those of the 
 Twelve Peers stand preeminent; not so much 
 for their poetic merit as for the fame of their 
 heroes. In them are sung the valiant knights, 
 whose history is written more at large in the 
 prose romances of chivalry, — Orlando, and 
 Oliver, and Montesinos, and Durandarte, and 
 the Marques de Mantua, and the other paladins, 
 que en una mesa cornian pan. These ballads 
 are of different length and various degrees of 
 merit. Of some a few lines only remain ; they 
 are evidently fragments of larger works: while 
 others, on the contrary, aspire to the length and 
 dignity of epic poems; — witness the ballads of 
 the Conde de Irlos and the Marques de Mantua, 
 each of which consists of nearly a thousand long 
 and sonorous hexameters. 
 
 Among these ballads of the Twelve Peers 
 there are many of great beauty ; others possess 
 little merit, and are wanting in vigor and con- 
 ciseness. From the structure of the versifica- 
 tion, I should rank them among the oldest of 
 the Spanish ballads. They are all monorhyth- 
 mic, with full consonant rhymes. 
 
 To the romantic ballads belong also a great 
 number which recount the deeds of less celebrat- 
 ed heroes; but among them all, none is so cu- 
 rious as that of Virgil. Like the old French 
 romance-writers of the Middle Ages, the early 
 Spanish poets introduce the Mantuan bard as 
 a knight of chivalry. The ballad informs us 
 that a certain king kept him imprisoned seven 
 years, for what old Brantome would call outre- 
 cuydance with a certain Dona Isabel. But 
 being at mass on Sunday, the recollection of 
 3 a 
 
626 
 
 SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 Virgil comes suddenly into his mind, when he 
 ought to be attending to the priest; and turning 
 to his knights, he asks them what has become 
 of Virgil. One of them replies, "Your High- 
 ness has him imprisoned in your dungeons " ; 
 to which the king makes answer with the great- 
 est coolness, by' telling them that the dinner is 
 waiting, and that after they have dined they 
 will pay Virgil a visit in his prison. Then up 
 and spake the queen like a true heroine : quoth 
 she, "I will not dine without him"; and 
 straightway they all repair to the prison, where 
 they find the incarcerated knight engaged in 
 the pleasant pastime of combing his hair and 
 arranging his beard. He tells the king very 
 coolly, that on that very day he has been a 
 prisoner seven years. To this the king replies, 
 "Hush, hush, Virgil; it takes three more to 
 make ten." " Sire," says Virgil, with the 
 same philosophical composure, "if your High- 
 ness so ordains, I will pass my whole life 
 here." " As a reward for your patience, you 
 shall dine with me to-day," says the king. 
 " My coat is torn," says Virgil ; " I am not in 
 trim to make a leg." But this difficulty is re- 
 moved by the promise of a new suit from the 
 king; and they go to dinner. Virgil delights 
 both knights and damsels, but most of all Dona 
 Isabel. The archbishop is called in ; they are 
 married forthwith ; and the ballad closes like a 
 scene in some old play: "he takes her by the 
 hand, and leads her to the garden." 
 
 The third class of the ancient Spanish ballads 
 is the Moorish. Here we enter a new world, 
 more gorgeous and more dazzling than that of 
 Gothic chronicle and tradition. The stern spir- 
 its of Bernardo, the Cid, and Mudarra have 
 passed away ; the mail-clad forms of Guarinos, 
 Orlando, and Durandarte are not here ; the 
 scene is changed: it is the bridal of Andalla; 
 the bull-fight of Gazul. The sunshine of An- 
 dalusia glances upon the marble halls of Gra- 
 nada, and green are the banks of the Xenil and 
 the Darro. A band of Moorish knights gayly 
 arrayed in gambesons of crimson silk, with 
 scarfs of blue and jewelled tahalies, sweep like 
 the wind through the square of Vivarambla. 
 They ride to the Tournament of Reeds ; the 
 Moorish -maiden leans from the balcony ; bright 
 eyes glisten from many a lattice; and the vic- 
 torious knight receives the prize of valor from 
 the hand of her whose beauty is like the star-lit 
 night . these are the Xarifas, the Celindas, and 
 Lindaraxas, — the Andallas, Gazules, and Aben- 
 zaydes of Moorish song. 
 
 Then comes the sound of the silver clarion, 
 and the roll of the Moorish atabal, down from the 
 snowy; pass of the Sierra Nevada and across the 
 gardens of the Vega. Alhama has fallen ! Woe 
 is me, Alhama ! The Christian is at the gates 
 of Granada; the banner of the cross floats 
 from the towers of the Alhambra ! And these, 
 too, are themes for the minstrel, — themes sung 
 alike by Moor and Spaniard. 
 
 Among the Moorish ballads are included not 
 
 only those which were originally composed in 
 Arabic, but all which relate to the manners, 
 customs, and history of the Moors in Spain. In 
 most of them the influence of an Oriental taste 
 is clearly visible; their spirit is more refined 
 and effeminate than that of the historic and 
 romantic ballads, in which no trace of such an 
 influence is perceptible. The spirit of the Cid 
 is stern, unbending, steel-clad ; his hand grasps 
 his sword Tizona; his heel wounds the flank 
 of his steed Babieca : — 
 
 " La mano aprieta a Tizona, 
 Y el talon fiere a Babieca." 
 But the spirit of Arbolan the Moor, though reso- 
 lute in camps, is effeminate in court; he is a 
 diamond among scymitars, yet graceful in the 
 dance : — 
 
 " Diamante entre los alfanges, 
 Gracioso en baylar las zambras." 
 
 Such are the ancient ballads of Spain ; poems 
 which, like the Gothic cathedrals of the Mid- 
 dle Ages, have outlived the names of their build- 
 ers. They are the handiwork of wandering, 
 homeless minstrels, who for their daily bread 
 thus "built the lofty rhyme"; and whose 
 names, like their dust and ashes, have long, 
 long been wrapped in a shroud. " These poets," 
 says an anonymous writer, "have left behind 
 them no trace to which the imagination can 
 attach itself; they have 'died and made no 
 sign.' We pass from the infancy of Spanish 
 poetry to the age of Charles through a long 
 vista of monuments without inscriptions, as the 
 traveller approaches the noise and bustle of 
 modern Rome through the lines of silent and 
 unknown tombs that border the Appian Way." * 
 
 The fifteenth century was an age of allego- 
 ries, moral sentences, quaint conceits, mytho- 
 logical rhapsodies, and false, pedantic refine- 
 ments in Castilian song. Nearly all the Cas- 
 tilian poetry of this century is contained in the 
 " Cancionero General," a collection published 
 at the commencement of the sixteenth century; 
 containing, besides the poems of many anony- 
 mous writers, those of one hundred and thirty- 
 six authors whose names are given. t 
 
 * Edinburgh Review, Vol. XXXIX., p. 432. 
 
 The following are the best collections of the old Spanish 
 ballads. 
 
 Pedro de Flores. Romancero General. Madrid : 1614. 
 4to. . 
 
 Pepping. Sammlung der besten alten Spanischen His- 
 torischen Ritter-und-Maurischen Romanzen. Altenburg und 
 Leipzig: IS17. 12mo. 
 
 Escobar. Romancero del Cid. Madrid : 1818. 12mo. 
 
 Grimm. Silva de Romances Viejos. Vienna : 1815. 12mo. 
 
 Doran. Romancero de Romances Moriscos. Madrid : 
 1823. 8vo. 
 
 Duran. Romancero de Romances Caballerescos, &c 
 Madrid: 1829. 8vo. 
 
 Ochoa. Tesoro de los Romanceros y Cancioneros Es- 
 panoles. Paris: 1838. 8vo. 
 
 t Cancionero General de muchos y diversos Autores. 
 This work was first published at Valencia, in 1511. The 
 best edition is that of Antwerp, 1573. 
 
 See also Bom, de Faber. Floresta de Rimas Antigua* 
 Castellanas. 3 vols. Hamburg: 1821-25. 8vo. 
 
SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 627 
 
 The most distinguished among these are, the 
 Marques de Santillana, the earliest writer of 
 sonnets in Spanish; Juan de Mena, author of 
 "El Laberinto," an imitation of Dante's "In- 
 ferno " ; Jorge Manrique, author of the cele- 
 brated "Coplas"on the death of his father; 
 and Rodrigo de Cota, the most noted of the 
 early Spanish dramatists. 
 
 Several of the poets of this period wrote in 
 the Lemosin or Catalonian dialect. The most 
 known among these Spanish Troubadours are, 
 in the twelfth century, Alfonso the Second, and 
 his son, Peter the Third; — in the thirteenth, 
 Mossen Jordi de San Jordi, and Mossen Febrer; 
 — in the fourteenth, the Infante Don Pedro, and 
 Juran Martorel ; — and in the fifteenth, the Mar- 
 ques de Villena, Ausias March, and Jaume Roig. 
 To this period belongs the origin of the 
 Spanish drama. About the year 1414, Enrique, 
 Marques de Villena, wrote a comedia alegd- 
 rica, which was performed at the court of Ara- 
 gon, and in which the chief characters were 
 Justice, Truth, Peace, and Clemency. This is 
 the earliest dramatic production of Spain. Sixty 
 years later, between 1470 and 1480, flourished 
 Rodrigo de Cota, the supposed author of the 
 satirical dialogue of " Mingo Revulgo," and 
 "Love and the Old Man," a dialogue in a style 
 which at a later period prevailed in England, as 
 in the " Propre Newe Interlude of the Worlde 
 and the Chylde." The Old Man, having re- 
 nounced pleasure, and betaken himself to soli- 
 tude and meditations becoming his age, is found 
 out in his retreat by Love, who entices him 
 back to the world again, and then upbraids him 
 for his wantonness with such taunts as these : — 
 Old IVTan mournful among old men, 
 Who with love thyself tormentest, 
 See how all thy joints projecting 
 Look like beads of a rosary ! 
 And thy nails so lank and long, 
 And thy feet so full of corns, 
 And thy flesh consumed and wasted, 
 And thy shanks so lean and shrunken, 
 Even as the legs of horses. 
 
 Rodrigo de Cota is also generally looked upon 
 as the author of the first act of the tragi-comedy 
 in prose entitled, " Celestina, or the Tragical 
 Comedy of Calisto and Meliboea," of which 
 the other twentv acts were added by Fernando 
 Rojas. The plot of this singular drama is the 
 seduction of a noble lady " of most serene 
 blood, sublimated in prosperity " ; and the ca- 
 tastrophe, her death by suicide. It was very 
 popular in its day ; and Caspar Barth, a German 
 philologist, who translated it into Latin, calls 
 it "Liber planii divinus." Mayans i Siscar re- 
 marks: "No book has been written in Castil- 
 ian, in which the language is more natural, 
 more appropriate, and more elegant " ; and Cer- 
 vantes says of it, — 
 
 "Celestina, 
 A book that I should deem divine, 
 If it concealed the human more." 
 
 Next in order of time comes Juan de la En- 
 zina, who belongs in part tr this period and in 
 
 part to the following. He is the author of thir- 
 teen dramatic eclogues, which were performed 
 at the courts of various princes on Christmas 
 eve and during Carnival. They are simply 
 dialogues in verse, and display no dramatic art. 
 Each closes with a villancico, of which the fo 1 
 lowing is a fair specimen. 
 
 Let us drive our flock a-field, 
 
 Hurrialla ! 
 Ding, ding, ding, dong, far away ! 
 The folding-time is past and gone, 
 We may no longer jesting lie, 
 For the Seven Goats are out in the sky ; 
 The middle of night is past and gone, 
 And, see ! there Cometh the rosy dawn. 
 
 Hurrialla ! 
 Ding, ding, ding, dong, far away ! 
 
 In these eclogues Spanish shepherds are repre- 
 sented sitting round a fire, playing for chestnuts 
 and figs, talking of village matters, — such as 
 the death of the sacristan, — and swearing by 
 the saints and the evangelists ; when suddenly 
 an angel appears announcing the Saviour's birth, 
 and off they start for Bethlehem, as if it were 
 the next village.* 
 
 II. From 1500 to 1700. At the commence- 
 ment of this period, Juan Boscan de Almogaver, 
 and his friend Garcilai-o de la Vega, surnamed 
 the Prince of Castilian Poets, produced a revo- 
 lution in Spanish poetry, by introducing into it 
 the Italian style and measures. This was not 
 effected without violent opposition. "Those 
 who were sufficiently satisfied with the old ver- 
 sification," says Mr. Wiffen, in his "Essay on 
 Spanish Poetry," t "instantly rose in clamor 
 against the innovation, and treated its favorers 
 as guilty of treason against poetry and their coun- 
 try. At the head of these, Cristoval de Castillejo, 
 in the satires which he wrote against the Petrar- 
 quistas (for so he called them), compared this 
 novelty to that which Luther was then introduc- 
 ing in religion ; and making Boscan and Gar- 
 cilasso appear in the other world before the tri- 
 bunal of Juan de Mena, Jorge Manrique, and 
 other Troubadours of earlier time, he puts into 
 their mouth the judgment and condemnation of 
 the new metres. To this end, he supposes that 
 Boscan repeats a sonnet, and Garcilasso an oc- 
 tave, before their judges, and presently adds : — 
 
 ' Juan de Mena, when he through 
 Had heard the polished stanza new, 
 Looked most amused, and smiled as though 
 He knew this secret long ago ; 
 Then said : " I now have heard rehearse 
 This endecasyllabic verse ; 
 
 * On the history of the Spanish drama, see: — 
 
 Casiano Pellicer. Tratado Histbrico sobre el Origen 
 y Progresos de la Comedia y del Histrionismo en Espana. 
 Madrid: 1304. 12mo. 
 
 Vicente de la Huerta. Theatre Hespanol. 16 vols. 
 Madrid: 1785. 8vo. 
 
 Eohl de Faber. Teatro Espanol anterior a Lope de 
 Vega. Hamburgo: 1S32. 8vo. 
 
 Moratin. Origenes del Teatro Espanol. In the first 
 volume of his works. 4 vols. Madrid : 1S30. 8vo. 
 
 t Works of Garcilasso de la Vega. Translated into Eng- 
 lish Verse, by J. H. Wiffen. London : 1823. 8vo. 
 
628 
 
 SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 Yet can I see no reason why 
 
 It should be called a novelty, 
 
 When I, long laid upon the shelf, 
 
 Oft used the very same myself." 
 ' Don Jorge said: " I do not see 
 
 The most remote necessity 
 
 To dress up what we wish to say 
 
 In such a roundabout fine way ; 
 
 Our language, every body knows, 
 
 Loves a clear brevity ; but those 
 
 Strange stanzas show, in its despite, 
 
 Prolixity obscure as night." 
 
 ' Cartagena then raised his head 
 
 From laughing inwardly, and said: 
 
 " As practical for sweet amours, 
 
 These self-opinioned Troubadours, 
 
 With force of their new-fangled flame, 
 
 AVill not, it strikes me, gain the game. 
 
 Wondrously pitiful this measure 
 
 Is in my eyes, a foe to pleasure, 
 
 Dull to repeat as Luther's creed, 
 
 But most insufferable to read ! " '" 
 But opposition was of little avail. The Prince 
 of Castilian Poets remained master of the field; 
 and thus was ushered in the Siglo de Oro, the 
 Golden Age of Spanish Song. 
 
 To this period belong the illustrious names of 
 Gaspar Gil Polo, and Jorge Montemavor, the 
 writers of the delicious pastoral of the " Diana "; 
 Fernando de Herrera, surnamed the Divine; 
 Fray Luis de Leon, the meek enthusiast, 
 breathing his sublime and sacred odes from the 
 cloister and the prison ; Alonso de Ercilla, the 
 greatest of the'Spanish epic poets ; Cervantes, 
 whose name is its own best interpreter; Luis 
 de Gongora, the founder of the Cultoristas and 
 Conceptistas ; Lope de Vega, called by his con- 
 temporaries the Monster ; and the Argensolas, 
 and Quevedo, and Villegas, and Calderon de la 
 Barca. With the splendor of such names this 
 period begins and advances, till its light gradu- 
 ally fades away into the twilight of the poetic 
 Sclvas, — those dim and unexplored forests of 
 song, through which vast rivers of rhymed 
 prose flow onward in majestic progress toward 
 the sea of oblivion. 
 
 During this period, the Spanish drama made 
 rapid advances, and finally rose to its greatest 
 perfection. Juan de la Enzina was succeeded 
 by Gil Vicente, who, though a Portuguese, wrote 
 many of his pieces in Spanish. His autos are 
 sacred eclogues of the same general charac- 
 ter as Enzina's, but written in a more lively, 
 flowing style, and with more melodious rhymes. 
 They are full, however, of the same anachro- 
 nisms. Before Christ's birth, the shepherds 
 speak of friars, hermits, breviaries, calendars, 
 and papal bulls, and cross themselves as they 
 lie down to sleep. In one of his pieces, " Auto 
 Pastoral del Nacimiento," as the shepherds are 
 sleeping, the angels sing. Gil wakes and tells 
 Bras he hears the music of angels. Bras sug- 
 gests it may be crickets. Gil says no ; and 
 sends the other shepherds to the village to get 
 presents for the child, enumerating " the pipe 
 of Juan Javato, the guitar of little Paul, all the 
 flageolets in town, and a whistle for the baby.' 
 Contemporary with Gil Vicente flourished 
 
 Bartolome de Torres Naharro, author of eight 
 comedies. He made more attempts at plot and 
 intrigue than his predecessors, but shows little 
 skill in their management. He has neither 
 richness of style, nor dramatic power of any 
 kind ; he is rude and commonplace ; and yet 
 can claim the honor of being the first to bring 
 upon the stage, in its simplest form, the co- 
 media de capa y espada, — the comedy of cloak 
 and sword, as the Spanish love-comedies are 
 called. His plays have all an intrdito or pro- 
 logue, and an argumento, in which the story 
 is told. 
 
 We come at length to Lope de Rueda, a 
 comic writer worthy the name. The dates of 
 his birth and death are unknown. He flourish- 
 ed, however, between 1544 and 1560. He 
 was a gold-beater by trade, but, like Moliere, 
 feeling too strong an inclination for the stage to 
 follow any other course of life, he formed a 
 strolling company, and wrote and performed 
 his own plays. In this way he passed through 
 all the chief cities of Spain, and was received 
 in all with great applause. He died in Cordo- 
 va, and was buried in the principal nave of the 
 cathedral, between the two choirs. Such an 
 honor, paid to a comedian, shows in what 
 estimation he was held. A century later, in 
 France, the dying Moliere could not find a 
 priest to confess him ! 
 
 Lope de Rueda left behind him four come- 
 dies, ten pasos, and two coloquios in prose. 
 He wrote also coloquios in verse, which were 
 esteemed his best productions. Only one of 
 these has remained, as if to give the lie to this 
 opinion.* His comedies are, " Come.dia Eufe- 
 mia," " Comedia Armelina," "Comedia de los 
 Enganos," and " Comedia de Medora." The 
 best of these, beyond comparison, is " Eufemia" ; 
 in which the style often rises into the region of 
 genteel comedy. The others are properly farces. 
 The best of the pasos is the "Aceitunas"; in 
 which a dispute rises between a peasant and his 
 wife, as to the price at which they shall sell 
 the fruit of some olive-trees which are not yet 
 planted ! 
 
 The charm of RuedaV pieces consists in 
 their flowing, natural dialogue; their merry-go- 
 mad humor; their quirks and quibbles; their 
 Dogberry mispronunciations ; and the waggish 
 turns, which constantly call up the low scenes 
 of Shakspeare and Moliere. The secret of 
 Rueda's success is, that he was himself an actor, 
 and one of the people. He walks like one 
 who is sure of himself. He knows the town, 
 and the street you are in ; and leads you on, 
 whistling, and laughing, and cracking his joke 
 on every clown, and kissing his hand to every 
 chambermaid. 
 
 His characters are mostly from low life. 
 Clowns and servants figure largely He was 
 the first to introduce on the stage the baladron 
 or matasiete, the boastful, bullying coward ; 
 
 * Prendas de Amor. See Moratin, I., 630. 
 
SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 629 
 
 the personage so well painted by Pierce Penni- 
 less in his " Supplication to the Devil." "Thus 
 walkes hee up and downe in his majestie, tak- 
 ing a yard of ground at every step, and stampes 
 on the earthe so terrible, as if he ment to 
 knocke up a spirite, when (foule drunken bez- 
 zle), if an Englishman set his little finger to 
 him, he falls like a hog's trough that is set on 
 one end " ; — a passage, which not only describes 
 the braggadocio spirit, but illustrates it. The 
 character of Villejo, in the " Eufemia," is in 
 this vein, and is well executed. Siguenza, in 
 the " Rufian Cobarde," is another instance. 
 
 A portrait of Rueda remains; a dark, fine 
 countenance, with large eyes, and a beard. His 
 dress is a round hat, and a jerkin, like a mule- 
 teer's. In 1558, this man was performing in Ma- 
 drid. Among the audience was a schoolboy of 
 eleven years, named Miguel de Cervantes, who 
 has left a description of the scene, and speaks 
 of the chief actor as " the great Lope de Rue- 
 da." He says : — 
 
 " In the times of this celebrated Spaniard 
 [Lope de Rueda], the whole apparatus of a co- 
 median was carried in a bag ; and consisted of 
 four white sheep-skin jackets ornamented with 
 gilt morocco, four beards and wigs, and four 
 shepherd's crooks, more or less. The comedies 
 were mere colloquies, in the form of eclogues, 
 between two or three shepherds and some 
 shepherdess or other. These they garnished 
 and eked out with two or three interludes, now 
 of a negress, now of a pander, or a simpleton, or 
 a Biscayan ; — for all these four parts, and many 
 more, this same Lope performed most excel- 
 lently well, and the most true to nature one 
 can possibly. imagine. At that time there was 
 no scenery; no combats of Moors and Chris- 
 tians, either on foot or on horseback. There 
 was no figure which came out, or seemed to 
 come out, from the centre of the earth, through 
 a trap-door in the stage, — which was composed 
 of four benches in a hollow square, with four 
 or six boards placed upon them, so that it was 
 raised up four palms from the floor; nor did 
 there descend from heaven any clouds with 
 angels or ghosts. The decoration of the stage 
 was an old blanket drawn across the room by 
 two cords, forming what is called the vestuario 
 (dressing-room) ; and behind this blanket were 
 the musicians singing, without guitar, some an- 
 cient ballad." * 
 
 Early in his literary career, Cervantes became 
 a dramatic writer. Speaking of his own plays, 
 he remarks : " I composed, at this time," — about 
 the age of forty, — "as many as twenty or thir- 
 ty comedies ; all of which were represented 
 without being saluted with cucumbers or any 
 other missile ; they ran their race without 
 hisses, cat-calls, or uproar." He goes on to 
 say : " I then found other matters to occupy me, 
 and laid the drama and the pen aside ; and then 
 entered that Miracle of Nature, the great Lope 
 
 * Prologo de las Comedias. 
 
 de Vega." In the latter part of his life, Cer- 
 vantes again turned his attention to the drama, 
 but found no theatrical manager to purchase his 
 plays ; so he "locked them up in a chest, and 
 consecrated and condemned them to perpetual si- 
 lence." They were, however, published in 1615, 
 the year before his death. The most celebrated 
 of these plays is the tragedy of " Numancia." Its 
 subject is the siege of that city by Scipio. The 
 inhabitants will not yield. They choose rather 
 to die by each other's hands, or to perish by 
 hunger. In the \astjornadas, the various scenes 
 in the city of famine are described with much 
 power. A great fire is kindled in the centre of 
 the city, and the inhabitants throw into it all 
 their jewels and valuable furniture. The wo- 
 men and children are put to the sword. Friend 
 fights with friend, and men throw themselves 
 into the flames, till the city becomes a city of 
 the dead. When, at length, Scipio enters, the 
 only living being found within the walls is a 
 boy, who has ascended to the summit of a tow- 
 er, from which he precipitates himself, rather 
 than be taken prisoner. This closing»scene is 
 fine. Indeed, the whole play is dignified and 
 elevated in its character, and full of situations 
 of power and pathos. 
 
 In the course of the piece, some allegorical 
 characters are introduced. For example, " En- 
 ter a damsel crowned with towers, and bearing 
 a castle in her hand, who represents Spain." 
 And again, "Enter the River Duero, and other 
 boys (otros muchachos), dressed as rivers, like 
 him, which represent three brooks that empty 
 into the Duero." In like manner War, Dis- 
 ease, and Famine are introduced, in appropriate 
 costume. Likewise a dead body is conjured 
 from the grave, and speaks. Some of the stage- 
 directions are curious; as, for example, " Here 
 let a noise be made under the stage with a 
 barrel full of stones, and have a rocket let off." 
 
 In addition to these distinguished names, 
 some thirty more of less note swell the list of 
 dramatists of the sixteenth century. There 
 was, moreover, a host of anonymous writers for 
 the stage ; and the two schools of Classic and 
 Romantic arose; the former imitating the an 
 cients, the latter remaining national and popu 
 lar. 
 
 The seventeenth century was the great dra- 
 matic age in Spain, as in France and England.* 
 In the year 1632, there were in the single 
 
 * Taking the middle of this century (1650) as a central 
 point, a circle described with a radius of fifty years embra- 
 ces or intersects the lives of all the greatest dramatists of 
 England, France, and Spain. In England, Shakspeare, 
 Beaumont, Fletcher, Heywood, Ben Jonson, Massinger, 
 Otway, Dryden, &c. In France, Corneille, Racine, and 
 Moliere. In Spain, Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Calderon, 
 Solis, Moreto, Guillen de Castro, Francisco de Rojas, &c. 
 Beaumont, Shakspeare, and Cervantes died in the same 
 year; and, it has been said, Shakspeare and Cervantes on 
 the same day, April 23d, which was Shakspeare's birth- 
 day ; but the difference of the Spanish and English calen- 
 dars — the New Style and the Old — makes the day really 
 different, though nominally the same. 
 3a* 
 
630 
 
 SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 province of Castile seventy-six writers for the 
 stage.* Among them Lope de Vega and Cal- 
 deron stand preeminent. Lope was the most 
 rapid and voluminous of writers. In the pro- 
 logue to the "Pelegrino," written in the year 
 1604, he gives a list of three hundred and forty- 
 three plays, of which he was the author ; and 
 five years afterwards, in his " Arte de hacer 
 Comedias," he claims the authorship of four 
 hundred and eighty-three : — 
 
 "None than myself more barbarous or more wrong, 
 Who, hurried by the vulgar taste along, 
 Dare give my precepts in despite of rule ; 
 Whence France and Italy pronounce me fool. 
 But what am I to do, — who now of plays, 
 "With one complete within these seven days, 
 Four hundred eighty-three in all have writ, 
 And all, save six, against the rules of wit?"t 
 
 In the " Eclogue to Claudio," written later 
 in life, he says : — 
 
 "The number of my fables told 
 
 Would seem the greatest of them all; 
 For, strange, of dramas you behold 
 Full fifteen hundred mine I call ; 
 And full a hundred times, within a day 
 Passed from my Muse upon the stage a play. 
 
 "Then spare, indulgent Claudio, spare 
 The list of all my barbarous plays ; 
 For this with truth I can declare, — 
 And though 't is truth, it is not praise, — 
 The printed part, though far too large, is less 
 Than that which yet unprinted waits the press."! 
 
 Montalvan, one of Lope's warmest eulogists, 
 says that he wrote eighteen hundred comedies, 
 and four hundred autos, or religious plays ; but 
 Lope's own account is probably more correct. 
 Less than six hundred now remain. 
 
 The life of no poet was ever so filled with 
 fame as that of Lope. He was familiarly spok- 
 en of as "The Miracle of Nature." Crowds 
 gazed at him in the street ; children followed 
 with shouts of delight ; every thing that was 
 fair assumed his name; — a bright day was 
 called a Lope day; a rare diamond, a Lope dia- 
 mond ; a beautiful woman, a Lope woman. And 
 yet he complained of neglect, and his querulous 
 lamentations mingled with the last sighs of Cer- 
 vantes, who, in the same street, dying in patient 
 poverty, exclaimed: "My life is drawing to a 
 close ; and I find, by the daily journal of my 
 pulse, that it will have finished its course by 
 next Sunday at furthest ; and I also shall then 
 have finished my career." 
 
 Calderon is far less voluminous than Lope; 
 and yet he wrote more than a hundred come- 
 dies, and nearly as many farces and autos sa- 
 cramentalcs. Of these two hundred and fifty- 
 four have been preserved. As a dramatist, 
 
 * On this period of the Spanish drama, see articles iu 
 the "Quarterly Review," Vol. XXV., and the "American 
 Quarterly Review," Vol. IV. 
 
 t Some Account of the Lives and Writings of Lope Felix 
 de Vega Carpio and Guillen de Castro. By Henrv Rich- 
 ard Lord Holland. (2 vols. London: 1317. Svo.) Vol. 
 I., p. 103. 
 
 t Ibid., pp. 104, 105. 
 
 Calderon has less force than Lope, and less 
 simplicity and directness, but his imagination 
 is more luxuriant, his style more poetical, and 
 his dramas are wrought out with greater care. 
 In the former, marks of inconsiderate haste are 
 everywhere visible ; in the latter, excessive 
 carefulness and elaborate pomp of diction pre- 
 vail. The German critics place Calderon at 
 the head of the Spanish dramatists. Schlegel * 
 thus contrasts him with Lope de Vega and 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 "The stage is entirely a creature of art, and 
 even although hasty and inaccurate writing may 
 be tolerated in plays, unless their plan be clear- 
 ly laid, and their purpose profoundly considered, 
 they want the very essence of dramatic pieces; 
 unless they be so composed, they may, indeed, 
 amuse us with a view of the fleeting and sur- 
 face part of life, and of the perplexities and 
 passions, but they can have none of that deep 
 sense and import, without which the concerns 
 of life, whether real or imitated, are not wor- 
 thy of our study. These lower excellencies of 
 the dramatic art are possessed in great abun- 
 dance by Lope de Vega, and many others of the 
 ordinary Spanish dramatists; the plays of these 
 men display great brilliancy of poetry and im- 
 agination ; but when we compare them with 
 the profounder pieces of the same or of some 
 other stages, we perceive at once that their 
 beauties are only of a secondary class, and that 
 they afford no real gratification to the higher 
 
 parts of our intellect If we would form a 
 
 proper opinion of the Spanish drama, we must 
 study it only in its perfection, in Calderon, — 
 the last and greatest of all the Spanish poets. 
 
 " Before his time, affectation, on the one 
 hand, and utter carelessness, on the other, were 
 predominant in the Spanish poetry; what is sin- 
 gular enough, these apparently opposite faults 
 were often to be found in the same piece. The 
 evil example of Lope de Vega was not confined 
 to the department of the stage. Elevated by 
 his theatrical success, like many other fluent 
 poets, he had the vanity to suppose that he 
 might easily shine in many other species of 
 writing, for which he possessed, in truth, no 
 sort of genius. Not contented with being con- 
 sidered as the first dramatist of his country, 
 nothing less would serve him but to compete, 
 with Cervantes in romance, and with Tasso 
 and Ariosto in the chivalric epic. The influ- 
 ence of his careless and corrupt mode of com- 
 position was thus extended beyond the theatre ; 
 while the faults from which he was most free, 
 those of excessive artifice and affectation in 
 language and expression, were carried to the 
 highest pitch by Gongora and Quevedo. Cal- 
 deron survived this age of poetical corruptions - 
 nay, he was born in it; and he had first to frei 
 the poetry of his country from the chaos, before 
 
 * Lectures on the History of Literature, Ancient and 
 Modern. From the German of Frederick Schlegel. 
 (Xew York: 1844. 12mo.) pp. 276-234. 
 
SPANISH LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 631 
 
 he could ennoble it anew, beautify and purify 
 it by the flames of love, and conduct it at last 
 to the utmost limit of its perfection. 
 
 "The chief fault of Calderon — for even he 
 is not without them — is, that he, in other re- 
 spects the best of all romantic dramatists, car- 
 ries us too quickly to the great dinouement of 
 which I have spoken above ; for the effect 
 which this produces on us would have been 
 very much increased by our being kept longer 
 in doubt, had he more frequently characterized 
 the riddle of human life with the profundity of 
 Sbakspeare, — had he been less sparing in af- 
 fording us, at the commencement, glimpses of 
 that light which should be preserved and concen- 
 trated upon the conclusion of the drama. Sbak- 
 speare has exactly the opposite fault, of too often 
 placing before our eyes, in all its mystery and 
 perplexity, the riddle of life, like a skeptical poet, 
 without giving us any hint of the solution. Even 
 when he does bring his drama to a last and a prop- 
 er dinouement, it is much more frequently to one 
 of utter destruction, after the manner of the old 
 tragedians, or at least to one of an intermediate 
 and half-satisfactory nature, than to that ter- 
 mination of perfect purification which is pre- 
 dominant in Calderon. In the deepest recesses 
 of his feeling and thought, it has always struck 
 me that Sbakspeare is far more an ancient — I 
 mean an ancient, not of the Greek, but of the 
 Northern or Scandinavian cast — than a Chris- 
 tian." 
 
 Other distinguished dramatists of the seven- 
 teenth century are, Guillen de Castro, author of 
 the "Mocedades del Cid," from which Cor- 
 neille took the design of his tragedy; — Mira 
 de Mescna, author of the " Palacio Confuso," 
 on which Corneille founded his "Don Sanche 
 d'Arragon " ; — Tirso de Molina, author of " Don 
 Gil de las Calzas Verdes," and the "Burlador 
 do Sevilla," the progenitor of all the Don Juans, 
 from Moliere's downward; — Augustin Moreto, 
 author of "El Desden con el Desden," from 
 which the French comedian borrowed the hint 
 of his "Princesse d'Elide " ; — Antonio de So- 
 lis, author of " El Amor al Uso," from which 
 came Thomas Corneille's " L'Amour a la 
 Mode"; — and Francisco de Rojas, author of 
 " Donde hay Agravios no hay Zelos," from 
 which Scarron took his "Jodelet," and of the 
 beautiful drama, "Del Rey abajo Ninguno," 
 which would do honor to the genius of Lope 
 or Calderon. The Spanish drama has been a 
 rich quarry for the poets of other nations ; and 
 many stately palaces of song havu been built 
 with its solid materials, as Saint Mark's and 
 other Roman palaces with the massive stones 
 of the Coliseum. 
 
 III. From 1700 to the present time. At the 
 commencement of this period, Ignacio de Luzan 
 attempted to purify the literature of his country 
 from the affectations of Gongora and his fol- 
 lowers by introducing the French school. In 
 order to effect this reformation in public taste, 
 
 he wrote his "Poetica," or Art of Poetry, a 
 work in four books, in which he treats succes- 
 sively of the origin and progress of poetry, its 
 usefulness and delights, the drama, and the 
 epic. This work immediately took its place in 
 Spanish literature as the irrefragable code of 
 taste and the last appeal of critics, a position 
 which it held for nearly a whole century. At 
 the present day, the national romantic taste be- 
 gins again to prevail. 
 
 Among the most distinguished names of this 
 period are Ignacio de Luzan, Jose de Cadalso, 
 Toinas de Yriarte, Juan Melendez Valdes, Gas- 
 par Melchior de Jovellanos, Nicasio de Cien- 
 fuegos, Manuel Jose Quintana, Leandro Fer- 
 nandez de Moratin, Juan Bautista de Arriaza, 
 Francisco Martinez de la Rosa, Angel de Saa- 
 vedra, Manuel Breton de los Herreros, and 
 Jose Zorilla. Of the greater part of these more 
 particular notices will be given hereafter, in 
 connection with extracts from their writings. 
 Breton de los Herreros is the most popular of 
 the living dramatists of Spain ; and the increas- 
 ing fame of Zorilla as a political lyric poet, as 
 well as a dramatist, has already reached these 
 distant shores. 
 
 For a farther history of Spanish poetry the 
 reader is referred to the following works : — 
 " History of Spanish Literature," by George 
 Ticknor, in three volumes, New York, 1849, 
 8vo. ; — " History of Spanish and Portuguese 
 Literature," by Frederick Boutcrwek ; translat- 
 ed from the German by Thomasina Ross, in 
 two volumes, London, 1823, octavo; — "His- 
 torical View of the Literature of the South 
 of Europe," by J. C. L Simonde de Sismondi ; 
 translated by Thomas Roscoe, in four volumes, 
 Lr.ndon, 1823, octavo ; lepuhlished in New York, 
 1827, in two volumes, octavo: — " Coleccion de 
 Poesias Castellanas anteriores al Siglo XV.," 
 by Tomas Antonio Sanchez, 4 vols., Madrid, 
 1779, 8vo. ; — "Espagne Poetique : Cboix de 
 Poesies Castillanes depuis Charles Quint jusqu' 
 a nos jours," by Juan Maria Maury, 2 vols., Par- 
 is, 1826, 8vo. ; — "Floresta de Rimas Antiguas 
 Castellanas," bv Juan Nicolas Bobl de Faber, 
 3 vols., Hamburg, 1821 - 25, 8vo. ; — " Floresta 
 de Rimas Modernas Castellanas," by Fernando 
 Jose Wolf, 2 vols., Paris, 1837, 8vo.; — "Bib- 
 lioteca Selecta de Literatura Espanola,"4 vols., 
 Bordeaux, 1819, 8vo. ; — " Origenes de la Poe- 
 sia Castellana," by Luis Jose Velasquez, Mala- 
 ga, 1754. — See also " Bibliotheca Hispana Ve- 
 tus," by N. Antonio, 2 vols., Madrid, 1787, fol. ; 
 — "Bibliotheca Hispana Nova," by the same, 
 2 vols., Madrid, 1783, fol. ; — " Biblioteca An- 
 tigua de los Escritores Aragoneses," by Don 
 Felix de Latassa y Ortin, 2 vols., Zaragoza, 
 1796, 4to. ; — " Biblioteca Nueva de los Escri 
 tores Aragoneses," by the same, 5 vols., Pam- 
 plona, 1798-1801, 4to.; —and "Escritores del 
 Reyno de Valencia," by Vicente Ximeno, 2 
 vols., Valencia, 1747-49, fol. 
 
FIRST PERIOD.-FROM 1150 TO 1500. 
 
 FROM THE POEMA DEL CID. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 After various successes of inferior impor- 
 tance, tiie Cid undertakes and achieves the con- 
 quest of the city and kingdom of Valencia, 
 where he establishes himself in a species of 
 sovereign authority. In the mean time he ob- 
 tains the favor of the king; this favor, however, 
 is accompanied by a request on the part of the 
 king that the Cid should bestow his two daugh- 
 ters in marriage upon the Infants of Carrion, 
 whose family were his old adversaries. The 
 Cid, in reply, consents to place his daughters 
 " at the disposition of the king." The wedding 
 is celebrated at Valencia with the greatest possi- 
 ble splendor, and the two young counts remain 
 at Valencia with their father-in-law. Their situ- 
 ation, however, is an invidious one. Some occa- 
 sions arise in which their courage appears doubt- 
 ful, and the prudence and authority of the Cid 
 are found insufficient to suppress the contemp- 
 tuous mirth of his military court. Accordingly, 
 they enter into the resolution of leaving Valen- 
 cia; but, determining at the same time to execute 
 a project of the basest and most unmanly re- 
 venge, they request of the Cid to be allowed to 
 take their brides with them upon a journey to 
 Carrion, under pretence of making them ac- 
 quainted with the property which had been set- 
 tled upon them at their marriage. The Cid is 
 aware that their situation is an uneasy one ; he 
 readily consents, takes leave of them with great 
 cordiality, loads them with presents, and at 
 their departure bestows upon them the two cel- 
 ebrated swords, Colada and Tison. The Infants 
 pursue their journey till they arrive in a wilder- 
 ness, where they dismiss their followers, and, 
 being left alone with their brides, proceed to 
 execute their scheme of vengeance, by stripping 
 them and "mangling them with spurs and 
 thongs," till they leave them without signs of 
 life ; in this state they are found by a relation 
 of the Cid's, Felez Munoz, who, suspecting 
 some evil design, had followed them at a dis- 
 tance. They are brought back to Valencia. The 
 Cid demands justice. The king assembles the 
 cortes upon the occasion. The Cid, being called 
 upon to state his grievances, confines himself to 
 the claim of the two swords which he had 
 given to his sons-in-law, and which he now 
 demands back, since they have forfeited that 
 character. The swords are restored without 
 hesitation, and the Cid immediately bestows 
 th ,m upon two of his champions. He then 
 rses again, and, upon the same plea, requires 
 
 the restitution of the gifts and treasures with 
 which he had honored his sons-in-law at part- 
 ing. This claim is resisted by his opponents ; 
 the cortes, however, decide in favor of the Cid; 
 and, as the Infants plead their immediate ina- 
 bility, it is determined that the property which 
 they have with them shall be taken at an ap- 
 praisement. This is accordingly done. The 
 Cid then rises a third time, and demands satis- 
 faction for the insult which his daughters had 
 suffered. An altercation arises, in the course of 
 which the Infants of Carrion and one of their 
 partisans are challenged by three champions on 
 the part of the Cid. 
 
 THE CID AND THE INFANTES DE CARRION. 
 
 Within a little space, 
 There was many a noble courser brought into 
 
 the place, 
 Many a lusty mule with palfreys stout and sure, 
 And many a goodly sword with all its furniture : 
 The Cid received them all at an appraisement 
 
 made, 
 Besides two hundred marks that to the king 
 
 were paid. 
 The Infants give up all they have, their goods 
 
 are at an end ; 
 They go about in haste to their kindred and 
 
 their friend ; 
 They borrow as they can, but all will scarce 
 
 suffice ; 
 The attendants of the Cid take each thing at a 
 
 price : 
 But as soon as this was ended, he began a new 
 
 device. 
 " Justice and mercy, my Lord the King, I be- 
 seech you of your grace,! 
 I have yet a grievance left behind, which noth- 
 ing can efface. 
 Let all men present in the court attend and 
 
 judge the case, 
 Listen to what these counts have done, and pity 
 
 my disgrace. 
 Dishonored as I am, I cannot be so base, 
 But here, before I leave them, to defy them to 
 
 their face. 
 Say, Infants, how had I deserved, in earnest or 
 
 in jest, 
 Or on whatever plea you can defend it best, 
 That you should rend and tear the heart-strings 
 
 from my breast ? 
 I gave you at Valencia my daughters in your 
 
 hand, 
 I gave you wealth and honors, and treasure at 
 
 command ; 
 
POEMA DEL CID. 
 
 633 
 
 Had you been weary of them, to cover your 
 
 neglect, 
 You might have left them with me, in honor 
 
 and respect. 
 Why did you take them from me, dogs and 
 
 traitors as you were ? 
 In the forest of Corpes, why did you strip them 
 
 there ? 
 Why did you mangle them with whips? why 
 
 did you leave them bare 
 To the vultures and the wolves, and to the 
 
 wintry air ? 
 The court will hear your answer, and judge 
 
 what you have done : 
 I say, your name and honor henceforth is lost 
 
 and gone." 
 The Count Don Garcia was the first to rise : 
 " We crave your favor, my Lord the King, you 
 
 are always just and wise. 
 The Cid is come to your court in such an un- 
 couth guise, 
 He has left his beard to grow and tied it in a 
 
 braid, 
 We are half of us astonished, the other half 
 
 afraid. 
 The blood of the counts of Carrion is of too 
 
 high a line 
 To take a daughter from his house, though it 
 
 were for a concubine : 
 A concubine or a leman from the lineage of the 
 
 Cid. 
 They could have done no other than leave them 
 
 as they did. 
 We neither care for what he says nor fear what 
 
 he may threat." 
 With that the noble Cid rose up from his seat : 
 He took his beard in his hand: "If this beard 
 
 is fair and even, 
 I must thank the Lord above, who made both 
 
 earth and heaven. 
 It has been cherished with respect, and there- 
 fore it has thriven ; 
 It never suffered an affront since the day it first 
 
 was worn : 
 What business, Count, have you to speak of it 
 
 with scorn ? 
 It never yet was shaken, nor plucked away, nor 
 
 torn, 
 By Christian nor by Moor, nor by man of 
 
 woman born, 
 As yours was once, Sir Count, -the day Cabra 
 
 was taken : 
 When I was master of Cabra, that beard of yours 
 
 was shaken ; 
 There was never a footboy in my camp but 
 
 twitched away a bit; 
 The side that I tore off grows all uneven yet." 
 Ferrari Gonzalez started upon the floor; 
 He cried with a loud voice : " Cid, let us hear 
 
 no more. 
 Your claim for goods and money was satisfied 
 
 before. 
 Let not a feud arise betwixt our friends and you. 
 We are the counts of Carrion : from them our 
 
 birth we drew. 
 80 
 
 Daughters of emperors or kings were a match 
 
 for our degree : 
 We hold ourselves too good for a baron's like 
 
 to thee. 
 If we abandoned, as you say, and left and gave 
 
 them o'er, 
 We vouch that we did right, and prize our- 
 selves the more." 
 The Cid looked at Bermuez, that was sitting at 
 
 his foot : 
 " Speak thou, Peter the Dumb ! what ails th^e 
 
 to sit mute ? 
 My daughters and thy nieces are the parties in 
 
 dispute : 
 Stand forth and make reply, if you would do 
 
 them right. 
 If I should rise to speak, you cannot hope to 
 
 fight." 
 Peter Bermuez rose ; somewhat he had to say : 
 The words were strangled in his throat, they 
 
 could not find their way ; 
 Till forth they came at once, without a stop 01 
 
 stay : 
 " Cid, I '11 tell you what, this always is your way ; 
 You have always served me thus : whenevei 
 
 we have come 
 To meet here in the cortes, you call me Peter 
 
 the Dumb. 
 I cannot help my nature: I never talk nor rail; 
 But when a thing is to be done, you know I 
 
 never fail. 
 Fernando, you have lied, you have lied in every 
 
 word : 
 You have been honored by the Cid, and favored 
 
 and preferred. 
 I know of all your tricks, and can tell them to 
 
 your face : 
 Do you remember in Valencia the skirmish ai.d 
 
 the chase? 
 You asked leave of the Cid to make the first 
 
 attack : 
 You went to meet a Moor, but you soon came 
 
 running back. 
 I met the Moor and killed him, or he would 
 
 have killed you ; 
 I gave you up his arms, and all that was my due. 
 Up to this very hour, I never said a word : 
 You praised yourself before the Cid, and I stood 
 
 by and heard 
 How you had killed the Moor, and done a val- 
 iant act ; 
 And they believed you all, but they never knew 
 
 the fact. 
 You are tall enough and handsome, but cow- 
 ardly and weak. 
 Thou tongue without a hand, how can you dare 
 
 to speak ? 
 There 's the story of the lion should never be 
 
 forgot : 
 Now let us hear, Fernando, what answer have 
 
 you got ? 
 The Cid was sleeping in his chair, with all his 
 
 knights around ; 
 The cry went forth along the hall, that thf> 
 
 lion was unbound. 
 
634 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 What did you do, Fernando ? like a coward as 
 
 you were, 
 You slunk behind the Cid, and crouched be- 
 neath his chair. 
 We pressed around the throne, to shield our 
 
 lord from harm, 
 Till the good Cid awoke: he rose without 
 
 alarm ; 
 He went to meet the lion, with his mantle on 
 
 his arm : 
 The lion was abashed the noble Cid to meet ; 
 He bowed his mane to the earth, his muzzle at 
 
 his feet. 
 The Cid by the neck and mane drew him to 
 
 his den, 
 lie thrust him in at the hatch, and came to the 
 
 hall again : 
 He found his knights, his vassals, and all his 
 
 valiant men ; 
 He asked for his sons-in-law; they were neither 
 
 of them there. 
 I defy you for a coward and a traitor as you are. 
 For the daughters of the Cid, you have done 
 
 them great unright : 
 In the wrong that they have suffered, you stand 
 
 dishonored quite. 
 Although they are but women, and each of you 
 
 a knight, 
 I hold them worthier far; and here my word I 
 
 plight, 
 Before the King Alfonso, upon this plea to fight: 
 If it ' e God his will, before the battle part, 
 Thr-i shalt avow it with thy mouth, like a trai- 
 tor as thou art." 
 Uprose Diego Gonzalez and answered as he 
 
 stood : 
 " By our lineage we are counts, and of the 
 
 purest blood ; 
 This match was too unequal, it never could 
 
 hold good. 
 For the daughters of the Cid we acknowledge 
 
 no regret ; 
 We leave them to lament the chastisement they 
 
 met; 
 It will follow them through life for a scandal 
 
 and a jest : 
 I stand upon this plea to combat with the best, 
 That, having left them as we did, our honor is 
 
 increased." 
 Uprose Martin Antolinez, when Diego ceased: 
 "Peace, thou lying mouth ! thou traitor coward, 
 
 peace ! 
 The story of the lion should have taught you 
 
 shame, at least : 
 You rushed out at the door, and ran away so 
 
 hard, 
 You fell into the cispool that was open in the 
 
 yard. 
 We dragged you forth, in all men's sight, drip- 
 ping from the drain : 
 For shame, never wear a mantle nor a knight- 
 ly robe again ! 
 I fight upon this plea without more ado : 
 The daughters of the Cid are worthier far than 
 
 you. 
 
 Before the combat part, you shall avow it true, 
 
 And that you have been a traitor, and a coward 
 too." 
 
 Thus was ended the parley and challenge be- 
 twixt these two. 
 
 Asur Gonzalez was entering at the door, 
 
 With his ermine mantle trailing along the floor, 
 
 With his sauntering pace and his hard}' look. 
 
 Of manners or of courtesy little heed he" took. 
 
 He was flushed and hot with breakfast and with 
 drink. 
 
 " What ho, my masters ! your spirits seem to 
 sink ! 
 
 Have we no news stirring from the Cid Ruj 
 Diaz of Bivar ? 
 
 Has he been to Riodovirna to besiege the wind- 
 mills there ? 
 
 Does he tax the millers for their toll, or is that 
 practice past ? 
 
 Will he make a match for his daughters, another 
 like the last ? " 
 
 Muno Gustioz rose and made reply : 
 
 "Traitor ! wilt thou never cease to slander and 
 to lie? 
 
 You breakfast before mass, you drink before 
 you pray ; 
 
 There is no honor in your heart, nor truth in 
 what you say ; 
 
 You cheat your comrade and your lord, you 
 flatter to betray : 
 
 Your hatred I despise, your friendship I defy. 
 
 False to all mankind, and most to God on high, 
 
 I shall force you to confess that what I say is 
 true." 
 
 Thus was ended the parley and challenge be- 
 twixt these two. 
 
 ALFONSO THE SECOND, KING OF 
 ARAGON. 
 
 This king flourished in the latter half of the 
 twelfth century. He succeeded to the crown in 
 1162. His court was frequented by the Trou- 
 badours, who were attracted by his liberality 
 and love of poetry. He died in 1196. Of his 
 poetical compositions one piece only has been 
 preserved. He wrote in the Lemosin dialect. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Many the joys my heart has seen, 
 
 From varied sources flowing, — 
 From gardens gay and meadows green, 
 
 From leaves and flowerets blowing, 
 
 And spring her freshening hours bestowing 
 All these delight the bard: but here 
 Their power to sadden or to cheer 
 In this my song will not appear, 
 
 Where naught but love is glowing. 
 
 And though I would not dare despise 
 
 The smiling flowers, the herbage springing 
 
 The beauteous spring's unclouded skies, 
 And all the birds' sweet singing: 
 
ALFONSO II. — BERCEO. 
 
 635 
 
 Yet my heart's brightest joy is springing 
 From her, the fairest of the fair ; 
 Beauty and wit are joined there, 
 And in my song I '11 honor her, 
 
 My ready tribute bringing. 
 
 When I remember our farewell, 
 As from her side I parted, 
 
 Sorrow and joy alternate swell, 
 To think how, broken-hearted, 
 While from her eyelids tear-drops started, 
 
 " O, soon," she said, "my loved one, here, 
 
 O, soon, in pity, reappear ! " 
 
 Then back I '11 fly, for none so dear 
 As her from whom I parted. 
 
 GONZALO DE BERCEO. 
 
 Gonzalo de Berceo, the oldest of the Cas- 
 tilian poets whose name has reached us, was 
 born in 1198. He was a monk in the monastery 
 of Saint Millan, in Calahorra, and wrote poems 
 on sacred subjects, in Castilian alexandrines. 
 Nine of these poems have been preserved, and 
 are published in Sanchez (see ante, p. 624). 
 He died about the year 1268. 
 
 FROM THE VIDA DE SAN MILLAN. 
 
 And when the kings were in the field, their 
 squadrons in array, 
 
 With lance in rest they onward pressed to min- 
 gle in the fray ; 
 
 But soon upon the Christians fell a terror of 
 their foes, — 
 
 These were a numerous army, a little handful 
 those. 
 
 And whilst the Christian people stood in this 
 uncertainty, 
 
 Upward toward heaven they turned their eyes 
 and fixed their thoughts on high ; 
 
 And there two persons they beheld, all beauti- 
 ful and bright, — 
 
 Even than the pure new-fallen snow their gar- 
 ments were more white. 
 
 They rode upon two horses more white than 
 
 crystal sheen, 
 And arms they bore such as before no mortal 
 
 man had seen : 
 The one, he held a crosier, a pontiff's mitre 
 
 wore ; 
 The other held a crucifix, — such man ne'er 
 
 saw before. 
 
 Their faces were angelical, celestial forms had 
 they, — 
 
 And downward through the fields of air they 
 urged their rapid way ; 
 
 They looked upon the Moorish host with fierce 
 and angry look, 
 
 And in their hands, with dire portent, their na- 
 ked sabres shook. 
 
 The Christian host, beholding this, straightway 
 
 take heart again ; 
 They fall upon their bended knees, all resting 
 
 on the plain, 
 And each one with his clenched fist to smite 
 
 his breast begins, 
 And promises to God on high he will forsake 
 
 his sins. 
 
 And when the heavenly knights drew near unto 
 the battle-ground, 
 
 They dashed among the Moors and dealt uner- 
 ring blows around : 
 
 Such deadly havoc there they made the foremost 
 ranks along, 
 
 A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the 
 throng. 
 
 Together with these two good knights, the 
 
 champions of the sky, 
 The Christians rallied and began to smite full 
 
 sore and high : 
 The Moors raised up their voices, and by the 
 
 Koran swore 
 That in their lives such deadly fray they ne'er 
 
 had seen before. 
 
 Down went the misbelievers; fast sped the 
 
 bloody fight; 
 Some ghastly and dismembered lay, and some 
 
 half-dead with fright : 
 Full sorely they repented that to the field they 
 
 came, 
 For they saw that from the battle they should 
 
 retreat with shame. 
 
 Another thing befell them, — they dreamed not 
 
 of such woes, — 
 The very arrows that the Moors shot from their 
 
 twanging bows 
 Turned back against them in their flight and 
 
 wounded them full sore, 
 And every blow they dealt the foe was paid in 
 
 drops of gore. 
 
 Now he that bore the crosier, and the papal 
 crown had on, 
 
 Was the glorified Apostle, the brother of Saint 
 John ; 
 
 And he that held the crucifix, and wore the 
 monkish hood, 
 
 Was the holy San Millan of Cogolla's neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 FROM THE MILA.GROS DE NUESTRA SENORA. 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I, Gonzalo de Berceo, in the gentle summer- 
 tide, 
 
 Wending upon a pilgrimage, came to a meadow's 
 side : 
 
 All green was it and beautiful, with flowers far 
 and wide, — 
 
 A pleasant spot, I ween, wherein the traveller 
 might abide. 
 
636 
 
 SPANISH POETRY 
 
 Flowers with the sweetest odors filled all the 
 
 sunny air, 
 And not alone refreshed the sense, but stole the 
 
 mind from care ; 
 On every side a fountain gushed, whose waters 
 
 pure and fair, 
 Ice-cold beneath the summer sun, but warm in 
 
 winter were. 
 
 There on the thick and shadowy trees, amid the 
 
 foliage green, 
 Were the fig and the pomegranate, the pear and 
 
 apple, seen ; 
 And other fruits of various kinds, the tufted 
 
 leaves between 
 None were unpleasant to the taste, and none 
 
 decayed, I ween. 
 
 The verdure of the meadow green, the odor 
 
 of the flowers, 
 The grateful shadows of the trees, tempered 
 
 with fragrant showers, 
 Refreshed me in the burning heat of the sultry 
 
 noontide hours : 
 O, one might live upon the balm and fragrance 
 
 of those bowers ! 
 
 Ne'er had I found on earth a spot that had 
 
 such power to please, 
 Such shadows from the summer sun, such odors 
 
 on the breeze : 
 1 threw my mantle on the ground, that I might 
 
 rest at ease, 
 And stretched upon the greensward lay in the 
 
 shadow of the trees. 
 
 There soft reclining in the shade, all cares be- 
 side me flung, 
 
 I heard the soft and mellow notes that through 
 the woodland rung: 
 
 Ear never listened to a strain, from instrument 
 or tongue, 
 
 So mellow and harmonious as the songs above 
 
 SAN MIGUEL DE LA TUMBA. 
 
 San Miguel de la Tcmba is a convent vast 
 and wide ; 
 
 The sea encircles it around, and groans on ev- 
 ery side : 
 
 It is a wild and dangerous place, and many 
 woes betide 
 
 The monks who in that burial-place in peni- 
 tence abide. 
 
 Within those dark monastic walls, amid the 
 
 ocean flood, 
 Of pious, fasting monks there dwelt a holy 
 
 brotherhood ; 
 To the Madonna's glory there an altar high 
 
 was placed, 
 And a rich and costly image the sacred altar 
 
 graced. 
 
 Exalted high upon a throne, the Virgin Mother 
 
 smiled, 
 And, as the custom is, she held within her arms 
 
 the Child : 
 The kings and wise men of the East were 
 
 kneeling by her side : 
 Attended was she like a queen whom God had 
 
 sanctified. 
 
 Descending low before her face a screen oi 
 
 feathers hung, — 
 A moscader, or fan for flies, 't is called in vulgar 
 
 tongue ; 
 From the feathers of the peacock's wing 't was 
 
 fashioned bright and fair, 
 And glistened like the heaven above when all 
 
 its stars are there. 
 
 It chanced, that, for the people's sins, fell the 
 
 lightning's blasting stroke : 
 Forth from all four the sacred walls the flames 
 
 consuming broke : 
 The sacred robes were all consumed, missal and 
 
 holy book ; 
 And hardly with their lives the monks their 
 
 crumbling walls forsook. 
 
 But though the desolating flame raged fearfully 
 
 and wild, 
 It did not reach the Virgin Queen, it did not 
 
 reach the Child ; 
 It did not reach the feathery screen before her 
 
 face that shone, 
 Nor injure in a farthing's worth the image or 
 
 the throne. 
 
 The image it did not consume, it did not burn 
 
 the screen ; 
 Even in the value of a hair they were not hurt, 
 
 I ween : 
 Not even the smoke did reach them, nor injure 
 
 more the shrine 
 Than the bishop hight Don Tello has been 
 
 hurt by hand of mine. 
 
 Continens et contentum, — all was in ruins laid ; 
 A heap of smouldering embers that holy pile 
 
 was made : 
 But where the sacred image sat, a fathom's 
 
 length around, 
 The raging flame dared not approach the con 
 
 secrated ground. 
 
 It was a wondrous miracle to those that thither 
 
 came, 
 That the image of the Virgin was safe from 
 
 smoke and flame, — 
 That brighter than the brightest star appeared 
 
 the feathery screen, — 
 And seated there the Child still fair, and fair 
 
 the Virgin Queen. 
 
 The Virgin Queen, the sanctified, who from 
 
 an earthly flame 
 Preserved the robes that pious hands had hong 
 
 around her frame, 
 
ALFONSO X. 
 
 6b7 
 
 Thus from an ever-burning fire her servants 
 
 shall deliver, 
 And lead them to that high abode where the 
 
 good are blessed for ever. 
 
 ALFONSO THE TENTH, 
 CASTILE. 
 
 KING OF 
 
 Alfonso the Tenth, of Castile, was born in 
 1221. He was surnamed el Subio, the Wise, or 
 rather the Learned, from his love of science. He 
 succeeded to the throne in 1252. He was con- 
 sidered the most learned prince of his age, and 
 the collection of laws made by him, called "Las 
 Siete Partidas," has given him a lasting fame. 
 He aspired to become emperor of Germany, 
 and his claims found supporters among the Ger- 
 man princes; but he was defeated by Rodolph 
 of Hapsburg, and disavowed by the pope. He 
 was finally deposed by his son Sancho, in 1282, 
 and died in 1234. His services to the science, 
 language, and literature of Spain were impor- 
 tant. He wrote verses, some of which are not 
 deficient in harmony. Among his other literary 
 services, he caused the Bible to be translated 
 into Castilian, and a chronicle of Spain to be 
 written. 
 
 FROM THE LIBRO DEL TESORO. 
 
 Fame brought this strange intelligence to me, 
 That in Egyptian lands there lived a sage 
 Who read the secrets of the coming age, 
 
 And could anticipate futurity ; 
 
 He judged the stars, and all their aspects ; he 
 The darksome veil of hidden things with- 
 drew, 
 Of unborn days the mysteries he knew, 
 
 And saw the future, as the past we see. 
 
 An eager thirst for knowledge moved me then ; 
 My pen, my tongue, were humbled; in that 
 
 hour 
 I laid my crown in dust: so great the power 
 Of passionate desire o'er mortal men ! 
 I sent my earnest prayers, with a proud train 
 Of messengers, who bore him generous meas- 
 ures 
 Of honors and of lands, and golden treas- 
 ures, — 
 And all in holy meekness: 'twas in vain! 
 
 The sage repelled me, but most courteously: 
 " You are a mighty monarch, Sire ; but these, 
 These have no gift to charm, no power to 
 please, — 
 
 Silver nor gold, — however bright they be. 
 
 Sire, I would serve you ; but what profits me 
 That wealth which more abundantly is mine? 
 Let your possessions bless you, — let them 
 shine, 
 
 As MaTs prays, in all prosperity." 
 
 I sent the stateliest of my ships, — it sought 
 The Alexandrian port; the wise man passed 
 Across the Middle Sea, and came, at last, 
 
 With all the gentleness of friendliest thought. 
 
 I studied wisdom, and his wisdom taught 
 
 Each varied movement of the shifting sphere : 
 He was most dear, as knowledge should be 
 dear ; — 
 
 Love, honor, are by truth and wisdom bought. 
 
 He made the magic stone, and taught me too : 
 We toiled together first; but soon alone 
 I formed the marvellous gold-creating stone, 
 
 And oft did I my lessening wealth renew. 
 
 Varied the form and fabric, and not few 
 
 This treasure's elements, the simplest; — best 
 And noblest, here ingenuously confessed, 
 
 I shall disclose, in this my verse, to you. 
 
 And what a list of nations have pursued 
 
 This treasure ! Need I speak of the Chaldee, 
 Or the untired sons of learned Araby, 
 
 All, all in chase of this most envied good, — 
 
 Egypt and Syria, and the tribes so rude 
 
 Of the Orient, — Saracens and Indians, — all 
 Laboring in vain, — though oft the echoes fall 
 
 Upon the West, of their songs' amplitude? 
 
 If what is passing now I have foretold 
 In honest truth and calm sincerity, 
 So will I tell you of the events to be 
 
 Without deception, — and the prize I hold 
 
 Shall be in literary lore enrolled : 
 
 Such power, such empire, never can be won 
 By ignorance or listlessness ; to none 
 
 But to the learned state my truths be told. 
 
 So, like the Theban Sphinx, will I propound 
 My mysteries, and in riddles truth will speak : 
 Deem them not idle words ; for, if you seek, 
 
 Through their dense darkness, light may oft be 
 found. 
 
 Muse, meditate, and look in silence round; 
 Hold no communion of vain language; learn 
 And treasure up the lore, — if you discern 
 
 What 's here in hieroglyphic letters bound. 
 
 My soul hath spoken and foretold ; I bring 
 The voices of the stars to chime with mine : 
 He, who shall share with me this gift divine, 
 
 Shall share with me the privilege of a king. 
 
 Mine is no mean, no paltry offering : 
 Cupidity itself must be content 
 With such a portion as I here present, — 
 
 And Midas' wealth to ours a trifling thing. 
 
 So when our work in this our sphere was done, 
 Deucalion towered sublimely o'er the rest ; 
 And proudly dominant he stood confessed 
 
 On the tenth mountain; — thence looked kind- 
 ly on 
 
 The Sovereign Sire, who offered him a crown, 
 Or empires vast, for his reward ; or gold, 
 From his vast treasure, for his heirs, untold : 
 
 So bold and resolute was Deucalion. 
 3b 
 
338 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 [ 'II give you honest counsel, if you be 
 My kinsman or my countryman : if e'er 
 This gift be yours, its treasures all confer 
 
 On him who shall unveil the mystery; 
 
 Offer him all, and offer cheerfully, 
 
 And offer most sincerely; — weak and small 
 Is your best offering, though you offer all : 
 
 Tour recompense may be eternity. 
 
 JUAN LORENZO DE ASTORGA. 
 
 This poet is supposed to have lived in the 
 early part, or about the middle, of the thirteenth 
 century. He appears to have been a priest. 
 The poem entitled " Poem a de Alexandra " is 
 attributed to him, on the authority of the lines 
 at the close of it : 
 
 " Si quisierdes saber quien escrebio este ditado, 
 Johan Lorenzo bon clerigo e ondrado, 
 Segura de Astorga," &c. 
 
 FROM THE FOEMA DE ALEXANDRO. 
 
 It was the month of May, in the bright and 
 glorious spring, 
 
 When the birds in concert sweet on the bud- 
 ding branches sing ; 
 
 When the meadows and the plains are robed in 
 vesture green, 
 
 And the mateless lady sighs, despairing, o'er the 
 scene. 
 
 A gentle tempting time for loving hearts to 
 
 meet ; 
 For the flowers are blossoming, and the winds 
 
 are fresh and sweet ; 
 And gathered in-a ring, the maidens wear away, 
 In mirthful talk and song, the blithe and sunny 
 
 day. 
 
 Soft fall the gentle dews, an unfelt freshening 
 
 rain, 
 The corn puts forth the hope of harvests rich 
 
 in grain ; 
 The down-cheeked stripling now is wedded to 
 
 his love, 
 And ladies, lightly clad, in bounding dances 
 
 move. 
 
 For love o'er young and old now holds its 
 mightiest sway ; 
 
 The siesta's hour to grace, they pluck the field- 
 flowers gay, 
 
 While each to other tells how love is ever 
 blest, 
 
 But the tenderest suit, they own, is the happiest 
 and the best. 
 
 The day is long and bright, the fields are green 
 once more, 
 
 The birds' have ceased to moult, and their mourn- 
 ing time is o'er ; 
 
 No hornet yet appears, with sting of venom 
 
 keen, 
 But the youths in wrestling strive, half naked, 
 
 on the green. 
 
 'T was then that Alexander, of Persia conquer- 
 ing king, 
 
 Moved by the fragrant call of that delightful 
 spring, 
 
 Throughout his wide domain proclaimed a gener- 
 al court, 
 
 And not a lord o' th' land but thither made 
 resort. 
 
 MOSSEN JORDI DE SAN JORDI. 
 
 This poet, who wrote in the Lemosin or Cat- 
 alonian dialect, probably lived at the beginning 
 of the thirteenth century. Petrarch is supposed 
 to have borrowed from his compositions. An 
 instance is cited by a writer in tlffe "Retrospec- 
 tive Review," (Vol. IV. p. 46, and p. 47, note,) 
 in which the imitation is very obvious. 
 
 SONG OF CONTRARIES. 
 
 From day to day, I learn but to unlearn ; 
 I live to die ; my pleasure is my woe ; 
 
 In dreary darkness I can light discern ; 
 Though blind, I see; and all but knowledge 
 know. 
 
 I nothing grasp, and yet the world embrace ; 
 Though bound to earth, o'er highest heaven I fly ; 
 
 With what 's behind I run an untired race, 
 And break from that which holds me mightily. 
 
 Evil I find, when hurrying after bliss; 
 Loveless, I love; and doubt of all I see; 
 
 All seems a dream, that most substantial is ; 
 I hate myself, — others are dear to me. 
 
 Voiceless, I speak; I hear, of hearing void ; 
 My ay is no ; truth becomes falsehood strange ; 
 
 I eat, not hungry; shift, though unannoyed ; 
 Touch without hands ; and sense to folly change. 
 
 I seek to soar, and then the deeper fall ; 
 When most I seem to sink, then mount I still ; 
 
 Laughing, I weep ; and waking, dreams I call ; 
 And when most cold, hotter than fire I feel. 
 
 Perplexed, I do what I would leave undone; 
 Losing, I gain ; time fleetest slowliest flows ; 
 
 Though free from pain, 'neath pain's attacks I 
 groan ; 
 To craftiest fox the gentlest lambkin grows. 
 
 Sinking, I rise; and dressing, I undress; 
 The heaviest weight too lightly seems to fall ; 
 
 I swim, — yet rest in perfect quietness; 
 And sweetest sugar turns to bitterest gall. 
 
 The day is night to me, — and darkness day 
 The time that 's past is present to my thought; 
 
 Strength becomes weakness ; hard is softest 
 clay; 
 I linger, wanting what I wanted not. 
 
SAN JORDI. — JUAN MANUEL. 
 
 639 
 
 I stand unmoved, — yet never, never stop ; 
 And what I seek not, that besets me wholly ; 
 
 The man I trust not is my firmest prop; 
 The low is high, — the high runs ever lowly. 
 
 I chase what I can never hope to gain ; 
 What 's weak as sand-rope looks like firmest 
 ground ; 
 
 The whirlpool seems a fountain's surface 
 plain, 
 And virtue but a weak and empty sound. 
 
 My songs are but an infant's uttering slow ; 
 Disgusting in my eyes is all that 's fair ; 
 
 I turn, because I know not where to go; 
 I 'm not at peace, but cannot war declare. 
 
 And thus it is, and such is my dark doom, 
 And so the world and so all nature fleets, 
 
 And I am curtained in the general gloom ; 
 And I must live, — deceived by these deceits. 
 
 TORNADA. 
 
 Let each apply what may to each belong, 
 And by these rules contrarious wisely steer; 
 
 For right oft flows from darkness-covered 
 wrong, 
 And good may spring from seeming evil here. 
 
 DON JUAN MANUEL. 
 
 This distinguished prince and author was 
 born in 1280. He served Alfonso the Eleventh, 
 who appointed him governor of the Moorish 
 frontiers. He carried on the war against the 
 Moors for twenty years, and gained many victo- 
 ries. He died in 1347. 
 
 His most important work is " El Conde Luca- 
 nor," which may be regarded not only as the 
 finest monument of Spanish prose in the four- 
 teenth century, but, indeed, as the first success- 
 ful essay in that department of Spanish litera- 
 ture. It is a work of moral and political phi- 
 losophy, illustrated in a series of forty-nine 
 moral tales. He wrote, besides, a "Cronica de 
 EspaBa," the " Libro del Caballero," the " Li- 
 bra de los Sabios," and a collection of poems. 
 
 It is a contested point whether the following 
 ballad belongs to this poet or to a Portuguese 
 writer of the same name. 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 All alone the knight is wandering, 
 
 Crying with a heavy tone ; 
 Clad in dark funereal garments, 
 
 Lined with serge, he walks alone. 
 To the dreary, trackless mountains 
 
 He retires to weep and mourn, — 
 Barefoot, lonely, and deserted, 
 
 Swearing never to return, 
 Where the voice of lovely woman 
 
 Might betray hirrj to forget 
 Her, whose ever-blessed memory 
 
 Lives within his heart-shrine yet, — 
 
 Her, who, promised to his passion, 
 
 Ere he had possessed her, died ! 
 
 Now he seeks some desert country, 
 
 There in darkness to abide. 
 In a distant, gloomy mountain, 
 
 Where no human beings dwell, 
 There he built a house of sadness, 
 
 Sadder than the thoughts can tell. 
 Of a yellow wood he built it, 
 
 Of a wood that 's called despair ; ■ 
 Black the stone that formed the dwelling, 
 
 Black the blending mortar there. 
 Roof he raised of gloomy tilings 
 
 O'er the beams of ebony; 
 Sheets of lead he made his flooring, 
 
 Heavy as his misery. 
 Leaden were the doors he sculptured, — 
 
 His own chisel carved the door; 
 His own weary fingers scattered 
 
 Faded vine-leaves on the floor. 
 He who makes his home with sorrow 
 
 Should not fly to joy's relief: 
 Here, in this dark, dolorous mansion, 
 
 Dwelt he, votary of grief. 
 Discipline is his, severer 
 
 Than the mouths of stern Paular; 
 And his bed was made of tendrils, 
 And his food those tendrils are; 
 And his drink is tears of sorrow, 
 
 Which soon turned to tears again : 
 Once a day he ate, — once only, — 
 
 Sooner to be freed from pain. 
 Like the wood the walls he painted, — ■ 
 
 Like that dark and yellow wood; 
 There a cloth of silk suspended, 
 
 White as snow in solitude ; 
 And an alabaster altar 
 
 Even before that emblem jtood; 
 There a taper of bitumen 
 
 O'er the altar faintly moved. 
 And the image of his lady, 
 
 Of the lady that he loved, 
 There he placed : her form of silver, 
 
 And her cheeks of crystal clear, 
 Clad in robes of silvery damask, 
 Such as richest maidens wear ; 
 Next a snow-white convent-garment, 
 
 And a flounce of purest white, 
 Covered o'er with moons, whose brightness 
 
 Shed a chaste and gentle light; 
 On her head a royal coronet, 
 
 Such as honored monarchs see, — 
 'T was adorned with chestnut-branches 
 
 .Gathered from the chestnut-tree : 
 Mark ! beneath that word mysterious 
 Hidden sense may chance to be, — 
 Chestnut-branches may betoken, 
 
 May betoken chastity. 2 
 Two-and-twenty years the maiden 
 
 Lived, — and died so fair, so young- 
 Tell me how such youth and beauty 
 Should in fitting words be sung ; 
 
 1 Desesperar. 2 Castanas, chestnuts, — casta, chast«. 
 
540 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 Tell me how to sing his sorrow, 
 
 Who thus mourned his perished maid: — 
 There he lived in woe and silence, 
 
 With her image and her shade. 
 Pleasure from his house he banished, 
 
 While he welcomed pain and woe : 
 They shall dwell with him for ever, 
 
 They from him shall never go. 
 
 JUAN RUIZ DE HITA. 
 
 Juan Ruiz, arcipreste, or arch-priest, of Hita, 
 flourished about 1343. The place of his birth 
 is uncertain, though there is some reason to 
 suppose that he may have been a native of Al- 
 cala. He seems to have travelled, for he speaks 
 of having been at the court of Rome. The 
 Latin poets were familiar to him, particularly 
 Ovid, whom he repeatedly quotes. He died 
 about 1351. He is remarkable for having in- 
 troduced a variety of metres into Spanish poe- 
 try ; and his works, consisting of six or seven 
 thousand verses, are distinguished for invention 
 and wit, and abound in poetical expression and 
 animated figures. 
 
 PRAISE OF LITTLE WOMEN. 
 
 I wish to make my sermon brief, — to shorten 
 my oration, — 
 
 For a never-ending sermon is my utter detesta- 
 tion : 
 
 I like short women, — suits at law without pro- 
 crastination, — 
 
 And am always most delighted with things of 
 short duration. 
 
 A babbler is a laughing-stock ; he 's a fool who 's 
 
 always grinning ; 
 But little women love so much, one falls in 
 
 love with sinning. 
 There are women who are very tall, and yet 
 
 not worth the winning, 
 And in the change of short for long repentance 
 
 finds beginning. 
 
 To praise the little women Love besought me 
 in my musing ; 
 
 To tell their noble qualities is quite beyond re- 
 fusing : 
 
 So I '11 praise the little women, and you '11 find 
 the thing amusing; 
 
 They are, I know, as cold as snow, whilst flames 
 around diffusing. 
 
 They 're cold without, whilst warm within the 
 
 flame of Love is raging ; 
 They 're gay and pleasant in the street, — soft, 
 
 cheerful, and engaging; 
 They're thrifty and discreet at home, — the 
 
 cares of life assuaging: 
 All this and more ; — try, and you '11 find how 
 
 true is my presaging. 
 
 In a little precious stone what splendor meet? 
 
 the eyes ! 
 In a little lump of sugar how much of sweet 
 
 ness lies ! 
 So in a little woman love grows and multiplies: 
 You recollect the proverb says, — A word, unto 
 
 the wise. 
 
 A pepper-corn is very small, but seasons every 
 
 dinner 
 More than all other condiments, although 't is 
 
 sprinkled thinner : 
 Just so a little woman is, if Love will let you 
 
 win her, — 
 There 's not a joy in all the world you will not 
 
 find within her. 
 
 And as within the little rose you find the rich- 
 est dyes, 
 
 And in a little grain of gold much price and 
 value lies, 
 
 As from a little balsam much odor doth arise, 
 
 So in a little woman there 's a taste of paradise. 
 
 Even as the little ruby its secret worth betrays, 
 
 Color, and price, and virtue, in the clearness 
 of its rays, — 
 
 Just so a little woman much excellence dis- 
 plays, 
 
 Beauty, and grace, and love, and fidelity always. 
 
 The skylark and the nightingale, though small 
 
 and light of wing, 
 Yet warble sweeter in the grove than all the 
 
 birds that sing : 
 And so a little woman, though a very little 
 
 thing, 
 Is sweeter far than sugar, and flowers that bloom 
 
 in spring. 
 
 The magpie and the golden thrush have many 
 
 a thrilling note, 
 Each as a gay musician doth strain his little 
 
 throat, — 
 A merry little songster in his green and yellow 
 
 coat : 
 And such a little woman is, when Love doth 
 
 make her dote. 
 
 There 's naught can be compared to her, through- 
 out the wide creation ; 
 
 She is a paradise on earth, — our greatest con- 
 solation, — 
 
 So cheerful, gay, and happy, so free from all 
 vexation : 
 
 In fine, she 's better in the proof than in antici- 
 pation. 
 
 If as her size increases are woman's charms 
 
 decreased, 
 Then surely it is good to be from all the great 
 
 released. 
 Now of two evils choose the less, — said a wise 
 
 man of the East :• 
 By consequence, of woman-kind be sure to 
 
 choose the least. 
 
JUAN RUIZ. — SANTOB. 
 
 641 
 
 HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 
 
 Thou Flower of Flowers ! I '11 follow thee, 
 And sing thy praise unweariedly : 
 Best of the best ! O, may I ne'er 
 From thy pure service flee ! 
 
 Lady I to thee I turn my eyes, 
 On thee my trusting hope relies; 
 O, let thy spirit, smiling here, 
 Chase my anxieties ! 
 
 Most Holy Virgin ! tired and faint, 
 I pour my melancholy plaint ; 
 Yet lift a tremulous thought to thee, 
 Even 'midst mortal taint. 
 
 Thou Ocean-Star ! thou Port of Joy ! 
 From pain, and sadness, and annoy, 
 O, rescue me ! O, comfort me, 
 Bright Lady of the Sky! 
 
 Thy mercy is a boundless mine ; 
 Freedom from care, and life are thine : 
 He recks not, faints not, fears not, who 
 Trusts in thy power divine. 
 
 I am the slave of woe and wrong, 
 Despair and darkness guide my song; 
 Do thou avail me, Virgin ! thou 
 Waft my weak bark along ! 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Love to the slowest subtilty can teach, 
 And to the dumb give fair and flowing speech ; 
 It makes the coward daring, and the dull 
 And idle diligent and promptness-full. 
 
 It makes youth ever youthful ; takes from age 
 The heavy burden of time's pilgrimage, 
 Gives beauty to deformity ; is seen 
 To value what is valueless and mean. 
 
 Enamoured once, however vile and rude, 
 Each seems to each all-wise, all-fair, all-good, 
 Brightest of nature's works, and loveliest: 
 Desire, ambition, covet not the rest. 
 
 Love spreads its misty veil o'er all, and when 
 One sun is fled, another dawns again ; 
 But valor may 'gainst adverse fate contend, 
 As the hardest fruit is ripened in the end. 
 
 RABBI DON SANTOB, OR SANTO. 
 
 This poet, a Jew by birth, flourished about 
 1360. His name is not known, but he seems 
 to have received the title of Santo by way of 
 honor; "perhaps," says Sanchez, "for his 
 moral virtues and his learning." He is sup- 
 posed to have been either a native or a resident 
 of Carrion. 
 
 81 
 
 THE DANCE OF DEATH. 
 
 Here begins the general dance, in which it 
 is shown how Death gives advice to all, that 
 they should take due account of the brevity of 
 life, and not to value it more highly than it de- 
 serves ; and this he orders and requires, that 
 they see and hear attentively what wise preach- 
 ers tell them and warn them from day to day, 
 giving them good and wholesome counsel that 
 they labor in doing good works to obtain pardon 
 of their sins, and showing them by experience; 
 who, he sajs, calls and requires from all classes, 
 whether they come willingly or unwillingly ; 
 and thus beginning : — 
 
 Lo ! I am Death ! With aim as sure as steady, 
 All beings that are and shall be I draw near 
 me. 
 I call thee, — I require thee, man, be readv ! 
 Why build upon this fragile life? — Now 
 
 hear me ! 
 Where is the power that does not own me, 
 fear me ? 
 Who can escape me, when I bend my bow ? 
 I pull the string, — thou liest in dust below, 
 Smitten by the barb my ministering angels 
 bear me. 
 
 Come to the dance of Death ! Come hither, 
 even 
 The last, the lowliest, — of all rank and sta- 
 tion ! 
 Who will not come shall be by scourges driv- 
 en : 
 I hold no parley with disinclination. 
 List to yon friar who preaches of salvation, 
 And hie ye to your penitential post! 
 For who delays, — who lingers, — he is lost, 
 And handed o'er to hopeless reprobation. 
 
 I to my dance — my mortal dance — have 
 brought 
 Two nvmphs, all bright in beauty and in 
 bloom. 
 They listened, fear-struck, to my songs, me- 
 thought ; 
 And, truly, songs like mine are tinged with 
 
 gloom. 
 But neither roseate hues nor flowers' perfume 
 Will now avail them, — nor the thousand charms 
 Of worldly vanity ; — they fill my arms, — 
 They are my brides, — their bridal bed the 
 tomb. 
 
 And since 't is certain, then, that we must die, — 
 No hope, no chance, no prospect of redress, — 
 
 Be it our constant aim unswervingly 
 
 To tread God's narrow path of holiness : 
 For he is first, last, midst. O, let us press 
 
 Onwards ! and when Death's monitory glance 
 
 Shall summon us to join his mortal dance, 
 Even then shall hope and joy our footsteps 
 bless. 
 
 3b* 
 
642 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 BALLADS. 
 
 I. — HISTORICAL BALLADS. 
 
 LAMENTATION OF DON RODERICK. 
 
 The hosts of Don Rodrigo were scattered in 
 
 dismay, — . 
 When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart nor 
 
 hope had they ; 
 He, when he saw that field was lost, and all his 
 
 hope was flown, 
 He turned him from his flying host, and took 
 
 his way alone. 
 
 His horse was bleeding, blind, and lame, — he 
 
 could no farther go ; 
 Dismounted, without path or aim, the king 
 
 stepped to and fro : 
 It was a sight of pity to look on Roderick, 
 For, sore athirst and hungry, he staggered, faint 
 
 and sick. 
 
 All stained and strewed with dust and blood, 
 like to some smouldering brand 
 
 Plucked from the flame, Rodrigo showed : — his 
 sword was in his hand, 
 
 But it was hacked into a saw of dark and pur- 
 ple tint ; 
 
 His jewelled mail had many a flaw, his helmet 
 many a dint. 
 
 He climbed unto a hill-top, the highest he 
 
 could see ; 
 Thence all about of that wide rout his last long 
 
 look took he : 
 He saw his royal banners, where they lay 
 
 drenched and torn ; 
 He heard the cry of victory, the Arab's shout 
 
 of scorn. 
 
 He looked for the brave captains that led the 
 
 hosts of Spain, 
 But all were fled except the dead, — and who 
 
 could count the slain ? 
 Where'er his eye could wander, all bloody was 
 
 the plain, 
 And, while thus he said, the tears he shed run 
 
 down his cheeks like rain : — 
 
 "Last night I was the king of Spain, — to-day 
 
 no king am I ; 
 Last night fair castles held my train, — to-night 
 
 where shall I lie ? 
 Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the 
 
 knee, — 
 To-night not one I call mine own, not one 
 
 pertains to me. 
 
 " O, luckless, luckless was the hour, and cursed 
 
 was the day, 
 When I was born to have the power of this 
 
 great seigniory ! 
 
 Unhappy me, that I should see the sun go down 
 
 to-night ! 
 O Death, why now so slow art thou ? why fear- 
 
 est thou to smite ? " 
 
 MARCH OF BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 
 
 With three thousand men of Leon, from the 
 city Bernard goes, 
 
 To protect the soil Hispanian from the spear of 
 Frankish foes, — 
 
 From the city which is planted in the midst be- 
 tween the seas, 
 
 To preserve the name and glory of old Pelayo's 
 victories. 
 
 The peasant hears upon his field the trumpet of 
 the knight, — 
 
 He quits his team for spear and shield and gar- 
 niture of might ; 
 
 The shepherd hears it 'mid the mist, — he fling- 
 eth down his crook, 
 
 And rushes from the mountain like a tempest- 
 troubled brook. 
 
 The youth who shows a maiden's chin, whose 
 brows have ne'er been bound 
 
 The helmet's heavy ring within, gains manhood 
 from the sound ; 
 
 The hoary sire beside the fire forgets his feeble- 
 ness, 
 
 Once more to feel the cap of steel a warrior's 
 ringlets press. 
 
 As through the glen his spears did gleam, these 
 soldiers from the hills, 
 
 They swelled his host, as mountain-stream re- 
 ceives the roaring rills ; 
 
 They round his banner flocked, in scorn ol 
 haughty Charlemagne, 
 
 And thus upon their swords are sworn the faith- 
 ful sons of Spain : — 
 
 " Free were we born," 't is thus they cry 
 
 "though to our king we owe 
 The homage and the fealty behind his crest tc 
 
 go; 
 
 By God's behest our aid he shares, but God did 
 
 ne'er command 
 That we should leave our children heirs of an 
 
 enslaved land. 
 
 " Our breasts are not so timorous, nor are out 
 
 arms so weak, 
 Nor are our veins so bloodless, that we our vovi 
 
 should break, 
 
HISTORICAL BALLADS. 
 
 643 
 
 To sell our freedom for the fear of prince or 
 
 paladin ; 
 At least, we 'II sell our birthright dear, — no 
 
 bloodless prize they '11 win. 
 
 " At least, King Charles, if God decrees he must 
 
 be lord of Spain, 
 Shall witness that the Leonese were not aroused 
 
 in vain ; 
 He shall bear witness that we died as lived our 
 
 sires of old, — 
 Nor only of Numantium's pride shall minstrel 
 
 tales be told. 
 
 " The Lion that hath bathed his paws in seas 
 
 of Lybian gore, 
 Shall he not battle for the laws and liberties of 
 
 yore ? 
 Anointed cravens may give gold to whom it 
 
 likes them well, 
 But steadfast heart and spirit bold Alfonso 
 
 ne'er shall sell." 
 
 BAVIECA. 
 
 The king looked on him kindly, as on a vassal 
 true ; 
 
 Then to the king Ruy Diaz spake, after rever- 
 ence due : 
 
 " O King, the thing is shameful, that any man, 
 beside 
 
 The liege lord of Castile himself, should Bavie- 
 ca ride : 
 
 "For neither Spain nor Araby could another 
 
 charger bring 
 So good as he ; and, certes, the best befits my 
 
 king. 
 But that you may behold him, and know him 
 
 to the core, 
 I '11 make him go as he was wont when his 
 
 nostrils smelt the Moor." 
 
 With that, the Cid, clad as he was in mantle 
 
 furred and wide, 
 On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side; 
 And up and down, and round and round, so 
 
 fierce was his career. 
 Streamed like a pennon on the wind Ruy Diaz' 
 
 minivere. 
 
 And all that saw them praised them, — they 
 
 lauded man and horse, 
 As matched well, and rivalless for gallantry and 
 
 force ; 
 Ne'er had they looked on horseman might to 
 
 this knight come near, 
 Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier. 
 
 Thus to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furi- 
 ous steed, 
 
 He snapped in twain his hither rein : — " God 
 pity now ths Cid ! — 
 
 God pity Diaz ' " cried the lords; — but when 
 they looked again, 
 
 They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him with the frag- 
 ment of his rein ; 
 
 They saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm 
 and calm, 
 
 Like a true lord commanding, — and obeyed as 
 by a lamb. 
 
 And so he led him foaming and panting to the 
 
 king: — 
 But "No!" said Don Alfonso, "it were a 
 
 shameful thing 
 That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid 
 By any mortal but Bivar ; — mount, mount again, 
 
 my Cid ! " 
 
 THE POUNDER. 
 
 The Christians have beleagured the famous 
 walls of Xeres : 
 
 Among them are Don Alvar and Don Diego 
 Perez, 
 
 And many other gentlemen, who, day succeed- 
 ing day, 
 
 Give challenge to the Saracen and all his chiv- 
 alry. 
 
 When rages the hot battle before the gates of 
 
 Xeres, 
 By trace of gore ye may explore the dauntless 
 
 path of Perez : 
 No knight like Don Diego, — no sword like his 
 
 is found 
 In all the host, to hew the boast of paynims to 
 
 the ground. 
 
 It fell, one day, when furiously they battled on 
 
 the plain, 
 Diego shivered both his lance and trusty blade 
 
 in twain : 
 The Moors that saw it shouted ; for esquire none 
 
 was near, 
 To serve Diego at his need with falchion, mace, 
 
 or spear. 
 
 Loud, loud he blew his bugle, sore troubled was 
 
 his eye, 
 But by God's grace before his face there stood 
 
 a tree full nigh, — 
 An olive-tree with branches strong, close by 
 
 the wall of Xeres : — 
 "Yon goodly bough will serve, I trow," quoth 
 
 Don Diego Perez. 
 
 A gnarled branch he soon did wrench down 
 
 from that olive strong, 
 Which o'er his headpiece brandishing, he spurs 
 
 among the throng : 
 God wot, full man)' a pagan must in his saddle 
 
 reel ! — 
 What leech may cure, what beadsman shrive, 
 
 if once that weight ye feel ? 
 
644 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 But when Don Alvar saw him thus bruising 
 down the foe, 
 
 Quoth he, " I 've seen some flail-armed man 
 belabor barley so ; — 
 
 Sure, mortal mould did ne'er infold such mas- 
 tery of power : 
 
 Let 's call Diego Perez the Pounder, from this 
 hour." 
 
 THE DEATH OF DON PEDRO. 
 
 Henry and King Pedro, clasping, 
 Hold in straining arms each other ; 
 
 Tugging hard, and closely grasping, 
 
 Brother proves his strength with brother. 
 
 Harmless pastime, sport fraternal, 
 Blends not thus their limbs in strife; 
 
 Either aims, with rage infernal, 
 Naked dagger, sharpened knife. 
 
 Close Don Henry grapples Pedro, 
 Pedro holds Don Henry strait, — 
 
 Breathing, this, triumphant fury, 
 That, despair and mortal hate. 
 
 Sole spectator of the struggle, 
 Stands Don Henry's page afar, 
 
 In the chase who bore his bugle, 
 And who bore his sword in war. 
 
 Down they go in deadly wrestle, 
 Down upon the earth they go ; 
 
 Fierce King Pedro has the vantage, 
 Stout Don Henry falls below. 
 
 Marking then the fatal crisis, 
 Up the page of Henry ran, 
 
 By the waist he caught Don Pedro, 
 Aiding thus the fallen man. 
 
 " King to place, or to depose him, 
 Dwelled) not in my desire ; 
 
 But the duty which he owes him 
 To his master pays the squire." 
 
 Now Don Henry has the upmost, 
 Now King Pedro lies beneath ; 
 
 In his heart his brother's poniard 
 Instant finds its bloody sheath. 
 
 Thus with mortal gasp and quiver, 
 While the blood in bubbles welled, 
 
 Fled the fiercest soul that ever 
 In a Christian bosom dwelled 
 
 II. — ROMANTIC BALLADS. 
 
 COUNT ARNALDOS. 
 
 Who had ever such adventure, 
 
 Holy priest, or virgin nun, 
 As befell the Count Arnaldos 
 
 At the rising of the sun ? 
 
 On his wrist the hawk was hooded, 
 Forth with horn and hound went he, 
 
 When he saw a stately galley 
 Sailing on the silent sea. 
 
 Sail of satin, mast of cedar, 
 
 Burnished poop of beaten gold, — 
 
 Many a morn you '11 hood your falcon, 
 Ere you such a bark behold. 
 
 Sails of satin, masts of cedar, 
 Golden poops may come again ; 
 
 But mortal ear no more shall listen 
 To yon gray-haired sailor's strain. 
 
 Heart may beat, and eye may glisten, 
 Faith is strong, and Hope is free ; 
 
 But mortal ear no more shall listen 
 To the song that rules the sea. 
 
 When the gray-haired sailor chanted, 
 Every wind was hushed to sleep, — 
 
 Like a virgin's bosom panted 
 All the wide reposing deep. 
 
 Bright in beauty rose the starfish 
 From her green cave down below, 
 
 Right above the eagle poised him, — 
 Holy music charmed them so. 
 
 " Stately galley ! glorious galley ! 
 
 God hath poured his grace on thee ! 
 Thou alone may'st scorn the perils 
 
 Of the dread, devouring sea ! 
 
 "False Almeria's reefs and shallows, 
 Black Gibraltar's giant rocks, 
 
 Sound and sandbank, gulf and whirlpool, 
 All, — my glorious galley mocks ! " 
 
 " For the sake of God, our Maker ! " — 
 Count Arnaldos' cry was strong, — 
 
 " Old man, let me be partaker 
 In the secret of thy song ! " 
 
 " Count Arnaldos ! Count Arnaldos ! 
 
 Hearts I read, and thoughts I know; — 
 Wouldst thou learn the ocean secret, 
 
 In our galley thou must go." 
 
 THE ADMIRAL GUARINOS. 
 
 The day of Roncesvalles was a dismal day for 
 
 you, 
 Ye men of France ! for there the lance of King 
 
 Charles was broke in two : 
 
ROMANTIC BALLADS. 
 
 645 
 
 Ye well may curse that rueful field; for many a 
 noble peer, 
 
 In fray or fight, the dust did bite, beneath Ber- 
 nardo's spear. 
 
 There captured was Guarinos, King Charles's 
 
 admiral ; 
 Seven Moorish kings surrounded him, and seized 
 
 him for their thrall : 
 Seven times, when all the chase was o'er, for 
 
 Guarinos lots they cast ; 
 Seven times Marlotes won the throw, and the 
 
 knight was his at last. 
 
 Much joy had then Marlotes, and his captive 
 
 much did prize ; 
 Above all the wealth of Araby, he was precious 
 
 in his eyes. 
 Within his tent at evening he made the best of 
 
 cheer, 
 And thus, the banquet done, he spake unto his 
 
 prisoner: — 
 
 "Now, for the sake of Alia, Lord Admiral Gua- 
 rinos, 
 
 Be thou a Moslem, and much love shall ever 
 rest between us : 
 
 Two daughters have I; — all the day thy hand- 
 maid one shall be ; 
 
 The other — and the fairer far — by night shall 
 cherish thee. 
 
 "The one shall be thy waiting-maid, thy weary 
 
 feet to lave, 
 To scatter perfumes on thy head, and fetch thee 
 
 garments brave ; 
 The other — she the pretty — shall deck her 
 
 bridal bower, 
 And my field and my city they both shall be 
 
 her dower. 
 
 "If more thou wishest, more I '11 give; speak 
 boldly what thy thought is." 
 
 Thus earnestly and kindly to Guarinos said 
 Marlotes. 
 
 But not a moment did he take to ponder or to 
 pause ; 
 
 Thus clear and quick the answer of the Chris- 
 tian captain was: — 
 
 "Now, God forbid, Marlotes, — and Mary, his 
 
 dear Mother, — 
 That I should leave the faith of Christ and bind 
 
 me to another ! 
 For women, — I 've one wife in France, and 
 
 I '11 wed no more in Spain : 
 I change not faith, I break not vow, for courtesy 
 
 or gain." 
 
 Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when thus he 
 
 heard him say, 
 And all for ire commanded he should be led 
 
 away, — 
 Away unto the dungeon-keep, beneath its vaults 
 
 to lie, 
 With fetters bound in darkness deep, far off 
 
 froa sun and sky. 
 
 With iron bands they bound hi3 hands : that 
 sore, unworthy plight 
 
 Might well express his helplessness, doomed 
 never more to fight. 
 
 Again, from cincture down to knee, long bolts 
 of iron he bore, 
 
 Which signified the knight should ride on char- 
 ger never more. 
 
 Three times alone, in all the year, it is the cap- 
 tive's doom 
 
 To see God's daylight bright and clear, instead 
 of dungeon-gloom ; 
 
 Three times alone they bring him out, like 
 Samson long ago, 
 
 Before the Moorish rabble-rout to be a sport 
 and show. 
 
 On three high feasts they bring him forth, a 
 
 spectacle to be, — 
 The feast of Pasque, and the great day of the 
 
 Nativity, 
 And on that morn, more solemn yet, when 
 
 maidens strip the bowers, 
 And gladden mosque and minaret with the 
 
 firstlings of the flowers. 
 
 Days come and go of gloom and show : seven 
 years are come and gone ; 
 
 And now doth fall the festival of the holy Bap- 
 tist John ; 
 
 Christian and Moslem tilts and jousts, to give 
 it homage due, 
 
 And rushes on the paths to spread they force 
 the sulky Jew. 
 
 Marlotes, in his joy and pride, a target high 
 
 doth rear, — 
 Below the Moorish knights must ride and pierce 
 
 it with the spear ; 
 But 't is so high up in the sky, albeit much they 
 
 strain, 
 No Moorish lance so far may fly, Marlotes 
 
 prize to gain. 
 
 Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when he beheld 
 
 them fail ; 
 The whisker trembled on his lip, — his cheek 
 
 for ire was pale ; 
 And heralds proclamation made, with trumpets 
 
 through the town, — 
 "Nor child shall suck, nor man shall eat, till 
 
 the mark be tumbled down." 
 
 The cry of proclamation, and the trumpet' 
 haughty sound, 
 
 Did send an echo to the vault where the ad- 
 miral was bound : 
 
 " Now help me, God ! " the captive cries ; " wha 
 means this din so loud ? 
 
 O Queen of Heaven, be vengeance given on 
 these thy haters proud ! 
 
 " O, is it that some pagan gay doth Marlotes 
 
 daughter wed, 
 And that they bear my scorned fair in triumph 
 
 to his bed ? 
 
646 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 Or is it that the day is come, — one of the hate- 
 ful three, — 
 
 When they, with trumpet, fife, and drum, make 
 heathen game of me ? " 
 
 These words the jailer chanced to hear, and 
 thus to him he said : 
 
 " These tabours, Lord, and trumpets clear, con- 
 duct no bride to bed ; 
 
 Nor has the feast come round again, when he 
 that has the right 
 
 Commands thee forth, thou foe of Spain, to glad 
 the people's sight ! 
 
 " This is the joyful morning of John the Bap- 
 tist's day, 
 
 When Moor and Christian feasts at home, each 
 in his nation's way; 
 
 But now our king commands that none his ban- 
 quet shall begin, 
 
 Until some knight, by strength or sleight, the 
 spearsman's prize do win." 
 
 Then out and spake Guarinos : " O, soon each 
 
 man should feed, 
 Were I but mounted once again on my own 
 
 gallant steed ! 
 O, were I mounted as of old, and harnessed 
 
 cap-a-pie, 
 Full soon Marlotes' prize I 'd hold, whate'er its 
 
 price may be ! 
 
 " Give me my horse, mine old gray horse, — so 
 
 be he is not dead, — 
 All gallantly caparisoned, with plate on breast 
 
 and head ; 
 And give the lance I brought from France ; and 
 
 if I win it not, 
 My life shall be the forfeiture, — I '11 yield it 
 
 on the spot." 
 
 The jailer wondered at his words : thus to the 
 
 knight said he : 
 " Seven weary years of chains and gloom have 
 
 little humbled thee ; 
 There 's never a man in Spain, I trow, the like 
 
 so well might bear ; 
 And if thou wilt, I with thy vow will to the 
 
 king repair." 
 
 The jailer put his mantle on, and came unto 
 
 the king ; 
 He found him sitting on the throne, within his 
 
 listed ring : 
 Close to his ear he planted him, and the story 
 
 did begin, 
 How bold Guarinos vaunted him the spearman's 
 
 prize to win : 
 
 That, were he mounted but once more on his 
 own gallant gray, 
 
 And armed with the lance he bore on Ronces- 
 valles' day, 4 
 
 What never Moorish knight could pierce, he 
 would pierce it at a blow, 
 
 Or give with joy his life-blood fierce at Mar- 
 lotes' feet to flow. 
 
 Much marvelling, then said the king: "Bring 
 
 Sir Guarinos forth, 
 And in the grange go seek ye for his gray steed 
 
 of worth ; 
 His arms are rusty on the wall; — seven years 
 
 have gone, I judge, 
 Since that strong horse has bent his force to be 
 
 a carrion drudge. 
 
 "Now this will be a sight indeed, to see the 
 enfeebled lord 
 
 Essay to mount that ragged steed and draw 
 that rusty sword ; 
 
 And for the vaunting of his phrase he well de- 
 serves to die : 
 
 So, jailer, gird his harness on, and bring your 
 champion nigh." 
 
 They have girded on his shirt of mail, his cuis- 
 
 ses well they 've clasped, 
 And they 've barred the helm on his visage pale, 
 
 and his hand the lance hath grasped ; 
 And they have caught the old gray horse, the 
 
 horse he loved of yore, 
 And he stands pawing at the gate, caparisoned 
 
 once more. 
 
 When the knight came out, the Moors did 
 shout, and loudly laughed the king, 
 
 For the horse he pranced and capered and fu- 
 riously did fling : 
 
 But Guarinos whispered in his ear, and looked 
 into his face ; 
 
 Then stood the old charger like a lamb, with a 
 calm and gentle grace. 
 
 O, lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle- 
 tree, 
 
 And, slowly riding down, made halt before Mar- 
 lotes' knee : 
 
 Again the heathen laughed aloud: " All hail, 
 Sir Knight ! " quoth he; 
 
 "Now do thy best, thou champion proud ! thy 
 blood I look to see ! " 
 
 With that, Guarinos, lance in rest, against the 
 
 scoffer rode, 
 Pierced at one thrust his epvious breast, and 
 
 down his turban trode. 
 Now ride, now ride, Guarinos, — nor lance nor 
 
 rowel spare, — 
 Slay, slay, and gallop for thy life : the land of 
 
 France lies there ' 
 
 COUNT ALARCOS AND THE INFANTA 
 SOLISA. 
 
 Alone, as was her wont, she sat, — within her 
 
 bower alone ; 
 Alone and very desolate, Solisa made her moan : 
 Lamenting for her flower of life, that it should 
 
 pass away, 
 And she be never wooed to wife, nor see a 
 
 bridal day. 
 
ROMANTIC BALLADS. 
 
 647 
 
 Thus said the sad Infanta : " I will not hide 
 
 my grief; 
 I 'II tell my father of my wrong, and he will 
 
 yield relief." 
 The king, when he beheld her near, " Alas ! 
 
 my child," said he, 
 "What means this melancholy cheer ? — reveal 
 
 thy grief to me." 
 
 " Good King," she said, "my mother was bur- 
 ied long ago ; 
 
 She left me to thy keeping; none else my grief 
 shall know : 
 
 I fain would have a husband, — 't is time that I 
 should wed ; 
 
 Forgive the words I utter, — with mickle shame 
 they 're said." 
 
 'T was thus the king made answer : " This fault 
 
 is none of mine, — 
 You to the prince of Hungary your ear would 
 
 not incline ; 
 Yet round us here where lives your peer, — 
 
 nay, name him if you can, — 
 Except the Count Alarcos? and he 's a married 
 
 man." 
 
 "Ask Count Alarcos, if of yore his word he 
 did not plight 
 
 To be my husband evermore, and love me day 
 and night ; 
 
 If he has bound him in new vows, old oaths he 
 cannot break : 
 
 Alas ! I 've lost a loyal spouse, for a false lov- 
 er's sake." 
 
 The good king sat confounded in silence for 
 some space ; 
 
 At length he made his answer, with very trou- 
 bled face : 
 
 " It was not thus your mother gave counsel you 
 should do ; 
 
 You 've done much wrong, my daughter; we 're 
 shamed, both I and you. 
 
 " If it be true that you have said, our honor 's 
 
 lost and gone ; 
 And while the countess is in life, remeed for us 
 
 is none : 
 Though justice were upon our side, ill talkers 
 
 would not spare ; — 
 Speak, daughter, for your mother 's dead, whose 
 
 counsel eased my care." 
 
 " How can I give you counsel ? — but little wit 
 have I ; 
 
 But, certes, Count Alarcos may make this count- 
 ess die : 
 
 Let it be noised that sickness cut short her ten- 
 der life, 
 
 And then, let Count Alarcos come and ask me 
 for his wife. 
 
 What passed between us long ago, of that be 
 nothing said ; 
 
 Thus none shall our dishonor know, — in honor 
 I shall wed." 
 
 The count was standing with his friends, — thus 
 
 in the midst he spake: 
 " What fools be men ! — what boots our pain 
 
 for comely woman's sake ? 
 I loved a fair one long ago; — though I 'm a 
 
 married man, 
 Sad memory I can ne'er forego how life and 
 
 love began." 
 
 While yet the count was speaking, the good 
 
 king came full near ; 
 He made his salutation with very courteous 
 
 cheer : 
 " Come hither, Count Alarcos, and dine with 
 
 me this day, 
 For I have something secret I in your ear must 
 
 say." 
 
 The king came from the chapel, when he had 
 
 heard the mass ; 
 With him the Count Alarcos did to his chamber 
 
 pass ; 
 Full nobly were they served there by pages 
 
 many a one ; 
 When all were gone, and they alone, 't was 
 
 thus the king begun : — 
 
 " What news be these, Alarcos, that you your 
 
 word did plight 
 To be a husband to my child and love her day 
 
 and night ? 
 If more between you there did pass, yourself 
 
 may know the truth ; 
 But shamed is my gray head, alas ! and scorned 
 
 Solisa's youth. 
 
 " I have a heavy word to speak : a lady fair 
 
 doth lie 
 Within my daughter's rightful place, and, certes, 
 
 she must die : 
 Let it be noised that sickness cut short her 
 
 tender life ; 
 Then come and woo my daughter, and she shall 
 
 be your wife. 
 What passed between you long ago, of that be 
 
 nothing said ; 
 Thus none shall my dishonor know, — in honor 
 
 you shall wed." 
 
 Thus spake the Count Alarcos: "The truth 
 
 I 'll not deny, — 
 I to the Infanta gave my troth, and broke it 
 
 shamefully ; 
 I feared my king would ne'er consent to give 
 
 me his fair daughter. 
 But, O, spare her that 's innocent! — avoid that 
 
 sinful slaughter ! " 
 
 "She dies! she dies!" the king replies; — 
 " from thine own sin it springs, 
 
 If guiltless blood must wash the blot that stains 
 the blood of kings ; 
 
 Ere morning dawn her life must end, and thine 
 must be the deed, — 
 
 Else thou on shameful block must bend there- 
 of is no remeed." 
 
648 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 " Good King, my hand thou may'st command, 
 
 else treason blots my name : 
 I 'II take the life of my dear wife. — God ! mine 
 
 be not the blame ! — 
 Alas ! that young and sinless heart for others' 
 
 sin should bleed ! 
 Good King, in sorrow I depart." "May God 
 
 your errand speed ! " 
 
 In sorrow he departed, dejectedly he rode 
 
 The weary journey from that place unto his 
 own abode : 
 
 He grieved for his fair countess, — dear as his 
 life was she; 
 
 Sore grieved he for that lady, and for his chil- 
 dren three. 
 
 The one was yet an infant upon its mother's 
 breast, — 
 
 For though it had three nurses, it liked her 
 milk the best ; 
 
 The others were young children, that had but 
 little wit, 
 
 Hanging about their mother's knee while nurs- 
 ing she did sit. 
 
 "Alas ! " he said, when he had come within a 
 
 little space, — 
 "How shall I brook the cheerful look of my 
 
 kind lady's face ? 
 To see her coming forth in glee to meet me in 
 
 my hall, 
 When she so soon a corpse must be, — and I 
 
 the cause of all ! " 
 
 Just then he saw her at the door with all her 
 
 babes appear 
 (The little page had run before to tell his lord 
 
 was near) : 
 " Now welcome home, my lord, my life ! — 
 
 Alas ! you droop your head ! 
 Tell, Count Alarcos, tell your wife, what makes 
 
 your eyes so red ? " 
 
 "I '11 tell you all, — I '11 tell you all ; it is not 
 
 yet the hour ; 
 We '11 sup together in the hall, — I '11 tell you 
 
 in your bower." 
 The lady brought forth what she had, and down 
 
 beside him sat ; 
 tie sat beside her pale and sad, but neither 
 
 drank nor ate. 
 
 The children to his side were led, — he loved 
 
 to have them so ; 
 Then on the board he laid his head, and out 
 
 his tears did flow : 
 "I fain would sleep, — I fain would sleep," the 
 
 Count Alarcos said ■ 
 Alas! be sure, that sleep was none that night 
 
 within their bed. 
 
 They came together to the bower where they 
 
 were used to rest, — 
 None with them but the little babe that was 
 
 upon the breast : 
 
 The count had barred the chamber-doors, — 
 they ne'er were barred till then : 
 
 " Unhappy lady," he began, " and I most lost 
 of men ! " 
 
 " Now speak not so, my noble lord, my hus- 
 band, and my life ! 
 
 Unhappy never can she be that is Alarcos' 
 wife." 
 
 "Alas! unhappy lady, 'tis but little that you 
 know ; 
 
 For in that very word you 've said is gathered 
 all your woe. 
 
 "Long since I loved a lady, — long since I 
 
 oaths did plight 
 To be that lady's husband, to love her day and 
 
 night; 
 Her father is our lord the king, — to him the 
 
 thing is known ; 
 And now that I the news should bring ! she 
 
 claims me for her own. 
 
 " Alas ! my love ! — alas ! my life ! — the right 
 
 is on their side ; 
 Ere I had seen your face, sweet wife, she was 
 
 betrothed my bride ; 
 But, O, that I should speak the word ! — since 
 
 in her place you lie, 
 It is the bidding of our lord that you this night 
 
 must die." 
 
 " Are these the wages of my love, so lowly and 
 
 so leal ? 
 O, kill me not, thou noble Count, when at thy 
 
 foot I kneel ! 
 But send me to my father's house, where once 
 
 I dwelt in glee ; 
 There will I live a lone, chaste life, and rear 
 
 my children three." 
 
 " It may not be, — mine oath is strong, — ere 
 
 dawn of day you die ! " 
 " O, well 't is seen how all alone upon the 
 
 earth am I ! — 
 My father is an old, frail man, — my mother's 
 
 in her grave, — 
 And dead is stout Don Garci, — alas ! my 
 
 brother brave ! 
 
 " 'T was at this coward king's command they 
 
 slew my brother dear, 
 And now I 'm helpless in the land : it is not 
 
 death I fear ; 
 But loth, loth am I to depart, and leave my 
 
 children so ; — 
 Now let me lay them to my heart, and kiss 
 
 them ere I go." 
 
 " Kiss him that lies upon thy breast, — the rest 
 
 thou may'st not see." 
 " I fain would say an ave." " Then say it 
 
 speedily." 
 She knelt her down upon her knee : "O Lord, 
 
 behold my case ! 
 Judge not my deeds, but look on me in pity and 
 
 great grace ! " 
 
MOORISH BALLADS. 
 
 64C 
 
 When she had made her orison, up from her 
 
 knees she rose : — 
 " Be kind, Alarcos, to our babes, and pray for 
 
 my repose ; 
 And now give me my boy once more upon my 
 
 breast to hold, 
 That lie may drink one farewell drink, before 
 
 my breast be cold." 
 
 " Why would you waken the poor child ? you 
 
 see he is asleep ; 
 Prepare, dear wife, — there is no time, — the 
 
 dawn begins to peep." 
 " Now hear me, Count Alarcos ! I give thee 
 
 pardon free, 
 I pardon thee for the love's sake wherewith 
 
 I 've loved thee ; — 
 
 " But they have not my pardon, the king and 
 his proud daughter; 
 
 The curse of God be on them, for this unchris- 
 tian slaughter ! 
 
 I charge them with my dying breath, ere thirty 
 days be gone, 
 
 To meet me in the realm of death, and at God's 
 awful throne ! " 
 
 He drew a kerchief round her neck, he drew i' 
 
 tight and strong, 
 Until she lay quite stiff and cold her chamber 
 
 floor along ; 
 He laid her then within the sheets, and, kneel 
 
 ing by her side, 
 To God and Mary Mother in misery he cried 
 
 Then called he for his esquires: — O, deep was 
 
 their dismay, 
 When they into the chamber came, and saw hei 
 
 how she lay. 
 Thus died she in her innocence, a lady void o 
 
 wrong; 
 But God took heed of their offence, — his 
 
 vengeance stayed not long. 
 
 Within twelve days, in pain and dole, the In- 
 fanta passed away ; 
 
 The cruel king gave up his soul upon the twen 
 tieth day ; 
 
 Alarcos followed, ere the moon had made hei 
 round complete : 
 
 Three guilty spirits stood right soon before 
 God's judgment-seat. 
 
 Ill— MOORISH BALLADS. 
 THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN. 
 
 At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts 
 are barred, 
 
 At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a tram- 
 pling heard ; 
 
 There is a trampling heard, as of horses tread- 
 ing slow, 
 
 And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy 
 sound of woe ! — 
 
 " What tower is fallen ? what star is set? what 
 chief come these bewailing? " 
 
 " A tower is fallen ! a star is set ! — Alas! alas 
 for Celin I" 
 
 Three times they knock, three times they cry, — 
 
 and wide the doors they throw ; 
 Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go; 
 In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath 
 
 the hollow porch, 
 Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and 
 
 flaming torch ; 
 Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around 
 
 is wailing, — 
 For all have heard the misery, — "Alas! alas 
 
 for Celin!" 
 
 Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerrage's 
 
 blood, — 
 T was at the solemn jousting, — around the 
 nobles stood ; 
 
 The nobles of the land were by, and ladies 
 bright and fair 
 
 Looked from their latticed windows, the haugh- 
 ty sight to share : 
 
 But now the nobles all lament, — the ladies are 
 
 bewailing, — 
 For he was Granada's darling knight, — "Alas! 
 
 alas for Celin ! " 
 
 Before him ride his vassals, in order two by 
 
 two, 
 With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful 
 
 to view ; 
 Behind hiin his four sisters, each wrapped in 
 
 sable veil, 
 Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up 
 
 their doleful tale ; 
 When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their 
 
 brotherless bewailing, 
 And all the people, far and near, cry, — " Alas ! 
 
 alas for Celin ! " 
 
 O, lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple 
 
 pall, 
 The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest 
 
 of them all ! 
 His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is 
 
 pale, 
 The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his 
 
 burnished mail ; 
 And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in 
 
 upon their wailing, — 
 Its sound is like no earthly sound, — "Alas! 
 
 alas for Celin ! " 
 
 The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, — the 
 
 Moor stands at his door ; 
 One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is 
 
 weeping sore ; 
 
 3c 
 
650 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 Down to the dust men bow their heads, and 
 
 ashes black they strew 
 Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, 
 
 green, and blue ; 
 Before each gate the bier stands still, — then 
 
 bursts the loud bewailing, 
 From door and lattice, high and low, — "Alas! 
 
 alas for Celin ! " 
 
 An old, old woman cometh forth, when she 
 
 hears the people cry, — 
 Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed 
 
 eye ; 
 'T was she that nursed him at her breast, — that 
 
 nursed him long ago : 
 She knows not whom they all lament, but soon 
 
 she well shall know ! 
 With one deep shriek, she through doth break, 
 
 when her ears receive their wailing, — 
 " Let me kiss my Celin, ere I die ! — Alas ! alas 
 
 for Celin ! " 
 
 THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL. 
 
 King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the 
 
 trumpet sound, 
 He hath summoned all the Moorish lords from 
 
 the hills and plains around ; 
 From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil, 
 They have come with helm and cuirass of gold 
 
 and twisted steel. 
 
 'T is the holy Baptist's feast they hold in roy- 
 alty and state, 
 
 And they have closed the spacious lists, beside 
 the Alhambra's gate; 
 
 In gowns of black with silver laced, within the 
 tented ring, 
 
 Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed, in 
 presence of the king. 
 
 Eight Moorish lords, of valor tried, with stalwart 
 
 arm and true, 
 The onset of the beasts abide, as they come 
 
 rushing through : 
 The deeds they 've done, the spoils they 've 
 
 won, fill all with hope and trust ; 
 Yet, ere high in heaven appears the sun, they 
 
 all have bit the dust ! 
 
 Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs 
 the loud tambour : 
 
 Make room, make room for Gazul ! — throw 
 wide, throw wide the door ! — 
 
 Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still ! more loud- 
 ly strike the drum ! — 
 
 The alcayde of Algava to fight the bull doth 
 come. 
 
 And^first before the king he passed, with rev- 
 erence stooping low ; 
 
 And next he bowed him to the queen, and the 
 Infantas all a-row ; 
 
 Then to his lady's grace he turned, and she to 
 
 him did throw 
 A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than 
 
 the snow. 
 
 With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all 
 
 slippery is the sand, 
 Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta'en his 
 
 stand ; 
 And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords 
 
 with anxious eye : 
 But firmly he extends his arm, — his look is 
 
 calm and high. 
 
 Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and 
 
 two come roaring on : 
 He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his 
 
 rcjon ; 
 Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him 
 
 such a blow, 
 He blindly totters and gives back across the 
 
 sand to go. 
 
 "Turn, Gazul, — turn!" the people cry- the 
 
 third comes up behind ; 
 Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils 
 
 snuff the wind ; — 
 The mountaineers that lead the steers without 
 
 stand whispering low, 
 " Now thinks this proud alcayde to stun Har 
 
 pado so ? " 
 
 From Guadiana comes he not, he comes riot 
 
 from Xenil, 
 From Guadalarif of the plain, or Barves of the 
 
 hill; 
 But where from out the forest burst Xarama's 
 
 waters clear, 
 Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, — this 
 
 proud and stately steer. 
 
 Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood 
 
 within doth boil, 
 And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he 
 
 paws to the turmoil : 
 His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal 
 
 rings of snow ; 
 But now they stare with one, red glare of brass 
 
 upon the foe. 
 
 Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand 
 close and near, — 
 
 From out the broad and wrinkled skull like 
 daggers they appear ; 
 
 His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old, 
 knotted tree, 
 
 Whereon the monster's shagged mane, like bil- 
 lows curled, ye see. 
 
 His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs 
 
 are black as night, 
 Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness 
 
 of his might ; 
 Like something molten oat of iron, or hewn 
 
 from forth the rock, 
 Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the alcayde s 
 
 shock. 
 
MOORISH BALLADS. 
 
 651 
 
 Now stops the drum : close, close they come ; 
 
 thrice meet, and thrice give back ; 
 The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's 
 
 breast of black, — 
 The white foam of the charger on Harpado's 
 
 front of dun ; — 
 Once more advance upon his lance, — once 
 
 more, thou fearless one ! 
 
 Once more, once more! — in dust and gore to 
 ruin must thou reel ! — 
 
 In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with fu- 
 rious heel ! — 
 
 In vain, in vain, thou noble beast! — I see, I 
 see thee stagger ! 
 
 Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the 
 stern alcayde's dagger ! 
 
 They have slipped a noose around his feet, six 
 
 " horses are brought in, 
 And away they drag Harpado with a loud and 
 
 joyful din. 
 Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the 
 
 ring of price bestow 
 Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado 
 
 low ! 
 
 THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. 
 
 •'Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cush- 
 ion down ; 
 
 Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with 
 all the town ! 
 
 From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are 
 flowing, 
 
 And the lovely lute doth speak between the 
 trumpet's lordly blowing ; 
 
 And banners bright from lattice light are wav- 
 ing everywhere, 
 
 And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bride- 
 groom floats proudly in the air : 
 
 Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion 
 down ; 
 
 Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with 
 all the town ! 
 
 "Arise, arise, Xarifa! I see Andalla's face, — 
 He bends him to the people with a calm and 
 
 princely grace ; 
 Through all the land of Xeres and banks of 
 
 Guadalquivir 
 Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave 
 
 and lovely, never. 
 Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple 
 
 mixed with white, 
 I guess 't was wreathed by Zara, whom he will 
 
 wed to-night. 
 Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion 
 
 down ; 
 Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with 
 
 all the town ' 
 
 " What aileth thee, Xarifa ? — what makes thine 
 eyes look down ? 
 
 Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze 
 with all the town ? 
 
 I 've heard you say, on many a day, — and, sure, 
 you said the truth, — 
 
 Andalla rides without a peer among all Grana- 
 da's youth. 
 
 Without a peer he rideth, — and yon milk-white 
 horse doth go, 
 
 Beneath his stately master, with a stately step 
 and slow : 
 
 Then rise, O, rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cush- 
 ion down ; 
 
 Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze 
 with all the town ! '* 
 
 The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion 
 
 down, 
 Nor came she to the window to gaze with all 
 
 the town ; 
 But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain 
 
 her fingers strove, — 
 And though her needle pressed the silk, no 
 
 flower Xarifa wove : 
 One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before the 
 
 noise drew nigh ; 
 That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow drooping 
 
 from her eye. 
 " No, no ! " she sighs, — " bid me not rise, nor 
 
 lay my cushion down, 
 To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing 
 
 town ! " 
 
 " Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cush 
 
 ion down ? 
 Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing 
 
 town ? 
 Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how 
 
 the people cry ! 
 He stops at Zara's palace-gate; — why sit ye 
 
 still, — O, why? " 
 " At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate ; in him shall 
 
 I discover 
 The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with 
 
 tears, and was my lover? 
 I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my 
 
 cushion down, 
 To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing 
 
 town ! " 
 
 WOE IS ME, ALHAMA!* 
 
 The Moorish king rides up and down 
 Through Granada's royal town ; 
 From Elvira's gates to those 
 Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 * The effect of the original ballad — which existed both 
 in Spanish and Arabic — was such, that it was forbidden to 
 be sung by the Moors, within Granada, on pain of death. 
 
652 SPANISH 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 • 
 
 Letters to the monarch tell 
 
 Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes 
 
 How Alhama's city fell; 
 
 The monarch's wrath began to rise, 
 
 In the fire the scroll he threw, 
 
 Because he answered, and because 
 
 And the messenger he slew. 
 
 He spake exceeding well of laws. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
 
 " There is no law to say such things 
 
 And through the street directs his course; 
 
 As may disgust the ear of kings " : — 
 
 Through the street of Zacatin 
 
 Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
 
 To the Alhambra spurring in. 
 
 The Moorish king, and doomed him dead 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 When the Alhambra walls he gained, 
 
 Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
 
 On the moment he ordained 
 
 Though thy beard so hoary be, 
 
 That the trumpet straight should sound 
 
 The king hath sent to have thee seized, 
 
 With the silver clarion round. 
 
 For Alhama's loss displeased ; — 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 And when the hollow drums of war 
 
 And to fix thy head upon 
 
 Beat the loud alarm afar, 
 
 High Alhambra's loftiest stone : 
 
 That the Moors of town and plain 
 
 That this for thee should be the law, 
 
 Might answer to the martial strain, — 
 
 And others tremble when they saw. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Then the Moors, by this aware 
 
 " Cavalier ! and man of worth ! 
 
 That bloody Mars recalled them there, 
 
 Let these words of mine go forth; 
 
 One by one, and two by two, 
 
 Let the Moorish monarch know, 
 
 To a mighty squadron grew. 
 
 That to him I nothing owe. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 Out then spake an aged Moor 
 
 t 
 "But on my soul Alhama weighs, 
 
 In these words the king before : 
 
 And on my inmost spirit preys; 
 
 "Wherefore call on us, King? 
 
 And if the king his land hath lost, 
 
 What may mean this gathering? " 
 
 Yet others may have lost the most.- 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 "Friends ! ye have, alas! to know 
 
 " Sires have lost their children, — wives, 
 
 Of a most disastrous blow, — 
 
 Their lords, — and valiant men, their lives ; 
 
 That the Christians, stern and bold, 
 
 One what best his love might claim 
 
 Have obtained Alhama's hold." 
 
 Hath lost, — another, wealth or fame. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
 
 " I lost a damsel in that hour, 
 
 With his beard so white to see : 
 
 Of all the land the loveliest flower; 
 
 "Good King, thou art justly served, — 
 
 Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 
 
 Good King, this thou hast deserved. 
 
 And think her ransom cheap that day." 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
 
 And as these things the old Moor said, 
 
 The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 
 
 They severed from the trunk his head; 
 
 And strangers were received by thee, 
 
 And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
 
 Of Cordova the Chivalry. 
 
 'T was carried, as the king decreed. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " And for this, King, is sent 
 
 And men and infants therein weep 
 
 On thee a double chastisement : 
 
 Their loss, so heavy and so deep; 
 
 Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
 
 Granada's ladies, all she rears 
 
 One last wreck shall overwhelm. 
 
 Within her walls, burst into tears. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " He who holds no laws in awe, 
 
 And from the windows o'er the wal s 
 
 He must perish by the law ; 
 
 The sable web of mourning falls, 
 
 And Granada must be won, 
 
 The king weeps as a woman o'er 
 
 And thyself with her undone." 
 
 His loss, — for it is much and sore. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
JUAN II. — SANTILLANA. 
 
 653 
 
 POETS OF THE CANCIONEROS. 
 
 JUAN II., KING OF CASTILE. 
 
 The reign of this king extended from 1407 
 to 1454. As a monarch, he displayed but little 
 energy ; yet his taste for letters attracted the 
 most distinguished poets to his court. Juan de 
 Mena was his chronicler ; and song-writing 
 was the fashionable pastime of his courtiers. 
 
 I NEVER KNEW IT, LOVE, TILL NOW. 
 
 I ne'er imagined, Love, that thou 
 Wert such a mighty one ; at will, 
 
 Thou canst both faith and conscience bow, 
 And thy despotic law fulfil : 
 
 I never knew it, Love, till now. 
 
 I thought I knew thee well, — I thought 
 
 That I thy mazes had explored ; 
 But I within thy nets am caught, 
 
 And now I own thee sovereign lord. 
 I ne'er imagined, Love, that thou 
 
 Wert such a mighty one; at will, 
 Thou bidd'st both faith and conscience bow, 
 
 And thy despotic law fulfil : 
 I never knew it, Love, till now. 
 
 LOPE DE MENDOZA, MARQUES DE 
 SANTILLANA. 
 
 This distinguished nobleman and poet was 
 born in 1398. He exercised great influence in 
 public affairs, and united with the business of 
 state the cultivation of poetry His letter on 
 the ancient poets of Spain is highly valued 
 for its learning and sound criticism. He was 
 created Marques de Santillana after the battle 
 of Olmedo, in 1445, his marquisate being the 
 second in Castile. He died in 1458. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 First shall the singing spheres be dumb, 
 
 And cease their rolling motion, 
 Alecto pitiful become, 
 
 And Pluto move devotion, 
 Ere to thy virtues, printed deep 
 
 Within my heart, I prove 
 Thoughtless, or leave thine eyes to weep, 
 
 My soul, my life, my love ! 
 
 Successful Caesar first shall cease 
 
 To fight for an ovation, 
 And force defenced Priamides 
 
 To sign a recantation, 
 
 Ere, my sweet idol, thou shalt fret, 
 
 Neglect in me to trace, — 
 Ere I one lineament forget 
 
 In all that charming face. 
 
 Sinon shall guilelessly behave, 
 
 Thais with virtue, Cupid 
 Meekly, Sardanapalus brave, 
 
 And Solomon grow stupid, 
 Ere, gentle creature, from my mind 
 
 Thine image flits away, 
 Whose evermore I am, resigned 
 
 Thy biddings to obey. 
 
 Swart Ethiopia shall grow chill 
 
 With wintry congelation, 
 Cold Scythia hot, and Scylla still 
 
 Her boiling tide's gyration, 
 Ere my charmed spirit shall have power 
 
 To tear itself away, 
 In freedom, but for one short hour, 
 
 From thy celestial sway. 
 
 Lions and tigers shall make peace 
 
 With lambs, and play together, 
 Sands shall be counted, and deep seas 
 
 Grow dry in rainy weather, 
 Ere Fortune shall the influence have 
 
 To make my soul resign 
 Its bliss, and call itself the slave 
 
 Of any charms but thine. 
 
 For thou the magnet art, and I 
 
 The needle, O my beauty ! 
 And every hour thou draw'st me nigh, 
 
 In voluntary duty: 
 Nor is this wonderful ; for call 
 
 The proudest, she will feel 
 That thou the mirror art of all 
 
 The ladies in Castile. 
 
 SERRANA. 
 
 I ne'er on the border 
 Saw girl fair as Rosa, 
 
 The charming milk-maiden 
 Of sweet Finojosa. 
 
 Once making a journey 
 
 To Santa Maria 
 Of Calataveno, 
 
 From weary desire 
 Of sleep, down a valley 
 
 I strayed, where young Rosa 
 I saw, the milk-maiden 
 
 Of lone Finojosa. 
 
 In a pleasant green meadow, 
 'Midst roses and grasses, 
 
 Her herd she was tending, 
 With other fair lasses; 
 3c* 
 
654 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 So lovely her aspect, 
 
 I could not suppose her 
 A simple milk-maiden 
 
 Of rude Finojosa. 
 
 I think not primroses 
 
 Have half her smile's sweetness, 
 Or mild, modest beauty ; — 
 
 I speak with discreetness. 
 O, had I beforehand 
 
 But known of this Rosa, 
 The handsome milk-maiden 
 
 Of far Finojosa, — 
 
 Her very great beauty 
 
 Had not so subdued, 
 Because it had left me 
 
 To do as I would ! 
 I have said more, O fair one, 
 
 By learning 't was Rosa, 
 The charming milk-maiden 
 
 Of sweet Finojosa. 
 
 JUAN DE MENA. 
 
 Juan de Mesa was born in Cordova, about 
 1400, and belonged to a distinguished family. 
 He studied at Salamanca, and then visited Rome, 
 where he became acquainted with the writings 
 of Dante. On his return, his talents recom- 
 mended him to the favor of King Juan II. and 
 the Marques de Santillana. His greatest work, 
 "El Laberinto," or "Las Trecientas Coplas," 
 is an allegorical composition in imitation of 
 Dante. Mena died in 1456, at Guadalaxara. 
 
 FROM THE LABERINTO. 
 MACIAS EL ENAMORADO. 
 
 We in this radiant circle looked so long, 
 That we found out Macias ; in a bower 
 Of cypress was he weeping still the hour 
 
 That ended his dark life and love in wrong. 
 
 Nearer I drew, for sympathy was strong 
 
 In me, when I perceived he was from Spain ; 
 And there I heard him sing the saddest strain 
 
 That ere was tuned in elegiac song. 
 
 ' Love crowned me with his myrtle crown ; my 
 name 
 Will be pronounced by many ; but, alas ! 
 When his pangs caused me bliss, not slighter 
 was 
 The mournful suffering that consumed my 
 
 frame. 
 His sweet snares conquer the lorn mind they 
 tame, 
 But do not always then continue sweet; 
 And since they caused me ruin so complete, 
 Turn, lovr/s, turn, and disesteem his flame. 
 
 " Danger so passionate be glad to miss ; 
 
 Learn to be gay ; flee, flee from sorrow's 
 
 touch ; 
 Learn to disserve him you have served so 
 much ; 
 Your devoirs pay at any shrine but his: 
 If the short joy that in his service is 
 
 Were but proportioned to the long, long pain, 
 Neither would he that once has loved com- 
 plain, 
 Nor he that ne'er has loved despair of bliss 
 
 " But even as some assassin or night-rover, 
 Seeing his fellow wound upon the wheel, 
 Awed by the agony, resolves with zeal 
 
 His life to amend and character recover ; 
 
 But when the fearful spectacle is over, 
 Reacts his crimes with easy unconcern 
 So my amours on my despair return, 
 
 That I should die, as I have lived, a lover ! " 
 
 LORENZO DAVALOS. 
 
 He whom thou view'st there in the round of 
 
 Mars, 
 Who toils to mount, yet treads on empty air, — 
 Whose face of manly beauty 's seen to bear 
 The gashing print of two deforming scars, — 
 Virtuous, but smiled on by no partial stars,: — 
 Is young Lorenzo, loved by all ; a chief, 
 Who waged and finished, in a day too brief, 
 The first and last of his adventured wars. 
 
 He, whom his sire's renown had ever spurred 
 
 To worth, the Infante's cherished friend, and 
 pride 
 
 Of the most mournful mother that e'er sighed 
 To see her pleasant offspring first interred ! — 
 O sharp, remorseless Fortune ! at thy word, 
 
 Two precious things were thrown away in 
 vain, — 
 
 His brave existence, and her tears of pain, 
 By the keen torment of the sword incurred. 
 
 Well spoke the mother in the piteous cries 
 She raised, soon as she saw, with many a tear, 
 That body stretched upon the gory bier, 
 Which she had nursed with such unsleeping 
 
 eyes ! 
 With cruel clamors she upbraids the skies, 
 Wounds with new sorrows her weak frame, 
 
 and so 
 Droops, — weary soul ! — that, with the migh- 
 ty woe, 
 She faints and falls in death's serene disguise. 
 
 Then her fair breast with little ruth or dread 
 To beat, her flesh with cruel nails to tear, 
 Kiss his cold lips, and in her mad despair 
 
 Curse the fierce hand that smote his helmed head, 
 
 And the wild battle where her darling bled, 
 Is all she does, — whilst, quarrelsome from 
 
 grief 
 And busy wrath, she wars with all relief, 
 
 Till scarce the living differs from the dead. 
 
JUAN DE MENA. — CARTAGENA. — MANRIQUE. 
 
 655 
 
 Weeping, she murmurs, " It had been more 
 kind, 
 O cruel murderer of my son, to kill 
 Me, and leave him, who was not in his will 
 So fierce a foe ! he to a mother's mind 
 Was much more precious, — and who slays, to 
 bind 
 The lesser prey ? thou never shouldst have 
 
 bared 
 Thy blade on him, unless thou wert prepared 
 To leave me sad and moaning to the wind. 
 
 " Had death but struck me first, my darling boy 
 With these his pious hands mine eyes had 
 
 closed, 
 Ere his were sealed, and I had well reposed, 
 
 Dying but once ; whilst now — alas, the annoy ! — 
 
 I shall die often ; I, whose sole employ 
 
 Is thus to bathe his wounds with tears of blood 
 Unrecognized, though lavished in a flood 
 
 Of fondness, dead to every future joy ! " 
 
 ALONSO DE CARTAGENA. 
 
 This poet belongs to the first half of the 
 fifteenth century. He is particularly noted for 
 the fire and passion of his amatory poetry, 
 which he probably wrote in his youth. The 
 latter portion of his life was devoted to spiritual 
 affairs, and he died Archbishop of Burgos, in 
 1456. 
 
 PAIN IN PLEASURE. 
 
 O, labor not, impatient will, 
 
 With anxious thought and busy care ! 
 Whatever be thy doom, — whate'er 
 
 Thy power, or thy perverseness, — still 
 A germ of sorrow will be there. 
 
 If thou wilt think of moments gone, 
 
 Of joys as exquisite as brief, 
 Know, memory, when she lingers on 
 
 Past pleasure, turns it all to grief. 
 The struggling toil for bliss is vain, 
 
 The dreams of hope are vainer yet, 
 
 The end of glory is regret, 
 And death is but the goal of pain, 
 
 And memory's eye with tears is wet. 
 
 NO. THAT CAN NEVER BE! 
 
 Yes! I must leave, — O, yes! 
 But not the thoughts of thee; 
 For that can never be ! 
 
 To absence, loneliness, 
 
 'T is vain, — 't is vain to flee; 
 I see thee not the less, 
 
 When memory's shades 1 see ; 
 And how can I repress 
 
 The rising thoughts of thee ? 
 
 No, that can never be ' 
 
 Yet must I leave; — the grave 
 Shall be a home for me, 
 
 Where fettered grief shall have 
 A portion with the free. 
 
 I other than a slave 
 
 To thy strange witchery 
 Can never, never be ! 
 
 JORGE MANRIQUE. 
 
 Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the 
 following poem, flourished in the latter half of 
 the fifteenth century. He followed the profes- 
 sion of arms, and died on the field of battle. 
 Mariana, in his "History of Spain," makes 
 honorable mention of him, as being present at 
 the siege of Ucles; and speaks of him as "a 
 youth of estimable qualities, who in this war 
 gave brilliant proofs of his valor. He died 
 young ; and was thus cut off from long exer- 
 cising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the 
 world the light of his genius, which was 
 already known to fame." He was mortally 
 wounded in a skirmish near Caiiavete, in the 
 year 1479. 
 
 The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father 
 of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de 
 Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and 
 song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, 
 in the town of Ucles; but, according to the 
 poem of his son, in Ocana. It was his death 
 that called forth the poem upon which rests the 
 literary reputation of the younger Manrique. 
 In the language of his historian, "Don Jorge 
 Manrique, in an elegant ode, full of poetic 
 beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and 
 high moral reflections, mourned the death of 
 his father as with a funeral hymn." This praise 
 is not exaggerated. The poem is a model in 
 its kind. Its conception is solemn and beauti- 
 ful ; and in accordance with it the style moves 
 on, — calm, dignified, and majestic. 
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 O, let the soul her slumbers break ! 
 Let thought be quickened, and awake , ■ 
 
 Awake to see 
 How soon this life is past and gone, 
 And death comes softly stealing on,- - 
 
 How silently ! 
 
 Swiftly our pleasures glide away : 
 Our hearts recall the distant day 
 
 With many sighs; 
 The moments that are speeding fast 
 We heed not; but the past — the past- 
 
 More highly prize. 
 
 Onward its course the present keeps, 
 Onward the constant current sweeps. 
 Till life is done ; 
 
656 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 ■ 
 
 And did we judge of time aright, 
 The past and future in their flight 
 Would he as one. 
 
 Let no one fondly dream again 
 That Hope and all her shadowy train 
 
 Will not decay ; 
 Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 
 Remembered like a tale that 's told, 
 
 They pass away. 
 
 Our lives are rivers, gliding free 
 To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
 
 The silent grave : 
 Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
 Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
 
 In one dark wave. 
 
 Thither the mighty torrents stray, 
 Thither the brook pursues its way, 
 
 And tinkling rill. 
 There all are equal. Side by side, 
 The poor man and the son of pride 
 
 Lie calm and still. 
 
 I will not here invoke the throng 
 Of orators and sons of song, 
 
 The deathless few ; 
 Fiction entices and deceives, 
 And sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves 
 
 Lies poisonous dew. 
 
 To One alone my thoughts arise, — 
 
 The Eternal Truth, — the Good and Wise: 
 
 To Him I cry, 
 Who shared on earth our common lot, 
 But the world comprehended not 
 
 His deity. 
 
 This world is but the rugged road 
 Which leads us to the bright abode 
 
 Of peace above; 
 So let us choose that narrow way 
 Which leads no traveller's foot astray 
 
 From realms of love. 
 
 Our cradle is the starting-place ; 
 In life we run the onward race, 
 
 And reach the goal ; 
 When, in the mansions of the blest, 
 Death leaves to its eternal rest 
 
 The weary soul. 
 
 Did we but use it as we ought, 
 This world would school each wandering 
 thought 
 
 To its high state. 
 Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, 
 Up to that better world on high 
 
 For which we wait. 
 
 Yes, — the glad messenger of love, 
 To guide us to our home above, 
 
 The Saviour came ; 
 Born amid mortal cares and fears, 
 He suffered in this vale of tears 
 
 A death of shame. 
 
 Behold of what delusive worth 
 The bubbles we pursue on earth, 
 
 The shapes we chase, 
 Amid a world of treachery ! 
 They vanish ere death shuts the eye, 
 
 And leave no trace. 
 
 Time steals them from us, — chances 
 
 strange, 
 Disastrous accidents, and change, 
 
 That come to all : 
 Even in the most exalted state, 
 Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 
 
 The strongest fall. 
 
 Tell me, — the charms that lovers seek 
 In the clear eye and blushing cheek, — 
 
 The hues that play 
 O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, — 
 When hoary age approaches slow, 
 
 Ah, where are they ? 
 
 The cunning skill, the curious arts, 
 The glorious strength that youth imparts 
 
 In life's first stage, — 
 These shall become a heavy weight, 
 When Time swings wide his outward gate 
 
 To weary age. 
 
 The noble blood of Gothic name, 
 Heroes emblazoned high to fame, 
 
 In long array, — 
 How, in the onward course of time, 
 The landmarks of that race sublime 
 
 Were swept away ! 
 
 Some, the degraded slaves of lust, 
 Prostrate and trampled in the dust, 
 
 Shall rise no more ; 
 Others by guilt and crime maintain 
 The scutcheon that without a stain 
 
 Their fathers bore. 
 
 Wealth and the high estate of pride, 
 With what untimely speed they glide, 
 
 How soon depart ! 
 Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, — 
 The vassals of a mistress, they, 
 
 Of fickle heart. 
 
 These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; 
 Her swift-revolving wheel turns round, 
 
 And they are gone ! 
 No rest the inconstant goddess knows, 
 But changing, and without repose, 
 
 Still hurries on. 
 
 Even could the hand of avarice save 
 Its gilded bawbles, till the grave 
 
 Reclaimed its prey, 
 Let none on such poor hopes rely, 
 Life, like an empty dream, flits by, 
 
 And where are they ? 
 
 Earthly desires and sensual lust 
 Are passions springing from the dust, — 
 They fade and die; 
 
MANRIQUE. 657 
 
 But, in the life beyond the tomb, 
 
 Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, 
 
 They seal the immortal spirit's doom 
 
 And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, 
 
 Eternally ! 
 
 And nodding plume, — 
 
 
 What were they but a pageant scene ? 
 
 The pleasures and delights which mask 
 
 What, but the garlands, gay and green, 
 
 In treacherous smiles life's serious task, 
 
 That deck the tomb ? 
 
 What are they all, , 
 
 
 But the fleet coursers of the chase,— 
 
 Where are the high-born dames, and where 
 
 And death an ambush in the race, 
 
 Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 
 
 Wherein we fall ? 
 
 And odors sweet ? 
 
 
 Where are the gentle knights, that came 
 
 No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, 
 
 To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, 
 
 Brook no delay, — but onward speed, 
 
 Low at their feet? 
 
 With loosened rein ; 
 
 
 And when the fatal snare is- near, 
 
 Where is the song of Troubadour ? 
 
 We strive to check our mad career, 
 
 Where are the lute and gay tambour 
 
 But strive in vain. 
 
 They loved of yore ? 
 
 
 Where is the mazy dance of old, — 
 
 Could we new charms to age impart, 
 
 The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, 
 
 And fashion with a cunning art 
 
 The dancers wore ? 
 
 The human face, 
 
 
 As we can clothe the soul with light, 
 
 And he who next the sceptre swayed, 
 
 And make the glorious spirit bright 
 
 Henry, whose royal court displayed 
 
 With heavenly grace, — 
 
 Such power and pride, — 
 
 
 O, in what winning smiles arrayed, 
 
 How busily, each passing hour, 
 
 The world its various pleasures laid 
 
 Should we exert that magic power ! 
 
 His throne beside ! 
 
 What ardor show 
 
 
 To deck the sensual slave of sin, 
 
 But, O, how false and full of guile 
 
 Yet leave the freeborn soul within 
 
 That world, which wore so soft a smile 
 
 In wesds of woe ! 
 
 But to betray ! 
 
 
 She, that had been his friend before, 
 
 Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, 
 
 Now from the fated monarch tore 
 
 Famous in history and in song 
 
 Her charms away. 
 
 Of olden time, 
 
 
 Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, 
 
 The countless gifts, — the stately walls, 
 
 Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 
 
 The royal palaces, and halls 
 
 Their race sublime. 
 
 All filled with gold; 
 
 
 Plate with armorial bearings wrought, 
 
 Who is the champion ? who the strong? 
 
 Chambers with ample treasures fraught 
 
 Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng? 
 
 Of wealth untold; 
 
 On these shall fall 
 
 
 As heavily the hand of Death, 
 
 The noble steeds, and harness bright, 
 
 As when it stays the shepherd's breath 
 
 And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, 
 
 Beside his stall. 
 
 In rich array ; — 
 
 
 Where shall we seek them now? Alas ! 
 
 I speak not of the Trojan name, — 
 
 Like the bright dew-drops on the grass, 
 
 Neither its glory nor its shame 
 
 They passed away. 
 
 Has met our eyes ; 
 
 
 Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, — 
 
 His brother, too, whose factious zeal 
 
 Though we have heard so oft, and read, 
 
 Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 
 
 Their histories. 
 
 Unskilled to reign, — 
 
 
 What a gay, brilliant court had he, 
 
 Little avails it now to know 
 
 When all the flower of chivalry 
 
 Of ages past so long ago, 
 
 Was in his train ! 
 
 Nor how they rolled ; 
 
 
 Our theme shall be of yesterday, 
 
 But he was mortal, and the breath 
 
 Which to oblivion sweeps away, 
 
 That flamed from the hot forge of Death 
 
 Like days of old. 
 
 Blasted his years ; 
 
 
 Judgment of God ! that flame by thee, 
 
 Where is the king, Don Juan ? where 
 
 When raging fierce and fearfully, 
 
 Each royal prince and noble heir 
 
 Was quenched in tears ! 
 
 Of Aragon ? 
 
 
 Where are the courtly gallantries ? 
 
 Spain's haughtv Constable, — the true 
 
 The deeds of love and high emprise, 
 
 And gallant Master, — whom we knew 
 
 In battle done ? 
 
 83 1 
 
 Most loved of all, — 
 
658 SPANISH 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 Breathe not a whisper of his pride* 
 
 Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 
 
 He on the gloomy scaffold died, — 
 
 And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
 
 Ignoble fall ! 
 
 Or dark despair ; 
 
 
 Midway so many toils appear, 
 
 The countless treasures of his care, 
 
 That he who lingers longest here 
 
 His hamlets green and cities fair, 
 
 Knows most of care. 
 
 His mighty power, — 
 
 
 What were they all but grief and shame, 
 
 Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 
 
 Tears and a broken heart, when came 
 
 By the hot sweat of toil alone, 
 
 The parting hour? 
 
 And weary hearts ; 
 
 
 Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 
 
 His other brothers, proud and high, — 
 
 But with a lingering step and slow 
 
 Masters, who, in prosperity, 
 
 Its form departs. 
 
 Might rival kings, — 
 
 
 Who made the bravest and the best 
 
 And he, the good man's shield and shade, 
 
 The bondsmen of their high behest, 
 
 To whom all hearts their homage paid, 
 
 Their underlings, — 
 
 As Virtue's son, — 
 
 
 Roderick Manrique, — he whose name 
 
 What was their prosperous estate, 
 
 Is written on the scroll of Fame, 
 
 When high exalted and elate 
 
 Spain's champion ; 
 
 With power and pride? 
 
 
 What, but a transient gleam of light, — 
 
 His signal deeds and prowess high 
 
 A flame, which, glaring at its height, 
 
 Demand no pompous eulogy, — 
 
 Grew dim and died ? 
 
 Ye saw his deeds ! 
 
 
 Why should their praise in verse be sung? 
 
 So many a duke of royal name, 
 
 The name that dwells on every tongue 
 
 Marquis and count of spotless fame, 
 
 No minstrel needs. 
 
 And baron brave, 
 
 
 That might the sword of empire wield, — 
 
 To friends a friend ; — how kind to all 
 
 All these, O Death, hast thou concealed 
 
 The vassals of this ancient hall 
 
 In the dark grave ! 
 
 And feudal fief! 
 
 
 To foes how stern a foe was he ! 
 
 Their deeds of mercy and of arms, 
 
 And to the valiant and the free 
 
 In peaceful days, or war's alarms, 
 
 How brave a chief! 
 
 When thou dost show, 
 
 
 O Death, thy stern and angry face, 
 
 What prudence with the old and wise ! 
 
 One stroke of thy all-powerful mace 
 
 What grace in youthful gayeties ! 
 
 Can overthrow ! 
 
 In all how sage ! 
 
 
 Benignant to the serf and slave, 
 
 Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, — 
 
 He showed the base and falsely brave 
 
 Pennon and standard flaunting high, 
 
 A lion's rage. 
 
 And flag displayed, — 
 
 
 High battlements intrenched around, 
 
 His was Octavian's prosperous star, 
 
 Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, 
 
 The rush of Caesar's conquering car 
 
 And palisade, 
 
 At battle's call ; 
 
 
 His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill 
 
 And covered trench, secure and deep, — 
 
 And the indomitable will 
 
 All these cannot one victim keep, 
 
 Of Hannibal. 
 
 O Death, from thee, 
 
 
 Whbn thou dost battle in thy wrath, 
 
 His was a Trajan's goodness ; his 
 
 And thy strong shafts pursue their path 
 
 A Titus' noble charities 
 
 Unerringly ! 
 
 And righteous laws; 
 
 
 The arm of Hector, and the might 
 
 O World ! so few the years we live, 
 
 Of Tully, to maintain the right 
 
 Would that the life which thou dost give 
 
 In truth's just cause ; 
 
 Were life indeed ! 
 
 
 Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast, 
 
 The clemency of Antonine; 
 
 Our happiest hour is when, at last, 
 
 Aurelius' countenance divine, 
 
 The soul is free. 
 
 Firm, gentle, still ; 
 
 
 The eloquence of Adrian ; 
 
 Our days are covered o'er with grief, 
 
 And Theodosius' love to man, 
 
 And sorrows neither few nor brief 
 
 And generous will ; 
 
 Veil all in gloom ; 
 
 
 Left desolate of real good, 
 
 In tented field and bloody fray, 
 
 Within this cheerless solitude 
 
 An Alexander's vigorous sway 
 
 No pleasures bloom 
 
 And stern command; 
 
MANRIQUE. 
 
 659 
 
 The faith of Constantine ; ay, more, — 
 The fervent love Camillus bore 
 His native land. 
 
 He left no well filled treasury, 
 He heaped no pile of riches high, 
 
 Nor massive plate; 
 He fought the Moors, — and, in their fall, 
 City and tower and castled wall 
 
 Were his estate. 
 
 Upon the hard-fought battle-ground 
 Brave steeds and gallant riders found 
 
 A common grave ; 
 And there the warrior's hand did gain 
 The rents, and the long vassal train, 
 
 That conquest gave. 
 
 And if, of old, his halls displayed 
 The honored and exalted grade 
 
 His worth had gained, 
 So, in the dark, disastrous hour, 
 Brothers and bondsmen of his power 
 
 His hand sustained. 
 
 After high deeds, not left untold, 
 In the stern warfare which of old 
 
 'T was his to share, 
 Such noble leagues he made, that more 
 And fairer regions than before 
 
 His guerdon were. 
 
 These are the records, half effaced, 
 "Which, with the hand of youth, he traced 
 
 On history's page ; 
 But with fresh victories he drew 
 Each fading character anew 
 
 In his old age. 
 
 By his unrivalled skill, by great 
 And veteran service to the state, 
 
 By worth adored, 
 He stood, in his high dignity, 
 The proudest knight of chivalry, — 
 
 Knight of the Sword. 
 
 He found his cities and domains 
 Beneath a tyrant's galling chains 
 
 And cruel power ; 
 But, by fierce battle and blockade, 
 Soon his own banner was displayed 
 
 From every tower. 
 
 By the tried valor of his hand 
 His monarch and his native land 
 
 Were nobly served; — 
 Let Portugal repeat the story, 
 And proud Castile, who shared the glory 
 
 His arms deserved. 
 
 And when so oft, for weal or woe, 
 His life upon the fatal throw 
 
 Had been cast down, — 
 When he had served, with patriot zeal, 
 Beneath the banner of Castile, 
 
 His sovereign's crown, — 
 
 And done such deeds of valor strong, 
 That neither history nor song 
 
 Can count them all ; 
 Then, on Ocana's castled rock, 
 Death at his portal came to knock, 
 
 With sudden call, — 
 
 Saying, " Good Cavalier, prepare 
 To leave this world of toil and care 
 
 With joyful mien ; 
 Let thy strong heart of steel this day 
 Put on its armour for the fray, — 
 
 The closing scene. 
 
 " Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, 
 So prodigal of health and life, 
 
 For earthly fame, 
 Let virtue nerve thy heart again ; 
 Loud on the last stern battle-plain 
 
 They call thy name. 
 
 " Think not the struggle that draws near 
 Too terrible for man, nor fear 
 
 To meet the foe ; 
 Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, 
 Its life of glorious fame to leave 
 
 On earth below. 
 
 " A life of honor and of worth 
 Has no eternity on earth, — 
 
 'T is but a name ; 
 And yet its glory far exceeds 
 That base and sensual life which leads 
 
 To want and shame. 
 
 " The eternal life, beyond the sky, 
 Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 
 
 And proud estate ; 
 The soul in dalliance laid, — the spirit 
 Corrupt with sin, — shall not inherit 
 
 A joy so great. 
 
 " But the good monk, in cloistered cell, 
 Shall gafn it by his book and bell, 
 
 His prayers and tears ; 
 And the brave knight, whose arm endures 
 Fierce battle, and against the Moors 
 
 His standard rears. 
 
 "And thou, brave knight, whose hand has 
 
 poured 
 The life-blood of the pagan horde 
 
 O'er all the land, 
 In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, 
 The guerdon of thine earthly strength 
 
 And dauntless hand. 
 
 " Cheered onward by this promise sure, 
 Strong in the faith entire and pure 
 
 Thou dost profess, 
 Depart, — thy hope is certainty ; — 
 The third — the better life on high 
 
 Shalt thou possess." 
 
 " O Death, no more, no more delay ! 
 My spirit longs to flee away 
 And be at rest : — 
 
660 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 The will of Heaven my will shall be, — 
 I bow to the divine decree, 
 To God's behest. 
 
 "My soul is ready to depart, — 
 
 No thought rebels, — the obedient heart 
 
 Breathes forth no sigh ; 
 The wish on earth to linger still 
 Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will 
 
 That we shall die. 
 
 " O thou, that for our sins didst take 
 A human form, and humbly make 
 
 Thy home on earth ! 
 Thou, that to thy divinity 
 A human nature didst ally 
 
 By mortal birth, — 
 
 " And in that form didst suffer here 
 Torment, and agony, and fear, 
 
 So patiently ! 
 By thy redeeming grace alone, 
 And not for merits of my own, 
 
 O, pardon me ! " 
 
 As thus the dying warrior prayed, 
 Without one gathering mist or shade 
 
 Upon his mind, — 
 Encircled by his family, 
 Watched by affection's gentle eye, 
 
 So soft and kind, — 
 
 His soul to Him who gave it rose. 
 God lead it to its long repose, 
 
 Its glorious rest ! 
 And, though the warrior's sun has set, 
 Its light shall linger round us yet, 
 
 Bright, radiant, blest. 
 
 RODRIGUEZ DEL PADRON. 
 
 This poet, the dates of whose birth and death 
 are both unknown, was one of the writers of 
 the reign of Juan II. The place of his nativity 
 was El Padron, in Galicia, from which he is 
 named. He wrote amatory poems in the Cas- 
 tilian, — leaving his native idiom, the Galician. 
 The tragical death of his friend, the Galician 
 poet, Macias, surnamed el Enamorado, who was 
 slain by a jealous husband for sending too many 
 love-poems to his wife, had such an effect upon 
 him, that he shut himself up in a Dominican 
 cloister, where he became a monk, and remained 
 until his death. 
 
 PRAYER. 
 Fire of heaven's eternal ray, 
 
 Gentle and unscorching flame, 
 Strength in moments of dismay, 
 
 Grief's redress and sorrow's balm, — 
 Light thy servant on his way ! 
 
 Teach him all earth's passing folly, 
 All its dazzling art, 
 To distrust ; 
 
 And let thoughts profound and holy 
 Penetrate his heart, 
 Low in dust ! 
 
 Lead him to the realms sublime, 
 
 Where thy footsteps tread ! 
 
 Teach him, Virgin, so to dread 
 Judgment's soul-tormenting clime, 
 That he may harvest for the better time ! 
 
 JUAN DE LA ENZINA. 
 
 Juan de la Enzina was born in Salamanca, 
 about 1468, and was distinguished as a poet 
 and musician. He went to Rome, and became 
 Musical Director to Pope Leo the Tenth. In 
 1519, he visited Jerusalem, in company with 
 the Marques de Tarifa ; of which journey he 
 afterwards published a poetical account. He 
 wrote songs, lyric romances, and humorous 
 pieces, called disparates. He also wrote sacred 
 and profane eclogues in the form of dialogues, 
 which were dramatically represented. He died 
 at Salamanca, in 1534. 
 
 DON'T SHUT YOUR DOOR. 
 
 Don't shut your door, — don't shut your door 
 If Love should come and call, 
 'T will be no use at all. 
 
 If Love command, you 'd best obey, — 
 
 Resistance will but hurt you, — 
 And make, for that 's the safest way, 
 
 Necessity a virtue. 
 So don't resist his gentle sway, 
 
 Nor shut your door if he should call, — 
 
 For that 's no use at all. 
 
 I 've seen him tame the wildest beast, 
 
 And strengthen, too, the weakest : 
 He loves him most who plagues him least; 
 
 His favorites are the meekest. 
 The privileged guests who grace his feast 
 
 Have ne'er opposed his gentle call, — 
 
 For that 's no use at all. 
 
 He loves to tumble upside down 
 
 All classes, all connections; 
 Of those who fear or wear a crown 
 
 He mingles the affections, 
 Till all by Love is overthrown; 
 
 And moated gate or castle-wall 
 
 Will be no use at all 
 
 He is a strange and wayward thing,— 
 
 Young, blind, and full of malice; 
 He makes a shepherd of a king, 
 
 A cottage of a palace. 
 'T is vain to murmur ; and to fling 
 
 Your thoughts away in grief and gall 
 
 Will be no use at all. 
 
ENZINA.— ANONYMOUS. 661 
 
 He makes the coward brave ; he wakes 
 
 Away, away ! — begone ! I say ; 
 
 The sleepy with his thunders; 
 
 For mournful thought 
 
 In mirth he revels, and mistakes, 
 
 Will come unsought. 
 
 And miracles, and wonders; 
 
 
 And many a man he prisoner makes, 
 
 So let 's come forth from misery's cell, 
 
 And bolts the door : — you cry and call ; 
 
 And bury all our whims and woes ; 
 
 But 't is no use at all. 
 
 Wherever pleasure flits and goes, 
 
 
 O, there we '11 be! O, there we '11 dwell ! 
 
 
 'T is there we '11 dwell ! 'T is wise and well ; 
 
 "LET US EAT AND DRINK, FOR TO-MORROW 
 
 For mournful thought 
 
 WE DIE." 
 
 Will come unsought. 
 
 Come, let 's enjoy the passing hour, 
 
 
 For mournful thought 
 
 Yes, open all your heart; be glad, — 
 
 Will come unsought. 
 
 Glad as a linnet on the tree ; 
 
 
 Laugh, laugh away, — and merrily 
 
 Come, let 's enjoy the fleeting day, 
 
 Drive every dream away that 's sad. 
 
 And banish toil, and laugh at care; 
 
 Who sadness takes for joy is mad ; 
 
 For who would grief and sorrow bear, 
 
 And mournful thought 
 
 When he can throw his griefs away ? 
 
 Will come unsought. 
 
 ANONYMOUS POEMS FROM THE CANCIONEROS AND ROMANCEROS. 
 
 WHAT WILL THEY SAY OF YOU 
 
 And that from heights so proud and lofty 
 
 AND ME? 
 
 Deeper the fall is wont to be. — 
 
 
 
 What of you and me, my lady, 
 
 What of you and me, my lady, 
 
 What will they say of you and me ? 
 
 What will they say of you and me ? 
 They will say of you, my gentle lady, 
 
 
 
 Your heart is love and kindness' throne, 
 
 FOUNT OF FRESHNESS! 
 
 And it becomes you to confer it 
 
 
 
 On him who gave you all his own ; 
 
 Fount of freshness ! fount of freshness ' 
 
 And that as now, both firm and faithful, 
 
 Fount of freshness and of love ! 
 
 So will you ever, ever be. — 
 
 Where the little birds of spring-time 
 
 What of you and me, my lady, 
 
 Seek for comfort, as they rove ; 
 
 What will they say of you and me ? 
 
 All except the widowed turtle, — 
 
 
 Widowed, sorrowing turtle-dove. 
 
 They will say of me, my gentle lady, 
 
 
 That I for you all else forgot: 
 
 There the nightingale — the traitor ! — 
 
 And Heaven's dark vengeance would have 
 
 Lingered on his giddy way ; 
 
 scathed me, — 
 
 And these words of hidden treachery 
 
 Its darkest vengeance, — had I not. 
 
 To the dove I heard him say: 
 
 My love, what envy will pursue us, 
 
 " I will be thy servant, lady ! 
 
 Thus linked in softest sympathy ! — 
 
 I will ne'er thy love betray." 
 
 What of you and me, my lady, 
 
 
 What will they say of you and me? 
 
 " Off! false-hearted ! vile deceiver ! 
 
 
 Leave me, nor insult me so : 
 
 They will say of you, my gentle lady, 
 
 Dwell I, then, 'midst gaudy flowerets ? 
 
 A thousand things, in praises sweet, — 
 
 Perch I on the verdant bough ? 
 
 That other maidens may be lovely, 
 
 Even the waters of the fountain 
 
 But none so lovely and discreet. 
 
 Drink I dark and troubled now. 
 
 They will wreath for you the crown of beauty, 
 
 Never will I think of marriage, — 
 
 And you the queen of love shall be. — 
 
 Never break the widow-vow. 
 
 What of you and me, my lady, 
 
 
 What will they say of you and me? 
 
 "Had I children, they would grieve me, 
 
 
 They would wean me from my woe : 
 
 They will say of me, my gentle lady, 
 
 Leave me, false one! thoughtless traitor! 
 
 That I have found a prize divine, — 
 
 Base one ! vain one ! sad one ! go ! 
 
 A prize too bright for toils so trifling, 
 
 I can never, never love thee, — 
 
 So trifling as these toils of mine ; 
 
 I will never wed thee, — no ! " 
 3d 
 
662 SPANISH 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 
 THE TWO STREAMLETS. 
 
 DEAR MAID OF HAZEL BROW! 
 
 Two little streams o'er plains of green 
 
 Dear maid of hazel brow ! 
 
 
 Roll gently on, — the flowers between; 
 
 O, what a sight to see 
 
 
 But each to each defiance hurls, — 
 
 Thy fingers pull the bough 
 
 
 All their artillery are pearls: 
 
 Of the white jasmine tree ! 
 
 
 They foam, they rage, they shout, — and then 
 
 
 
 Sink in their silent beds again ; 
 
 Delighted I look on, 
 
 
 And melodies of peace are heard 
 
 And watch thy sparkling eye ; 
 
 
 From many a gay and joyous bird. 
 
 And charmed, yet wobegone, 
 I sigh, and then — I sigh. 
 
 
 I saw a melancholy rill 
 
 O, I '11 retire, and now 
 
 
 Burst meekly from a clouded hill : 
 
 I Ml not disquiet thee ! 
 
 
 Another rolled behind, — in speed 
 
 Dear maid of hazel brow, 
 
 
 An eagle, and in strength a steed ; 
 
 Do as thou wilt with me, 
 
 
 It reached the vale, and overtook 
 
 And pluck the happy bough 
 
 
 Its rival in the deepest nook; 
 
 Of the white jasmine tree ! 
 
 
 And each to each defiance hurls, — 
 
 
 
 All their artillery are pearls : 
 
 Amidst the flowers, sweet maid, 
 
 
 They foam, they rage, they shout, — and then 
 
 I saw her footsteps trip, — 
 
 
 Rest in their silent beds again. 
 
 And, lo, her cheeks arrayed 
 In crimson from her lip ! 
 
 
 And if two little streamlets break 
 
 Bright, graceful girl ! I vow 
 
 
 The law of love for passion's sake, 
 
 'T would be heaven's bliss to be, 
 
 
 How, then, should I a rival see, 
 
 Dear maid of hazel brow, 
 
 
 Nor be inflamed by jealousy ? 
 
 Crowned with a wreath by thee,— 
 
 
 For is not Love a mightier power 
 
 A wreath, — the emerald bough 
 
 
 Than mountain stream, or mountain shower? 
 
 Of the white jasmine tree. 
 
 
 SHE COMES TO GATHER FLOWERS. 
 
 EMBLEM. 
 
 
 Put on your brightest, richest dress, 
 
 What shall the land produce, that thou 
 
 
 Wear all your gems, blest vales of ours ! 
 
 Art watering, God, so carefully ? 
 
 
 My fair one comes in her loveliness, — 
 
 "Thorns to bind around my brow ; 
 
 
 She comes to gather flowers. 
 
 Flowers to form a wreath for thee.' 
 Streams from such a hand that flow 
 
 
 Garland me wreaths, thou fertile vale ! 
 
 Soon shall form a garden fair. 
 
 
 Woods of green, your coronets bring ! 
 
 "Yes; but different wreaths shall grow 
 
 
 Pinks of red, and lilies pale, 
 
 From the plants I water there." 
 
 
 Come with your fragrant offering ! 
 
 Tell me who, my God, shall wear, 
 
 
 Mingle your charms of hue and smell, 
 
 Wear the garlands round their brow ? 
 
 
 Which Flora wakes in her springtide 
 
 " I the wreath of thorns shall bear, 
 
 
 hours ! 
 
 And the flowery garland thou." 
 
 
 My fair one comes across the dell, — 
 
 
 
 She comes to gather flowers. 
 Twilight of morn ! from thy misty tower 
 
 
 
 WHO 'LL BUY A HEART ? 
 
 
 Scatter Ine trembling pearls around, 
 
 
 
 
 Hang up thy gems on fruits and flower, 
 
 Poor heart of mine ! tormenting heart ! 
 
 
 Bespangle the dewy ground ! 
 
 Long hast thou teazed me, — thou and I 
 
 
 Phoebus ! rest on thy ruby wheels, — 
 
 May just as well agree to part. 
 
 
 Look, and envy this world of ours ! 
 
 Who '11 buy a heart? who '11 buy? who 
 
 •11 
 
 For my fair one now descends the hills, — 
 
 buy ? 
 
 
 She comes to gather flowers. 
 
 They offered three testoons, — but, no ! 
 
 
 List ! for the breeze on wing serene 
 
 A faithful heart is cheap at more : 
 
 
 Through the light foliage sails ; 
 
 'T is not of those that wandering go, 
 
 
 Hidden amidst the forest green 
 
 Like mendicants, from door to door. 
 
 
 Warble the nightingales, 
 
 Here 's prompt possession, — I might tell 
 
 
 Hailing the glorious birth of day 
 
 A thousand merits, — come and try! 
 
 v 
 
 With music's divinest powers! 
 
 I have a heart, — a heart to sell : 
 
 
 Hither my fair one bends her way, — 
 
 Who '11 buy a heart? who '11 buy? who 
 
 '1. 
 
 She comes to gather flowers. 
 
 buy? 
 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 663 
 
 How oft beneath its folds lay hid 
 
 The gnawing viper's tooth of woe ! — 
 Will no one buy ? will no one bid ? 
 
 'T is going now, — yes, it must go ! 
 So little offered, it were well 
 
 To keep it yet, — but no, not I ! 
 I have a heart, — a heart to sell : 
 
 Who '11 buy a heart ? who '11 buy ? who 'II 
 buy? 
 
 I would 't were gone ! for I confess 
 
 I 'm tired, and longing to be freed. 
 Come, bid, fair maiden ! — more or less; — 
 
 So good, — and very cheap indeed. 
 Once more, — but once ; — I cannot dwell 
 
 So long, — 'tis going, — going: — fie ! 
 No offer? — I 've a heart to sell : 
 
 Who'll buy a heart? who'll buy? who'll 
 buy? 
 
 THE MAIDEN WAITING HER LOVER. 
 
 Ye trees, that make so sweet a shade, 
 
 Bend down your waving heads, when he, 
 The youth ye honor, through your glade, 
 
 Comes on Love's messages to me ! 
 Ye stars, that shine o'er heaven's blue deep, 
 
 And all its arch with glory fill, 
 O, wake him, wake him from his sleep, 
 
 If that dear youth be slumbering still ! 
 
 Lark, that hailest the morn above, — 
 
 Nightingale, singing on yonder bough, — 
 Hasten, and tell my lingering love, — 
 Tell him how long I 've waited now ! 
 Past is the midnight's shade : 
 
 Where is he ? — where ? 
 Say, can some other maid 
 His favors share ? 
 
 THE THRUSH. 
 
 Mother of mine ! yon tuneful thrush, 
 That fills with songs the happy grove, — 
 
 Tell him those joyous songs to hush; 
 For, ah ! my nymph has ceased to love. 
 
 Tell him to sympathize, — for this 
 Is music's triumph, music's care; 
 
 Persuade him that another's bliss 
 Makes bitter misery bitterer. 
 
 Then bid him leave the emerald bough, 
 Seek her abode, — and warble there; 
 
 And if young Love has taught him how, 
 Be Love's sweet-tongued interpreter. 
 
 He thinks his notes are notes of joy, — 
 That gladness tunes his eager breath : 
 
 O, tell him, mother mine, that I 
 
 Hear in his songs the tones of death ! 
 
 If, spite of all those prayers of thine, 
 He still will stay, — I '11 pray that he 
 
 May one day feel these pangs of mine, — 
 And I, his thoughtless ecstasy. 
 
 Then, mother mine, persuade the thrush 
 To charm no more the verdant grove,— 
 
 Bid him his sweetest music hush ; 
 
 For, ah ! my nymph has ceased to love. 
 
 'T IS TIME TO RISE ! 
 
 Long sleep has veiled my spirit's eyes : 
 'T is time to rise ! — 't is time to rise ! 
 
 0, 't is a dull and heavy sleep ! 
 
 As if death's robe had wrapped the soul ; 
 As if the poisons, vices steep 
 
 In life's deep-dregged and mingled bowl, 
 Had chilled the blood, and dimmed the eyes : 
 
 But, lo ! the sun towers o'er the deep: 
 'T is time to rise ! — 'tis time to rise ! 
 
 But angels sang in vain, — above 
 
 Their voices blended : " Soul, awake ! 
 
 Hark to yon babe ! — what wondrous love 
 Bids God an infant's weakness take? — 
 
 Long hast thou slept, — that infant's cries 
 Shall the dark mist of night remove : 
 
 'T is time to rise ! — 't is time to rise ! " 
 
 SWEET WERE THE HOURS. 
 
 Sweet were the hours, and short as sweet, 
 Which, lady, I have passed with thee ; 
 
 But those were dark and infinite 
 
 Which rolled when thou wert far from me! 
 
 For Time, as has been oft expressed, 
 Is Fancy's handmaid, — swift or brief: 
 
 How short — how short, alas ! for rest ! 
 How long — how long, alas ! for grief! 
 
 How lightning-winged do pleasures fly ! 
 
 And Love's sweet pleasures fleeter yet, — 
 On pinions of rapidity, 
 
 That leave but terror, or regret ! 
 
 In mournful strains they roll along, 
 
 'Midst hopes deceived and joys bereft ; 
 
 While memory's departed throng 
 
 Are mourned, my joyless memory's left 
 
 I think of days, when morning's flame, 
 Kindled by thee, shone fair and bright; 
 
 And then the dazzling noonday came, 
 And then — the solitude of night. 
 
 'T was then, upon the elms, whose feet 
 The Betis laves, I saw thee write, — 
 
 O raptured hour ! — "I love thee, sweet ! "- 
 And my heart sparkled at the sight. 
 
664 SPANISH 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 THE PRISONER'S ROMANCE 
 
 Wake not Amaryllis, 
 
 
 
 Ye winds in the glade, 
 
 Sir gaoler ! leave the spirit free, — 
 
 Where roses and lilies 
 
 The spirit is a wanderer still : 
 
 Make the sweet shade ! 
 
 gaoler ! leave the spirit free, — 
 
 
 And chain the body, if you will. 
 
 The sun, while upsoaring, 
 
 
 Yet tarries awhile, 
 
 My eyes between the iron bars 
 
 The bright rays adoring 
 
 Still throw their living glances round,— 
 
 Which stream from her smile. 
 
 And they shall be a.s Northern Stars, 
 
 
 By which the friendly port is found ; 
 
 The wood-music still is, — 
 
 And theirs shall be a tongue to be 
 
 To rouse her afraid, — 
 
 Heard when the mortal voice is still. 
 
 Where roses and lilies 
 
 gaoler! leave the spirit free, — 
 
 Make the sweet shade. 
 
 And chain the body, if you will. 
 
 
 You cannot, cannot chain the soul, 
 
 
 Although the body you confine : 
 
 SHARPLY I REPENT OF IT. 
 
 The spirit bursts through all control, 
 
 
 
 And soon is free, — and so is mine. 
 
 He who loses gentle lady, 
 
 Love has unbounded mastery 
 
 For a want of ready wit, 
 
 In this your prison. You fulfil, 
 
 Sharply shall repent of it. 
 
 Sir gaoler, Love's supreme degree : 
 
 
 Love is the lord imperial still. 
 
 Once I lost her in a garden, 
 
 gaoler ! leave the spirit free, — 
 
 Gathering every flower that grows, 
 
 And chain the body, if you will. 
 
 And her cheeks were red with blushes, 
 
 
 Red as is the damask rose : 
 
 
 All Love's burning blushes those. 
 
 
 
 I was dumb, — so short of wit; 
 
 YIELD, THOU CASTLE! 
 
 Sharply I repent of it. 
 
 Yield, thou castle ! yield ! — 
 
 Once I lost her in a garden, 
 
 I march me to the field. 
 
 Gently talking of her love ; 
 
 
 I, poor inexperienced shepherd, 
 
 Thy walls are proud and high, 
 
 Did not answer, — did not move. 
 
 My thoughts all dwell with thee; 
 
 If I disappointments prove, 
 
 Now yield thee ! yield thee ' — I 
 
 I may thank my frozen wit ; 
 
 Am come for victory ; 
 
 Sharply I repent of it. 
 
 I march me to the field. 
 Thy halls are fair and gay, 
 
 
 
 And there resides my grief; 
 
 THE SIESTA. 
 
 Thy bridge, thy covered way, 
 
 
 
 Prepare for my relief; 
 
 Airs ! that wander and murmur round, 
 
 I march me to the field. 
 
 Bearing delight where'er ye blow, — 
 
 
 Make in the elms a lulling sound, 
 
 Thy towers sublimely rise 
 
 While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 
 
 In beauty's brightest glow; 
 
 
 There, there, my comfort lies, — 
 
 Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest, 
 
 O, give me welcome now ' 
 
 Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er : 
 
 I march me to the field. 
 
 Sweet be her slumbers, — though in my breast 
 
 
 The pain she has waked may slumber no more! 
 
 
 Breathing soft from the blue profound, 
 Bearing delight where'er ye blow, 
 
 
 AMARYLLIS. 
 
 Make in the elms a lulling sound, 
 
 
 
 While my lady sleeps in the shade below 
 
 She sleeps ; — Amaryllis 
 
 
 'Midst flowerets is laid; 
 
 Airs ! that over the bending boughs, 
 
 And roses and lilies 
 
 And under the shadows of the leaves, 
 
 Make the sweet shade. 
 
 Murmur soft, like my timid vows, 
 
 
 Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves, — 
 
 The maiden is sleeping, 
 
 Gently sweeping the grassy ground, 
 
 Where, through the green hills, 
 
 Bearing delight where'er ye blow, 
 
 Manzanares is creeping 
 
 Make in the elms a lulling sound, 
 
 Along with his rills. 
 
 While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 665 
 
 THE SONG OF THE GALLEY. 
 
 Ye mariners of Spain, 
 
 Bend strongly on your oars, 
 
 And bring my love again, — 
 For he lies among the Moors ! 
 
 Ye galleys fairly built, 
 Like castles on the sea, 
 
 O, great will be your guilt, 
 If ye bring him not to me ! 
 
 The wind is blowing strong, — 
 The breeze will aid your oars ; 
 
 O, swiftly fly along, — 
 
 For he lies among the Moors ! 
 
 The sweet breeze of the sea 
 Cools every cheek but mine ; 
 
 Hot is its breath to me, 
 As I gaze upon the brine. 
 
 Lift up, lift up your sail, 
 And bend upon your oars; 
 
 O, lose not the fair gale, — 
 For he lies among the Moors ! 
 
 It is a narrow strait, — 
 I see the blue hills over; 
 
 Your coming I '11 await, 
 
 And thank you for my lover. 
 
 To Mary I will pray, 
 
 While ye bend upon your oars ; 
 'T will be a blessed day, 
 
 If ye fetch him from the Moors ! 
 
 THE WANDERING KNIGHT'S SONG. 
 
 Mr ornaments are arms, 
 
 My pastime is in war, 
 My bed is cold upon the wold, 
 
 My lamp yon star. 
 
 My journeyings are long, 
 
 My slumbers short and broken; 
 
 From hill to hill I wander still, 
 Kissing thy token. 
 
 I ride from land to land, 
 
 I sail from sea to sea: 
 Some day more kind I fate may find, 
 
 Some night kiss thee ! 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 While my lady sleepeth, 
 
 The dark blue heaven is bright; 
 Soft the moonbeam creepeth 
 
 Round her bower all night. 
 
 84 
 
 Thou gentle, gentle breeze ! 
 
 While my lady slumbers, 
 Waft lightly through the trees 
 
 Echoes of my numbers, 
 Her dreaming ear to please. 
 
 Should ye, breathing numbers, 
 
 That for her I weave, 
 Should ye break her slumbers, 
 
 All my soul would grieve. 
 Rise on the gentle breeze, 
 
 And gain her lattice' height 
 O'er yon poplar-trees, — 
 
 But be your echoes light 
 As hum of distant bees. 
 
 All the stars are glowing 
 
 In the gorgeous sky ; 
 In the stream scarce flowing 
 
 Mimic lustres lie : 
 Blow, gentle, gentle breeze ! 
 
 But bring no cloud to hide 
 Their dear resplendencies; 
 
 Nor chase from Zara's side 
 Dreams bright and pure as these 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O broad and limpid river ! 
 
 O banks so fair and gay ! 
 O meadows, verdant ever ! 
 
 O groves in green array! 
 O, if in field or plain 
 
 My love should hap to be, 
 Ask if her heart retain 
 
 A thought of me ! 
 
 O clear and crystal dews, 
 
 That in the morning ray, 
 All bright with silvery hues, 
 
 Make field and forest gay ! 
 O, if in field or plain 
 
 My love should hap to be, 
 Ask if her heart retain 
 
 A thought of me ! 
 
 O woods, that to the breeze 
 
 With waving branches play 
 O sands, where oft at ease 
 
 Her careless footsteps stray ' 
 O, if in field or plain 
 
 My love should hap to be, 
 Ask if her heart retain 
 
 A thought of me ! 
 
 O warbling birds, that still 
 
 Salute the rising day, 
 And plain and valley fill 
 
 With your enchanting lay 
 O, if in field or plain 
 
 My love should hap to be. 
 Ask if her heart retain 
 
 A thought of me ! 
 3d* 
 
666 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 SECOND PERIOD. — CENTURIES XVI., XVII. 
 
 JUAN BOSCAN ALMOGAVER. 
 
 This poet was born about the close of the 
 fifteenth century, at Barcelona. He was held 
 in high estimation at the court of Charles the 
 Fifth. At Granada he became acquainted with 
 Andrea Navagero, the Venetian ambassador, by 
 whose influence he was induced to imitate the 
 Italian poets. He was appointed preceptor to 
 the duke of Alba, but passed most of his time 
 in literary pursuits at Barcelona. Among other 
 labors, he undertook the publication of the works 
 of his deceased friend, Garcilaso de la Vega ; he 
 also translated from the Greek and Italian. 
 The date of his death is uncertain ; but it took 
 place before 1543. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASO. 
 
 Tell me, dear Garcilaso, — Uhou 
 
 Who ever aim'dst at Good, 
 And, in the spirit of thy vow, 
 
 So swift her course pursued, 
 That thy few steps sufficed to place 
 The angel in thy loved embrace, 
 
 Won instant, soon as wooed, — 
 Why took'st thou not, when winged to flee 
 From this dark world, Boscan with thee ? 
 
 Why, when ascending to the star 
 Where now thou sitt'st enshrined, 
 
 Left'st thou thy weeping friend afar, 
 Alas ! so far behind ? 
 
 O, I do think, had it remained 
 
 With thee to alter aught ordained 
 By the Eternal Mind, 
 
 Thou wouldst not on this desert spot 
 
 Have left thy other self forgot ! 
 
 For if through life thy love was such, 
 
 As still to take a pride 
 In having me so oft and much 
 
 Close to thy envied side, — 
 I cannot doubt, I must believe, 
 Thou wouldst at least have taken leave 
 
 Of me; or, if denied, 
 Have come back afterwards, unblest 
 Till I, too, shared thy heavenly rest. 
 
 FROM HIS EPISTLE TO MENDOZA. 
 
 T is peace that makes a happy life; 
 And that is mine through my sweet wife 
 Beginning of my soul, and end, 
 I 've gained new being from this friend, — 
 She fills each thought and each desire, 
 Up to the height I would aspire. 
 This bliss is never found by ranging ; 
 Regret still springe f-or 1 saddest changing ; 
 
 Such loves, and their beguiling pleasures, 
 Are falser still than magic treasures, 
 Which gleam at eve with golden color, 
 And change to ashes ere the morrow. 
 But now each good that I possess, 
 Rooted in truth and faithfulness, 
 Imparts delight to every sense ; 
 For erst they were a mere pretence, 
 And, long before enjoyed they were, 
 They changed their smiles to grisly care. 
 Now pleasures please, — love being single 
 Evils with its delights ne'er mingle. 
 
 Before, to eat I scarce was able ; 
 Some harpy hovered o'er my table, 
 Spoiling each dish when I would dine, 
 And mingling gall with gladsome wine. 
 Now, the content, that foolish I 
 Still missed in my philosophy, 
 My wife with tender smiles bestows, 
 And makes me triumph o'er my woes; 
 While with her finger she effaces 
 Of my past folly all the traces, 
 And, graving pleasant thoughts instead, 
 Bids me rejoice that I am wed. 
 
 And thus, by moderation bounded, 
 I live by my own goods surrounded: 
 Among my friends, my table spread 
 With viands we may eat nor dread; 
 And at my side my sweetest wife, 
 Whose gentleness admits no strife, — 
 Except of jealousy the fear, 
 Whose soft reproaches more endear; 
 Our darling children round us gather, — 
 Children who will make me grandfather. 
 And thus we pass in town our days, 
 Till the confinement something weighs ; 
 Then to our village haunt we fly, 
 Taking some pleasant company, — 
 While those we love not never come 
 Anear our rustic, leafy home : 
 For better 't is t' philosophize, 
 And learn a lesson truly wise 
 From lowing herd and bleating flock, 
 Than from some men of vulgar stock, 
 And rustics, as they hold the plough, 
 May often good advice bestow. 
 Of love, too, we may have the joy : 
 For Phoebus as a shepherd-boy 
 Wandered once among the clover, 
 Of some fair shepherdess the lover; 
 And Venus wef *., in rustic bower, 
 Adonis turned to purple flower; 
 And Bacchus, 'midst the mountains dr-iar 
 Forgot the pangs of jealous fear ; 
 And Nymphs that in the waters play 
 ('T is thus that ancient fables say), 
 
BOS CAN. 
 
 667 
 
 And Drvads fair among the trees, 
 Fain the sprightly Fauns would please. 
 So in their footsteps follow we, — 
 My wife and I, — as fond and free ; 
 Love in our thoughts and in our talk, 
 Direct we slow our sauntering walk 
 To some near murmuring rivulet, 
 Where, 'neath a shady beech, we sit, 
 Hand clasped in hand, and side by side, — 
 With some sweet kisses, too, beside, — 
 Contending there, in combat kind, 
 Which best can love with constant mind. 
 
 As the stream flows among the grass, 
 
 Thus life's clear stream with us does pass : 
 
 We take no count of day nor night, 
 
 While, ministering to our delight, 
 
 Nightingales all sweetly sing, 
 
 And loving doves, with folded wing, 
 
 Above our heads are heard to coo ; 
 
 And far 's the ill-betiding crow. 
 
 We do not think of cities then, 
 
 Nor envy the resorts of men ; 
 
 Of Italy the softer pleasures, — 
 
 Of Asia, too, the golden treasures, — 
 
 All these are nothing in our eyes ; 
 
 The while a book beside us lies, 
 
 Which tells the tales of olden time, 
 
 Of gods and men the hests sublime, — 
 
 Eneas' voyage bv Virgil told, 
 
 Or song divine of Homer old, 
 
 Achilles' wrath and all his glory, 
 
 Or wandering Ulysses' story, 
 
 Propertius too, who well indites, 
 
 And the soft plaints Catullus writes; 
 
 These will remind me of past grief, 
 
 Till, thinking of the sweet relief 
 
 My wedded state confers on me, 
 
 My bv-gone 'scapes I careless eye: 
 
 O, what are all those struggles past, 
 
 The fierv pangs which did not last, 
 
 Now that I live secure for aye, 
 
 In my dear wife's sweet company ? 
 
 I have no reason to repine, — 
 
 My joys are hers, and hers are mine; 
 
 Our tranquil hearts their feelings share, 
 
 And all our pleasures mutual are. 
 
 Our eves drink in the shady light 
 
 Of wood, and vale, and grassy height; 
 
 We hear the waters, as they stray, 
 
 And from the mountains wend their way, 
 
 Leaping all lightly down the steep, 
 
 Till at our feet thev murmuring creep ; 
 
 And, fanning us, the evening breeze 
 
 Piavs gamesomely among the trees ; 
 
 While bleating flocks, as day grows cold, 
 
 Gladlv seek their sheltering fold. 
 
 And when the sun is on the hill, 
 
 And shadows vast the valleys fill, 
 
 And waning dav, grown near its close, 
 
 Sends tired men to their repose ; 
 
 We to our villa sauntering walk, 
 
 And of the thinss we see we talk. 
 
 Our friends come out in gayest cheer, 
 
 To welcome us, — and fain would hear 
 
 If my sweet wife be tired, — and smile, — 
 
 Inviting us to rest the while. 
 
 Then to sup we take our seat, — 
 
 Our table plentiful and neat, 
 
 Our viands without sauces dressed; 
 
 Good appetite the healthy zest 
 
 To fruits we 've plucked in our own bowers, 
 
 And gayly decked with odorous flowers, 
 
 And rustic dainties, — many a one. 
 
 When this is o'er and supper done, 
 
 The evening passes swift along, 
 
 In converse gay and sweetest song ; 
 
 Till slumber, stealing to the eye, 
 
 Bids us to our couches hie. 
 
 Thus our village life we live, 
 
 And day by day such joys receive ; 
 
 Till, to change the homely scene, 
 
 Lest it pall while too serene, 
 
 To the gay city we remove, 
 
 Where other things there are to love; 
 
 And graced by novelty, we find 
 
 The city's concourse to our mind. 
 
 While our new coming gives a joy, 
 
 Which ever staying might destroy, 
 
 We spare all tedious compliment; 
 
 Tet courtesy with kind intent, 
 
 Which savage tongues alone abuse, 
 
 Will often the same language use. 
 
 Thus in content we thankful live ; 
 
 And for one ill for which we grieve, 
 
 How much of good our dear home blesses 
 
 Mortals must ever find distresses ; 
 
 But sorrow loses half its weight, 
 
 And every moment has its freight 
 
 Of jov, which our dear friends impart, 
 
 And with their kindness cheer my heart, 
 
 While, never weary us to visit, 
 
 They seek our house when we are in it : 
 
 If we are out, it gives them pain, 
 
 And on the morrow come again. 
 
 Noble Dural can cure our sadness, 
 
 With the infection of his gladness. 
 
 Augustin, too, — well read in page3, 
 
 Productions of the ancient sages, 
 
 And the romances of our Spain, — 
 
 Will give us back our smiles again ; 
 
 While he, with a noble gravity, 
 
 Adorned by the gentlest suavity, 
 
 Recounts us many a tale or fable, 
 
 Which well to tell he is most able, — 
 
 Serious, mingled with jokes and glee, 
 
 The which as light ard shade agree. 
 
 And Monleon, our dearest guest, 
 
 Will raise our mirth by many a jest; 
 
 For while his laughter rings again, 
 
 Can we to echo it refrain ? 
 
 And other merriment is ours, 
 
 To gild with joy the lightsome hours. 
 
 But all too trivial would it look, 
 
 Written down gravely in a book : 
 
 And it is time to say adieu, 
 
 Though more I have to write to you. 
 
 Another letter this shall tell : 
 
 So now, my dearest friend, fatewell : 
 
668 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 DIEGO HURTADO DE MENDOZA. 
 
 Diego Hurtado de Mendoza was born at 
 Granada, about 1503. Being destined to the 
 church, he received a literary education, and at 
 the University of Salamanca became a proficient 
 in the Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic lan- 
 guages. Finding the ecclesiastical profession 
 ill-suited to his taste, Mendoza became a sol- 
 dier and statesman, and enjoyed the favor of 
 Charles the Fifth, who sent him ambassador to 
 Venice. In 1545, he was appointed to attend, 
 as Imperial Plenipotentiary, at the Council of 
 Trent; and in 1547, was made Governor and 
 Captain-General of Siena. He held this sta- 
 tion until 1554. The arbitrary character of his 
 administration exposed him to the hatred of the 
 Tuscan Liberals, and several attempts were made 
 to assassinate him. Notwithstanding these 
 troubles, he employed himself in literary labors, 
 particularly in the collection of Greek and Latin 
 manuscripts. After the abdication of Charles 
 the Fifth, he attached himself to the court of 
 Philip the Second. He was imprisoned for hav- 
 ing thrown a rival, in an affair of gallantry, from 
 the balcony of the palace into the street, and 
 was afterwards banished to Granada, where he 
 wrote his celebrated history of the " Guerra de 
 Granada." After a retirement of several years, 
 he reappeared at court at Valladolid, but died 
 a few months afterward, in the year 1575. 
 
 Mendoza wrote poetical epistles, in imitation 
 of Horace, canciones, redondillas, quintillas, 
 villancicos, and burlescas or satires. Among 
 his most celebrated prose works is the comic 
 romance entitled " Vida de Lazarillo de Tor- 
 mes," written while he was a student. This 
 work was the parent of the gusto picaresco. 
 
 FROM HIS EPISTLE TO LUIS DE ZUNIGA. 
 
 Another world I seek, a resting-place, 
 Sweet times and seasons, and a happy home, 
 Where I in peace may close my mortal race. 
 
 There shall no evil passions dare presume 
 To enter, turbulence, nor discontent: 
 Love to my honored king shall there find room. 
 
 And if to me his clemency be sent, 
 Giving me kindly wherewithal to live, 
 I will rejoice ; if not, will rest content. 
 
 My days shall pass all idly fugitive, 
 Careless my meals, and at no solemn hour ; 
 My sleep and dreams such as content can give. 
 
 Then will I tell, how, in my days of power, 
 Into the East Spain's conquering flag I led, 
 All undismayed amid the fiery shower; 
 
 While young and old around me throng in 
 dread, 
 Fair dames, and idle monks, a coward race, 
 And tremble while they hear of foes that fled. 
 
 And haply some ambassador may grace 
 My humble roof, resting upon his way: 
 His route and many dangers he will trace 
 
 Upon my frugal board, and much will say 
 Of many valiant deeds ; but he '11 conceal 
 His secret purpose from the light of day; 
 
 To mortal none that object he '11 reveal : 
 His secret mission you shall never find, 
 Though you should search his heart with point 
 ed steel. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Now, by the Muses won, I seize my lyre; 
 Now, roused by valor's stern and manly call, 
 I grasp my flaming sword, in storm and fire, 
 To plant my banner on some hostile wall; 
 Now sink my wearied limbs to silent rest, 
 And now I wake and watch the lonely night: 
 But thy fair form is on my heart impressed, 
 Through every change, a vision of delight. 
 Where'er the glorious planet sheds his beams, 
 Whatever lands his golden orb illumes, 
 Thy memory ever haunts my blissful dreams, 
 And a delightful Eden round me blooms : 
 Fresh radiance clothes the earth, the sea, and 
 
 skies, 
 To mark the day that gave thee to mine eyes. 
 
 GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 
 
 Garcilaso de la Vega was born at Toledo, 
 in 1500, or, according to others, in 1503, of an 
 ancient and noble family. His love of litera- 
 ture was kindled by the study of the ancients. 
 He lived long in Italy, and in his writings 
 imitated the Italians, like his friend Boscan. 
 He travelled in Germany, in the service of 
 the Emperor Charles the Fifth. He engaged 
 early in the career of arms, and his bravery at 
 the battle of Pavia gained him the cross of 
 Saint Jago. He afterwards served in the ex- 
 pedition against Solyman, and, in 1535, accom- 
 panied the forces that laid siege to Tunis. In 
 the following year, he held a command in the 
 imperialist army that invaded France ; and in 
 an attempt to take a tower, garrisoned by Moors, 
 near Frejus, received a wound, of which he died 
 twenty days afterward, at Nice. 
 
 The gallant and noble character of Garcilaso, 
 crowned by a fine poetical genius, has given 
 occasion to compare him to Lord Surrey. His 
 works are eclogues, epistles, odes, and sonnets. 
 His eclogues, of which the first is considered a 
 masterpiece, mark an epoch in Spanish poetry, 
 and have gained him the title of the Prince of 
 Castilian Poets. 
 
 FROM THE FIRST ECLOGUE. 
 
 SAl ICIO. 
 
 Through thee the silence of the shaded glen, 
 Through thee the horror of the lonely mountain, 
 Pleased me no less than the resort of men ; 
 The breeze, the summer wood, and lucid foun- 
 tain, 
 
GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 
 
 669 
 
 The purple rose, white lily of the lake, 
 Were sweet for thy sweet sake ; 
 For thee the fragrant primrose, dropped with dew, 
 Was wished when first it blew. 
 O, how completely was I in all this 
 Myself deceiving ! O, the different part 
 That thou wert acting, covering with a kiss 
 Of seeming love the traitor in thy heart ! 
 This my severe misfortune, long ago, 
 Did the soothsaying raven, sailing by 
 On the black storm, with hoarse, sinister cry, 
 Clearly presage ! In gentleness of woe, 
 Flow forth, my tears ! — 't is meet that ye 
 should flow ! 
 
 How oft, when slumbering in the forest brown, 
 Deeming it Fancy's mystical deceit, 
 Have I beheld my fate in dreams foreshown ! 
 One day, methought that from the noontide heat 
 I drove my flocks to drink of Tagus' flood, 
 And, under curtain of its bordering wood, 
 Take my cool siesta ; but, arrived, the stream, 
 I know not by what magic, changed its track, 
 And in new channels, by an unused way, 
 Rolled its warped waters back ; 
 Whilst I, scorched, melting with the heat ex- 
 treme, 
 Went ever following, in their flight astray, 
 The wizard waves ! In gentleness of woe, 
 Flow forth, my tears ! — 't is meet that ye 
 should flow ' 
 
 In the charmed ear of what beloved youth 
 Sounds thy sweet voice? on whom revolvest 
 
 thou 
 Thy beautiful blue eyes? on whose proved truth 
 Anchors thy broken faith ? who presses now 
 Thy laughing lip, and hopes thy heaven of 
 
 charms, 
 Locked in the embraces of thy two white arms? 
 Say thou, — for whom hast thou so rudely left 
 My love? or stolen, who triumphs in the theft ? 
 I have not yet a bosom so untrue 
 To feeling, nor a heart of stone, to view 
 My darling ivy, torn from me, take root 
 Against another wall or prosperous pine, — 
 To see my virgin vine 
 Around another elm in marriage hang 
 [ts curling tendrils and empurpled fruit, 
 Without the torture of a jealous pang, 
 Even to the loss of life ! In gentle woe, 
 Flow forth, my tears ! — 't is meet that ye 
 
 should flow ! 
 
 NEMOROSO. 
 
 Smooth-sliding waters, pure and crystalline ! 
 Trees, that reflect your image in their breast ! 
 Green pastures, full of fountains and fresh 
 
 shades ! 
 Birds, that here scatter your sweet serenades ! 
 Mosses, and reverend ivies serpentine, 
 That wreath your verdurous arms round beech 
 
 and pine, 
 And, climbing, irown their crest ! 
 
 Can I forget, ere grief my spirit changed, 
 With what delicious ease and pure content 
 Your peace I wooed, your solitudes I ranged, 
 Enchanted and refreshed where'er I went? 
 How many blissful noons I here have spent 
 In luxury of slumber, couched on flowers, 
 And with my own fond fancies, from a boy, 
 Discoursed away the hours, — 
 Discovering naught in your delightful bowers, 
 But golden dreams, and memories fraught with 
 
 j°y ! 
 
 And in this very valley, where I now 
 
 Grow sad, and droop, and languish, have I 
 
 lain 
 At ease, with happy heart and placid brow 
 
 pleasure fragile, fugitive, and vain ! 
 Here, I remember, walking once at noon, 
 
 1 saw Eliza standing at my side: 
 
 O cruel fate ! O fine-spun web, too soon 
 
 By Death's sharp scissors clipped ! sweet, suffer- 
 ing bride, 
 
 In womanhood's most interesting prime, 
 
 Cut off, before thy time ! 
 
 How much more suited had his surly stroke 
 
 Been to the strong thread of my weary life ! 
 
 Stronger than steel ! — since, in the parting 
 strife 
 
 From thee, it has not broke. 
 
 Where are the eloquent, mild eyes that drew 
 My heart where'er they wandered? where the 
 
 hand, 
 White, delicate, and pure as melting dew, — 
 Filled with the spoils, that, proud of thy com- 
 mand, 
 My feelings paid in tribute ? the bright hair 
 That paled the shining gold, that did contemn 
 The glorious opal as a meaner gem ? 
 The bosom's ivory apples, — where, ah, where ? 
 Where now the neck, to whiteness over- 
 wrought, 
 That like a column with genteelest scorn 
 Sustained the golden dome of virtuous thought? 
 Gone ! ah, forever gone 
 To the chill, desolate, and dreary pall ! 
 And mine the grief, — the wormwood and the 
 gall! 
 
 Who would have said, my love, when late, 
 
 through this 
 Romantic valley, we from bower to bower 
 Went gathering violets and primroses, 
 That I should see the melancholy hour 
 So soon arrive that was to end my bliss, 
 And of my love destroy both fruit and flower? 
 Heaven on my head has laid a heavy hand ; 
 Sentencing, without hope, without appeal, 
 To loneliness and everduring tears 
 The joyless remnant of my future years : 
 But that which most I feel 
 Is, to behold myself obliged to bear 
 This condemnation to a life of care ; 
 Lone, blind, forsaken, under sorrow's spell, 
 A gloomy captive in a gloomy cell. 
 
670 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 Since thou liast left us, fulness, rest, and peace 
 Have failed the starveling flocks ; the field 
 
 supplies 
 To the toiled hind but pitiful increase ; 
 All blessings change to ills ; the clinging weed 
 Chokes the thin corn, and in its stead arise 
 Pernicious darnel and the fruitless reed. 
 The enamelled earth, that from her verdant 
 
 breast 
 Lavished spontaneously ambrosial flowers, 
 The very sight of which can soothe to rest 
 A thousand cares, and charm our sweetest hours, 
 That late indulgence of her bounty scorns, 
 And in exchange shoots forth but tangled bow- 
 ers, 
 But brambles rough with thorns ; 
 Whilst, with the tears that falling steep their 
 
 root, 
 My swollen eyes increase the bitter fruit. 
 
 As at the set of sun the shades extend, 
 And, when its circle sinks, that dark obscure 
 Rises to shroud the world, on which attend 
 The images that set our hair on end, 
 Silence, and shapes mysterious as the grave ; 
 Till the broad sun sheds once more from the 
 
 wave 
 His lively lustre, beautiful and pure : 
 Such shapes were in the night, and such ill 
 
 gloom, 
 At thy departure, still tormenting fear 
 Haunts and must haunt me, until Death shall 
 
 doom 
 The so much wished-for sun to reappear 
 Of thine angelic face, my soul to cheer, 
 Resurgent from the tomb. 
 
 As the sad nightingale, in some green wood 
 Closely embowered, the cruel hind arraigns 
 Who from their pleasant nest her plumeless 
 
 brood 
 Has stolen, whilst she with pains 
 Winged the wide forest for their food, and 
 
 now, 
 Fluttering with joy, returns to the loved bough, — 
 The bough where naught remains; 
 Dying with passion and desire, she flings 
 A thousand concords from her various bill, 
 Till the whole melancholy woodland rings 
 With gurglings sweet, or with philippics shrill; 
 Throughout the silent night, she not refrains 
 Her piercing note and her pathetic cry, 
 But calls, as witness to her wrongs and pains, 
 The listening stars and the responding sky : 
 
 So I in mournful song pour forth my pain ; 
 So I lament — lament, alas! in vain — 
 The cruelty of Death : untaught to spare, 
 The ruthless spoiler ravished from my breast 
 Each pledge of happiness and joy, that there 
 Had its beloved home and nuptial nest. 
 Swift-seizing Death ! through thy despite I fill 
 The whole world with my passionate lament, 
 Importuning the skies and valleys shrill 
 My tale of wrongs to echo and resent. 
 
 A grief so vast no consolation knows ; 
 Ne'er can the agony my brain forsake, 
 Till suffering consciousness in frenzy close, 
 Or till the shattered chords of being break. 
 
 Poor, lost Eliza ! of thy locks of gold, 
 One treasured ringlet in white sJlk I keep 
 For ever at my heart, which when unrolled, 
 Fresh grief and pity o'er my spirit creep ; 
 And my insatiate eyes, for hours untold, 
 O'er the dear pledge will, like an infant's 
 
 weep : 
 With sighs more warm than fire anon I dry 
 The tears from off it, number one by one 
 The radiant hairs, and with a love-knot tie ; 
 Mine eyes, this duty done, 
 Give over weeping, and with slight relief 
 I taste a short forgetful ness of grief. 
 
 But soon, with all its first-felt horrors fraught, 
 
 That gloomy night returns upon my brain, 
 
 Which ever wrings my spirit with the thought 
 
 Of my deep loss and thine unaided pain : 
 
 Even now, I seem to see thee pale recline 
 
 In thy most trying crisis, and to hear 
 
 The plaintive murmurs of that voice divine, 
 
 Whose tones might touch the ear 
 
 Of blustering winds, and silence their dispute; 
 
 That gentle voice — now mute — 
 
 Which to the merciless Lucina prayed, 
 
 In utter agony, for aid, — for aid ! 
 
 Alas, for thine appeal ! Discourteous power, 
 
 Where wert thou gone in that momentous hour? 
 
 Or wert thou in the gray woods hunting deer? 
 Or with thy shepherd-boy entranced ? Could 
 
 aught 
 Palliate thy rigorous cruelty, to turn 
 Away thy scornful, cold, indifferent ear 
 From my moist prayers, by no affliction moved, 
 And sentence one so beauteous and beloved 
 To the funereal urn ? 
 O, not to mark the throes 
 Thy Nemoroso suffered, whose concern 
 It ever was, when pale the morning rose, 
 To drive the mountain beasts into his toils, 
 And on thy holy altars heap the spoils ; 
 And thou, ungrateful, smiling with delight, 
 Could'st leave my nymph to die before my sight ! 
 
 Divine Eliza! since the sapphire sky 
 
 Thou measurest now on angel-wings, and feet 
 
 Sandalled with immortality, O, why 
 
 Of me forgetful ? Wherefore not entreat 
 
 To hurry on the time when I shall see 
 
 The veil of mortal being rent in twain, 
 
 And smile that I am free ? 
 
 In the third circle of that happy land, 
 
 Shall we not seek together, hand in hand, 
 
 Another lovelier landscape, a new plain, 
 
 Other romantic streams and mountains blue, 
 
 Fresh flowery vales, and a new shady shore, 
 
 Where I may rest, and ever in my view 
 
 Keep thee, without the terror and surprise 
 
 Of being sundered more? 
 
GARCILASO DE LA VEGA. 
 
 671 
 
 
 FROM THE THIRD ECLOGUE. 
 
 In a sweet solitude beside the flood 
 
 Is a green grove of willows, trunk-entwined 
 
 With ivies climbing to the top, whose hood 
 Of glossy leaves, with all its boughs combined, 
 
 So interchains and canopies the wood, 
 
 That the hot sunbeams can no access find ; 
 
 The water bathes the mead, the flowers around 
 
 It glads, and charms the ear with its sweet sound. 
 
 Tlie glassy river here so smoothly slid, 
 With pace so gentle, on its winding road, 
 
 The eye, in sweet perplexity misled, 
 
 Could scarcely tell which- way the current 
 flowed. 
 
 Combing her locks of gold, a Nymph her head 
 Raised from the water where she made abode, 
 
 And, as the various landscape she surveyed, 
 
 Saw this green meadow, full of flowers and 
 shade. 
 
 That wood, the flowery turf, the winds that wide 
 Diffused its fragrance, filled her with delight; 
 
 Birds of all hues in the fresh bowers she spied, 
 Retired, and resting from their weary flight. 
 
 It was the hour when hot the sunbeams dried 
 Earth's spirit up, — 'twas noontide still as 
 night ; 
 
 Alone, at times, as of o'erbrooding bees, 
 
 Mellifluous murmurs sounded from the trees. 
 
 Having a long time lingered to behold 
 The shady place, in meditative mood, 
 
 She waved aside her flowing locks of gold, 
 Dived to the bottom of the crystal flood, 
 
 And, when to her sweet sisters she had told 
 The charming coolness of this vernal wood, 
 
 Prayed and advised them to its green retreat 
 
 To take their tasks, and pass the hours of heat. 
 
 She had not long to sue; — the lovely three 
 Took up their work, and, looking forth, de- 
 scried, 
 Peopled with violets, the sequestered lea, 
 
 And toward it hastened : swimming, they 
 divide 
 The clear glass, wantoning in sportful glee 
 Through the smooth wave; till, issuing from 
 the tide, 
 Their white feet dripping to the sands they yield, 
 And touch the border of that verdant field. 
 
 Pressing the elastic moss with graceful tread, 
 They wrung the moisture from their shining 
 hair, 
 Which, shaken loose, entirely overspread 
 
 Their beauteous shoulders and white bosoms 
 bare ; 
 Then, drawing forth rich webs whose spangled 
 thread 
 Might in fine beauty with themselves com- 
 pare, 
 Thev sought the shadiest covert of the grove, 
 And sat them down, conversing as they wove. 
 
 Their woof was of the gold which Tagus brings 
 From the proud mountains in his flow di- 
 vine, 
 
 Well sifted from the sands wherewith it springs, 
 Of all admixture purified and fine ; 
 
 And of the green flax fashioned into strings, 
 Subtile and lithe to follow and combine 
 
 With the bright vein of gold, by force of fire 
 
 Already drawn into resplendent wire. 
 
 The subtile yarn their skill before had stained 
 With dyes pellucid as the brightest found 
 
 On the smooth shells of the blue sea, ingrained 
 By sunbeams in their warm and radiant round: 
 
 Each Nymph, for skill in what her fingers 
 feigned, 
 Equalled the works of painters most re 
 nowned, — 
 
 Apelles' Venus, or the famous piece 
 
 Wherein Timanthes veils the grief of Greece. 
 
 With these fair scenes and classic histories 
 The webs of the four sisters were inlaid, 
 
 Which, sweetly flushed with variegated dyes, 
 In clear obscure of sunshine and of shade, 
 
 Each figured object to observant eyes 
 In rich relief so naturally displayed, 
 
 That, like the birds deceived by Zeuxis' grapes, 
 
 It seemed the hand might grasp their swelling 
 shapes. 
 
 But now the setting sun with farewell rays 
 Played on the purple mountains of the west, 
 
 And in the darkening skies gave vacant place 
 For Dian to display her silver crest ; 
 
 The little fishes in her loving face 
 
 Leaped up, gay lashing with their tails the 
 breast 
 
 Of the clear stream, when from their tasks the 
 four 
 
 Arose, and arm in arm resought the shore. 
 
 Each in the tempered wave had dipped her foot, 
 And toward the water bowed her swanlike 
 breast, 
 
 Down to their crystal hermitage to shoot, — 
 When suddenly sweet sounds their ears ar- 
 rest, 
 
 Mellowed by distance, of the pipe or flute, 
 So that to listen they perforce were pressed : 
 
 To the mild sounds wherewith the valleys ring 
 
 Two shepherd youths alternate ditties sing. 
 
 Piping through that green willow wood they 
 roam 
 Amidst their flocks, which, now that day is 
 spent, 
 They to the distant folds drive slowly home, 
 
 Across the verdurous meadows dew-besprent, 
 
 Whitening the dun shades, onward as they come: 
 
 Clear and more clear the fingered instrument 
 
 Sounds in accord with the melodious voice, 
 
 And cheers their task, and makes the woods 
 
 rejoice. 
 
672 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 ODE TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO.* 
 
 Had I the sweet-resounding lyre 
 
 Whose voice could in a moment chain 
 
 The howling wind's ungoverned ire, 
 And movement of the raging main, 
 On savage hills the leopard rein, 
 
 The lion's fiery soul entrance, 
 
 And lead along with golden tones 
 The fascinated trees and stones 
 In voluntary dance, — 
 
 Think not, think not, fair Flower of Gnide, 
 It e'er should celebrate the scars, 
 
 Dust raised, blood shed, or laurels dyed 
 Beneath the gonfalon of Mars ; 
 Or, borne sublime on festal cars, 
 
 The chiefs who to submission sank 
 The rebel German's soul of soul, 
 And forged the chains that now control 
 The frenzy of the Frank. 
 
 No, no ! its harmonies should ring 
 In vaunt of glories all thine own, — 
 
 A discord sometimes from the string 
 
 Struck forth to make thy harshness known ; 
 The fingered chords should speak alone 
 
 Of Beauty's triumphs, Love's alarms, 
 Anc one who, made by thy disdain 
 Pale as a lily clipped in twain, 
 Bewails thy fatal charms. 
 
 Of that poor captive, too contemned, 
 
 I speak, — his doom you might deplore, — 
 
 In Venus' galliot-shell condemned 
 To strain for life the heavy oar. 
 Through thee, no longer, as of yore, 
 
 Hi tames the unmanageable steed, 
 With curb of gold his pride restrains, 
 Or with pressed spurs and shaken reins 
 Torments him into speed. 
 
 Not now he wields for thy sweet sake 
 The sword in his accomplished hand, 
 
 Nor grapples, like a poisonous snake, 
 The wrestler on the yellow sand. 
 The old heroic harp his hand 
 
 Consults not now ; it can but kiss 
 
 The amorous lute's dissolving strings, 
 Which murmur forth a thousand things 
 Of banishment from bliss. 
 
 Through thee, my dearest friend and best 
 Grows harsh, importunate, and grave ; 
 
 Myself have been his port of rest 
 
 From shipwreck on the yawning wave ; 
 Yet now so high his passions rave 
 
 Above lost reason's conquered laws, 
 That not the traveller, ere he slays 
 The asp, its sting, as he my face, 
 So dreads or so abhors. 
 
 In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide, 
 Thou wert not cradled, wert not born ; 
 
 * This ode was addressed to a lady residing in that quar- 
 ter of Naples called II Seggio di Gnido ; and on this ac- 
 count the poet styles her " The Flower of Gnido." 
 
 She who has not a fault beside 
 
 Should ne'er be signalized for scorn ; 
 Else, tremble at the fate forlorn 
 
 Of Anaxarete, who spurned 
 
 The weeping Iphis from her gate, — 
 Who, scoffing long, relenting late, 
 Was to a statue turned. 
 
 Whilst yet soft pity she repelled, 
 
 Whilst yet she steeled her heart in pride, 
 From her friezed window she beheld, 
 
 Aghast, the lifeless suicide : 
 
 Around his lily neck was tied 
 What freed his spirit from her chains, 
 
 And purchased with a few short sighs 
 
 For her immortal agonies, 
 Imperishable pains. 
 
 Then first she felt her bosom bleed 
 With love and pity ; vain distress ! 
 
 O, what deep rigors must succeed 
 This first, sole touch of tenderness ! 
 Her eyes grow glazed and motionless, 
 
 Nailed on his wavering corse ; each bone, 
 Hardening in growth, invades her flesh, 
 Which, late so rosy, warm, and fresh, 
 Now stagnates into stone. 
 
 From limb to limb the frosts aspire, 
 
 Her vitals curdle with the cold ; 
 The blood forgets its crimson fire, 
 
 The veins that e'er its motion rolled ; 
 
 Till now the virgin's glorious mould 
 Was wholly into marble changed, 
 
 On which the Salaminians gazed, 
 
 Less at the prodigy amazed, 
 Than of the crime avenged. 
 
 Then tempt not thou Fate's angry arms 
 By cruel frown or icy taunt ; 
 
 But let thy perfect deeds and charms 
 To poets' harps, Divinest, grant 
 Themes worthy their immortal vaunt 
 
 Else must our weeping strings presume 
 To celebrate in strains of woe 
 The justice of some signal blow 
 That strikes thee to the tomb. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 As the fond mother, when her suffering child 
 Asks some sweet object of desire with tears, 
 Grants it, although her fond affection fears 
 'T will double all its sufferings ; reconciled 
 To more appalling evils by the mild 
 Influence of present pity, shuts her ears 
 To prudence; for an hour's repose, prepares 
 Long sorrow, grievous pain : I, lost and wild, 
 Thus feed my foolish and infected thought 
 That asks for dangerous aliment; in vain 
 I would withhold it; clamorous, again 
 It comes, and weeps, and I 'm subdued, — and 
 
 naught 
 Can o'er that childish will a victory gain: 
 So have despair and gloom their triump.iB 
 
 wrought ! 
 
HERRERA. 
 
 673 
 
 Lady, thy face is written in my soul ; 
 
 And whensoe'er I wish to chant thy praise, 
 
 On that illumined manuscript I gaze: 
 
 Thou the sweet scribe art, I but read the scroll. 
 
 In this dear study all my days shall roll ; 
 
 And though this book can ne'er the half receive 
 
 Of what in thee is charming, I believe 
 
 In that 1 see not, and thus see the whole 
 
 With faith's clear eye. I but received my breath 
 
 To love thee, my ill genius shaped the rest; 
 
 'T is now that soul's mechanic act to love thee : 
 
 I love thee, owe thee more than I confessed ; 
 
 I gained life by thee, cruel though I prove thee; 
 
 fn thee I live, through thee I bleed to death. 
 
 FERNANDO DE HERRERA. 
 
 Fernando de Herrera, surnamed the Di- 
 vine, was born at Seville, about 1510. Little 
 is known of the circumstances of his life. He 
 appears to have been an ecclesiastic, but of 
 what rank is not recorded. He is spoken of as 
 an excellent scholar in Latin, and as having a 
 moderate knowledge of Greek. He read the 
 best authors in the modern languages, and stud- 
 ied profoundly the Castilian, of which he be- 
 came a distinguished master. He probably died 
 not long after 1590. 
 
 Herrera was a vigorous and elegant prose- 
 writer as well as poet. Many of his works, 
 however, are lost. His best productions are 
 lyrical. The ode on the battle of Lepanto, and 
 that on the death of Sebastian of Portugal, are 
 of remarkable excellence. He is praised by 
 Cervantes, who says, " The ivy of his fame will 
 cling to the walls of immortality." 
 
 ODE ON THE BATTLE OF LEPANTO. 
 
 The tyrants of the world i'rom hell's abysm 
 Summoned the demons of revenge and pride, 
 The countless hosts in whom they did con- 
 fide,— 
 And gathering round the flag of despotism 
 
 The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, — 
 
 All who had bound men's souls within their 
 
 den, — 
 
 Tore down the loftiest cedar of the height, 
 
 The tree sublime; and, drunk with anger then, 
 
 Threatened in ghastly bands our few astonished 
 
 men. 
 
 The little ones, confounded, trembled then 
 At their appalling fury; and their brow 
 
 Against the Lord of Hosts these impious men 
 Uplifting, sought, with Heaven-insulting vow, 
 The triumph of thy people's overthrow, — 
 
 Their armed hands extending, and their crest 
 Moving omnipotent, because that thou 
 
 Wert as a tower of refuge, to invest 
 
 All w.hom man's quenchless hope had prompted 
 to resist. 
 
 85 
 
 Thus said those insolent and scornful ones : 
 " Knows not this earth the vengeance of our 
 wrath, 
 
 The strength of our illustrious fathers' thrones ? 
 Or did the Roman power avail ? or hath 
 Rebellious Greece, in her triumphant path, 
 
 Scattered the seeds of freedom on your land? 
 Italia ! Austria ! who shall save you both ? 
 
 Is it your God ? — Ha, ha ! Shall he withstand 
 
 The glory of our might, our conquering right- 
 hand ? 
 
 " Our Rome, now tamed and humbled, into tears 
 
 And psalms converts her songs of freedom's 
 rights ; 
 And for her sad and conquered children fears 
 
 The carnage of more Cannas's fatal fights. 
 
 Now Asia with her discord disunites; 
 Spain threatens with her horrors to assail 
 
 All who still harbour Moorish proselytes; 
 Each nation's throne a traitor crew doth veil : 
 And, though in concord joined, what could their 
 might avail ? 
 
 "Earth's haughtiest nations tremble and obey, 
 And to our yoke their necks in peace incline, 
 And peace, for their salvation, of us pray, — 
 Cry, ' Peace I ' but that means death, when 
 
 monarchs sign. 
 Vain is their hope ! their lights obscurely 
 shine ! — 
 Their valiant gone, — their virgins in our 
 powers, — 
 Their glory to our sceptres they resign : 
 From Nile to Euphrates and Tiber's towers, 
 Whate'er the all-seeing sun looks down on, — 
 all is ours." 
 
 Thou, Lord ! who wilt not suffer that thy glory 
 They should usurp who in their might put 
 trust, 
 Hearing the vauntings of these anarchs hoary, 
 These holy ones beheld, whose horrid lust 
 Of triumph did thy sacred altars crust 
 With blood ; nor wouldst thou longer that the 
 base 
 Should be permitted to oppress thy just, 
 Then, mocking, cry to Heaven, — " Within what 
 
 place 
 Abides the God of these? where hideth he his 
 fase ? " 
 
 For the due glory of thy righteous name, 
 
 For the just vengeance of thy race oppressed, 
 
 For the deep woes the wretched loud proclaim, 
 In pieces hast thou dashed the dragon's crest, 
 And clipped the wings of the destroying pest: 
 
 Back to his cave he draws his poisonous fold, 
 And trembling hisses; then in torpid breast 
 
 Buries his fear : for thou, to Babel sold 
 
 Captive, no more on earth thy Zion wilt behold. 
 
 Portentous Egypt, now with discord riven, 
 The avenging fire and hostile spear affright; 
 
 And the smoke, mounting to the light of heaven 
 O'erclouds her cities in its pall of night: 
 3s 
 
674 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 In tears and solitude she mourns the sight. 
 But thou, O Grsecia ! the fierce tyrant's stay, 
 
 The glory of her excellence and might, 
 Dost thou lament, old Ocean Queen, thy prey, — 
 Nor fearing God, dost seek thine own regen- 
 erate day ? 
 
 Wherefore, ingrate, didst thou adorn thy daugh- 
 ters 
 
 In foul adultery with an impious race ? 
 Why thus confederate in the unholy slaughters 
 
 Of those whose burning hope is thy disgrace? 
 
 With mournful heart, yet hypocritic face, 
 Follow the life abhorred of that vile crew? 
 
 God's sharpened sword thy beauty shall efface, 
 Falling in vengeance on thy neck. O, who, 
 Thou lost one his right hand in mercy shall 
 subdue ? 
 
 But thou, O pride of ocean ! lofty Tyre! 
 
 Who in thy ships so high and glorious stood, 
 O'ershadowing earth's limits, and whose ire 
 With trembling filled this orb's vast multi- 
 tude ; 
 How have ye ended, fierce and haughty brood ? 
 What power hath marked your sins and slav- 
 eries foul, 
 Your neck unto this cruel yoke subdued? 
 God, to avenge us, clouds thy sunlike soul, 
 And causes on thy wise this blinding storm to 
 roll. 
 
 Howl, ships of Tarsus, howl! for, lo ! destroyed 
 
 Lies your high hope. Oppressors of the free ! 
 Lost is your strength, — your glory is defied. 
 
 Thou tyrant-shielder, who shall pity thee ? 
 
 And thou, O Asia ! who didst bow the knee 
 To Baal, in vice imrnerged, who shall atone 
 
 For thine idolatries ? for God doth see 
 Thine ancient crimes, whose silent prayers have 
 
 flown 
 For vengeance unto Heaven before his judg- 
 ment-throne. 
 
 Those who behold thy mighty arms when shat- 
 tered, 
 And Ocean flowing naked of thy pines, 
 Over his weary waves triumphant scattered 
 So long, but now wreck-strewn, in awful 
 
 signs, 
 Shall say, beholding thy deserted shrines, — 
 '■'Who 'gainst the fearful One hath daring 
 striven ? 
 The Lord of our Salvation their designs 
 O'erturned, and, for the glory of his heaven, 
 To man's.devoted race this victory hath given." 
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF DON SEBASTIAN. 
 
 With sorrowing voice begin the strain, 
 With fearful breath and sounds of woe, — 
 Sad prelude to the mournful lay 
 For Lusitania's fallen sway, 
 Spurned by the faithless foe! 
 
 And let the tale of horror sound 
 From Libyan Atlas and the burning plain 
 E'en to the Red Sea's distant bound; 
 And where, beyond that foaming tide, 
 The vanquished East, with blushing pride, 
 And all her nations fierce and brave, 
 Have seen the Cinistian banners wave. 
 
 O Libya ! through thy deserts wide, 
 
 With many a steed, and chariot boldly driven, 
 
 Thou saw'st Sebastian's warriors sweep the 
 
 shore : 
 On rushed they, fierce in martial power, 
 Nor raised their thoughts to Heaven ; 
 Self-confident, and flushed with pride, — 
 Their boastful hearts on plunder bent, — 
 Triumphant o'er the hostile land, 
 In gorgeous trim the stiff-necked people went 
 But the Lord opened his upholding hand, 
 And left them; down the abyss, with strange 
 
 uproar, 
 Horseman and horse amain, and crashing char- 
 iots, pour. 
 
 Loaded with wrath and terror came 
 
 The day, the cruel day, 
 
 Which gave the widowed realm to shame, 
 
 To solitude, and deep dismay. 
 
 Dark lowered the heavens; in garb of woe, 
 
 The sun, astonished, ceased to glow. 
 
 Jehovah visited the guilty land, 
 
 And passed in anger, with his red right-hand 
 
 Humbling her pride: he made the force 
 
 Of weak barbarians steady in its course; 
 
 He made their bosoms firm and bold, 
 
 And bade them spurn at baneful gold, 
 
 Their ruthless way through yielding legions 
 
 mow, 
 Fulfil his vengeful word, and trample on the foe 
 
 O'er thy fair limbs, so long by valor saved, 
 
 Sad Lusitania, child of woe ! 
 
 O'er all that rich and gallant show, 
 
 With impious hate the heathen's fearless arm 
 
 His flaming falchion waved : 
 
 His fury marred thine ancient fame, 
 
 And scattered o'er thy squadrons wild alarm, 
 
 Fell slaughter, and eternal shame. 
 
 A tide of blood o'erflowed the plain; 
 
 Like mountains stood the heaps of slain : 
 
 Alike, on that ill-fated day, . 
 
 War's headlong torrent swept away 
 
 The trembling voice of fear, the coward breath, 
 
 And the high soul of valor, proud in death. 
 
 Are those the warriors once renowned ; 
 
 For deeds of glory justly crowned; 
 
 Whose thunder shook the world, 
 
 Whene'er their banners were unfurled; 
 
 Who many a barbarous tribe subdued, 
 
 And many an empire stretching wide and far; 
 
 Who sacked each state that proudly stood; 
 
 Whose arms laid waste in savage war 
 
 What realms lie circled by the Indian tide 1 ' - 
 
 Where now their ancient pride ? 
 
HEitRERA. 
 
 67: 
 
 Where is that courage, once in fight secure ? 
 
 How in one moment is the boast 
 
 Of that heroic valor lost! 
 
 Without the holy rites of sepulture, 
 
 Far from their homes and native land, 
 
 Fallen, O, fallen on the desert sand ! 
 
 Once were they like the cedar fair 
 
 Of mighty Lebanon, whose glorious head 
 
 With leaves and boughs immeasurably spread. 
 
 The rains of heaven bade it grow 
 
 Stately and loftiest on the mountain's brow; 
 
 And still its branches rose to view 
 
 In form and beauty ever new. 
 
 High nestled on its head the fowls of air, 
 
 And many a forest beast 
 
 Beneath its ample boughs increased, 
 
 And man found shelter in its goodly shade. 
 
 With beauteous limbs unrivalled did it rise, 
 
 Lord of the mountain, towering to the skies. 
 
 Its verdant head presumptuously grew, 
 Trusting to wondrous bulk alone, 
 And vain of its excelling height: 
 But from the root its trunk the Lord o'erthrew, 
 To barbarous despite 
 And foreign hate a hopeless prey. 
 Now, by the mountain torrent strown, 
 Its leafless honors naked lie ; 
 And far aloof the frighted wanderers fly, 
 Whom once it shielded from the burning day : 
 In the sad ruin of its branches bare 
 Dwell the wild forest beasts and screaming birds 
 of air. 
 
 Thou, hateful Libya, on whose arid sand 
 
 Proud Lusitania's glory fell, 
 
 And all her boast of wide command, — 
 
 Let not thine heart with triumph swell, 
 
 Though to thy timid hand by angry Heaven 
 
 A praiseless victory was given ! 
 
 For when the voice of grief shall call 
 
 The sons of Spain to venge her fall, 
 
 Torn by the lance, thy vitals shall repay 
 
 The fatal outrage of that bitter day, 
 
 And Luco's flood, impurpled by the slain, 
 
 Its mournful tribute roll affrighted to the main. 
 
 FROM AN ODE TO DON JOHN OF AUSTRIA. 
 
 When from the vaulted sky, 
 
 Struck by the bolt and volleyed fire of Jove, 
 
 Enceladus, who proudly strove 
 
 To rear to heaven his impious head, 
 
 Fell headlong upon Etna's rocky bed ; 
 
 And she, who long had boldly stood 
 
 Against the powers on high, 
 
 By thousand deaths undaunted, unsubdued, — 
 
 Rebellious Earth, — her fury spent, 
 
 Before the sword of Mars unwilling bent : 
 
 In heaven's pure serene, 
 
 To his bright lyre, whose strings melodious rung, 
 
 Unshorn Apollo sweetly sung, 
 
 And spread the joyous numbers round, — 
 
 His youthful brows with gold and laurel bound 
 
 Listening the sweet, immortal strain 
 
 Each heavenly power was seen ; 
 
 And all the lucid spheres, night's wakeful train, 
 
 That swift pursue their ceaseless way, 
 
 Forgot their course, suspended by his lay. 
 
 Hushed was the stormy sea, — 
 
 At the sweet sound the boisterous waves were 
 
 laid, 
 The noise of rushing winds was stayed ; 
 And with the gentle breath of pleasure 
 The Muses sung, according with his measure. 
 In wildest strains of rapture lost, 
 He sung the victory, 
 
 The power and glory, of the heavenly host; 
 The horrid mien and warlike mood, 
 The fatal pride, of the Titanian brood : 
 
 Of Pallas, Attic maid, 
 
 The Gorgon terrors and the fiery spear; 
 
 Of him, whose voice the billows fear, 
 
 The valor proved in deadly fight ; 
 
 Of Hercules the strength and vengeful might. 
 
 But long he praised thy dauntless heart, 
 
 And sweetest prelude made, 
 
 Singing, Bistonian Mars, thy force and art; 
 
 Thine arm victorious, which o'erthrew 
 
 The fiercest of the bold Phlegrean crew ! 
 
 ODE TO SLEEP. 
 
 Sweet Sleep, that through the starry path of 
 
 night, 
 With dewy poppies crowned, pursu'st thy flight ! 
 Stiller of human woes, 
 
 That shedd'st o'er Nature's breast a soft repose ! 
 O, to these distant climates of the West 
 Thy slowly wandering pinions turn ; 
 And with thy influence blest 
 Bathe these love-burdened eyes, that ever burn 
 And find no moment's rest, 
 While my unceasing grief 
 Refuses all relief! 
 
 O, hear my prayer ! I ask it by thy love, 
 Whom Juno gave thee in the realms above. 
 
 Sweet power, that dost impart 
 
 Gentle oblivion to the suffering heart, 
 
 Beloved Sleep, thou only canst bestow 
 
 A solace for my woe ! 
 
 Thrice happy be the hour 
 
 My weary limbs shall feel thy sovereign power! 
 
 Why to these eyes alone deny 
 
 The calm thou pour'st on Nature's boundless 
 
 reign ? 
 Why let thy votary all neglected die, 
 Nor yield a respite to a lover's pain? 
 And must I ask thy balmy aid in vain ? 
 Hear, gentle power, O, hear my humble prayer, 
 And let my soul thy heavenly banquet share ! 
 
 In this extreme of grief, I own thy might . 
 Descend, and shed thy healing dew ; 
 
676 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 Descend, and put to flight 
 
 The intruding Dawn, that with her gairish light 
 
 My sorrows would renew ! 
 
 Thou hear'st my sad lament, and in my face 
 
 My many griefs may'st trace : 
 
 Turn, then, sweet wanderer of the night, and 
 
 spread 
 Thy wings around my head ! 
 Haste, for the unwelcome Morn 
 Is now on her return ! 
 Let the soft rest the hours of night denied 
 Be by thy lenient hand supplied ! 
 
 Fresh from my summer bowers, 
 A crown of soothing flowers, 
 Such as thou lov'st, the fairest and the best, 
 I offer thee ; won by their odors sweet, 
 The enamoured air shall greet 
 Thy advent: O, then, let thy hand 
 Express their essence bland, 
 And o'er my eyelids pour delicious rest ! 
 Enchanting power, soft as the breath of Spring 
 Be the light gale that steers thy dewy wing ! 
 Come, ere the sun ascends the purple east, — 
 Come, end my woes ! So, crowned with heaven- 
 ly charms, 
 May fair Pasithea take thee to her arms! 
 
 JUAN FERNANDEZ DE HEREDIA. 
 
 This poet belonged to Valencia. He flour- 
 ished in the first half of the sixteenth century, 
 and died in 1549. 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 To part, to lose thee, was so hard, 
 So sad, that all besides is naught; 
 
 The pangs of death itself, compared 
 With this, are hardly worth a thought. 
 
 There is a wound that never heals, — 
 
 'T is folly e'en to dream of healing; 
 Inquire not what a spirit feels 
 
 That aye has lost the sense of feeling. 
 My heart is callous now, and bared 
 
 To every pang with sorrow fraught; 
 The pangs of death itself, compared 
 
 To this, are scarcely worth a thought. 
 
 BALTASAR DEL ALCAZAR. 
 
 Baltasar del Alcazar was a native of 
 Seville. He was born early in the sixteenth 
 century, and belonged to a distinguished family. 
 He was well esteemed as a poet in his age; but 
 his works, consisting of epigrams and other short 
 pieces, are not much known. Cervantes, how- 
 ever, in his "Canto de Caliope," speaks of him 
 os having made the Guadalquivir, upon whose 
 banks he resided, equal in glory to the Mincio, 
 the Arno, and the Tiber : — 
 
 " Puedes, famoso Betis, dignamente 
 Al Mincio, al Arno, al Tibre aventajarte, 
 
 Y alzar contento la sagrada frente, 
 
 Y en nuevos anchoa senos dilatarte, 
 Pues quiso el cielo, que tu bien consiente, 
 Tal gloria, tal honor, tal fama darte, 
 Que te la adquiere a lus riberas bellas 
 Baltasar del Alcazar que esta en ellas." 
 
 He is also spoken of by his contemporary, 
 Francisco Pacheco, the painter of Seville, in his 
 "Arte de la Pintura." 
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 Sleep is no servant of the will, — 
 
 It has caprices of its own : 
 
 When most pursued, 'tis swiftly gone; 
 When courted least, it lingers still. 
 With its vagaries long perplexed, 
 
 I turned and turned my restless sconce, 
 
 Till, one bright night, I thought at once 
 I 'd master it ; — so hear my text ! 
 
 When sleep will tarry, I begin 
 
 My long and my accustomed prayer ; 
 
 And in a twinkling sleep is there, 
 Through my bed-curtains peeping in : 
 Wiien sleep hangs heavy on my eyes, 
 
 I think of debts I fain would pay; 
 
 And then, as flies night's shade from day, 
 Sleep from my heavy eyelids flies. 
 
 And thus controlled, the winged one bends 
 
 E'en his fantastic will to me; 
 
 And, strange yet true, both I and he 
 Are friends, — the very best of friends : 
 We are a happy, wedded pair, 
 
 And I the lord and he the dame ; 
 
 Our bed, our board, our hours the same ; 
 And we 're united everywhere. 
 
 I 'II tell you where I learned to school 
 
 This wayward sleep : — a whispered word 
 From a church-going hag I heard, — 
 
 And tried it, — for I was no fool. 
 
 So from that very hour I knew, 
 That having ready prayers to pray, 
 And having many debts to pay, 
 
 Will serve for sleep and waking too. 
 
 SANTA TERESA DE AVILA. 
 
 This singular person was born at Avila, in 
 1515. At the age of twelve, accompanied by 
 one of her brothers, she fled, in a fit of enthu- 
 siasm, from her father's house, for the purpose 
 of seeking the crown of martyrdom among the 
 Moors. They were, however, brought back, 
 and Teresa took the religious habit, and distin- 
 guished herself by her pious zeal, particularly 
 in reforming the monastery of Avila. Notwith- 
 standing her religious enthusiasm, we are told 
 she delighted in reading romances, and even 
 wrote one herself. Her death took place in 
 
 
SANTA TERESA. — GIL POLO. — SIL VE STRE. 
 
 677 
 
 1582. She was canonized by Paul the Fifth, 
 in 1615. 
 
 Teresa wrote, besides the romance mentioned 
 above, two volumes of letters, and a number of 
 poems. Her works are marked by energy of 
 sentiment and grace of style. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Tis not thy terrors, Lord, thy dreadful frown, 
 Which keep my step in duty's narrow path ; 
 'T is not the awful threatenings of thy wrath, — 
 But that in virtue's sacred smile alone 
 I find or peace or happiness. Thy light, 
 In all its prodigality, is shed 
 Upon the worthy and the unworthy head : 
 And thou dost wrap in misery's stormy night 
 The holy as the thankless. All is well; 
 Thy wisdom has to each his portion given ; — 
 Why should our hearts by selfishness be riven ? 
 'T is vain to murmur, — daring to rebel : 
 Lord, I would fear thee, though I feared not hell ; 
 And love thee, though I had no hopes of heaven ! 
 
 GASPAR GIL POLO. 
 
 This distinguished Spanish writer was born 
 at Valencia, in 1517. He was destined to the 
 profession of the law, but was drawn away from 
 it by his strong inclination for poetry. His most 
 celebrated work is the "Diana Enamorada," a 
 pastoral romance, designed as a continuation of 
 the "Diana" of Montemayor, and, like that 
 work, written partly in prose and partly in 
 verse. It is saved from burning, in the scrutiny 
 of Don Quixote's library by the curate and the 
 barber. " ' Here 's another Diana,' quoth the 
 barber, 'the second of that name, by Salrnan- 
 tino (of Salamanca) ; nay, and a third, too, by 
 Gil Polo.' 'Pray,' said the curate, 'let Sal- 
 mantino increase the number of the criminals 
 in the yard; but as for that by Gil Polo, pre- 
 serve it as charily as if Apollo himself had 
 wrote it.' " 
 
 FROM THE DIANA ENAMORADA. 
 LOVE AND HATE. 
 
 Since you have said you loved me not, 
 I hate myself; and love can do 
 
 No more than drive from heart and thought 
 Whoever is unloved by you. 
 
 If you could veil your radiant brow, 
 
 Or I could look, and fail to love, 
 I should not live while dying now, 
 
 Or, living, not thy anger move: 
 But now let fear and woe be brought, 
 
 And grief and care their wounds renew; 
 He should be pierced in heart and thought, 
 
 Who, lady, is unloved by you. 
 
 Buried in your forgetfulness, 
 
 And mouldering under death's dark pall, 
 And hated by myself, nor less 
 
 Hated by thee, the world, and all, — 
 I '11 wed with misery now, and naught 
 
 But your disdain shall meet my view, 
 And scathed in heart, and scathed in thought, 
 
 Lady! because unloved by you. 
 
 I CANNOT CEASE TO LOVE. 
 
 If it distress thee to be loved, 
 
 Why, — as I cannot cease to love thee, - 
 Learn thou to bear the thought unmoved, 
 
 Till death remove me, or remove thee. 
 
 O, let me give the feelings vent, 
 
 The melancholy thoughts that fill me ! 
 Or send thy mandate; be content 
 
 To wound my inner heart, and kill me : 
 If love, whose smile would fain caress thee, 
 
 If love offend, yet why reprove? 
 I cannot, lady, but distress thee, 
 
 Because I cannot cease to love. 
 
 If I could check the passion glowing 
 
 Within my bosom, — if I could, 
 On other maids my love bestowing, 
 
 Give thy soul peace, sweet girl, I would. 
 But no ! my heart cannot address thee 
 
 In aught but love ! — then why reprove? 
 I cannot, lady, but distress thee, 
 
 Because I cannot cease to love. 
 
 GREGORIO SILVESTRE. 
 
 Gregorio Silvestre was a Portuguese by 
 nativity. He was the son of the physician of 
 the king of Portugal, and was born at Lisbon, 
 in 1520. He lived, however, in Spain, and 
 was the organist of a church in Granada, where 
 he died in 1570. His " Obras Poeticas " were 
 published at Lisbon, in 1592, and republished 
 at Granada, in 1599. 
 
 TELL ME, LADY! TELL ME! — YES? 
 
 Lady ! if thou deem me true, 
 That I love thee, now confess: 
 Tell me, lady ! tell me ! — yes ? 
 
 Since I saw thy beauty, naught 
 But that beauty fills my mind; 
 
 Every passion, every thought, 
 Is in love of thee enshrined; 
 In no other thought I find 
 
 Peace; — and wilt thou love me less? 
 
 Tell me, lady ! tell me ! — yes ? 
 
 Wilt thou own that thou alone 
 
 Art my heaven, my hope, my bliss? 
 
 Light, without thy smile, is none,— 
 Day, without thee, darkness is: 
 
 Dost thou own, beloved one, 
 3e* 
 
S73 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 Thou my path can cheer and bless? 
 Tell me, lady! tell me! — yes? 
 
 Dost thou know, the radiant sky, 
 With its comets, suns, and stars, 
 
 All in glorious course on high, 
 Driving their illumined cars, — 
 
 Dost thou know, when thou art nigh, 
 
 They are dark and valueless? 
 
 Tell me, lady ! tell me ! — yes? 
 
 Dost thou know that God has made 
 
 Gardens, fields, and banks, and bowers, 
 
 Seats of sunshine, and of shade, 
 
 Decked with smiles, and gemmed with 
 flowers, 
 
 Which repose and peace pervade ? 
 
 Thither, lady, let us press ! 
 
 Tell me, lady ! tell me ! — yes? 
 
 INES SENT A KISS TO ME. 
 
 Ines sent a kiss to me, 
 
 While we danced upon the green , 
 Let that kiss a blessing be, 
 
 And conceal no woes unseen. 
 
 How I dared I know not now; 
 While we danced, I gently said, 
 Smiling, " Give me, lovely maid, 
 
 Give me one sweet kiss ! " — when, lo ! 
 
 Gathering blushes robed her brow; 
 And, with love and fear afraid, 
 
 Thus she spoke, — "I '11 send the kiss 
 
 In a calmer day of bliss." 
 
 Then I cried, — "Dear maid! what day 
 
 Can be half so sweet as this? 
 Throw not hopes and joys away ; 
 
 Send, O, send the promised kiss' 
 Can so bright a gift be mine, 
 
 Bought without a pang of pain ? 
 'T is perchance a ray divine, 
 
 Darker night to bring again. 
 
 " Could I dwell on such a thought, 
 
 I of very joy should die ; 
 Naught of earth's enjoyments, naught, 
 
 Could be like that ecstasy. 
 I will pay her interest meet, 
 
 When her lips shall breathe ori me; 
 And for every kiss so sweet, 
 
 Give her many more than three." 
 
 JORGE DE MONTEMAYOR. 
 
 The family name of this poet is unknown ; 
 he took that of the small town of Montemayor, 
 or Montemor, near Coimbra, in Portugal, where 
 he was born. In youth, he entered upon the 
 military career. He went afterwards to Castile, 
 and, having a talent for music, supported him- 
 self by singing in the chapel of Philip the Sec- 
 md. He accompanied the king on a journey 
 
 through Italy, Germany, and the Netherlands, 
 and after his return lived in Leon, where he 
 wrote the celebrated pastoral of "Diana Ena- 
 morada." He received an honorable post at the 
 court of Queen Catharine. He is supposed to 
 have died a violent death, about the year 1561, 
 or 1562. 
 
 Besides the " Diana," we have a cancionero, 
 or collection of his poems. 
 
 FROM THE DIANA ENAMORADA. 
 
 diana's song. 
 
 Bright eyes ! that now the tender glance no 
 
 more 
 Return to him whose mirrors still ye shone, 
 To give content, O, say, what sights ye see ! 
 O green and flowery fields, where oft alone 
 Each day for him, my gentle swain, I wore 
 The sultry hours away, lament with me; 
 For here he first declared so tenderly 
 His love ! I heard the while, 
 With more than serpent guile, — 
 Chiding a thousand times his amorous way, 
 And sorrowing to delay. 
 
 In tears he stood, — his glance methinks I see 
 Or is it but fantasy? 
 
 Ah ! could I hear him now his passion own ! 
 O streams and waving woods, whither has Si- 
 
 reno flown ? 
 
 And yonder see the stream, the flowery seat, 
 The verdant vale, the cool, umbrageous wood, 
 Where oft he led his wandering flock to feed, — 
 The noisy, babbling fountain where he stood, 
 And, 'mid green bowers, hid from the noontide 
 
 heat, 
 Under this oak his tender tale would plead ! 
 And see the lawny isle, 
 Where first he saw me smile, 
 And fondly knelt ! O, sweet, delightful hour, 
 Had not misfortune's power 
 Those days serene o'ercast with deepest night .' 
 O tree ! O fountain bright ! 
 All, all are here, — but not the youth I moan. 
 O streams and waving woods, whither has Si- 
 
 reno flown ? 
 
 Here in my hand his picture I admire, — 
 
 Pleased with the charm, methinks 't is he; al- 
 though 
 
 Deep in my heart his features brighter glow. 
 
 When comes the hour of love and soft desire, 
 
 To yonder fountain in the vale I go, 
 
 My languid limbs beneath the willows throw, 
 
 Sit by his side, — O Love, how blind thy 
 ways ! — 
 
 Then in the waters gazt 
 
 On him, and on myself, om_e more revived, 
 
 Like when with me he lived. 
 
 Awhile this fancy will my cares abstract, 
 
 Then utterly distract. 
 
 My fond heart weeps its foolishness to own. 
 
 O streams and waving woods, whither has Si- 
 reno flown ? 
 
MONTEMAYOR.- CASTILLEJO. 
 
 679 
 
 Sometimes I chide, yet will he not reply; 
 And then I think he pays me scorn for scorn, — 
 For oft whilom I would no answer deign. 
 But sorrowing then, I say, " Behold, 't is I ! 
 Sireno, speak ! O, leave me not forlorn, 
 Since thou art here ! " Yet still 
 In silence will he keep immovable 
 Those bright and sparkling eyes, 
 That were like twins o' th' skies. 
 What love ! what folly ! with this vain pretence, 
 To ask for life or sense, — 
 A painted shadow, and this madness own ! 
 O streams and waving woods, whither has Si- 
 reno flown ? 
 
 Ne'er with my flock at sunset can I go 
 
 Into our village, nor depart at morn, 
 
 But see I yonder, with unwilling eyes, 
 
 My shepherd's hamlet laid in ruins low. 
 
 There for a time, in dreams, I linger yet, 
 
 And sheep and lambs forget, — 
 
 Till shepherd-boys break out 
 
 Into a sudden shout, 
 
 " Ho, shepherdess ! what ! are you dreaming 
 now ? 
 
 While yonder, see, your cow 
 
 Feeds in the corn ! " My eyes, alas ! proclaim 
 
 From whom proceeds this shame, 
 
 That my starved flock forsake me here alone. 
 
 O streams and waving woods, whither has Si- 
 reno flown ? 
 
 Song! go! thou know'st well whither; — 
 
 Nay, haste, return thou hither; 
 
 For it may be thy fate 
 
 To go where they may say thou art importunate. 
 
 SIRENO S SONG. 
 
 " Sireno a shepheard, hauing a locke of his 
 faire nimph's haire, wrapt about with greene 
 silke, mournes thus in a loue-dittie." 
 
 What chang's here, O haire, 
 
 I see since I saw you ? 
 How ill fits you this greene to weare, 
 
 For hope the colour due ? 
 Indeede I well did hope, 
 
 Though hope were mixt with feare, 
 No other shepheard should haue scope 
 
 Once to approach this heare. 
 
 Ah haire ! how many dayes, 
 
 My Dian made me show, 
 With thousand prettie childish playes, 
 
 If I ware you or no? 
 Alas, how oft with teares, 
 
 (Oh teares of guilefull brest:) 
 She seemed full of iealous feares, 
 
 Whereat I did but iest? 
 
 Tell me, O haire of gold, 
 
 If I then faultie be ? 
 That hurt those killing eye9 I would, 
 
 Since they did warrant me ? 
 
 Haue you not seene her moode, 
 What streames of teares she spent : 
 
 Till that I sware my faith so stood, 
 As her words had it bent? 
 
 Who hath such beautie seene, 
 
 In one that changeth so ? 
 Or where one loues so constant beene, 
 
 Who euer saw such woe? 
 Ah haires, you are not grieu'd, 
 
 To come from whence you be : 
 Seeing how once you saw I liu'd, 
 
 To see me as you see. 
 
 On sandie banke of late, 
 
 I saw this woman sit: 
 Where, sooner die than change my state, 
 
 She with her finger writ. 
 Thus tny beliefe was stay'd, 
 
 Behold Loue's mighty hand 
 On things, were by a woman say'd, 
 
 And written in the sand. 
 
 CRISTOVAL DE CASTILLEJO. 
 
 This poet was born at Ciudad Rodrigo, in the 
 first quarter of the sixteenth century. He went 
 to Vienna in the service of Charles the Fifth, 
 and remained there as secretary of Ferdinand 
 the First. He wrote the greater part of his 
 poems during his residence in that city. He was 
 distinguished as the opponent of the new style 
 introduced by Boscan and Garcilaso, and a warm 
 adherent of the old Spanish national manner. 
 At an advanced age, he became a Cistercian 
 monk, and died in the monastery of Val de 
 Iglesias, near Toledo, in 1596. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 How dreary and lone 
 
 The world would appear, 
 
 If women were none! 
 
 'T would be like a fair, 
 
 With neither fun nor business there. 
 
 Without their smile, 
 
 Life would be tasteless, vain, and vile; 
 
 A chaos of perplexity ; 
 
 A body without a soul 't would be ; 
 
 A roving spirit, borne 
 
 Upon the winds forlorn ; 
 
 A tree without or flowers or fruit ; 
 
 A reason with no resting-place , 
 
 A castle with no governor to it; 
 
 A house without a base. 
 
 What are we, what our race, 
 
 How good for nothing and base, 
 
 Without fair woman to aid us ! 
 
 What could we do, where should we go, 
 
 How should we wander in night and woe, 
 
 But for woman to lead us ! 
 
680 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 How could we love, if woman were not: 
 Love, — the brightest part of our lot; 
 Love, — the only charm of living ; 
 Love, — the only gift worth giving? 
 Who would take charge of your house, — say, 
 
 who, — 
 Kitchen, and dairy, and money-chest, — 
 Who but the women, who guard them best, — 
 Guard, and adorn them too ? 
 Who like them has a constant smile, 
 Full of peace, of meekness full, 
 When life's edge is blunt and dull, 
 And sorrow and sin, in frowning file, 
 Stand by the path in which we go 
 Down to the grave through wasting woe ? 
 All that is good is theirs, is theirs, — 
 All we give, and all we get ; 
 And if a beam of glory yet 
 Over the gloomy earth appears, 
 O, 't is theirs ! O, 't is theirs ! — 
 They are the guard, the soul, the seal 
 Of human hope and human weal ; 
 They, — they, — none but they; 
 Woman, — sweet woman ! — let none say nay ! 
 
 LUIS PONCE DE LEON. 
 
 Foremost among the sacred poets of Spain 
 stands the gentle enthusiast, Luis Ponce de 
 Leon. He was born at Granada, in the year 
 1527, and died at the mature age of sixty- 
 three, while exercising the high functions of 
 General and Provincial Vicar of Salamanca. 
 Though descended from the noble family of the 
 Ponces de Leon, the pleasures and honors of 
 the great world seem to have had no attractions 
 for him. From early youth, his mind was wrapt 
 up in the study of poetry, and in moral and 
 religious contemplations. At the earlv age of 
 sixteen, he made his theological profession in 
 the order of St. Augustine, at Salamanca, and 
 in his thirtv-third year was invested with the 
 dignity of Doctor of Theology. In 1561, he 
 was appointed Professor in the University. In 
 the retirement of the cloister, his ardent mind 
 gave itself up to its favorite pursuits; and his 
 poetic imagination was purified and exalted by 
 a strong moral sense, and a sincere and eleyated 
 piety. His devotional poems, which, according 
 to his own testimony, were composed in his 
 youth, exhibit the amiable enthusiasm of that 
 age, and all the beauty of a religious mind, ab- 
 stracted from the world, and absorbed in its own 
 meditations and devotions. He seems, howev- 
 er, to have been at no period of his life a bigot. 
 Indeed, he was himself thrown into the dun- 
 geons of the Inquisition for having translated 
 into the vulgar tongue the Song of Solomon, at 
 a time when all translations of the Holy Scrip- 
 tures were strictly prohibited. There he re- 
 mained for nearly five years ; but, even in the 
 darkness of his dungeon, enjoying the light of 
 bis own pure mind, — free, though imprisoned, 
 
 — injured, yet unrepining. In one of his let 
 ters, he says, " Shut out not only from the con- 
 versation and society of men, but from their 
 very sight, for nearly five years I was surroundec 
 by darkness and a dungeon's walls. Then I 
 enjoyed a tranquillity and satisfaction of mind, 
 which I often look for in vain, now that I am 
 restored to the light of day and to the grateful 
 intercourse of friends." On being released from 
 prison, he immediately resumed his professor's 
 chair, as if nothing had happened, and com- 
 menced his lecture to a crowded auditor)' with 
 the words, "We were saying, yesterday " 
 
 The following sketch of Ponce de Leon's 
 character is from the "Edinburgh Review" 
 (Vol. XL., pp. 467-469). 
 
 " While he stands alone among his country- 
 men of this period in the character of his inspi- 
 ration, the influence of the spirit of the age is 
 still visible in the absence of every thing that 
 betrays any extensive acquaintance or sympathy 
 with actual life. That relief, which other poets 
 sought in the scenery of an imaginary Arcadia, 
 Luis Ponce de Leon, bred in the silence and 
 solitude of the cloister, found in the contempla- 
 tion of the divine mysteries, and in the indul- 
 gence of those rapturous feelings which it is the 
 tendency of Catholicism to create. His mind, 
 naturally gentle and composed, avoided the 
 shock of polemical warfare, and seems to have 
 been in no degree tinctured with that fanaticism 
 which characterizes his brethren. Hence, it 
 was to the delights, rather than to the terrors 
 of religion, that he turned his attention. A pro- 
 found scholar, and deeply versed in the Grecian 
 philosophy, he had ' unsphered the spirit of 
 Plato,' and embodied in his poetry the lofty 
 views of the Greek philosopher with regard to 
 the original derivation of the soul from a higher 
 existence, but heightened and rendered more 
 distinct and more deeply interesting by the 
 Christian belief, that such was also to be its 
 final destination. Separated from a world, of 
 which he knew neither the evil nor the good, 
 his thoughts had wandered so habitually ' beyond 
 the visible diurnal sphere,' that to him the reali- 
 ties of life had become as visions, the ideal world 
 of his own imagination had assumed the consis- 
 tency of reality. His whole life looks like a 
 religious reverie, a philosophic dream, which 
 was no more disturbed by trials and persecutions 
 from without than the visions of the sleeper are 
 influenced by the external world by which he 
 is surrounded. 
 
 "The character of Luis de Leon is distin- 
 guished by another peculiarity. It might natu- 
 rally be expected, that, with this tendency to 
 mysticism in his ideas, his works would be 
 tinctured with vagueness and obscurity of ex- 
 pression. But no poet ever appears to bai e 
 subjected the creations of an enthusiastic imagi- 
 nation more strictly to the ordeal of a severe 
 and critical taste, or to have imparted to the 
 language of rapture so deep an air of truth and 
 reality While he had thoroughly imbued him 
 
PONCE DE LEON. 
 
 681 
 
 self with the lofty idealism of the Platonic phi- 
 losophy, he exhibits in his style all the clearness 
 and precision of Horace ; and, with the excep- 
 tion of Testi among the Italians, is certainly the 
 only modern who has caught the true spirit of 
 the Epicurean poet. In the sententious gravity 
 of his style he resembles him very closely. But 
 the moral odes of Luis de Leon ' have a spell 
 beyond ' the lyrics of Horace. That philoso- 
 phy of indolence which the Roman professed, 
 which looks on life only as a visionary pageant, 
 and death as the deeper and sounder sleep that 
 succeeds the dream, — which places the idea of 
 happiness in passive existence, and parts with 
 indifference from love and friendship, from lib- 
 erty, from life itself, whenever it costs an effort 
 to retain them, is allied to a principle of univer- 
 sal mediocrity, which is destructive of all lofty 
 views, and, when minutely examined, is even 
 inconsistent with those qualified principles of 
 morality which it nominally professes and pre- 
 scribes. But in the odes of Luis de Leon we 
 recognize the influence of a more animating and 
 ennobling feeling. He looked upon the world, 
 ' Esta lisongera 
 Vida. con cuanto teme, y cuanto espera,' 
 with calmness, but not with apathy or selfish- 
 ness. The shortness of life, the flight of time, 
 the fading of flowers, the silent swiftness of the 
 river, the decay of happiness, the mutability of 
 fortune, — the ideas and images, which, to the 
 Epicurean poet, only afford inducements to de- 
 vote the present hour to enjoyment, are those 
 which the Spanish moralist holds out as incite- 
 ments to the cultivation of that enthusiasm 
 which alone appeared to him capable of fully 
 exercising the powers of the soul, of disengaging 
 it from the influence of worldly feelings, and 
 elevating it to that heaven from which it had 
 its birth." 
 
 NOCHE SERENA. 
 
 When yonder glorious sky, 
 Lighted with million lamps, I contemplate; 
 
 And turn my dazzled eye 
 
 To this vain mortal state, 
 All dim and visionary, mean and desolate : 
 
 A mingled joy and grief 
 Fills all my soul with dark solicitude; — 
 
 I find a short relief 
 
 In tears, whose torrents rude 
 Roll down my cheeks; or thoughts which thus 
 intrude : — 
 
 Thou so sublime abode ! 
 Temple of light, and beauty's fairest shrine ! 
 
 My soul, a spark of God, 
 
 Aspiring to thy seats divine, — 
 Why, why is it condemned in this dull cell to 
 pine ? 
 
 Why should I ask in vain 
 For truth's pure lamp, and wander here alone, 
 
 Seeking, through toil and pain, 
 Light from the Eternal One, — 
 Following a shadow still, that glimmers and is 
 gone ? 
 
 Dreams and delusions play 
 With man, — he thinks not of his mortal fate : 
 
 Death treads his silent way; 
 
 The earth turns round ; and then, too late, 
 Man fi nds no beam is left of all his fancied state. 
 
 Rise from your sleep, vain men ! 
 Look round, — and ask if spirits born of heaven, 
 
 And bound to heaven again, 
 
 Were only lent or given 
 To be in this mean round of shades and follies 
 driven. 
 
 Turn your unclouded eye 
 Up to yon bright, to yon eternal spheres; 
 
 And spurn the vanity 
 
 Of time's delusive years, 
 And all its flattering hopes, and all its frowning 
 fears. 
 
 What is the ground ye tread, 
 
 But a mere point, compared w : th that vast space, 
 Around, above you spread, — 
 Where, in the Almighty's face, 
 
 The present, future, past, hold an eternal placer 
 
 List to the concert pure 
 Of yon harmonious, countless worlds of light! 
 
 See, in his orbit sure, 
 
 Each takes his journey bright, 
 Led by an unseen hand through the vast maze 
 of night ! 
 
 See how the pale Moon rolls 
 Her silver wheel ; and, scattering beams afar 
 
 On Earth's benighted souls, 
 
 See Wisdom's holy star; 
 Or, in his fiery course, the sanguine orb of War ; 
 
 Or that benignant ray 
 Which Love hath called its own, and made so 
 fair; 
 , Or that serene display 
 Of power supernal there, 
 Where Jupiter conducts his chariot through the 
 air ! 
 
 And, circling all the rest, 
 See Saturn, father of the golden hours : 
 While round him, bright and blest, 
 The whole empyreum showers 
 Its glorious streams of light on this low world 
 of ours ! 
 
 But who to these can turn, 
 And weigh them 'gainst a weeping world like 
 this, — 
 Nor feel his spirit burn 
 To grasp so sweet a bliss, 
 And mourn that exile hard which here his por- 
 tion is ? 
 
682 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 For there, and there alone, 
 Are peace, and joy, and never-dying love, — 
 
 There, on a splendid throne, 
 
 'Midst all those fires above, 
 Tn glories and delights which never wane nor 
 move. 
 
 O, wondrous blessedness, 
 Whose shadowy effluence hope o'er time can 
 fling! 
 
 Day that shall never cease, — 
 
 No night there threatening, — 
 No winter there to chill joy's ever-during spring. 
 
 Ye fields of changeless green, 
 Covered with living streams and fadeless flowers ! 
 
 Thou paradise serene ! 
 
 Eternal, joyful hours 
 My disembodied soul shall welcome in thy 
 bowers ! 
 
 VIRGIN BORNE BY ANGELS. 
 
 Lady, thou mountest slowly 
 O'er the bright cloud, while music sweetly plays ! 
 Blest who thy mantle holy 
 With outstretched hand may seize, 
 And rise with thee to the Infinite of Days ! 
 
 Around, behind, before thee 
 Bright angels wait, that watched thee from thy 
 birth : 
 A crown of stars is o'er thee, — 
 The pale moon of the earth, — 
 Thou, supernatural queen, nearest in light and 
 worth ! 
 
 Turn, turn thy mildened gaze, 
 Sweet bird of gentleness, on earth's dark vale ! 
 
 What flowerets it displays 
 
 Amidst time's twilight pale, 
 Where many a son of Eve in toils and darkness 
 strays ! 
 
 O, if thy vision see 
 The wandering spirits of this earthly sphere, — 
 
 Virgin ! to thee, to thee, 
 
 Thy magnet voice will bear 
 Their steps, to dwell with bliss through all 
 eternity. 
 
 THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED. 
 
 Region of life and light ! 
 
 Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er! 
 Nor frost nor heat may blight 
 Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, 
 
 yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore ! 
 
 There, without crook or sling, 
 Walks the Good Shepherd ; blossoms white and 
 red 
 
 Round his meek temples cling; 
 
 And, to sweet pastures led, 
 His own loved flock Seneath his eye is fed. 
 
 He guides, and near him they 
 Follow delighted ; for he makes them go 
 
 Where dwells eternal May, 
 
 And heavenly roses blow, 
 Deathless, and gathered but again to grow. 
 
 He leads them to the height 
 Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, 
 
 And fountains of delight; 
 
 And where his feet have stood, 
 Springs up, along the way, their tender food. 
 
 And when, in the mid skies, 
 The climbing sun has reached his highest bound, 
 
 Reposing as he lies, 
 
 With all his flock around, 
 He witches the still air with numerous sound. 
 
 From his sweet lute flow forth 
 Immortal harmonies, of power to still 
 
 All passions born of earth, 
 
 And draw the ardent will 
 Its destiny of goodness to fulfil. 
 
 Might but a little part, 
 A wandering breath, of that high melody 
 
 Descend into my heart, 
 
 And change it till it be 
 Transformed and swallowed up, O love ! in thee 
 
 Ah ! then my soul should know, 
 Beloved ! where thou liest at noon of day ; 
 
 And from this place of woe 
 
 Released, should take its way 
 To mingle with thy flock, and never stray. 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 O, happy, happy he, who flies 
 
 Far from the noisy world away, — 
 
 Who, with the worthy and the wise, 
 Hath chosen the narrow way, — 
 
 The silence of the secret road 
 
 That leads the soul to virtue and to God ! 
 
 No passions in his breast arise ; 
 
 Calm in his own unaltered state, 
 He smiles superior, as he eyes 
 
 The splendor of the great; 
 And his undazzled gaze is proof 
 Against the glittering hall and gilded roof. 
 
 He heeds not, though the trump of fame 
 Pour forth the loudest of its strains, 
 
 To spread the glory of his name; 
 And his high soul disdains 
 
 That flattery's voice should varnish o'er 
 
 The deed that truth or virtue would abhor 
 
 Such lot be mine : what boots to me 
 The cumbrous pageantry of power; 
 
 To court the gaze of crowds, and be 
 The idol of the hour; 
 
 To chase an empty shape of air, 
 
 That leaves me weak with toil and worn 
 with care ? 
 
PONCE DE LEON. — VILLEGAS. 
 
 683 
 
 O streams, and shades, and hills on high, 
 Unto the stillness of your breast 
 
 My wounded spirit longs to fly, — 
 To fly, and be at rest ! 
 
 Thus from the world's tempestuous sea, 
 
 O gentle Nature, do I turn to thee ! 
 
 Be mine the holy calm of night, 
 
 Soft sleep and dreams serenely gay, 
 
 The freshness of the morning light, 
 
 The fulness of the day; » 
 
 Far from the sternly frowning eye 
 
 That pride and riches turn on poverty. 
 
 The warbling birds shall bid me wake 
 With their untutored melodies ; 
 
 No fearful dream my sleep shall break, 
 No wakeful cares arise, 
 
 Like the sad shapes that hover still 
 
 Round him that hangs upon another's will. 
 
 Be mine my hopes to Heaven to give, 
 To taste the bliss that Heaven bestows, 
 
 Alone and for myself to live, 
 And 'scape the many woes 
 
 That human hearts are doomed to bear, — 
 
 The pangs of love, and hate, and hope, and 
 fear. 
 
 A garden by the mountain-side 
 
 Is mine, whose flowery blossoming 
 
 Shows, even in spring's luxuriant pride, 
 What autumn's suns shall bring: 
 
 And from the mountain's lofty crown 
 
 A clear and sparkling rill comes trembling 
 down ; 
 
 Then pausing in its downward force 
 
 The venerable trees among, 
 It gurgles on its winding course ; 
 
 And, as it glides along, 
 Gives freshness to the day, and pranks 
 With ever changing flowers its mossy banks. 
 
 The whisper of the balmy breeze 
 Scatters a thousand sweets around, 
 
 And sweeps in music through the trees, 
 With an enchanting sound, 
 
 That laps the soul in calm delight, 
 
 Where crowns and kingdoms are forgotten 
 quite. 
 
 Theirs let the dear-bought treasure be, 
 Who in a treacherous bark confide ; 
 
 I stand aloof, and changeless see 
 The changes of the tide, 
 
 Nor fear the wail of those that weep, 
 
 When angry winds are warring with the deep : 
 
 Day turns to night; the timbers rend ; 
 
 More fierce the ruthless tempest blows; 
 Confused the varying cries ascend, 
 
 As the sad merchant throws 
 His hoards, to join the stores that lie 
 In the deep sea's uncounted treasury. 
 
 Mine be the peaceful board of old, 
 From want as from profusion free : 
 
 His let the massy cup of gold, 
 And glittering bawbles be, 
 
 Who builds his baseless hope of gain 
 
 Upon a brittle bark and stormy main. 
 
 While others, thoughtless of the pain 
 Of hope delayed and long suspense, 
 
 Still struggle on to guard or gain 
 A sad preeminence, 
 
 May I, in woody covert laid, 
 
 Be gayly chanting in the secret shade, — 
 
 At ease within the shade reclined, 
 With laurel and with ivy crowned, 
 
 And my attentive ear inclined 
 To catch the heavenly sound 
 
 Of harp or lyre, when o'er the strings 
 
 Some master-hand its practised finger flings 
 
 ANTONIO DE VILLEGAS. 
 
 This poet was a native of Medina del Cam- 
 po, in the province of Valladolid. He flourish 
 ed about the middle of the sixteenth century. 
 He is known by a work entitled " Inventario de 
 Obras en Metro Castellano," published at Me- 
 dina del Campo in 1565, and again in 1577. 
 
 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 On a rock where the moonlight gleamed, 
 The maiden slept, and the maiden dreamed. 
 
 The maiden dreamed ; for Love had crept 
 Within her thoughtless heart, and seemed 
 To picture him of whom she dreamed. 
 
 She dreamed, — and did I say she slept? 
 O, no ! her brain with visions teemed : 
 
 The maiden on the rocky ground 
 
 Sleeps not, if Love's wild dreams flit round. 
 
 Her heart 's perplexed by mystery, 
 
 And passing shades, and misty gleams; 
 And if she see not what she dreams, 
 
 She dreams of what she fain would see; 
 
 And 't is her woe estranged to be, 
 
 While on the rocky mountain laid, 
 
 From all that cheers a lovesick maid. 
 
 And what is Love, but dreams which thought, 
 Wild thought, carves out of passion, throwing 
 Its veil aside, while, winged and growing, 
 
 The embryo 's to existence brought, — 
 
 False joys, fierce cares, with mysteries fraught? 
 
 As who by day of hunger dies, 
 
 Dreaming of feasts at midnight lies. 
 
 LOVE'S EXTREMES. 
 
 Every votary of Love 
 
 Needs must pain and pleasure prove: 
 
684 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 Love's delights belong to those 
 
 Who have felt Love's wants and woes. 
 
 Love still bears a double chain, 
 
 All his prisoners to bind ; 
 Living, — seek they death in vain ; 
 
 Dying, — life in death they find. 
 
 When he wounds or kills, he cures, — 
 When he heals, he seems to kill; — 
 
 So the love-torn heart endures 
 All extremes of good and ill. 
 
 PEDRO DE PADILLA. 
 
 Pedro de Padilla was born at Linares, 
 some time in the first half of the sixteenth cen- 
 tury. He was a scholar of various erudition, 
 and a poet highly esteemed by his contempo- 
 raries. He was familiar with the Latin and 
 several modern languages. When somewhat 
 advanced in life, in the year 1585, he assumed 
 the religious habit, and entered a monastery at 
 Madrid. His " Tesoro de Varias Poesias " ap- 
 peared at Madrid in 1575. He wrote, besides, 
 pastoral and sacred eclogues, and various theo- 
 logical works in prose. He died subsequently 
 to the year 1595. 
 
 THE CHAINS OF LOVE. 
 
 O, blest be he, — 0, blest be he, — 
 Let him all blessings prove, — 
 
 Who made the chains, the shining chains, 
 The holy chains of Love ! 
 
 There 's many a maiden bright and fair 
 
 Upon our village green ; 
 But what bright maiden can compare 
 
 With thee, my Geraldine? 
 O, blest be she ! O, blest be she ! 
 
 Let her all blessings prove ! — 
 A swain there lives whose every thought 
 
 Is bound by her control ; 
 His heart, his soul are hers ; and naught 
 
 Can sever soul from soul : 
 So sure the chains, the shining chains, 
 
 The holy chains of Love ! 
 
 THE WANDERING KNIGHT. 
 
 The mountain towers with haughty brow, 
 
 Its paths deserted be ; 
 The streamlets through their currents flow, 
 
 And wash the mallows-tree. 
 
 mother mine ! O mother mine ! 
 That youth so tall and fair, 
 
 With lips that smile, and eyes that shine, 
 I saw him wandering there : 
 
 1 saw him there when morning's glow 
 
 Was sparkling on the tree, — 
 
 With my five fingers, from below, 
 
 I beckoned, " Come to me ! " 
 The streamlets through their currents flow, 
 
 And wash the mallows-tree. 
 
 FRANCISCO DE FIGUEROA. 
 
 Very little is known of this poet. He was 
 a native of Alcala de Henares, and followed the 
 military career. He lived about the middle ol 
 the sixteenth century, and passed the greater 
 part of his life in Italy and Flanders. Lope 
 de Vega calls him " the divine Figueroa." A 
 few hours before his death, he ordered all his 
 poetical works to be burned ; but copies of some 
 of them remained in the hands of his friends. 
 
 SONNET ON THE DEATH OF GAKCILASO. 
 
 beauteous scion from the stateliest tree 
 That e'er in fertile mead or forest grew, 
 With freshest bloom adorned and vigor new, 
 Glorious in form, and first in dignity ! 
 
 The same fell tempest, which by Heaven's decree 
 Around thy parent stock resistless blew, 
 And far from Tejo fair its trunk o'erthrew, 
 In foreign clime has stripped the leaves from 
 
 thee : 
 And the same pitying hand has from the spot 
 Of cheerless ruin raised ye to rejoice, 
 Where fruit immortal decks the withered stem. 
 
 1 will not, like the vulgar, mourn your lot ; 
 But, with pure incense and exulting voice, 
 Praise your high worth, and consecrate your 
 
 fame. 
 
 ALONSO DE ERCILLA Y ZUNIGA. 
 
 Alonso de Ercilla y Zuniga was born at 
 Madrid, probably in 1533. His father was a 
 lawyer, and a writer of some note in his age, 
 and was called " the subtle Spaniard." Alonso 
 was the youngest of three sons. In early vouth, 
 he was appointed page to the Infant Don Philip, 
 and received his education at the palace. At 
 the age of fourteen years, he accompanied the 
 prince on a tour through the principal cities of 
 the Netherlands, and a part of Germany and 
 of Italy, from which he returned in 1551. 
 Two years afterwards, he attended Philip to 
 England, when that prince was married to the 
 English queen, Mary. While they were in 
 London, news arrived, that the Araucanians, an 
 Indian nation in South America, on the coast 
 of Chili, had revolted against the Spanish 
 power. General Alderete was despatched to 
 put down the insurrection, and Ercilla, then 
 about twenty-one years of age, left the service 
 of the prince, and followed the commander to 
 that remote scene of military adventure. Al 
 
ERCILLA Y ZUNIGA. 
 
 685 
 
 derete died before reaching Arauco, at Taboga, 
 and Ercilla went alone to Lima, the capital of 
 Peru. The expedition was then intrusted to Don 
 Garcias, the son of the viceroy. In the various 
 battles with the savages, Ercilla distinguished 
 himself by his bravery. In the midst of the 
 hardships of war, the thought occurred to him 
 of making the achievements of his countrymen 
 the subject of an epic poem. He began it imme- 
 diately, and devoted the hours of the night to 
 recording the deeds of the day, writing some- 
 times on small scraps of paper, and sometimes 
 on pieces of parchment or leather. In this 
 manner were written the first fifteen cantos of 
 the poem, to which he gave the name of " La 
 Araucana." After the war was over, Ercilla 
 came near losing his life, in consequence of a 
 quarrel with a young Spanish officer in a tour- 
 nament which was held at the city of La Im- 
 perial, to celebrate the accession of Philip the 
 Second to the throne of Spain. A riot ensued, 
 and the general, suspecting that the occasion 
 was seized to carry into execution some plot 
 against his authority, ordered the supposed ring- 
 leaders to be imprisoned, and afterwards be- 
 headed Ercilla relates in the poem, that he 
 was actually taken to the scaffold, and that his 
 neck was already stretched out for the axe, 
 when the general, having been convinced that 
 the disturbance was accidental, revoked the 
 hasty sentence. The poet, however, was oblig- 
 ed to undergo a long imprisonment. Deeply 
 disgusted with this harsh treatment, Ercilla left 
 Chili, and returned to Spain, being now about 
 twenty-nine years old. After'a short stay in 
 Madrid, he set out again upon his travels, and 
 visited France, Italy, Germany, Bohemia, and 
 Hungary. Returning to Spain, he married, in 
 1570, Maria de Bazan, a noble lady of Madrid, 
 whose mother was attached to the service of 
 the Spanish queen. This lady is celebrated in 
 several passages of his poem. Rudolph Maxi- 
 milian the Second, emperor of Germany, gave 
 him the office of Chamberlain ; but little is 
 known of his connection with the imperial 
 court, and his fortunes seem not to have been 
 at all improved by the appointment. In 15S0, 
 he was living in seclusion and poverty at Ma- 
 drid. The date of his death is uncertain, the last 
 years of his life having been passed in want and 
 obscuritv. He lived, however, beyond 1596. 
 
 Ercilla is known to the literary world by the 
 poem of the "Araucana." The first part of 
 this work, having been written, as mentioned 
 above, during the war, was published in 1577; 
 and the whole, extending to thirty-seven cantos, 
 appeared in 1590. It was dedicated to King 
 Philip, from whom the author experienced cold- 
 ness and neglect. Various judgments have 
 been passed upon the character of this poem. 
 The curate, in the scrutiny of Don Quixote's 
 library, speaking of the "Araucana," the "An- 
 stria.la" of Juan Rufo, and the " Monserrat " 
 of Virues, tells the barber, — " These are the 
 best n-'iroic poems we have in Spanish, and 
 
 may vie with the most celebrated in Italy ; re- 
 serve them," says he, "as the most valuable 
 performances which Spain has to boast of in 
 poetry." Voltaire, in his " Essay on Epic 
 Poetry," compares the subject of the second 
 canto, which is a quarrel between the chiefs 
 of the barbarians, to the dispute between Aga- 
 memnon and Achilles in the "Iliad," and places 
 the speech of the aged cacique Colocolo, who 
 proposes to decide the question by a trial o. 
 strength, above that of Nestor, in the first book 
 of the "Iliad " ; but declares that the rest of the 
 work is beneath the least of the poets, and that, 
 as a whole, it is as barbarous as the nations of 
 which it treats. The English poet Hayley 
 draws the poetical character of Ercilla in more 
 favorable colors : — 
 
 " With warmth more temperate, and in notes more clear, 
 That with Homeric richness fill the ear, 
 The brave Ercilla sounds, with potent breath, 
 His epic trumpet in the fields of death : 
 In scenes of savage war, when Spain unfurled 
 Her bloody banner o'er the western world, ■ 
 With all his country's virtues in his frame, 
 Without the base alloy that stained her name, 
 In danger's camp, this military bard, 
 Whom Cynthia saw on his nocturnal guard, 
 Recorded in his bold descriptive lay 
 The various fortunes of the finished day ; 
 Seizing the pen, while night's calm hours afford 
 A transient slumber to his satiate sword, 
 With noble justice his warm hand bestows 
 The meed of honor on his valiant foes. 
 Howe'er precluded, by his generous aim, 
 From high pretensions to inventive fame, 
 His strongly colored scenes of sanguine strife, 
 His softer pictures, caught from Indian life, 
 Above the visionary forms of art. 
 Fire the awakened mind, and melt the heart." 
 
 Essat on Epic Poetry, Epistle Third, vv. 237-25S. 
 
 The work, from its very design, admitted of 
 but little poetic invention ; and it is a question 
 whether it can properly be called an epic. The 
 author has adhered strictly to historical truth, 
 with the exception of a few episodes which he 
 introduced into the latter portions, to relieve the 
 monotony of the narrative. The events are 
 related chronologically. The poet made his- 
 torical truth so great a point, that he challenged 
 any one to detect a single inaccuracy. To sev- 
 eral editions of the " Araucana " there is pre- 
 fixed a sort of certificate by Captain Juan Go- 
 mez, who had resided twenty-seven years in 
 Peru, to the effect that he could vouch for the 
 historical accuracy of the poem. The style Oi 
 the "Araucana" is natural and simple. The 
 descriptive portions are not deficient in poetical 
 coloring. Several of the speeches, also, par- 
 ticularly that of Colocolo, have a high degree 
 of merit. The episodes of the magician Fiton 
 and his garden, of the savage maiden Glaura, 
 whose story is told in the style of a Spanish 
 romance, and of the death of Dido, are out of 
 keeping with the historical accuracy of the rest 
 of the work, and, though written in conformity 
 with the supposed laws of the epic, fail to im 
 part to it a poetical character. 
 3f 
 
636 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 FROM THE ARAUCANA. 
 A BATTLE WITH THE ARAUCANIANS. 
 
 Without more argument, his gallant steed 
 He spurred, and o'er the border led the way ; 
 
 His troops, their limbs by one strong effort freed 
 From terror's chill, followed in close array. 
 
 Onward they press. — The opening hills recede, 
 Spain's chief Araucan fortress to display; — 
 
 Over the plain, in scattered ruins, lie 
 
 Those walls that seemed destruction to defy! 
 
 Valdivia, checking his impetuous course, 
 
 Cried, " Spaniards ! Constancy's own favorite 
 race ! 
 
 Fallen is the castle, in whose massive force 
 My hopes had found their dearest resting- 
 place ; 
 
 The foe, whose treachery of this chief resource 
 Has robbed us, on the desolated space 
 
 Before us lies ; more wherefore should I say ? 
 
 Battle alone to safety points the way! " 
 
 Danger and present death's convulsive rage 
 Breed in our soldiers strength of such high 
 strain, 
 
 That fear begins the fury to assuage 
 
 Of Araucanian bosoms; from the plain 
 
 With shame they fly, nor longer battle wage, — 
 Whilst shouts arise of " Victory ! Spain ! 
 Spain ! " 
 
 When, checking Spanish joy, stern Destiny 
 
 By wondrous means fulfils her fixed decree ! 
 
 The son of a cacique, whom friendship's bands 
 Allied to Spain, had long in page's post 
 
 Attended on Valdivia, at his hands 
 
 Receiving kindness ; in the Spanish host 
 
 He came. — Strong passion suddenly expands 
 His heart, beholding troops, his country 's boast, 
 
 Forsake the field. With voice and port elate, 
 
 Their valor thus he strives to animate: — 
 
 " Unhappy nation, whom blind terrors guide ! 
 
 O, whither turn ye your bewildered breasts? 
 How many centuries' honor and just pride 
 
 Perish upon this field with all your gests ' 
 Forfeiting, what inviolate abide, 
 
 Laws, customs, rights, your ancestors' be- 
 quests, — 
 From free-born men, from sovereigns feared by 
 
 all, 
 Ye into vassalage and slavery fall. 
 
 " Ancestors and posterity ye stain, 
 
 Inflicting on the generous stock a wound 
 Incurable, an everlasting pain, 
 
 A shame whose perpetuity knows no bound. 
 Observe your adversaries' prowess wane ; 
 Mark how their horses, late that spurned the 
 ground, 
 Now drooping, pant for breath, whilst bathed 
 
 all o'er 
 Are their thick heaving flanks with sweat and 
 gore. 
 
 " On memory imprint the words I breathe, 
 Howe'er by loathsome terror ye 're distraught; 
 
 A deathless story to the world bequeath, — 
 Enslaved Arauco's liberation wrought ! 
 
 Return ! reject not victory's offered wreath, 
 When Fate propitious calls, and prompts high 
 thought ! 
 
 Or in your rapid flight an instant pause 
 
 To see me singly perish in your cause ! " 
 
 With that the youth a strong and weighty lance 
 Against Valdivia brandishes on high ; 
 
 And, yet more from bewildering terror's trance 
 To rouse Arauco, rushes furiously 
 
 Upon the Spaniards' conquering advance ■ 
 So eagerly the heated stag will fly 
 
 To plunge his body in the coolest stream, 
 
 Attempering thus the sun's meridian beam. 
 
 One Spaniard his first stroke pierces rign. 
 through ; 
 Then at another's middle rib he aims, — 
 And, heavy though the weapon, aims so true, 
 The point on the far side his force pro- 
 claims. 
 He springs at all with fury ever new ; 
 
 A soldier's thigh with such fierce blow he 
 maims, 
 The huge spear breaks, — his hand still grasps 
 
 the heft, 
 Whilst quivering in the wound one half is left. 
 
 The fragment cast away, he from the ground 
 Snatches a ponderous and dreadful mace ; 
 
 He wounds, he slaughters, strikes down all 
 around, 
 Suddenly clearing the encumbered space : 
 
 In him alone the battle's rage is found ; 
 
 Turned all 'gainst him, the Spaniards leave 
 the chase ; 
 
 But he so lightly moves, now here, now there, 
 
 That in his stead they wound the empty air. 
 
 Of whom was ever such stupendous deed 
 Or heard, or read, in ancient history, 
 
 As from the victor's party to secede, 
 
 Joining the vanquished even as they fly ? 
 
 Or that barbarian boy, at utmost need, 
 By his unaided valor's energy, 
 
 Should from the Christian army rend away 
 
 A victory, guerdon of a hard-fought day ? 
 
 A. STORM AT SEA. 
 
 Now bursts with sudden violence the gale : 
 
 Earth sudden rocks convulsively and fast; 
 Labors our ship, caught under press of sail, 
 
 And menaces to break her solid mast. 
 The pilot, when he sees the storm prevail, 
 Springs forward, — shouting loud, with looks 
 aghast, 
 " Slacken the ropes there ! Slack away ! — 
 
 Alack, 
 The gale blows heavily ! — Slack quickly ' 
 Slack ! " 
 
ERCILLA Y ZUNIGA. — ESPINEL. 
 
 687 
 
 The roaring of the sea, the boisterous wind, 
 The clamor, uproar, vows confused and rash, 
 
 Untimely night, closing in darkness blind 
 Of black and sultry clouds, the lightning's 
 flash, 
 
 The thunder's awful rolling, all combined 
 With pilot's shouts, and many a frightful 
 crash, 
 
 Produced a sound, a harmony, so dire, 
 
 It seemed the world itself should now expire. 
 
 Roars the tormented sea, open the skies, 
 
 The haughty wind groans whilst it fiercer 
 raves ; 
 Sudden the waters in a mountain rise 
 
 Above the clouds, and on the ship that braves 
 Their wrath pour thundering down, — sub- 
 merged she lies, 
 A fearful moment's space, beneath the waves : 
 The crew, amidst their fears, with gasping breath, 
 Deemed in salt water's stead they swallowed 
 death. 
 
 But, by the clemency of Providence, — 
 
 As, rising through the sea, some mighty whale 
 
 Masters the angry surges' violence, 
 
 Spouts them in showers against the vexing 
 gale, 
 
 And lifts to sight his back's broad eminence, 
 Whilst in wide circles round the waters 
 quail, — 
 
 So from beneath the ocean rose once more 
 
 Our vessel, from whose sides two torrents pour. 
 
 Now, iEolus — by chance if it befell, 
 
 Or through compassion for Castilian woes — 
 
 Recalled fierce Boreas, and, lest he rebel, 
 Would safely in his prison cave inclose. 
 
 The door he opened : in the selfsame cell 
 Lay Zephyr unobserved, who instant rose, 
 
 Marked his advantage as the bolts withdrew, 
 
 And through the opening portal sudden flew. 
 
 Then with unlessening rapidity, 
 
 Seizing on lurid cloud and fleecy rack, 
 
 He bursts on the already troubled sea, 
 
 Spreads o'er the midnight gloom a shade more 
 black ; 
 
 The billows, from the northern blast that flee, 
 Assaults with irresistible attack, 
 
 Whirls them in boiling eddies from their course, 
 
 And angry ocean stirs with doubled force. 
 
 The vessel, beaten by the sea and gale, 
 
 Now on a mountain-ridge of water rides, — 
 
 With keel exposed, now her top-gallant sail 
 Dips in the threatening waves, against her 
 sides, 
 
 Over her deck, that break. Of what avail, 
 The beating of such storm whilst she abides, 
 
 Is pilot's skill ? Now a yet fiercer squall 
 
 Half opens to the sea her strongest wall. 
 
 The crew and passengers wild clamors raise, 
 
 Deeming inevitable ruin near ; 
 Upon the pilot anxiously all gaze, 
 
 Who knows not what to order, stunned by fear. 
 Then, 'midst the terrors that all bosoms craze, 
 Sound opposite commands : — "The ship to 
 veer ! " 
 Some shout; — some, " Make for land! "—some, 
 
 "Stand to sea ! " — 
 Some, " Starboard ! " — some, " Port the 
 helm ! " — some, " Helm a-lee ! " 
 
 The danger grows ; the terror, loud uproar, 
 
 And wild confusion with the danger grow ; 
 All rush in frenzy, these the sails to lower, 
 Those seek the boat, whilst overboard some 
 throw 
 Cask, plank, or spar, as other hope were o'er; 
 Here rings the hammer's, there the hatchet's 
 blow ; 
 Whilst dash the surges 'gainst a neighbouring 
 
 rock, 
 Flinging white foam to heaven from every shock. 
 
 VICENTE ESPINEL. 
 
 Vicente Espinel was born at Ronda, a city 
 of Granada, in 1544. Being poor, he left his 
 native place early to seek his fortune. He en 
 tered the church, and afterwards sought prefer- 
 ment at court, but without success. He became 
 known as a musician, and perfected the Span- 
 ish guitar by adding a fifth string. He died in 
 great poverty at Madrid, in the ninetieth year 
 of his age. 
 
 Espinel wrote both poetry and prose. His 
 poetical pieces belong to the period of his youth. 
 They consist of canciones, idyls, and elegies; 
 and, though not distinguished by originality, 
 are pleasing and melodious, and abound in 
 beautiful images and descriptions. 
 
 FAINT HEART NEVER WON FAIR LADY. 
 
 He who is both brave and bold 
 Wins the lady that he would ; 
 
 But the courageless and cold 
 Never did, and never could. 
 
 Modesty, in women's game, 
 Is a wide and shielding veil : 
 They are tutored to conceal 
 
 Passion's fiercely burning flame. 
 
 He who serves them brave and bold, 
 He alone is understood; ' 
 
 But the courageless and cold 
 
 Ne'er could win, and never should. 
 
 If you love a lady bright, 
 
 Seek, and you shall find a way 
 All that love would say to say, — 
 
 If you watch the occasion right. 
 
688 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 Cupid's ranks are brave and bold, 
 Every soldier firm and good; 
 
 But the courageless and cold 
 
 Ne'er have conquered, — never could. 
 
 MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA. 
 
 Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, the im- 
 mortal author of "Don Quixote," was born at 
 Alcala de Henares, in October, 1547. Of his 
 earl}' life little is known, except that he mani- 
 fested from his most tender years a love of 
 poetry and letters. In hi* boyhood, he was ac- 
 customed to attend the representations of the 
 player, Lope de Rueda. At a suitable age, he 
 entered the University of Salamanca, where he 
 studied two years. After this, he returned to 
 Madrid, and studied with a learned theologian, 
 Juan Lopez de Hoyos, Professor of Literature. 
 His love of poetry was encouraged by his instruct- 
 er, and among his first productions were elegies, 
 ballads, sonnets, and a pastoral, called " Filena." 
 The death of Isabella of Valois, wife of Philip 
 the Second, called forth a multitude of elegiac 
 tributes; and, among the rest, Lopez de Hoyos 
 published a book containing several poems on 
 the occasion, one of which was written by his 
 " dear and beloved pupil," Miguel de Cervantes. 
 At the age of twenty-two, he left Madrid, and 
 entered the service of the Cardinal Giulio Aqua- 
 viva, at Rome, who had just visited Madrid as 
 the pope's nuncio, and is supposed to have be- 
 come acquainted with Cervantes there. Before 
 he had been a year at Rome, he enlisted under 
 the command of Marco Antonio Colonna, the 
 leader of the Christian forces in the Turkish 
 war which broke out in 1570. In the sangui- 
 nary battle of Lepanto, fought between the 
 combined Venetian, Spanish, and Papal fleets, 
 and the Turks, on the 7th of October, 1571, 
 Cervantes, demanding the post of danger, though 
 suffering from an intermittent fever, boarded, 
 with his soldiers, the Captain of Alexandria, 
 took the royal standard of Egypt, and in the 
 conflict received three arquebuse wounds, one 
 of which shattered his left hand. He often speaks 
 of this mutilation with pride, and says that the 
 glory of having fought at Lepanto was cheaply 
 purchased by the wounds he received there. • 
 
 Cervantes was confined to the hospital more 
 "than six months. He served in the unsuccess- 
 ful campaign of the following year, took part in 
 the assault on the castle of Navarino, and in the 
 next year, after the peace with Selim was sign- 
 ed, accompanied the Marques de Santa Cruz in 
 his descent upon Tunis. In June, 1575, he 
 obtained leave to return to Spain, after an ab- 
 sence of seven years; but the galley on board 
 which he had embarked was captured, on the 
 26th of September, by an Algerine squadron, 
 commanded by the Arnaout Mami, and carried 
 into port, and Cervantes fell to the share of the 
 captain. For five years he remained in slavery. 
 
 The details of his captivity, — his bold, but un 
 successful, attempts to escape, — the unshaken 
 firmness with which, rather than betray his 
 companions, he braved the perils of death by 
 the most cruel tortures, so often inflicted by the 
 Algerines upon their prisoners, — the patience 
 with which he bore the hardships of his horri- 
 ble bondage, — display the courage, the honor, 
 and the magnanimity of Cervantes in the most 
 interesting light. These details are supposed 
 to be contained in the story of the Captive in 
 " Don Quixote," and in his play of " Life in Al- 
 giers." He was at length, though with much 
 difficulty, ransomed by his friends and relations, 
 and returned to Spain in 1581. He reentered 
 the military service, embarked in the squadron 
 of Don Pedro Valdes, destined to the expedition 
 against the Azores, the next year served under 
 the Marques de Santa Cruz in the battle which 
 he gained over the French fleet, and in 1583 was 
 engaged in the assault and taking of Terceira. 
 
 In 1584, Cervantes began his career as an 
 author with the pastoral novel of "Galatea"; 
 soon after the publication of which, he married 
 Dona Catilina de Palacios y Salazar, and took 
 up his abode at Esquivias, the residence of his 
 wife. He now began to write for the stage, the 
 condition of which he endeavoured to improve. 
 In the course of the next ten years he had fin- 
 ished about thirty dramas. In 1588, he received 
 the appointment of Commissary from Antonio de 
 Guevara, the purveyor at Seville to the Indian 
 squadrons, who was at that time employed in 
 fitting out the Invincible Armada. Cervantes 
 removed to Seville, and remained there in the 
 discharge of his official duties several years. 
 The office was at length abolished, and he be- 
 came agent to various corporations and wealthy 
 individuals. According to one of his biogra- 
 phers, Viardot, he wrote most of his tales during 
 this residence at Seville. He seems to have 
 lived several years in La Mancha, where he was 
 thrown into prison. At this time he began the 
 composition of " Don Quixote." In 1604, he 
 returned to court, which was then held at Valla- 
 dolid, and the next year published the first part 
 of " Don Quixote," which at first excited little 
 attention, but afterwards acquired a sudden popu- 
 larity, and ran through four editions in one year. 
 He himself says of it (Part II., c. 16), "Thirty 
 thousand copies of my History have been print- 
 ed, and thirty thousand thousand will be, unless 
 God forbids." Of the circumstances under 
 which it was written, he says, in the Preface: 
 "Every production must resemble its author ; 
 and my barren and unpolished understanding 
 can produce nothing but what is very dull, very 
 impertinent, and extravagant beyond imagina- 
 tion. You may suppose it the child of Disturb- 
 ance, engendered in some dismal prison, where 
 Wretchedness keeps its residence, and every 
 dismal sound its habitation. Rest, and ease, and 
 a convenient place, pleasant fields and groves, 
 murmuring springs, and a sweet repose of mind, 
 are helps that raise the fancy, and impregnate 
 
CERVANTES. 
 
 689 
 
 even the most barren Muses with conceptions 
 that fill the world with admiration and delight." 
 Montesquieu, in his "Lettres Persanes," says, 
 with amusing exaggeration, " The Spaniards 
 have but one good book, — that one which has 
 made all the others ridiculous." 
 
 In 1605, the court returned to Madrid. Cer- 
 vantes followed it thither, and is supposed to 
 have passed the remainder of his life in that 
 city. In 1608, he brought out a new and cor- 
 rected edition of "Don Quixote." In 1613, he 
 published his " Novelas Exemplares," or Didac- 
 tic Tales, consisting of twelve stories; and the 
 next year, his " Viage al Parnaso," and the 
 volume of " Comedias y Entremeses." About 
 this time, a writer, under the pseudonym of 
 Alonso Fernandez de Avellaneda, published a 
 continuation of " Don Quixote," — a shameless 
 work, which so excited the indignation of Cer- 
 vantes, that he hastened to bring out the Second 
 Part, on which he had been some time engaged. 
 This appeared in 1615, and is the last of his 
 worksthat were printed in his lifetime. The ro- 
 mance of " Persiles and Sigismunda" was fin- 
 ished at the time of his death. Speaking of his 
 illness, in the Preface to that work, he says : — 
 
 " It happened, dear reader, that as two friends 
 and I were returning from Esquivias, — a place 
 famous on many accounts, — in the first place, 
 for its illustrious families, and, secondly, for its 
 excellent wines, — being arrived near Madrid, 
 we heard, behind, a man on horseback, who was 
 spurring his animal to its speed, and appeared 
 to wish to get up to us, of which he gave proof 
 soon after, calling out and begging us to stop; 
 on which we reined up, and saw arrive a coun- 
 try-bred student, mounted on an ass, dressed in 
 gray, with gaiters and round shoes, a sword and 
 scabbard, and a smooth ruff, with strings; true 
 it is that of these he had but two, so that his 
 ruff" was always falling on one side, and he was 
 at great trouble to put it right. When he 
 eached us, he said, — 'Without doubt, your 
 Honors are seeking some office or prebend at 
 court, from the archbishop of Toledo or the 
 king, neither more nor less, to judge by the 
 speed you make ; for, truly, my ass has beer, 
 counted the winner of the course more than 
 once.' One of my companions replied, — 'The 
 horse of Senor Miguel de Cervantes is the 
 cause, — he steps out so well.' Scarcely had 
 the student heard the name of Cervantes than 
 he threw himself off his ass, so that hie bag 
 and portmanteau fell to right and left, — for he 
 travelled with all this luggage, — and rushing 
 towards me, and seizing my left arm, excif.imed, 
 'Yes, yes! this is the able hand, the famous 
 being, the delightful writer, and, finally, the joy 
 of the Muses!' As for me, hearing him accu- 
 mjlate praises so rapidly, I thought myself 
 obliged in poiiteness to reply, and, taking him 
 round the neck in a manner which caused his 
 ruff to fall off altogether, I said, — 'I am, in- 
 deed, Cervantes, Sir ; but I am not the joy of the 
 Muses, nor any of the fine things you say : but 
 87 
 
 go back to your ass, mount again, and let us 
 converse, for the short distance we have before 
 us.' The good student did as I desired; we 
 reined in a little, and continued our journey at 
 a more moderate pace. Meanwhile, my illness 
 was mentioned, and the good student soon gave 
 me over, saying, — 'This is a dropsy, which not 
 all the water of the ocean, could you turn it 
 fresh and drink it, would cure. Senor Cer- 
 vantes, drink moderately, and do not forget to 
 eat; for thus you will be cured, without the aid 
 of other medicine.' ' Many others have told 
 me the same thing,' I replied; 'but I can no 
 more leave off drinking till I am satisfied, than 
 if I were born for this end only. My life is 
 drawing to its close ; and, if I may judge by the 
 quickness of my pulse, it will cease to beat by 
 next Sunday, and I shall cease to live. You 
 have begun your acquaintance with me in an 
 evil hour, since I have not time left to show 
 my gratitude for the kindness you have dis- 
 played.' At this moment we arrived at the 
 bridge of Toledo, by which I entered the town, 
 while he followed the road of the bridge of Se- 
 govia. What after that happened to me fame 
 will recount: my friends will publish it, and I 
 shall be desirous to hear. I embraced him 
 again ; he made me offers of service, and, spur- 
 ring his ass, left me as ill as he was well dis- 
 posed to pursue his journey. Nevertheless, he 
 gave me an excellent subject for pleasantry; but 
 all times are not alike. Perhaps the hour may 
 come when I can join again this broken thread, 
 and shall be able to say what here I leave out, 
 and which I ought to say. Now, farewell, 
 pleasure ! farewell, joy ! farewell, my many 
 friends ! I am about to die ; and I leave you, 
 desirous of meeting you soon again, happy, in 
 another life." * Cervantes died April 23d, 1616, 
 at the age of sixty-nine. 
 
 Viardot, in his excellent memoir of Cervan 
 tes, translated and prefixed to Jarvis's " Don 
 Quixote " (London, 1842), thus sums up the 
 events of his life : — 
 
 "All has now been stated that could be col- 
 lected of this illustrious man, one of those who 
 pay by suffering, through a whole life, for the 
 tardy honors of poethumous fame. Born of a 
 family honorable, but poor; receiving, in the 
 first instance, a liberal education, but thrown 
 into domestic servitude by calamity; page, vaiet- 
 de-charnbre, and afterwards soldier; crippled at 
 the battle of Lepanto; distinguished at the cap- 
 ture of Tunis; taken by a Bar'oary corsair; cap- 
 tive for five years in the slave depots of Algiers; 
 ransomed by public charity, after every effort to 
 effect his liberation by industry and courage had 
 been made in vain; again a soldier in Portugal 
 and the Azores ; struck with a woman noble 
 and poor like himself; recalled one moment to 
 letters by love, and exiled from them the nex< 
 by distress ; recompensed for his services and 
 
 * Lives of the mest Eminent Literary and Scientific Men 
 of Italy, Spain, anil Portugal (3 vols., London, 1837, 16mo.). 
 Vol. III. pp. 172, 173. 
 
 3f* 
 
690 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 talents by the magnificent appointment of clerk 
 to a victualling-board ; accused of malversation 
 with regard to the public money; thrown into 
 prison by the king's ministers ; released after 
 proving his innocence; subsequently again im- 
 prisoned by mutinous peasants; become a poet 
 by profession, and a general agent; transacting, 
 to gain a livelihood, negotiations by commission, 
 and writing dramas for the theatre ; discovering, 
 when more than fifty years of age, the true bent 
 of his genius; ignorant what patron he could 
 induce to accept of the dedication of his work; 
 finding the public indifferent to a book, at which 
 they condescended to laugh, but did not appre- 
 ciate and could not comprehend ; finding, also, 
 jealous rivals, by whom he was ridiculed and 
 defamed ; pursued by want even to old age ; 
 forgotten by the many, unknown to all, and 
 dying at last in solitude and poverty ; — such, 
 during his life and at his death, was Miguel de 
 Cervantes Saavedra. It was not till after the 
 lapse of two centuries, that his admirers thought 
 of seeking for his cradle and his tomb ; that 
 they adorned with a medallion in marble the 
 last house in which he lived ; that they raised 
 a statue to his memory in the public square ; 
 and that, effacing the cognomen of some obscure 
 but more fortunate individual, his countrymen 
 inscribed, at the corner of a little street in Ma- 
 drid, that great name, the celebrity of which re- 
 sounds through the civilized world." 
 
 FROM THE TRAGEDY OF NUMANCIA. 
 
 MORANDRO. 
 
 Whv so swiftly art thou flying? 
 Go not, Lira, — let me still 
 Taste what may my spirit fill 
 With glad life, even while I 'm dying. 
 Lira, let mine eyes awhile 
 Gaze upon thy loveliness ; 
 Since so deep is my distress, 
 Thus it would its pangs beguile. 
 O sweetest Lyre, that soundest so, 
 For ever in my phantasy, 
 With such delicious harmony 
 It turns to glory all my woe ! 
 What now ? What stand'st thou mutely 
 thinking ? 
 Thou of my thought the only treasure ! 
 
 LIRA. 
 
 I 'm thinking how thy dream of pleasure, 
 And mine, so fast away is sinking: 
 It will not fall beneath the hand 
 Of him who wastes our native land ; 
 For long, or e'er the war be o'er, 
 My hapless life will be no more. 
 
 MORANDRO. 
 
 Joy of my soul, what hast thou said ? 
 
 LIRA. 
 
 That I am worn with hunger so, 
 That quickly will the o'erpowering woe 
 For ever break my vital thread. 
 
 What bridal rapture dost thou dream 
 From one at such a sad extreme ? 
 For, trust me, ere an hour be past, 
 I fear I shall have breathed my last. 
 My brother fainted yesterday, 
 
 By wasting hunger overborne ; 
 
 And then my mother, all outworn 
 By hunger, slowly sunk away. 
 And if my health can struggle yet 
 
 With hunger's cruel power, in truth 
 
 It is because my stronger youth 
 Its wasting force hath better met. 
 But now so many a day hath passed, 
 
 Since aught I 've had its powers to strength 
 en, 
 
 It can no more the conflict lengthen, 
 But it must faint and fail at last. 
 
 MORANDRO. 
 
 Lira, dry thy weeping eyes; 
 
 But, ah ! let mine, my love, the more 
 
 Their overflowing rivers pour, 
 Wailing thy wretched agonies. 
 But though thou still art held in strife 
 
 With hunger thus incessantly, 
 
 Of hunger still thou shalt not die, 
 So long as I retain my life. 
 I offer here, from yon high wall, 
 
 To leap o'er ditch and battlement: 
 
 Thy death one instant to prevent, 
 I fear not on mine own to fall : 
 The bread the Roman eateth now 
 
 I '11 snatch away, and bear to thee ; 
 
 For, O, 't is worse than death to see, 
 Lady, thy dreadful state of woe ! 
 
 LIRA. 
 
 Thou speakest like a lover: — still, 
 Morandro, surely, 't were not good 
 That I should find a joy in food 
 
 For which thy life-blood thou may'st spill. 
 
 But little will that succour be, 
 
 Whate'er of booty thou canst make ; 
 While thou a surer way dost take 
 
 To lose thyself, than win for me. 
 
 Enjoy thou still thy youthful prime, 
 In fresh and blooming years elate : 
 My life is nothing to the state, — 
 
 Thine, every thing at such a time. 
 
 Its noblest bulwark thou canst be 
 Against the fierce and crafty foe : 
 What can the feeble prowess do 
 
 Of such a wretched maid as me ? 
 
 MORANDRO. 
 
 Vainly thoa laborest for my stay ! 
 
 Lira, in vain thou hold'st me still ! 
 
 Thither, like some glad sign, my will 
 Invites and hurries me away. 
 But thou the while with earnest prayer 
 
 Beseech the gods to send me home 
 
 With spoil, that may delay thy doom 
 Of misery, and my despair. 
 
 LIRA. 
 
 My dearest friend, thou shalt not go ! 
 Morandro, — lo ! even now before 
 
CERVANTES. 
 
 691 
 
 Mine eyes, ensanguined with thy gore, 
 I see the falchion of the foe. 
 Seek not this desperate deed of war! 
 
 Joy of my life, Morandro, stay ! 
 
 If peril waits thy onward way, 
 Return will be more perilous far. 
 Thy rashness could I but repress, 
 
 I call the Heavens to witness here 
 
 That for the loss of thee I fear, — 
 I reck not of mine own distress. 
 But if, dear friend, it still must be, 
 
 Thou still wilt run thy fatal race, 
 
 Take as a pledge this fond embrace, 
 And feel that I am still with thee. 
 
 MORANDRO. 
 
 Be Heaven thy close companion still, 
 Lira! — Behold Leoncio near! 
 
 Without the dreadful loss I fear, 
 May'st thou thy frantic wish fulfil ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 LEONCIO. 
 
 A fearful offer hast thou made, Morandro, — 
 And clearly hast thou shown, the enamoured 
 
 heart 
 Knows not of cowardice. Though of thy virtue 
 And most rare valor there might well be hope, 
 I fear the unhappy Fates will still be jealous. 
 Attentively I heard the sad extremity 
 To which thy Lira said she was reduced, — 
 Unworthy, truly, of her lofty worth ! — 
 And heard thy noble promise to deliver her 
 From her o'erpowering grief, and cast thyself 
 With bold assault upon the Roman army ; 
 And I, good friend, would bear thee company, 
 In thy so noble and perilous exploit, 
 With all my feeble powers to succour thee. 
 
 MORANDRO. 
 
 O rny soul's half! O most adventurous friend- 
 ship, 
 Still undivided even in toil and danger, 
 As in most glad prosperity ! — Leoncio, 
 Do thou enjoy thy precious life, — remain 
 Within the city, — for I will not be 
 The murderer of thy green and tender years. 
 Alone I 'm fixed to go, — alone I hope 
 Here to return, with spoil well merited 
 By my inviolate faith and love sincere. 
 
 LEONCIO. 
 
 Since thou hast known, Morandro, all my wishes 
 Blended with thine in good or evil fortune, 
 Thou know'st that fear of death will ne'er di- 
 vide us, — 
 Nor aught, if aught there be, more terrible. 
 With thee I 'm fixed to go, — and home with thee 
 Shall I return, if Heaven hath not ordained 
 That I remain and perish, rescuing thee. 
 
 MORANDRO. 
 
 O, stay, my friend, and I will bless the hour! 
 For should I lose my life in this adventure 
 Of darkest peril, then wil thou be able 
 
 To be a comfort to my woful mother, 
 And to my spouse, so fervently beloved. 
 
 LEONCIO. 
 
 In truth, my friend, thou art most bountiful, 
 To think, when thou art dead, of my remaining 
 In such calm quiet and tranquillity, 
 That I should fill the place of comforter 
 To thy sad mother and most wretched wife ! 
 Since that thy death most surely will be mine, 
 I 'm fixed to follow thee at this dark time 
 Of doubt and peril, — thus it must be, friend! 
 Morandro, speak no word of my remaining. 
 
 MORANDRO 
 
 Then, since I cannot shake thy steadfast purpose 
 Of sallying with me, — at the dead dark night 
 We '11 issue. 
 
 POEMS FROM DON QUIXOTE. 
 CARDENIO'S SONG. 
 
 What causes all my grief and pain ? 
 
 Cruel disdain. 
 What aggravates my misery ? 
 
 Accursed jealousy. 
 How has my soul its patience lost? 
 
 By tedious absence crossed. 
 Alas ! no balsam can be found 
 To heal the grief of such a wound, 
 When absence, jealousy, and scorn 
 Have left me hopeless and forlorn. 
 
 What in my breast this grief could move ? 
 
 Neglected Love. 
 What doth my fond desires withstand ? 
 
 Fate's cruel hand. 
 And what confirms my misery? 
 
 ' Heaven's fixed decree. 
 Ah me ! my boding fears portend 
 This strange disease my life will end ; 
 For die I must, when three such foes, 
 Heaven, Fate, and Love, my bliss oppose. 
 
 My peace of mind what can restore ? 
 
 Death's welcome hour. 
 What gains Love's joys most readily? 
 
 Fickle inconstancy. 
 Its pains what medicine can assuage ? 
 
 Wild frenzy's rage. 
 'T is, therefore, little wisdom, sure, 
 For such a grief to seek a cure, 
 As knows no better remedy 
 Than frenzy, death, inconstancy. 
 
 If woman 's glass, why should we try 
 Whether she can be broke, or no? 
 
 Great hazards in the trial lie, 
 
 Because perchance she may be so. 
 
 Who that is wise such brittle ware 
 Would careless dash upon the floor, 
 
 Which, broken, nothing can repair, 
 Nor solder to its form restore ? 
 
692 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 In this opinion all are found, 
 
 And reason vouches what I say, — 
 
 Wherever Danaes abound, 
 
 There golden showers will make their way. 
 
 In the dead silence of the peaceful night, 
 When others' cares are hushed in soft repose, 
 The sad account of my neglected woes 
 To conscious Heaven and Chloris I recite. 
 And when the sun, with his returning light, 
 Forth from the east his radiant journey goes, 
 With accents such as sorrow only knows, 
 My griefs to tell, is all my poor delight. 
 And when bright Phoebus, from his starry throne, 
 Sends rays direct upon the parched soil, 
 Still in the mournful tale I persevere. 
 Returning night renews my sorrow's toil. 
 And though from morn to night I weep and moan, 
 Nor Heaven nor Chloris my complainings hear. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 A mariner I am of Love, 
 
 And in his seas profound, 
 Tossed betwixt doubts and fears, I rove, 
 
 And see no port around. 
 
 At distance I behold a star, 
 
 Whose beams my senses draw, 
 
 Brighter and more resplendent far 
 Than Palinure e'er saw. 
 
 Yet still, uncertain of my way, 
 
 I stem a dangerous tide, 
 No compass but that doubtful ray 
 
 My wearied bark to guide. 
 
 For when its light I most would see, 
 
 Benighted most I sail : 
 Like clouds, reserve and modesty 
 
 Its shrouded lustre veil. 
 
 O lovely star, by whose bright ray 
 
 My love and faith I try, 
 If thou withdraw'st thy cheering day, 
 
 In night of death I lie ! 
 
 LOPEZ MALDONADO. 
 
 This poet lived in the latter half of the aix- 
 eenth century, being a contemporary of Cer- 
 vantes. " ' Here 's a book of songs by Lopez 
 vlaldonado,' cried the barber (in the review of 
 Don Quixote's library). 'He 's also my par- 
 icular friend,' said the curate ; ' his verses are 
 very well liked, when he reads them himself; 
 md his voice is so excellent, that they charm 
 is, whenever he sings them.' " 
 
 A collection of his poems, entitled " Cancio- 
 lero, 6 Coleccion de Varias Poesias," was pub- 
 ished at Madrid, in 1586. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Ah, Love ! 
 Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 
 
 Enemy 
 Of all that mankind may not rue ! 
 
 Most untrue 
 To him who keeps most faith with thee ! 
 
 Woe is me ! 
 The falcon has the eyes of the dove ' 
 
 Ah, Love ! 
 Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 
 
 Thy deceits 
 Give us clearly to comprehend 
 
 Whither tend 
 All thy pleasures, all thy sweets ! 
 
 They are cheats, — 
 Thorns below, and flowers above ! 
 
 Ah, Love ! 
 Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 
 
 JUAN DE TIMONEDA. 
 
 This author was by birth a Valencian, an< 
 by trade a printer. He flourished during th 
 latter half of the sixteenth century, and, in imi 
 tation of his friend, Lope de Rueda, was a writ 
 er of comedies. His principal work is hi 
 " Patranuelo," or Story-teller, — a collection o 
 twenty patranas, or stories, imitated from Boc 
 caccio and others. 
 
 NAY, SHEPHERD! NAY! , 
 
 " Nay, shepherd ! nay ! — thou art unwary ; 
 
 Thy flocks are wandering far away." 
 " Alas ! I know it well ; — 't is Mary 
 
 Who leads my troubled thoughts astray." 
 
 " Look, shepherd ! look, how far they rove ! 
 
 Why so forgetful ? — call them yet." 
 " O, he who is forgot by Love 
 
 Will soon, too soon, all else forget ! " 
 " Come, leave those thoughts so dark and dreary 
 
 And with your browsing flocks be gay." 
 "Ah, no I 't is vain, 't is vain, — for Mary 
 
 Leads all my troubled thoughts astray." 
 
 " 'T is Love, then, shepherd ! O, depart, 
 
 And drive away the cheating boy ! " 
 " Alas I he 's seated in my heart, 
 
 And rules it with tumultuous joy." 
 "Nay, shepherd ! wake thee, dare not tarry, — 
 
 For thou art in a thorny way." 
 " Ah, no ! 't is vain, 't is vain, — for Mary 
 
 Leads all my troubled thoughts astray." 
 
 "Throw ofF this yoke, young shepherd '. be 
 
 Joyous and mirthsome as before." 
 "O, what are mirth and joy to me? 
 
 They on my woes no halm can pour." 
 "Thou didst refuse to dance, — didst tarry, 
 
 When laughing maidens were at play. " 
 " I know I did ; — alas ! 't is Mary 
 
 That leads my troubled thoughts astray." 
 
TIMONEDA. — LEDESM A. — GONGORA. 
 
 693 
 
 "Then tell thy love, — perchance 't is hid, — 
 
 And send a missive scribbled o'er." 
 "Alas! my friend, I did, I did, — 
 
 Which, ere the maid had read, she tore." 
 "Then hang the maid ! — the foul fiend carry 
 
 A pestilence through all her flocks ! " 
 " O, no ! forbear ! — nor threaten Mary 
 
 With sorrow's frowns, nor misery's shocks! ' 
 
 ALONSO DE LEDESMA. 
 
 This elegant poet was born at Segovia, about 
 the year 1551. He wrote chiefly on sacred 
 subjects. His " Conceptos Espirituales," divid- 
 ed into three parts, were published respectively 
 at Madrid, in 1600, 1606, and 1616. Among 
 his works were " Juegos de Noche Buena," 
 and " El Monstro Imaginado." He died in 
 1622, at the age of seventy-one. 
 
 SLEEP. 
 O gentle Sleep ! my welcoming breath 
 
 Shall hail thee 'midst our mortal strife, 
 
 Who art the very thief of life, 
 The very portraiture of death ! 
 'T is sweet to feel thy downy wing 
 
 Light hovering o'er our wonted bed ; 
 
 But who has heard thy lightsome tread, 
 Thou blind, and deaf, and silent thing? 
 Thou dost a secret pathway keep, 
 
 Where all is darkest mystery. 
 
 For me, to sleep is but to die, — 
 For thee, thy very life is sleep. 
 
 LUIS DE GOiNGORA Y ARGOTE. 
 
 This poet, famous for having introduced into 
 Spain the whimsical and euphuistic manner, 
 called the estilo culto, or cultivated style, was 
 born at Cordova, July 11th, 1561. At the age 
 of fifteen, he was sent to the University of Sa- 
 lamanca ; but, instead of studying the law, for 
 which he was destined, occupied himself entire- 
 ly with literature and poetry. After a short 
 residence at the University, he returned to his 
 native city. He wrote, while yet a youth, 
 many amatory and satirical poems ; and was 
 well known, and highly esteemed, as a man of 
 letters and a poet, in Cordova. At the age of 
 forty-five, he entered the church, having been 
 disappointed in his hopes of official employ- 
 ments. Soon after this, he went to Madrid, to 
 improve his fortunes ; bu though he received 
 many promises of promotion, and was held in 
 great regard, in the capital, he attained no high- 
 er place than that of honorary chaplain to the 
 king, Philip the Third. As he advanced in 
 life, he changed the simple elegance of his 
 early style for one full of jontortions, fantastic 
 turns, enigmatic expressions, and far-fetched 
 allusions. He was followed by numerous imi- 
 
 tators, who adhered with bigoted zeal to these 
 elaborate absurdities. He has been called the 
 Marino of Spain. Gongora was suddenly taken 
 ill, while accompanying the king to Valencia. 
 He returned to Cordova, during an interval of 
 convalescence, and died May 24th, 1627. 
 
 Lope de Vega writes as follows of Gongora 
 and his system : — 
 
 "I have known this gentleman for eight-and- 
 twenty years, and I hold him to be possessed 
 of the rarest and most excellent talent of any in 
 Cordova; so that he need not yield even to Sen- 
 eca or Lucan, who were natives of the same 
 town. Pedro Linan de Riaza, his contempora- 
 ry at Salamanca, told me much of his proficien- 
 cy in study, so that I cultivated his acquaint- 
 ance, and improved it by the intercourse we 
 had when I visited Andalusia; and it always 
 appeared as if he liked and esteemed me more 
 than my poor merits deserve. Many other dis- 
 tinguished men of letters at that time competed 
 with him, — Herrera, Vicente Espinel, the two 
 Argensolas, and others; among whom this gen- 
 tleman held such place, that Fame said the same 
 of him as the Delphic oracle did of Socrates. 
 
 "He wrote in all styles with elegance, and 
 in gay and festive compositions his wit was not 
 less celebrated than Martial's, while it was far 
 more decent. We have several of his works 
 composed in a pure style, which he continued 
 for the greater part of his life. But, not con- 
 tent with having reached the highest step of 
 fame in sweetness and softness, he sought — I 
 have always believed, with good and sincere in- 
 tentions, and not with presumption, as his ene- 
 mies have asserted — to enrich the art, and even 
 language, with such ornaments and figures as 
 were never before imagined nor seen. In my 
 opinion, he fulfilled his aim, if this was his in- 
 tent; the difficulty rests in receiving his sys- 
 tem : and so many obstacles have arisen, that 
 I doubt they will never cease, except with 
 their cause; for I think the obscurity and am- 
 biguity of his expressions must be disagreeable 
 to many. By some he is said to have raised 
 this new style into a peculiar class of poetry; 
 and they are not mistaken : for, as in the old 
 manner of writing it took a life to become a 
 poet, in this new one it requires but a day: for, 
 with these transpositions, four rules, and six 
 Latin words or emphatic phrases, they rise so 
 high, that they do not know — far less under- 
 stand — themselves. Lipsius wrote a new Latin, 
 which those who are learned in such things say 
 Cicero and Quintilian laugh at in the other 
 world ; and those who have imitated him are so 
 wise, that they lose themselves. And I know 
 others who have invented a language and style 
 so different from Lipsius, that they require a 
 new dictionary. And thus those who imitate 
 this gentleman produce monstrous births, — and 
 fancy, that, by imitating his style, they inherit 
 his genius. Would to God they imitated him 
 in that part which is worthy of adoption ! for 
 every one must be aware that there is much 
 
694 
 
 SPANISH POLTRY. 
 
 that is deserving of admiration ; while the rest 
 is wrapt in the darkness of such ambiguity, as I 
 have found the cleverest men at fauJt, when 
 they tried to understand it. The foundation of 
 this edifice is transposition, rendered the more 
 harsh by the disjoining of substantives from ad- 
 jectives, where no parenthesis is possible, so 
 that even to pronounce it is difficult: tropes 
 and figures are the ornaments, — so little to the 
 purpose, that it is as if a woman, when painting 
 herself, instead of putting the rouge on her 
 cheeks, should apply it to her nose, forehead, 
 and ears. Transpositions may be allowed, and 
 there are common examples; but they must be 
 appropriate. Boscan, Garcilaso, and Herrera 
 use them. Look at the elegance, softness, and 
 beauty of the divine Herrera, worthy of imita- 
 tion and admiration ! for it is not to enrich a 
 language to reject its natural idiom, and adopt 
 instead phrases borrowed from a foreign tongue ; 
 but, now, they write in the style of the curate 
 who asked his servant for the ' anserine reed,' 
 telling her that 'the Ethiopian licour was want- 
 ing in the Cornelian vase.' These people do 
 not attend to clearness or dignity of style, but 
 to the novelty of these exquisite modes of ex- 
 pression, in which there is neither truth nor 
 propriety, nor enlargement of the powers of 
 language ; but an odious invention that renders 
 it barbarous, imitated from one who might have 
 been an object of just admiration to us all."* 
 
 The following pieces are in Gongora's earlier 
 and simpler manner. 
 
 THE SONG OF CATHARINE OF A R AGON. 
 
 0, take a lesson, flowers, from me, 
 How in a dawn all charms decay, — 
 
 Less than my shadow doomed to be, 
 Who was a wonder yesterday ! 
 
 1, with the early twilight born, 
 Found, ere the evening shades, a bier; 
 
 And I should die in darkness lorn, 
 But that the moon is shining here : 
 So must ye die, — though ye appear 
 
 So fair, — and night your curtain be. 
 
 O, take a lesson, flowers, from me ! 
 
 My fleeting being was consoled, 
 When the carnation met my view ; 
 
 One hurrying day my doom has told, — 
 Heaven gave that lovely flower but two : 
 
 Ephemeral monarch of the wold, — 
 
 I clad in gloom, — in scarlet he. 
 
 O, take a lesson, flowers, from me ! 
 
 The jasmine, sweetest flower of flowers, 
 The soonest is its radiance fled ; 
 
 It scarce perfumes as many hours 
 
 As there are star-beams round its head: 
 If living amber fragrance shed, 
 
 * Discurso sobre la Nneva Foesia, por Lope de Vega. — 
 Lives of the most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of 
 Italy, Spain, and Portugal. Vol. III., pp. 243-250. 
 
 The jasmine, sure, its shrine must be. 
 O, take a lesson, flowers, from me ! 
 
 The bloody-warrior fragrance gives ; 
 It towers unblushing, proud, and gay; 
 
 More days than other flowers it lives, — 
 It blooms through all the days of May 
 I 'd rather like a shade decay, 
 
 Than such a gaudy being be. 
 
 O, take a lesson, flowers ! from me. 
 
 COME, WANDERING SHEEP! O, COME! 
 
 Come, wandering sheep ! O, come! 
 
 I '11 bind thee to my breast, 
 I '11 bear thee to thy home, 
 
 And lay thee down to rest. 
 
 I saw thee stray forlorn, 
 And heard thee faintly cry, 
 
 And on the tree of scorn, 
 For thee, I deigned to die • 
 What greater proof could I 
 
 Give, than to seek the tomb ? 
 
 Come, wandering sheep ! O, come 
 
 I shield thee from alarms, 
 And wilt thou not be blest? 
 
 I bear thee in my arms, — 
 Thou bear me in thy breast ! 
 O, this is love ! — Come, rest ! 
 
 This is a blissful doom. 
 
 Come, wandering sheep ! O, come 
 
 NOT ALL SWEET NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 They are not all sweet nightingales, 
 That fill with songs the flowery vales; 
 But they are little silver bells, 
 Touched by the winds in the smiling dells, — 
 Magic bells of gold in the grove, 
 Forming a chorus for her I love. 
 
 Think not the voices in the air 
 
 Are from the winged Sirens fair, 
 Playing among the dewy trees, 
 Chanting their morning mysteries : 
 
 O, if you listen, delighted there, 
 
 To their music scattered o'er the dales, 
 
 They are not all sweet nightingales, 
 
 That fill with songs the flowery vales! 
 
 But they are little silver bells, 
 
 Touched by the winds in the smiling dells,— 
 
 Magic bells of gold in the grove, 
 
 Forming a chorus for her I love. 
 
 O, 't was a lovely song, — of art 
 
 To charm, — of nature to touch the heart! 
 
 Sure 't was some shepherd's pipe, which, 
 played 
 
 By passion, fills the forest shade. — 
 No ! 't is music's diviner part 
 Which o'er the yielding spirit prevails. 
 They are not all sweet nightingales, 
 That fill with songs the flowery vales ; 
 
GONGORA — CONTRERAS. — OCANA. 
 
 6J5 
 
 But they are little silver bells, 
 
 Touched by the winds in the smiling dells, — 
 
 Magic bells of gold in the grove, 
 
 Forming a chorus for her I love. 
 
 In the eye of love, which all things sees, 
 The fragrance-breathing jasmine-trees, 
 
 And the golden flowers, and the sloping 
 hill, 
 
 And the ever melancholy rill, 
 Are full of holiest sympathies, 
 And tell of love a thousand tales. 
 They are not all sweet nightingales, 
 That fill with songs the cheerful vales; 
 But they are little silver bells, 
 Touched by the winds in the smiling dells, — 
 Bells of gold in the secret grove, 
 Making music for her I love. 
 
 LET ME GO WARM. 
 
 Let me go warm and merry still ; 
 And let the world laugh, an' it will. 
 
 Let others muse on earthly things, — 
 The fall of thrones, the fate of kings, 
 
 And those whose fame the world doth fill ; 
 Whilst muffins sit enthroned in trays, 
 And orange-punch in winter sways 
 The merry sceptre of my days; — 
 
 And let the world laugh, an' it will. 
 
 He that the royal purple wears 
 From golden plate a thousand cares 
 
 Doth swallow as a gilded pill : 
 On feasts like these I turn my back, 
 Whilst puddings in my roasting-jack 
 Beside the chimney hiss and crack ; — 
 
 And let the world laugh, an' it will. 
 
 And when the wintrv tempest blows, 
 And January's sleets and snows 
 
 Are spread o'er every vale and hill, 
 With one to tell a merry tale 
 O'er roasted nuts and humming ale, 
 I sit, and care not for the gale ; — 
 
 And let the world laugh, an' it will. 
 
 Let merchants traverse seas and lands, 
 For silver mines and golden sands; 
 
 Whilst I beside some shadowy rill, 
 Just where its bubbling fountain swells, 
 Do sit and gather stor.es and shells, 
 And hear the tale the blackbird tells ; — 
 
 And let the world laugh, an' it will. 
 
 For Hero's sake the Grecian lover 
 The stormy Hellespont swam over: 
 
 I cross, without the fear of ill, 
 The wooden bridge that slow bestrides 
 The Madrigal's enchanting sides, 
 Or barefoot wade through Yepes' tides ; — 
 
 And let the world laugh, an' it will. 
 
 But since the Fates so cruel prove, 
 That Pyramus should die of love, 
 
 And love should gentle Thisbe kill; 
 My Thisbe be an apple-tart, 
 The sword I plunge into her hea: 
 The tooth that bites the crust apart, — 
 
 And let the world laugh, an' it will. 
 
 HIERONIMO DE CONTRERAS. 
 
 Hieronimo de Contreras lived in the last 
 half of the sixteenth century. He belonged to 
 Saragossa. 
 
 SIGHS. 
 
 When hearts are sad, the remedy 
 That 's sweetest is to sigh. 
 
 No torment e'er oppressed the heart, 
 Which was not softened by the dew 
 
 Of melancholy thought, — whose smart 
 Is light and salutary too: 
 A breathed " Alas ! " will oft renew 
 
 A broken link of sympathy. 
 
 O, 't is most sweet to sigh ! 
 
 When deepest in the pensive breast 
 Some sacred, secret sorrow lies, 
 
 The spirit drags it from its rest 
 By the strong alchemy of sighs, 
 And tears, their natural allies: 
 
 There 's magic in a tearful eye. 
 
 O, 't is most sweet to sigh ! 
 
 But when the wound has pierced so deep 
 That hope can neither cure nor cheer, 
 
 'T were better far in death to sleep 
 Than to live on despairing here : 
 But if he will live on, a tear 
 
 Or sigh some comfort may supply. 
 
 O, 't is most sweet to sigh ! 
 
 There are insufferable woes 
 
 Which must be. suffered, — man must beat 
 
 Terrors, and terror-waking throes, 
 
 Which language dares not, nor could dare 
 To compass. Let his heart beware : 
 
 He may not speak, — but he may die. 
 
 O, 't is most sweet to sigh ! 
 
 FRANCISCO DE OCANA. 
 
 This poet lived about the end of the six 
 teenth century. He wrote on sacred subjects 
 The Cancionero containing his pieces was pub 
 lished at Alcala, in 1603. 
 
 OPEN THE DOOR! 
 
 porter, ope the door to me ! 
 
 1 'm shivering in the cold and rain: — 
 Take pity on the strangers' pain ! 
 
606 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 I and this poor old man have come 
 Tired wanderers from a foreign shore, 
 
 And here we stray without a home. 
 His weariness o'erwhelms me more 
 Than my own woe. O, ope your door 
 
 To shelter us from cold and rain ! — 
 
 Take pity on the strangers' pain ! 
 
 The night is dark, and dull, and cold ; 
 
 No inn is open on the road ; 
 The dreary midnight bell hath tolled, 
 
 And not a straggler walks abroad : 
 We naught but solitude behold, 
 Pelted by driving hail and rain : — 
 Take pity on the strangers' pain I 
 
 Be kind, be generous, friend ! thy door 
 Throw open, for the love of Heaven ! 
 
 We are but two, — but two, — no more, — 
 I, and my poor old husband, driven 
 
 For refuge here; and we implore 
 
 A shelter. Shall we ask in vain? — 
 
 Take pity on the strangers' pain ! 
 
 Here give us welcome: — thou wilt be 
 Rewarded by God's grace, which can 
 
 Shower unexpected joys ; though he 
 May be an old, defenceless man, 
 
 Yet God has recompense for thee; 
 
 Thou may'st a noble guerdon gain: — 
 
 Take pity on the strangers' pain ! 
 
 Let us not tarry longer, — ope! 
 
 We 're chilled with cold, — so ope, I pray ! 
 Ope to the wanderers now, and hope 
 
 They well thy kindness may repay : 
 Time and eternity give scope 
 For recompense. The wind and rain 
 Beat on : — relieve the strangers' pain ! 
 
 LOPE FELIX DE VEGA CARPIO. 
 
 This wonderful man, who has been some- 
 times called the Prodigy of Nature, the Phoenix 
 of Spain, and the Potosi of Rhymes, was born 
 November 25, 1562, at Madrid. He inherited 
 from his father, Felix de Vega, an inclination 
 for poetry. His biographers assert, that, at two 
 years old, his genius was shown by the vivacity 
 of his eyes; that he knew his letters before he 
 could speak, and repeated his lessons by signs. 
 He is said to have composed verses when he 
 was only five years old, and before he knew 
 how to write; and before the age of twelve, he 
 had produced several theatrical pieces, and had 
 become a master of grammar, rhetoric, and Latin 
 composition. Such are the marvels of his boy- 
 hood. He was early left an orphan. At the 
 age of fourteen, he ran away from school with 
 a friend, in order to see the world. They 
 reached Segovia on foot, where they bought a 
 mule, and then proceeded to Astorga. Not 
 being quite satisfied with the specimens of the 
 
 world they had thus far seen, they made up 
 their minds to go back again. When they had 
 got as far as Segovia, they stopped at a silver- 
 smith's, one to sell a chain, and the other to 
 get change for a doubloon. The silversmith 
 was suspicious, and called in a judge, who 
 honestly sent them back to Madrid. 
 
 Lope was enabled to prosecute his studies by 
 the kindness of the grand inquisitor, Geronimo 
 Manrique, bishop of Avila, whom he commem- 
 orates in one of his earliest productions, entitled, 
 " La Pastoral de Jacinto." At the age of sev- 
 enteen or eighteen, Lope entered the University 
 of Alcala de Henares, where he remained four 
 years, and is said to have made immense pro- 
 gress in the studies of the place. He then re- 
 turned to his native city, and immediately en- 
 tered the service of the duke of Alba, at whose 
 request he wrote the " Arcadia," a work com- 
 posed in the pastoral style of the " Diana " of 
 Montemayor, and the "Galatea" of Cervantes. 
 In this work he is supposed by some to have 
 shadowed forth the history of the duke of 
 Alba's early life. The duke died soon after, 
 and, about the same time, Lope married Dona 
 Isabella de Urbino; but his domestic felicity 
 was soon interrupted by a quarrel with a gentle- 
 man, which ended in a duel. Lope had the 
 misfortune to inflict a severe wound upon his 
 antagonist. He was obliged to flee from Ma- 
 drid, and took refuge in Valencia, where he 
 passed two weary years, separated from his 
 wife. At the end of this period, he was allowed 
 to return to Madrid; but the death of his wife, 
 which happened almost immediately thereupon, 
 reduced him to despair. To dissipate his sor- 
 row, he determined to become a soldier. Philip 
 the Second was then making formidable prepa- 
 rations for the invasion of England, and Lope 
 obtained permission to accompany the duke of 
 Medina Sidonia in the Invincible Armada. 
 The fate of this expedition is well known. 
 Lope endured every possible hardship, but 
 found time to compose a poem, in twenty can- 
 tos, entitled, "La Hermosura de Angelica," 
 being a continuation of the adventures of An-' 
 gelica, from the point where Ariosto had left her. 
 
 In 1588, Lope, now twenty-six years old, re- 
 turned to Madrid, and again devoted himself to 
 poetry. He became secretary to the Marques 
 de Malpica, and afterwards entered the service 
 of the Conde de Lemos, the viceroy of Naples. 
 About this time he married again. The name 
 of his second wife was Dona Juana de Guardio. 
 He had the misfortune to lose her also, in a few 
 years. This second bereavement induced him 
 to take the vows and be ordained as a priest, 
 and he entered the order of St. Francis. He 
 was soon named head chaplain, and became a 
 familiar of the Inquisition, and is said to have 
 taken part in an auto-da-fi, when a Lutheran 
 was burned alive. In 1598, he gained a prize 
 by some verses written for the canonization of 
 San Isidro, a native of Madrid. He had al- 
 ready become famous as a dramatic poet. In- 
 
LOPE DE VEGA. 
 
 697 
 
 deed, the most brilliant period of his life began 
 after he had become a Franciscan. Pope Urban 
 the Eighth made him Doctor of Theology, and 
 appointed him Fiscal of the Apostolical Cham- 
 ber, Lope having dedicated to his Holiness the 
 tragedy of "Mary Stuart." The number of 
 works he produced at this time almost surpasses 
 belief, and the popularity he acquired was unri- 
 valled. His health continued good until within 
 a short time of his death, which took place Au- 
 gust 26, 1635. 
 
 Lope de Vega was, perhaps, the most prolific 
 author who ever lived. He poured out, with 
 inexhaustible profusion, works in every depart- 
 ment of poetical composition, and his influence 
 over the literary taste of his countrymen was 
 unbounded. Persons of the highest distinction 
 were proud to number themselves among his 
 worshippers. His friend and biographer, Mont- 
 alvan, calls him "the portent of the world; 
 the glory of the land; the light of his country; 
 the oracle of language; the centre of fame; the 
 object of envy; the darling of fortune; the 
 phoenix of ages ; prince of poetry; Orpheus 
 of sciences ; Apollo of the Muses ; Horace of 
 poets; Virgil of epics ; Homer of heroics ; Pin- 
 dar of lyrics; the Sophocles of tragedy, and the 
 Terence of comedy ; single among the excel- 
 lent, and excellent among the great; great in 
 every way and in every manner." Whenever 
 he made his appearance in public, he was re- 
 ceived with signal marks of respect. His name 
 became a proverbial expression for whatever was 
 most excellent. A brilliant diamond was called 
 a Lope diamond ; a fine dav, a Lope dav ; a beau- 
 tiful woman, a Lope woman; and when he 
 died, his splendid obsequies were attended by 
 the principal grandees and nobles of the Span- 
 ish court, the windows and balconies on the 
 streets through which the procession passed were 
 densely thronged with spectators, and a woman 
 in the crowd was heard to exclaim, "This is a 
 Lope funeral," not knowing that it was the fu- 
 neral of the great poet himself. 
 
 The best life of Lope de Vega is that by Lord 
 Holland, entitled, " Some Account of the Lives 
 and Writings of Lope Felix de Vega Carpio 
 and Guillen de Castro " (London, 1817, 2 vols.). 
 His miscellaneous works were collected, and 
 published with the title, " Coleccion de las 
 Obras Sueltas de D. Frev Lope Felix de Car- 
 pio " (Madrid, 1776 -79, 21 vols., 8vo.). Be- 
 sides these, his dramatic works, printed at Ma- 
 drid, according to N. Antonio, who gives a list 
 of them, filled twenty-five volumes, and amount- 
 ed to three hundred. These, however, are but 
 a small part of what he actually produced; for 
 when he died, he had written eighteen hundred 
 dramas and four hundred autos. As a proof 
 of his extraordinary facility in composition, it 
 s said that more than one hundred of these 
 »vere each written in a single day. In one of 
 his poems, written in 1609, lie savs that he has 
 already written four hundred and eighty-three, 
 "And all, save six, against the rules of wit " ; 
 
 and in one of his eclogues, he dec.ares, 
 
 "The printed part, though far too large, is less 
 Than that which yet unprinted waits the press." 
 
 It is difficult to find a complete set of the twen- 
 ty-five volumes of plays. Lord Holland gives a 
 list of " plays still extant," amounting to foui 
 hundred and ninety-seven. 
 
 FROM THE ESTRELLA DE SE VILLA. 
 THE KING AND SANCHO ORTIZ. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 I kiss thy feet. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Rise, Sancho ! rise, and know 
 I wrong thee much to let thee stoop so low. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 My liege, confounded with thy grace I stand ; 
 Unskilled in speech, no words can I command 
 To tell the thanks I feel. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Why, what in me 
 To daunt thy noble spirit canst thou see ? 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 Courage and majesty that strikes with awe; 
 My sovereign lord ; the fountain of the law ; 
 In fine, God's image, which I come to obey, 
 Never so honored as I feel to-day. 
 
 Much I applaud thy wisdom, much thy zeal ; 
 And now, to try thy courage, will reveal 
 That which you covet so to learn, — the cause 
 That thus my soldier to the presence draws. 
 Much it imports the safety of my reign 
 A man should die, — in secret should be shiin , 
 This must some friend perform ; search Seville 
 
 through, 
 None can I find to trust so fit as you. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 Guilty he needs must be. 
 
 KING. 
 
 He is. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 Then why, 
 Mv sovereign liege, in secret should he die ? 
 If public law demands the culprit's head, 
 In public let the culprit's blood be shed. 
 Shall Justice's sword, which strikes in face ol 
 
 day, 
 Stoop to dark deeds, — a man in secret slay? 
 The world will think, who kills by means un 
 
 known 
 No guilt avenges, but implies his own. 
 If slight his fault, I dare for mercy pray. 
 
 Sancho, attend; — you came not here to-day 
 An advocate to plead a traitor's cause, 
 But to perform my will, to execute my laws, 
 3 G 
 
698 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 To slay a man; — and why the culprit bleed 
 Matters not thee, it is thy monarch's deed; 
 If base, thy monarch the dishonor bears. 
 Put say, — to draw against my life who dares, 
 Deserves he death ? 
 
 SANOHO. 
 
 O, yes ! a thousand times. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Then strike without remorse : these are the 
 wretch's crimes. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 So let him die; for sentence Ortiz pleads: 
 Were he my brother, by this arm he bleeds. 
 
 Give me thy hand. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 With that my heart I pledge. 
 
 *>o, while he heeds not, shall thy rapier's edge 
 Reach his proud heart. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 My liege ! my sovereign lord ! 
 Sancho 's my name, I wear a soldier's sword. 
 Would you with treacherous acts, and deeds of 
 
 shame, 
 Taint such a calling, tarnish such a name? 
 Shall I, — shall I, to shrink from open strife, 
 Like some base coward, point the assassin's 
 
 knife? 
 No, — face to face his foe must Ortiz meet, 
 Or in the crowded mart, or public street, — 
 Defy and combat him in open light. 
 Curse the mean wretch who slays, but does not 
 
 fight 
 Naught can excuse the vile assassin's blow; 
 Happy, compared with him, his murdered foe, — 
 With him who, living, lives but to proclaim, 
 To all he meets, his cowardice and shame. 
 
 E en as thou wilt ; but in this paper read, 
 Signed by the king, the warrant of the deed. 
 
 [Sancho reads the paper aloud, which promises the king's 
 protection, if he is brought into any jeopardy in conse- 
 quence of killing the person alluded to, and is signed, 
 Yo el Ray, I the king. 
 
 KINO. 
 
 Act as you may, my name shall set you free. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 Does, then, my liege so meanly deem of me? 
 I know his power, which can the earth control, — 
 Know his unshaken faith, and steadfast soul. 
 Shall seals, shall, parchments, then, to me afford 
 A surer warrant than my sovereign's word? 
 To guard my actions, as to guide my hand, 
 I ask no surety but my king's command. 
 Perish such deeds ! [Tears the paper] — they serve 
 
 but to record 
 Some doubt, some question, of a monarch's word. 
 
 What need of bonds? By honor bound are we 
 I to avenge thy wrongs, and thou to rescue me 
 One price I ask, — the maid 1 name for bride. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Were she the richest and the best allied 
 In Spain, I grant her. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 So throughout the world, 
 May oceans view thy conquering flag unfurled ! 
 
 KING. 
 
 Nor shall thy actions pass without a meed. 
 This note informs thee, Ortiz, who must bleed. 
 But, reading, be not startled at a name ; 
 Great is his prowess; Seville speaks his fame. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 I '11 put that prowess to the proof ere long. 
 
 KING. 
 
 None know but I that you avenge my wrong; 
 So force must guide your arm, but prudence 
 check your tongue. [Exit. 
 
 BUSTOS TABERA AND SANCHO ORTIZ. 
 
 BUSTOS. 
 
 In meeting thus, my fortune do I greet. 
 
 sancho (aside). 
 Alas! I curse the chance that makes us meet. 
 You come to make a friend, a brother, blest, — 
 And I, to plunge a dagger in thy breast. 
 
 BUSTOS. 
 
 Brother, the hour of long-sought bliss is come. 
 
 sancho (aside). 
 My hour of grief, of all my woes the doom ! 
 
 God ! did man e'er bear such weight of ill ? 
 Him whom I love next heaven my sword mus' 
 
 kill: 
 And with the very blow that stabs my friend, 
 My love is lost, and all my visions end. 
 
 BUSTOS. 
 
 The deeds are drawn; to tell the news I came; 
 They only wait for Sancho Ortiz' name. 
 
 sancho (aloud). 
 Once, it is true, by fickle fancy led, 
 Tabera's sister Ortiz fain would wed ; 
 But now, though drawn the strict agreements 
 stand, 
 
 1 scorn the offer, and reject her hand. 
 
 BUSTOS. 
 
 Know'st thou to whom, or what thou speak'st 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 I know 
 To whom I speak, and therefore speak I so. 
 
 BUSTOS. 
 
 How, knowing me, can words of insult dwell 
 On Ortiz' tongue? 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 Because he knows thee well 
 
LOPE DE VEGA. 
 
 699 
 
 BUSTOS. 
 
 And knows he aught but generous pride of blood, 
 And honor such as prompts the brave and good ? 
 Virtue and genuine honor are the same: 
 Pride, uninspired by her, usurps the name. 
 But yet, though slow of anger to a friend, 
 Thy words my virtue as my pride offend. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 Not more offended can thy virtue be, 
 Than I so long to talk with one like thee. 
 
 BDSTOS 
 
 Is 't come to this? and dost thou brand my fame 
 With aught that bears not honor's sacred name ? 
 Prove, then, this sword, which dares thy rage 
 
 defy, — 
 My foe a villain, and his charge a lie. 
 
 [Draw, and fight. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 What can the swords of traitorous villains prove ? 
 Pardon me, sacred friendship ! pardon, love ! 
 My king impels; I madden as I fight, 
 And frenzy lends ray arm resistless might. 
 
 BUSTOS. 
 
 Enough, nor further press thy blow, — I bleed, — 
 My hour is come ! 
 
 [Bustos falls. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 Then am I mad, indeed ! 
 Yes, when I struck thy death, my sense was 
 
 gone ; 
 Restored, I from thy arm implore my own. 
 Sheathe in this breast, — for pity, sheathe thy 
 
 sword, 
 And to my troubled soul an instant flight afford. 
 
 BUSTOS. 
 
 My motives Fate denies the time to tell ; — 
 
 Wed thou my sister, Ortiz, and farewell! 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 Come, then, destructive, unrelenting blade, 
 Despatch the life thy work has wretched made ! 
 Come, while Tabera's gore is reeking yet, 
 With a fresh wound to close the bloody debt ! 
 [Enter Farfan and Pedro, Alcaldes mayores. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Wretch ! stay that weapon, raised thyself to kill ! 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 'T was raised against a life yet dearer still. 
 
 [Enter Arias. 
 
 ARIAS. 
 
 What 's this disorder ? 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 The disorder 's plain : 
 I 've killed a brother, like another Cain, — 
 Ruthless and fierce, a guiltless Abel slain. 
 Here, here he lies, — survey each mangled limb; 
 And as he died for me, so let me die for him. 
 
 ARIAS. 
 
 Why, what is this? 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 What is it, do you ask? 
 T is a kept promise, an accomplished task; 
 
 'T is honor in a fiery trial proved, — 
 Honor, that slew the man he dearly loved. 
 Yes, tell the king, that, for our plighted words, 
 We sons of Seville bear them on our swords; 
 Tell him for them we do our stars 1 defy; 
 For them our laws expire, our brothers die. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 He 's killed Tabera. 
 
 ARIAS. 
 
 Rash, flagitious deed ! 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 Then seize me, — bind me, — let his murderer 
 
 bleed! 
 Where are we? Do not law and reason say, 
 Ruffians shall die, and blood shall blood repay? 
 But marked you how the mighty crime was 
 
 done ? 
 No hate was here; 't was love, and love alone; 
 And love, that did the crime, shall for the crime 
 
 atone. 
 Bustos I slew : I now for Bustos plead, 
 And beg of justice — that his murderer bleed. 
 Thy friend that tribute to thy memory pays ! 
 
 ARIAS. 
 
 The man is mad, and knows not what he says 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Then to Triana's tower the culprit lead, — 
 Lest, at the noise of such a lawless deed, 
 Seville should rise, and some new tumult breed 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 Yet I would raise my brother from the ground, 
 Clasp his cold limbs, and kiss the sacred wound, 
 And wash the noble blood that streams his 
 
 corpse around. 
 So I '11 his Atlas be; nor would repine, 
 The life I 've taken to redeem with mine. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 'T is madness, this. 
 
 SANCHO. 
 
 When I from friendship swerved, 
 Against my pleasure I the laws observed; 
 That 's a king's part, — in that I 'm king alone 
 But in this act, alas ! I am not one : 
 The riddle 's easy, when the clew is found ; 
 But 't is not mine the riddle to expound. 
 'T is true I slew him, — I not that deny; 
 I own I slew him, — but I say not why : 
 That why — let others, if they like it, plead ; 
 Enough for me that I confess the dead. 
 
 [Exit guarded. 
 
 ESTRELLA AND THEODORA. 
 
 ESTRELLA. 
 
 So quick my toilet was, I scarce can guess 
 How set my garments and how looks my dress 
 Give me the glass. 
 
 THEODORA. 
 
 All glass is needless here; 
 Look on thyself, — no mirror is so clear ; 
 
 i This, in the original, is a quibble on the name Estrella 
 which in the Spanish signifies a star. 
 
700 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 Nor can in mimic forms reflected shine 
 Such matchless charms, and beauty bright as 
 thine. [Holds the bokmg-glasa. 
 
 ESTRELLA. 
 
 Whence can such crimson colors fire my cheek? 
 
 THEODORA. 
 
 Thy joy, and yet thy modesty, they speak. 
 Yes, to thy face contending passions rush, 
 Thy bliss betraying with a maiden blush. 
 
 ESTRELLA. 
 
 'T is true he comes; the youth my heart ap- 
 proves 
 Comes fraught with joy, and led by smiling 
 
 Loves. 
 He claims my hand ; I hear his soft caress, 
 See his soul's bliss come beaming from his 
 eye. 
 O partial stars! unlooked-for happiness! 
 Can it be true? — is this my destiny ? 2 
 
 THEODORA. 
 
 Hark! some one rings ! — but, Io! with envy smit. 
 One mirror into thousand mirrors split ! 
 
 Is 't broken ? 
 
 ESTRELLA. 
 THEODORA. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 ESTRELLA. 
 
 And sure with reason too; 
 Since soon, without its aid, I hope to view 
 Another self: with him before my eyes, 
 I need no glass, and can its use despise. 
 
 [Enter Clarindo. 
 
 CLARINDO. 
 
 All, lady, all is merriment and cheer, 
 
 And the plumed hats announce the wedding 
 
 near. 
 I gave the letter, and received a ring. 
 
 ESTRELLA. 
 
 Pake, too, this diamond for the news you bring. 
 
 CLARINDO. 
 
 A.las ! the precious gem is split in two! — 
 is it for grief? 
 
 ESTRELLA. 
 
 O, no, Clarindo ! no ! 
 It burst for joy, — the very gems have caught 
 vly heart's content, my gayety of thought. 
 Phrice happy day, and kind, indulgent sky ! 
 Jan it be true? — is this my destiny? 3 
 
 THEODORA. 
 
 lark ! steps below ! 
 
 CLARINDO. 
 
 And now the noise draws near. 
 
 ESTRELLA. 
 
 vly joy o'ercomes me ! — 
 
 [Enter Alcaldes with the dead body of Bustos. 
 Gracious God ! what 's here ? 
 
 2 Here, again, the word Eslrella is used for the sake of a 
 pun. I have been obliged to render it by the word destiny. 
 
 3 ^e note 2. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Grief, naught but grief, was made for man below: 
 Life is itself one troubled sea of woe. 
 Lady, Tabera 's slain ! 
 
 ESTRELLA. 
 
 O sad, O cruel blow ! 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 One comfort, still,— in chains his murderer lies : 
 To-morrow, judged by law, the guilty Ortiz dies. 
 
 ESTRELLA. 
 
 Hence, fiends ! I '11 hear no more, — your tidings 
 
 bear 
 The blasts of hell, the warrant of despair! 
 My brother 's slain ! by Sancho's arm he fell ! 
 What ! are there tongues the dismal tale to tell? 
 Can I, too, know it, and the blow survive ? 
 O, I am stone, to hear that sound and live ! 
 If ever pity dwelt in human breast, — 
 Kill, murder, stab me ! 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 With such grief oppressed, 
 Well may she rave. 
 
 ESTRELLA. 
 
 O sentence fraught with pain 
 My brother dead ! by Sancho Ortiz slain ! 
 
 [Going 
 Tha^ cruel stroke has rent three hearts in one 
 Then leave a wretch who 's hopeless and un- 
 done. 
 
 PEDRO. 
 
 Ah ! who can wonder at her wild despair ? — 
 Follow her steps. 
 
 PARFAN. 
 
 Alas ! ill-fated fair ! 
 
 Lady, one instant 
 
 ESTRELLA. 
 
 Would you have me stay 
 For him, the wretch, that did my brother slay? 
 My love, my hopes, my all for ever gone, — 
 Perish life, too, — for life is hateful grown ! 
 Inhuman stars! unheard-of misery ! 
 Can it be so? — is this my destiny? 4 
 
 SONNETS. 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 
 
 Shepherd, that with thine amorous sylvan 
 
 song 
 Hast broken the slumber which encompassed 
 
 me, — 
 That mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree, 
 On which thy powerful arms were stretched so 
 
 long! 
 Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains; 
 For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt 
 
 be; 
 I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 
 Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 
 
 ■* See note 2. 
 
L. L. AND B. L. ARGENSOLA. 
 
 701 
 
 Hear, Shepherd ! — thou who for thy flock art 
 
 dying, 
 O, wash away these scarlet sins ! for thou 
 Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 
 J, wait! — to thee my weary soul is crying, — 
 W-'t for me ! — .Yet why ask it, when I see, 
 With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt waiting 
 
 still for me ? 
 
 TO-MORROW. 
 
 Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing care, 
 Thou didst seek after me, — that thou didst wait, 
 Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, 
 And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? 
 O, strange delusion, that I did not greet 
 Thy blest approach ! and, O, to heaven how lost, 
 If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 
 Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet ! 
 How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 
 ' Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt 
 
 see 
 How he persists to knock and wait for thee ! " 
 And, O, how often to that voice of sorrow, 
 'To-morrow we will open," I replied ! 
 And when the morrow came, I answered still, 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 Let the vain courtier waste his days, 
 
 Lured by the charms that wealth displays, 
 The couch of down, the board of costly fare; 
 
 Be his to kiss the ungrateful hand 
 
 That waves the sceptre of command, 
 And rear full many a palace in the air: 
 
 Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined, 
 
 The glowing sun, the genial wind, 
 And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assigned ; 
 
 And prize far more, in peace and health, 
 Contented indigence, than joyless wealth. 
 
 Not mine in Fortune's face to bend, 
 
 At Grandeur's altar to ittend, 
 Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown ; 
 
 Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, 
 
 A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught , 
 
 With Fame's bright phantom, Glory's deathless 
 crown ! 
 
 Nectareous draughts and viands pure 
 
 Luxuriant nature will insure; 
 •These the clear fount and fertile field 
 
 Still to the wearied shepherd yield ; 
 
 And when repose and visions reign, 
 Then we are equals all, the monarch and the 
 swam 
 
 LUPERCIO LEONARDO ARGENSOLA. 
 
 This poet, and his brother Bartolome, be- 
 longed to a noble family, which originated from 
 Ravenna. Lupercio was born at Barbastro, in 
 1565. Ho studied first at the University of 
 Hueso -'iiil afterwards in Salamanca. Having 
 
 completed his studies, he went to Madrid, where 
 he became chamberlain to the archbishop of 
 Toledo, and secretary to Maria of Austria, the 
 widow of the Emperor Maximilian the Second. 
 He was afterwards appointed by the court 
 Historiographer of Aragon. The Count de Le- 
 mos, when named Viceroy of Naples, took Ar- 
 gensola with him in the capacity of Secretary 
 of State and of War. He died at Naples, in 
 1613. He wrote sonnets, canciones, and sat- 
 ires, which were published after his death. 
 While in Naples, he founded the Jlccademia 
 degli Oziosi, which afterwards became famous. 
 
 MARY MAGDALEN. 
 
 Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted ! 
 The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn, 
 In wonder and in scorn ! 
 Thou weepest days of innocence departed ; 
 Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to 
 move 
 The Lord to pity and love. 
 
 The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, 
 
 Even for the least of all the tears that shine 
 On that pale cheek of ihine. 
 Thou didst kneel down to Him who came from 
 heaven, 
 Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise 
 Holy, and pure, and wise. 
 
 It is not much that to the fragrant blossom 
 The ragged brier should change ; the bitter fir 
 Distil Arabian myrrh ; 
 Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, 
 
 The harvest should rise plenteous, and the 
 swain 
 Bear home the abundant grain. 
 
 But come and see the bleak and barren moun- 
 tains 
 Thick to their tops with roses ; come anc' see 
 Leaves on the dry, dead tree : 
 The perished plant, set out by living founja.ns. 
 Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise 
 For ever towards the skies. 
 
 BARTOLOME LEONARDO ARGEN- 
 SOLA. 
 
 Bartolome Leonardo Argensola was born 
 at Barbastro, in 1566. On the completion ot 
 his studies, he became almoner of the Empress 
 Maria, and then accompanied his brother Lu- 
 percio to Naples. After the death of the latter, 
 Bartolom6 was made Historiographer of Aragon, 
 and returned to Saragossa in 1616, where he 
 wrote a historical work from the materials which 
 had been collected by his brother. He was ap- 
 pointed canon of the cathedral in Saragossa, by 
 Paul the Third. He died in 1633. 
 3g* 
 
TQ2 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 Saavedra calls him " the glory of Aragon, 
 and oracle of Apollo; whose eloquence, erudi- 
 tion, and gravity, — whose pure and sublime 
 spirit, excellent choice of words, and judgment 
 in the arrangement of sentences, will be for ever 
 admired of all, and imitated by few." 
 
 The poetical works of the two Argensolas 
 were not published until after their death. 
 
 SOXXET. 
 
 " Parest of good ! since all thy laws are just, 
 Say, why permits thy judging providence 
 Oppression's hand to bow meek innocence, 
 And gives prevailing strength to fraud and lust? 
 Who steels with stubborn force the arm unjust, 
 That proudly wars against Omnipotence? 
 Who bids thy faithful sons, that reverence 
 Thine holy will, be humbled in the dust? 
 Amid the din of joy fair Virtue sighs, 
 While the fierce conqueror binds his impious head 
 With laurel, and the car of triumph rolls." 
 Thus I; — when radiant 'fore my wondering eyes 
 A heavenly spirit stood, and smiling said: 
 " Blind moralist ! is Earth the sphere of souls ? " 
 
 JUAN DE RIBERA. 
 
 This poet lived about the end of the sixteenth 
 century. His " Nueve Romances " were pub- 
 lished in 1605. 
 
 THE GOOD OLD COUNT EN" SADXESS STRAYED. 
 
 The good old count in sadness strayed 
 
 Backwards, forwards, pensively; 
 He bent his head, — he said his prayers 
 
 Upon his beads of ebony; 
 And dark and gloomy were his thoughts, 
 
 And all his words of misery : 
 " O daughter fair, to woman grown, 
 
 Sav, who shall come to marry thee? 
 For I am poor, — though thou art fair, 
 
 No dower of riches thine shall be." 
 " Be silent, father mine, I pray ; 
 
 For what avails a dower to me ? 
 A virtuous child is more than wealth : 
 
 O, fear not, — fear not poverty ! 
 There are whose children ban their bliss, 
 
 Who call on death to set them free, — 
 And they defame their lineage, 
 
 Which shall not be defamed by me; 
 For if no husband should be mine, 
 
 I '11 seek a convent's purity." 
 
 RO:MAXCE. 
 
 " Kxight, that comest from afar, 
 Tarry here, and here recline; 
 
 Couch thy lance upon the floor, 
 Stop that weary steed of thine : 
 
 I would fain inquire of thee 
 
 News of wandering husband mine." 
 "Lady, thou must first describe 
 
 Him, thy husband, sign by sign." 
 " Knight, my husband 's young and fair, — 
 
 In him grace and beauty shine ; 
 At the tablets dexterous he, 
 
 And at chess; the honored line 
 Of a marquis on his sword, 
 
 Well engraved, you might divine • 
 All his garments of brocade, 
 
 Felted crimson, fair and fine; 
 At his lance's point he bears 
 
 Flag from Tagus' banks, where shine 
 Victories that he won of old 
 
 From a valiant Gaul." " That sign 
 Tells me, ladv, he is dead: 
 
 Murdered is that lord of thine. 
 In Valencia was he killed, 
 
 Where there lived a Genovine. 
 Plaving at the tablets, he 
 
 There was murdered. At his shrine 
 Many a noble ladv wept, 
 
 Manv a knight of valiant line: 
 One mourned more than all the rest, 
 
 Daughter of the Genovine; 
 For the\- said, and that was true, 
 
 She was his. So, ladv mine, 
 Give me now thv heart, I pray, 
 
 For mv heart is only thine." 
 " Nav, Sir Knight, it cannot be; 
 
 Nav, I must not thus incline : 
 To a convent first I '11 go, 
 
 Vow me to that life divine." 
 "No, that cannot, cannot be 1 
 
 Check that hasty vow of thine ; 
 For I am thy husband dear, — 
 
 Thou the unstained wife of mine." 
 
 FRANCISCO DE VELASCO. 
 
 Francisco de Velasco was a religious poet, 
 and belonged to the last part of the sixteenth, 
 and the beginning of the seventeenth, century. 
 His " Coplas del Nacimiento," &c.,were print- 
 ed at Burgos, in 1604. 
 
 THE 'WORLD AXD ITS FLOWERS. 
 
 Trust not, man, earth's flowers, — but keeD 
 Busy watch; they fade, they bow : 
 
 Watch, I sav, — for thou may'st weep 
 O'er the things thou smil'st on now. 
 
 Man ! thou art a foolish child, 
 
 Plaving with a flying ball, — 
 Trifling sports, and fancies wild : 
 
 But the earth-worm swallows all. 
 Wherefore in a senseless sleep, 
 
 Careless dreaming, thoughtless vow, 
 Waste existence? — thou wilt weep 
 
 O'er the days thou smil'st on now. 
 
VELASCO. — BONILLA. — HINOJOSA Y CARBAJAL. 
 
 703 
 
 Earth, that passes like a shade, 
 
 Vain as lightest shade can be; 
 Soon, in dust and darkness laid, 
 
 Crumbles in obscurity : 
 Insects of destruction creep 
 
 O'er its fairest, greenest bough. 
 Watch, I say, or thou shalt weep 
 
 O'er the flowers thou smil'st on now. 
 
 Watch, I say; the dying worm, 
 
 That lifts up its voice to thee, 
 Dreads the over-threatening storm, 
 
 Fain in sheltered port would be. 
 Laugh not, scorn not, tempt not, — keep 
 
 Smiling folly from thy brow ; 
 Lest in misery thou shouldst weep 
 
 O'er the thoughts thou smil'st on now. 
 
 I TOLD THEE SO! 
 
 I told thee, soul, that joy and woe 
 Were but a gust, a passing dew : 
 
 I told thee so, — I told thee so, — 
 And, O my soul, the tale was true ! 
 
 This mortal life, — a fleeting thing, — 
 
 When most we love it, swiftest flies; 
 
 It passes like a shade and dies : 
 And while it flaps its busy wing, 
 
 It scatters every mist that lies 
 Round human hopes, — all air and dew. 
 
 I told thee so, — I told thee so, — 
 And, O my soul, the tale was true ! 
 
 Like the dry leaf that autumn's breath 
 
 Sweeps from the tree, the mourning tree, — 
 
 So swiftly and so certainly 
 Our days are blown about by death • 
 
 For life is built on vanity ; 
 Renewing days but death renew. 
 
 I told thee so, — I told theii so, — 
 And, O my soul, the tale was true ! 
 
 O, let us seize on what is stable, 
 And not on what is shifting ! All 
 Rushes down life's vast waterfall, 
 
 On to that sea interminable 
 
 Which has no shore. Earth's pleasures pall; 
 
 But heaven is safe, and sacred too. 
 I told thee so, — I told thee so, — 
 
 And, O my soul, the tale was true ! 
 
 ALONSO DE BONILLA. 
 
 This poet was a native of Baeza, in Andalu- 
 sia. He lived in the iast part of the sixteenth, 
 and the first part of the seventeenth, century. 
 His poems are on sacred subjects. His "Jardin 
 de Flores Divinas " was published in 1617. 
 
 LET 'S HOLD SWEET CONVERSE. 
 
 'Let 's hold sweet converse, ere we part, 
 Beloved fair! " " T is sweet to be 
 
 With thee, the husband of my heart!" 
 
 " I '11 in the garden wait for thee." 
 "When?" "At the sacred vesper-bell." 
 "That is the hour in which I dwell 
 Within the souls I love, and there 
 Fill the pure shrine with praise and prayer." 
 " But if, when dawns the vesper hour, 
 
 I should be absent " "Nay, my soul ! 
 
 Lose not the holy, hallowing power 
 
 Of evening's serene control ! " 
 " I '11 come ; — that hour shall not depart 
 Without thy smile who hold'st my heart! " 
 "I '11 in the garden wait for thee." 
 
 " When ?" " At the sacred vesper-bell." 
 " Yes, come ! O, come ! — my breast shall be 
 A garden of fair flowers for thee, 
 
 Where thou the fairest flowers shalt cull." 
 "And wilt thou give a flower to me?" 
 
 "Yes! flowers more bright, more beautiful, 
 Than ever in earth's gardens grew, 
 If thou wilt trust and love me too." 
 
 "Yes! I will trust and love thee well ! " 
 "I '11 in the garden wait for thee." 
 
 " When ?" " At the sacred vesper-bell." 
 
 ALVARO DE HINOJOSA Y CARBAJAL 
 
 This poet was a native of Piacenza. He 
 lived at the beginning of the seventeenth cen- 
 tury, and belonged to the order of Saint Bene- 
 dict. His " Vida y Milagros de Santa Ines, y 
 otras Obras de Poesia," was published at Braga, 
 in 1611. 
 
 THE VIRGIN AND HER BABE. 
 
 Virgin, that like Morn appears, 
 With her babe, — a floweret too, 
 Sprinkled with the sparkling dew 
 
 Of his pure and holy tears. 
 
 When across the mountain's height 
 
 Lovely Daybreak flings her robe, 
 And with smiles of love and light 
 
 Decorates the awakening globe; 
 Joy and gladness fill the heaven, 
 
 When Night's curtains are withdrawn- 
 Virgin ! thou those smiles hast given, — 
 
 Thou, earth's brightest, fairest dawn ! 
 
 All the rainbow's tints are spread 
 
 Over clouds, and fields, and bowers: 
 Lo, the proud carnation red ! 
 
 Lo, that royal king of flowers! 
 Fragrant as 't is glorious, — sweet 
 
 As 't is stately, — ever true 
 To the dawn ; — an emblem meet 
 
 Of this babe, — a floweret too ' 
 
 Yes ! that heavenly floweret fell 
 
 From its father's breast, — concealed 
 
 In its mother's breast to dwell ; 
 In a mortal vestment veiled, — 
 
704 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 Heavenly image, — earthly mould, — 
 
 Beautiful as bright to view : 
 O, what charms its leaves unfold, 
 
 Drenched with suffering's sparkling dew ! 
 
 In the valley see it sleep ! — 
 
 On its brow the death-sweats lie; 
 O'er its wreck the tempests sweep, 
 
 And the herds pass careless by. 
 Know, that, though its darkened orb 
 
 Dimmed in earth's low valley lies, 
 Every tear earth's clods absorb 
 
 In a dew of paradise. 
 
 FRANCISCO DE BORJA Y ESQUI- 
 LACHE. 
 
 This poet was a native of Madrid, and was 
 born about the year 1580. He bore the title 
 of Esquilache, which he received from his wife, 
 who was heiress of the principality of Es- 
 quilache, or rather Squillace, in the kingdom 
 of Naples. The greater part of his life was 
 passed in the discharge of high official duties; 
 but he found time to cultivate poetry, to which 
 he was passionately attached. He wrote a 
 heroic poem, entitled, " Napoles Recuperada 
 por el Rsy Don Alonso," which was published 
 after his death. His other poetical works, 
 which were printed at Madrid, under the title 
 of " Las Obras en Verso de Don Francisco 
 de Borja, Principe de Esquilache," are better 
 known ; and some of them, particularly the 
 eclogues, are of distinguished excellence. He 
 died at Madrid, September 26, 1658. 
 
 SYLVIA'S SMILE. 
 
 When bright and gay the waters roll 
 
 In crystal rivers to the sea, 
 'Midst shining pearls, they take, my soul, 
 
 Their sweetest, loveliest smile from thee; 
 And when their dimpling currents flow, 
 They imitate thy laughing brow. 
 
 When Morning from his dusky bed 
 
 Awakes with cold and slumbering eye, 
 
 Ere yet he wears his tints of red, 
 He looks to see if thou art nigh, — 
 
 To offer thee a diadem 
 
 Of every ruby, every gem. 
 
 When Spring leads on the joyous sun, 
 He brightens on thy eyes, and takes 
 
 4 nobler lustre : when the dun 
 And darksome April first awakes, 
 
 And gives his better smiles to May, 
 
 He keeps for thee his fairest day. 
 
 There are some idle bards who dream 
 That they have seen, with raptured eyes, 
 
 The smiling field, the dimpled stream, 
 And (strange deceit !) the laughing skies : 
 
 My Sylvia! field, nor stream, nor sky 
 E'er smiled, but when thy smile was nigh 
 
 Tyrants there are : — but when they slay, 
 They smile not. O, my Sylvia! thou 
 
 Art far more cruel, far, than they. 
 
 The Aurora, on the mountain's brow, 
 
 When it destroys the dying Night, 
 
 Mourns o'er its tomb in tears of light. 
 
 But thou canst smile, and yet destroy ; 
 
 And oft within thy eyes I see 
 A radiant throne of love and joy, 
 
 Which is — but cruel mockery : 
 That smile, which such fair dimples wears, 
 Is for my thoughts a fount of tears. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 Slumbering on earth's cold breast, serene be 
 neath, 
 Youth (all its fire and glory dim) reposes : 
 And this pale, peaceful monument discloses 
 
 Life's weakness, and the omnipotence of Death 
 
 Love sits with tearful eye upon the tomb, 
 And speeds his erring shafts ; — his thoughtful 
 care, 
 In memory of his sorrow and his gloom, 
 
 Hath raised this dear, this sad memorial 
 here. 
 
 He scarce had passed life's portals on the wing 
 Of youthful joy, — while hope expectant hung 
 Upon his talents and his silver tongue, — 
 Ere Fate's dark mandate, fierce and threatening, 
 Tore him away, — and, reckless, with him tore 
 All that had taught us to bear woe before. 
 
 FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO Y VILLE- 
 GAS. 
 
 Don Francisco de Quevedo belonged to 
 a noble family attached to the court of Spain. 
 He was born at Madrid, in September, 1580. 
 He studied at Alcala de Henares, comprehend- 
 ing in his course not only the ancient langua- 
 ges, but a wide range of the sciences. On leav- 
 ing the University, he went to Italy, where he 
 acquired the friendship of the duke of Osuna, 
 the viceroy of Naples, who employed him con- 
 fidentially in several important negotiations. 
 He afterwards travelled in France and Germany, 
 and, returning to Spain, was made a knight of 
 the order of Santiago, on the recommendation 
 of the duke. When his patron fell into dis- 
 grace, Quevedo, as his confidential friend, shar- 
 ed his downfall, and was imprisoned three 
 years. His health having suffered from this 
 imprisonment, he made journeys through Spain, 
 and then lived in retirement at Madrid. The 
 reputation he enjoyed induced Philip the Fourth 
 to offer him a secretariship. In 1634, he mar- 
 
QUEVEDO. 
 
 705 
 
 ried Dona Esperanza de Aragon y la Cabra, 
 but she died soon after. In 1641, he was im- 
 prisoned on suspicion of having written a satire 
 upon the government, and did not regain his 
 liberty until two years afterwards. But his 
 health being broken down by the extraordinary 
 cruelty with which he was treated in prison, 
 he retired to his estate of La Torre, and again, 
 in a short time, was compelled tu remove to 
 Villa Nueva de los Infantes, where he died. 
 September 8, 1645. 
 
 His writings are various, both in prose and 
 poetry ; but his fame rests chiefly upon his 
 humorous and satirical works, the principal of 
 which are " Vida del Gran Tacano," "Cartas 
 del Cavallero de la Tenaza," and his six " Sue- 
 nos," or Visions. His poetical works were 
 published under the names of the Muses. The 
 following excellent summary of his character 
 as a writer is from Bouterwek.* 
 
 " A man, who, like Quevedo, reaped the bit- 
 terest fruits from political justice, cannot be 
 very heavily reproached for seizing in his sat- 
 ires every opportunity of more severely chas- 
 tising and ridiculing the ministers of that jus- 
 tice, than any other enemies of truth and equi- 
 ty. But Quevedo was not a mere satirist. He 
 may, without hesitation, be pronounced the 
 most ingenious of all Spanish writers, next to 
 Cervantes ; and his mind was, moreover, en- 
 dowed with a degree of practical judgment," 
 which is seldom found combined with that ver- 
 satility for which he was distinguished. Could 
 Quevedo have ruled the taste and genius of his 
 nation and his age in the same degree in which 
 that taste and genius influenced him, his versa- 
 tility, joined to his talent for composing verses 
 with no less rapidity than Lope de Vega, might 
 have rendered him, if not a poet of the first 
 rank in the loftier region of art, at least a classic 
 writer of almost unrivalled merit. But this 
 scholar and man of the world was too early 
 wedded to conventional forms of every kind. 
 It may, indeed, be said, that he was steeped in 
 all the colors of his age. A true feeling of the 
 independence of genius never animated him, 
 lofty as his spirit in other respects was. His 
 taste imbibed some portion of all the conflicting 
 tastes, which, at that >eriod, existed in Spain. 
 His style never acquired originality, and his 
 mind was onlv half cultivated. 
 
 " Quevedo's writings, taken altogether, in 
 verse and in prose, resemble a massy ornament 
 of jewelry, in which the setting of some parts is 
 exquisitely skilful, — of others, extremely rude ; 
 and in which the number of false stones and 
 of gems of inestimable value are nearly equal. 
 His most numerous, and unquestionably his 
 best productions, are those of the satirical and 
 comic kind. Though Quevedo did not strike 
 into a totally new course, yet, by a union, pe- 
 uliar to himself, of sports of fancy with the 
 
 * History of Spanish and Portuguese Literature, by 
 Frederick Bouterwek. Translated by Thomasina Ross 
 (2 yols., London, 1823, 8vo.). Vol. I., pp. 464-467. 
 
 maxims of reason and morality, he evidently 
 enlarged the sphere of satirical and comic poe- 
 try in Spanish literature. He occasionally ap- 
 proached, though he never equalled, the delica- 
 cy and correctness of Cervantes. His wit is 
 sufficiently caustic ; but it is accompanied by a 
 coarseness which would be surprising, consider- 
 ing his situation in life, were it not that Que- 
 vedo, as an author, sought to indemnify himself 
 for the constraint, to which, as a man of the 
 world, he was compelled to submit. For this 
 reason, perhaps, he bestowed but little pains on 
 the correction of his satires. His ideas are 
 striking ; and are thrown together sometimes 
 with absolute carelessness, sometimes with re- 
 fined precision ; but, for the most part, in a dis- 
 torted and mannered strain of language. This 
 mixed character of cultivation and rudeness 
 peculiarly characterizes his satirical and comic 
 works in verse, in which, as he himself says, 
 he has exhibited 'truth in her smock, but not 
 quite naked ' : 
 
 ' Verdades dire en camisa, 
 Poco menos que desnudas.' 
 He appears as the rival of Gongora in numer- 
 ous comic canciones and romances in the old 
 national style. In these compositions he hu- 
 morously parodied the extravagant images of 
 the Marinists, and the affected singularity of the 
 Gongorists." 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 ROME. 
 
 Amidst these scenes, O pilgrim, seek'st thou 
 
 Borne ? 
 Vain is thy search ; — the pomp of Borne is fled ; 
 Her silent Aventine is glory's tomb; 
 Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. 
 That hill, where Caesars dwelt in other days, 
 Forsaken, mourns, where once it towered sub 
 
 lime ; 
 Each mouldering medal now far less displays 
 The triumphs won by Latium, than by Time. 
 Tiber alone survives ; — the passing wave, 
 That bathed her towers, now murmurs by hei 
 
 grave, 
 Wailing, with plaintive sounds, her fallen fanes 
 Borne ! of thine ancient grandeur all is past, 
 That seemed for years eternal framed to last; — 
 Naught but the wave, a fugitive, remains. 
 
 RUTHLESS TIME. 
 
 Zephyr returns, and sheds with liberal hand 
 Foliage and buds around, and odorous flowers ; 
 Nurses the purple rose with dewy showers, 
 Gilds the bright sky, and clothes the verdant 
 
 land : 
 The stream flows clear, by temperate breezes 
 
 fanned; 
 And sweetly sing the birds in shady bowers, — 
 Cheerless and mute, while angry winter lowers,— 
 Now blithely ringing with the feathered band. 
 Never, O ruthless Time, implored in vain, 
 Beams forth thy spring to my unaltered fate, 
 
706 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 Nor decks my withered hopes with bloom again ! 
 •Some fondly dread the changes of thy state, 
 Who hold the treasure which they strove to 
 
 gain: 
 [ mourn thy steadfast, unrelenting hate. 
 
 MY FORTUNE. 
 Since, then, my planet has looked on 
 
 With such a dark and scowling eye, 
 My fortune, if my ink were gone, 
 
 Might lend my pen as black a dye. 
 
 No lucky or unlucky turn 
 
 Did fortune ever seem to play, 
 But, ere I 'd time to laugh or mourn, 
 
 'T was sure to turn the other way. 
 
 Te childless great, who want an heir, 
 Leave all your vast domains to me, 
 
 And Heaven will bless you with a fair, 
 Alas ! and numerous progeny. 
 
 They bear my effigy about 
 
 The village, as a charm of power; 
 
 If clothed, to bring the sunshine out, — 
 If naked, to call down the shower. 
 
 When friends request my company, 
 No feasts and banquets meet my eye; 
 
 To holy mass they carry me, 
 
 And ask me alms, and bid good-bye. 
 
 Should bravos chance to lie perdu, 
 To break some happy lover's head, 
 
 I am their man, while he in view 
 His beauty serenades in bed. 
 
 A loosened tile is sure to fall 
 In contact with my head below, 
 
 Just as I doff my hat ; — 'mong all 
 The crowd, a stone still lays me low. 
 
 The doctor's remedies alone 
 
 Ne'er reach the cause for which they 're 
 given. 
 And if I ask my friends a loan, 
 
 They wish the poet's soul in heaven: 
 
 So far from granting aught, 't is I 
 
 Who lend my patience to their spleen. 
 
 Mine is each fool's loquacity, 
 
 Eaeh ancient dame will be my queen. 
 
 The poor man's eye, amidst the crowd, 
 Still turns its asking looks on mine; 
 
 Jostled by all the rich and proud, 
 No path is clear, whate'er my line. 
 
 Where'er I go, I miss my way ; 
 
 I lose, still lose, at every game; 
 No friend I ever had would stay, 
 
 No foe but still remained the same. 
 
 I get no water out at sea, 
 
 Nothing but water at my inn ; 
 My pleasures, like my wine, must be 
 
 Still mixed with what should not be in. 
 
 ESTEVAN MANUEL DE VILLEGAS. 
 
 This most agreeable and graceful poet was 
 born at Naxera, in 1595. The ease and liveli- 
 ness of his poetical style gave him the name of 
 the Anacreon of Spain. His family was noble. 
 After having spent his boyish years at Madrid 
 he entered the University of Salamanca, and 
 studied the law. But his taste for polite litera- 
 ture was strong, and he gave much of his time 
 to poetical composition. He acquired the Latin 
 and Greek, and translated from Anacreon with 
 exquisite beauty. On his father's death, he re- 
 turned to Naxera, and lived with his mother, 
 dedicating himself to letters and poetrv. In 
 1626, he married, and, finding his means too 
 straitened for the support of his increasing fami- 
 ly, endeavoured to obtain some public employ- 
 ment. He received one of but little value, and 
 finally retired to his estate, where he died poor, 
 in 1669. 
 
 Villegas was one of the best lyric poets of 
 Spain. His style is harmonious and finished. 
 His works were published under the title of 
 " Eroticas de Don Estevan Manuel de Villegas." 
 They contain odes, and imitations of Anacreon 
 and Horace; translations from Anacreon and 
 Horace; elegies, idyls, sonnets, epigrams ; and 
 a series of poems, called " Latinas," in which 
 he attempted to reproduce the ancient classical 
 metres. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 'T is sweet, in the green spring, 
 To gaze upon the wakening fields around; 
 
 Birds in the thicket sing, 
 Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground ; 
 
 A thousand odors rise, 
 Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes. 
 
 Shadowy, and close, and cool, 
 The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook; 
 
 For ever fresh and full, 
 Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook; 
 
 And the soft herbage seems 
 Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams. 
 
 Thou, who alone art fair, 
 And whom alone I love, art far away : 
 
 Unless thy smile be there, 
 It makes me sad to see the earth so gay ; 
 
 I care not if the train 
 Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 I have seen a nightingale, 
 On a sprig of thyme, bewail, 
 Seeing the dear nest, which was 
 Hers alone, borne off, alas ! 
 By a laborer. I heard, 
 For this outrage, the poor bird 
 Say a thousand mournful things 
 To the wind, which, on its wings, 
 From her to the guardian sky, 
 Bore her melancholy cry, 
 
MANUEL DE VILLE GA S. — RIO J A. 
 
 707 
 
 Bore her tender tears. She spake 
 As if her fond heart would break: 
 One while, in a sad, sweet note, 
 Gurgled from her straining throat, 
 She enforced her piteous tale, 
 Mournful prayer, and plaintive wail ; 
 One while, with the shrill dispute 
 Quite outwearied, she was mute ; 
 Then afresh for her dear brood 
 Her harmonious shrieks renewed. 
 Now she winged it round and round ; 
 Now she skimmed along the ground; 
 Now, from bough to bough, in haste, 
 The delighted robber chased, 
 And, alighting in his path, 
 Seemed to say, 'twixt grief and wrath, 
 " Give me back, fierce rustic rude, — 
 Give me back my pretty brood ' " 
 And I saw the rustic still 
 Answered, " Tliat I never will! " 
 
 TO THE ZEPHYR. 
 
 Sweet neighbour of the green, leaf-shaking 
 grove, 
 Eternal guest of April, frolic child 
 Of a sad sire, life-breath of Mother Love, 
 Favonius, zephyr mild ! 
 
 If thou hast learned like me to love, — : away! 
 
 Thou who hast borne the murmurs of my cry ! 
 Hence! — no demur! — and to my Flora say, 
 Say that " I die ! 
 
 "Flora once knew what bitter tears I shed; 
 Flora once wept to see my sorrows flow; 
 Flora once loved me; — but I dread, I dread 
 Her anger now." 
 
 So may the gods, so may the calm blue sky, 
 
 For the fair time that thou, in gentle mirth, 
 Sport'st in the air, with love benign deny 
 Snows to the earth ! 
 
 So never may the gray cloud's cumbrous sail, 
 
 When from on high the rosy daybreak springs, 
 Beat on thy shoulders, nor its evil hail 
 Wound thy fine wings! 
 
 FRANCISCO DE RIOJA. 
 
 Francisco de Rioja was born at Seville, 
 about the year 1600. He studied the law, but 
 having gained the favor and patronage of the 
 count-duke de Olivares, the prime minister of 
 Philip the Fourth, he passed rapidly through a 
 succession of offices, until he became Inquisitor- 
 General. He was involved in the fall of his 
 protector. According to Antonio, he was re- 
 stored, a few years before his death, to the favor 
 of Philip, who appointed him Royal Librarian. 
 He died at Madrid, in 1659. 
 
 Rioja was not only a poet, but a scholar of 
 varied attainments. H« wrote works on theol- 
 ogy and politics. 
 
 EPISTLE TO FABIO. 
 
 Fabio ! the courtier's hopes are chains that 
 wind 
 With fatal strength around the ambitious mind; 
 And he who breaks or files them not away, 
 Till life ebbs from him, or his locks turn gray, 
 Nor feels, methinks, a freeman's generous fires 
 Nor wins the honor that his soul desires. 
 Rather than fall, the timid may remain 
 In base suspense, and still caress the chain; 
 But noble hearts their fate will sooner face, 
 And, ere they stoop to bondage, hail disgrace. 
 Such storms roar round us with the earliest sigh 
 Heaved from our cradles, — leave them to pass 
 
 by, 
 Like the proud Bastis, whose impetuous wave, 
 Spread from the mountains, soon forgets to rave 
 Not he who gains, but who deserves the prize, 
 Is classed with heroes by the great and wise ; 
 But there, where state from flattery takes the 
 
 word, 
 On skilful favorites see all place conferred; — 
 Gold, crime, intrigue, their path obliquely wind 
 Through the thick crowd, and leave the good 
 
 behind. 
 Who trusts for power to virtue ? virtue still 
 Yields to the strong supremacy of ill. 
 Come, then, — once more to the maternal seat 
 Of ancient Seville guide thy weary feet; 
 This clime, these skies, shall every care serene, 
 And make thy future what the past has been ; — 
 Here, where, at least, if dust falls on us, nigh 
 Kind lips will whisper, " Lightly may it lie ! " 
 Here, where my friend no angry look shall cast, 
 Nor rise unsated from the noon's repast, 
 Though no rare peacock on my board be seen, 
 Nor spicy turtle grace the gold tureen. 
 Come, seek soft quiet, as at dead of night 
 The iEgean pilot hails his watchtower's light; 
 Then, if some old court-friend, as wit requires, 
 Smile at thy modest home and curbed desires, 
 Thou, smiling too, shalt say, "I live possessed 
 Of all I sought for, and despise the rest ! " 
 Safe in her simple nest of moss to brood, 
 And talk to Echo in her wildest wood, 
 More charms the nightingale, than, caged, to 
 
 cheer 
 With flattering songs a monarch's curious ear, 
 Trellised in gold. Cease, then, thine anxious care 
 And thirst for office, — shun the insidious snare 
 The idol of thy daily sacrifice 
 Accepts the incense, but the grant denies, 
 Smiling in secret at thy dreams; but bound 
 Thy restless hopes to life's restricted round, 
 And thou shalt pine no more from day to day, 
 Nor fret thy manhood unimproved away. 
 For what is life? at best, a brief delight ; 
 A sun scarce brightening, ere it sets in night; 
 A flower, — at morning fresh, at noon decayed 
 A still, swift river, gliding into shade. 
 Shall it be said, that, with true peace at strife, 
 I, even whilst living, lose the zest of life? 
 Ask of the past its fruits, — the past is dumb 
 And have I surety for the good to come? 
 
708 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 No ! seeing, then, how fast our years consume, 
 Ere age comes on and tints us for the tomb, 
 In the calm shade let sober thoughts supply 
 Their moral charm, and teach us how to die. 
 Passed is the vernal leaf, the summer rose, 
 Autumn's sweet grapes, and winter's fleecy 
 
 snows; 
 All fades, all fleets, whilst we still live at ease 
 On idle hopes and airy reveries. 
 
 With me 't is o'er ! me Reason calls away, 
 And warms my bosom with her sacred ray ; 
 I go, my friend, — I follow where she calls, — 
 I leave the illusion which thy soul inthralls, 
 Content to walk with those who nobly claim 
 To live at ease, and die without a name. 
 The Eastern tyrant, who so proudly shines, 
 And hoards in towers the wealth of various mines, 
 Has scarce enough for crimes that quickly pall ; 
 Virtue costs less, — within the reach of all. 
 Poor is the man that roves o'er lands and seas 
 In chase of treasures that soon cease to please; 
 Me smaller things suffice, — a simple seat 
 'Midst my loved Lares in some green retreat, — 
 A book, — a friend, — and slumbers that declare 
 A tranquil bliss and vacancy from care. 
 In dress the people's choice would I obey, — 
 In manners only more refined than they, — 
 Free from the brilliant hues, the glittering lace, 
 That gives the stage-musician all his grace. 
 Modest my style of life, — nor mean, nor high, 
 To fix the notice of the passer-by ; 
 And if no myrrhine cup nor porcelain vase 
 Shine on my board to draw the guests' applause, 
 The Etruscan jug, or maple bowl, at worst, 
 Can hold the wine that soothes my summer 
 
 thirst. 
 Not that in writing thus I would pretend 
 To practise all the good I recommend; — 
 This would I do, and Heaven its aid supplies 
 Still to press on, and scorn the shows of vice. 
 But not at once its fruit the vine receives ; 
 First spring the flowers, the tendrils, and the 
 
 leaves ; 
 Then the young grape, — austere, till mellow- 
 ing noons 
 To perfect nectar tur.i the tinged festoons: 
 As gradual grows each habit that survives 
 To rule, compose, and charm our little lives. 
 But Heaven forbid I e'er should ape the airs 
 Of the grim stoics that disturb our squares, 
 Truth's tragic mountebanks, content to live 
 On the poor praise a mob consents to give : 
 No ! as through canes and reeds the breezes roar, 
 But mildly whisper on the thymy more, 
 Sweet-breathing as they pass, — Pride's vacant 
 
 throng 
 Bluster where Virtue meekly steals along. 
 Thus would I live ; and silent thus may Death 
 Sound the mild call that steals away my breath, — 
 Not with the thunder that salutes the great; — 
 No burnished metals grace my lowly gate ! 
 
 'T is thus I seem to have obtained, in sooth, 
 The very essence and the zest of truth. 
 
 Smile not, my friend, nor think that I confide 
 In painted words, the eloquence of pride, — 
 That brooding study the grave strain inspires, 
 That fancy only fills me with her fires. 
 Is Virtue's less than Error's force? declare; 
 Her smile less winning, and her face less fair? 
 And I, whilst Anger on the tented plain, 
 Pride in the court, and Avarice on the main, 
 Each hour face death, — shall I not tempt the 
 
 wings 
 Of nobler motives, fraught with brighter things? 
 
 Yes ! surely ( yes ! Thou, too, escape, and join 
 Thy thoughts, thy manners, and thy life with 
 
 mine : 
 Freed from thy chains, come, follow, and acquire 
 That perfect good to which our souls aspire ; 
 Ere with us Wisdom lose her tranquil charms, 
 And Time, late cherished, die within our arms. 
 
 PEDRO CALDERON DE LA BARCA. 
 
 Scarcely less a prodigy of nature than 
 Lope de Vega was the second great dramatist 
 of Spain, Pedro Calderon de la Barca. With 
 Spanish pomp and circumstance, his eulogist and 
 biographer, Don Juan de Vera Tasis y Villar- 
 roel, says, in swelling phrase, — " Not easily can 
 be circumscribed in the brief sphere. of my lip 
 he who so generously occupies all the tongues of 
 fame ; and not easily can be limited by so short 
 an epilogue he who is too great for the dilated 
 space of centuries : for he who sets a limit to 
 the light rather insults than flatters its clear- 
 ness. Yet, trusting in my affection, which shall 
 supply the capacity of its theme, I hurry my 
 pen forward to describe, in an abbreviated sigh, 
 a permanent sob, which shall be raised in the 
 vast temple of memory, by all who, in after 
 times, record his name." 
 
 According to this biographer, Calderon was a 
 most remarkable child; for, "even before he 
 trod the pleasant threshold of life, it seems that 
 with sad echoes he announced that glorious noise 
 which he was to make in the distant periods of 
 the world : for, before opening the oriental gates, 
 he cried in the maternal bosom ; and thus en- 
 tered the world with a shade of sadness he, 
 who, like a new sun, was to fill it with im- 
 mense joys. Dorotea Calderon de la Barca, 
 his sister, a most exemplary nun in the royal 
 convent of Santa Clara de Toledo, used to de- 
 clare, that she had heard her parents say many 
 times, that three times he had cried before he 
 was born." 
 
 To descend from this hyperbolical style of 
 the biographer to matters of fact. Pedro Cal- 
 deron de la Barca, sprung from an ancient and 
 noble family, was born at Madrid, the first day 
 of the year 1601. He received his earliest 
 instruction in the Jesuits' College, and at the 
 age of fourteen entered the University of Sala- 
 
CALDERON DE LA BARCA. 
 
 709 
 
 manca, where he remained five years, and made 
 »reat progress in literature and the sciences. 
 He left the University at the age of nineteen. 
 Soon after this, he became known as a poet, and 
 his merits were acknowledged by persons of 
 distinction. Ten years of his life were spent in 
 the military service, and he gained much reputa- 
 tion in the wars of Milan and the Low Countries. 
 He was recalled to court in ]637, by an order 
 of his sovereign, Philip the Fourth, a monarch 
 devoted to pleasure, and himself the author of 
 pieces for the stage. Lope de Vega had just 
 died, and Calderon succeeded him as the favor- 
 ite of the theatre. The year after his return to 
 the court, the king conferred on him the order 
 of Santiago. When, in 1640, all the orders 
 were required to take the field in the campaign 
 to Catalonia, Calderon served under the colors 
 of the count-duke of Olivares. At the peace, 
 he returned to court, and received from the 
 king a pension of thirty crowns a month. In 
 1650, he was required to superintend the fes- 
 tivities, and to plan the splendid triumphal 
 arches, with which the Austrian princess, Maria 
 Ana, was received, on her marriage with the 
 king. In the mean time, he wrote indefatigably 
 for the stage. In 1651, he left the military or- 
 der to which he belonged, was ordained a priest, 
 and, in ]654, was made chaplain in the chapel 
 de los Senores Reyes Nuevos, at Toledo ; but 
 the king, desirous of having him near at hand 
 to assist at the royal festivals, gave him a chap- 
 laincy at court, and recalled him to Madrid. 
 Other preferments were from time to time 
 granted him, and his income was increased by 
 a pension taken out of the revenues from Sicily, 
 and by the growing profits of his labors. He 
 died May 29, 1687, at the advanced age of 
 eigJity-six. 
 
 Calderon is second only to Lope de Vega in 
 the amount of his works; and not second, even 
 to him, in the affluence of his genius. He is 
 said to have written one hundred and twenty 
 three-act dramas ; two hundred loas, or dra- 
 matic prologues; a hundred entremeses, or in- 
 terludes; and a hundred autos sacramentales, 
 or sacramental acts. He also wrote lyrical and 
 other poems. The most complete edition of his 
 works is that of 1760, in seventeen volumes, 
 quarto ; containing seventy-three autos, seventy- 
 four loas, and one hundred and seven three-act 
 dramas. 
 
 Calderon is a great favorite with the able 
 critic, Augustus William Schlegel. The fol- 
 lowing is part of the brilliant, but too highly 
 colored, portrait which he has drawn in his 
 'Lectures on Dramatic Literature."* 
 
 " His mind is most distinctly expressed in 
 the religious subjects which he handled. He 
 paints love with general features merely; he 
 speaks her technical poetical language. Re- 
 .igion is his peculiar love, the heart of his 
 
 * A Course of Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature, 
 by Augustus William Schlegel. Translated by John 
 Black (Phi'adelphia, 1833, 8vo.). pp. 418, 419. 
 
 heart. For religion alone he excites the most 
 overpowering emotions, which penetrate into 
 the inmost recesses of the soul. It would rath- 
 er appear that he did not wish to enter with the 
 same fervor into worldly events. However 
 turbid they may be in themselves, from the re- 
 ligious medium through which he views them, 
 they appear to him perfectly bright. This for 
 tunate man escaped from the wild labyrinths of 
 doubt into the citadel of belief, from whence he 
 viewed and portrayed the storms of the world 
 with undisturbed tranquillity of soul ; human 
 life was to him no longer a dark riddle. Even 
 his tears reflect the image of heaven, like dew- 
 drops on a flower in the sun. His poetry, what- 
 ever its object may apparently be, is an inces 
 sant hymn of joy on the majesty of the creation : 
 he celebrates the productions of nature and 
 human art with an astonishment always joyful 
 and always new, as if he saw them for the first 
 time in an unworn festal splendor. It is the 
 first waking of Adam, coupled with an eloquence 
 and skill of expression, with a thorough ac- 
 quaintance with the most mysterious relations 
 of nature, such as high mental cultivation and 
 ■mature contemplation can alone give. When 
 he compares the most remote, the greatest and 
 the smallest, stars and flowers, the sense of all 
 his metaphors is the mutual attraction of created 
 things to one another, on account of their com- 
 mon origin ; and this delightful harmony and 
 unity of the world is again with him merely a 
 refulgence of the eternal love which embraces 
 the universe. 
 
 "Calderon still flourished at a time when a 
 strong inclination began to manifest itself in the 
 other countries of Europe to that mannerism o. 
 taste in the arts, and those prosaic views in lite- 
 rature, which in the eighteenth century obtained 
 such universal dominion. He is consequently 
 to be considered as the last summit of the ro- 
 mantic poetry. All its magnificence is lavished 
 in his works; as, in fireworks, the most gaudy 
 colors, the most dazzling cascades and circles, 
 are usually reserved for the last explosion." 
 
 For a more temperate estimate of Calderon, 
 see "Blackwood's Magazine" for December, 
 1839, and January, 1840. 
 
 The state of the Spanish theatre in the time 
 of Lope and Calderon is well described by a 
 writer in the " American Quarterly Review " 
 (Vol. IV., pp. 347, 348). 
 
 "The theatre did not depend in Spain so 
 much on the full-length dramas, as it, did in 
 other countries. There were, besides the loas 
 or long dramatic prologues, the entremeses be- 
 tween the acts ; the saynetes, or farces, at the 
 end; the xdcaras, which were a sort of old bal 
 lads, sung where they were needed ; and lyrical 
 dances, or dances with song, like the zaraban- 
 das, which were put in for the same general 
 purpose of increasing the zest of the entertain- 
 ment. They were all, however, in one tone 
 and spirit, and constitute the dramatic literature 
 of the public popular theatres in Spain during 
 3h 
 
no 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 the seventeenth century. The genuine and 
 exclusive nationality of this literature is its most 
 prominent characteristic. It was a more popu- 
 lar amusement, it belonged more to all classes 
 of the nation, than any theatre since the Greek. 
 Its actors were almost always strolling compa- 
 nies, with a person at their head, called El Au- 
 tor, because, from the time of Lope de Rueda, 
 the manager often wrote the pieces he caused 
 to be represented ; and this author, as he was 
 called, when he came to a place where he in- 
 tended to act, went round in person and posted 
 his bills announcing the entertainment. When 
 dramatic representations were not so common 
 as they afterwards became, such occasions were 
 eagerly seized, and pieces performed both morn- 
 .ng and afternoon. Even later, when they 
 grew common, they were still always given in 
 the day-time, beginning, in the winter, at two 
 o'clock, and in the summer at three, so that 
 every body might return home unmolested be- 
 fore dark. The place of representation was 
 almost uniformly an open court-yard,* at one 
 end of which was a covered and sheltered stage, 
 and, on its sides, rows of seats, as in an amphi- 
 theatre ; but the best places were the rooms and 
 windows of the houses that opened into the 
 area ; and such was the passion for scenic repre- 
 entation, that the right to particular seats was 
 often preserved and transmitted, as an inherit- 
 ance, from generation to generation When 
 the audience was collected, the author came 
 forward, and, according to the technical phrase, 
 threw out the loa [echo la loa), in which he, 
 perhaps, complimented some of the persons 
 present, or, perhaps, boasted how strong his 
 company was, and how many new plays they 
 had ready for representation. Then followed a 
 dance, or a ballad ; afterwards, the first act of 
 the play, with its entremes ; then the second, 
 and the second entremes; and finally, the last; 
 after which another farce was given (the say- 
 nete) ; and the whole concluded with dancing, 
 which was often interspersed in other parts of the 
 entertainment, and accompanied with singing. 
 The costume of the actors was always purely 
 and richly Spanish, though they might repre- 
 sent Greek or Roman characters. The women 
 sat separate from the men, and were veiled; 
 and officers of justice had seats on the stage to 
 preserve order, — one of whom was once so de- 
 luded by the representation of one of Calderon's 
 most extravagant pieces, that he interfered, 
 sword in hand, to prevent what he believed an 
 outrage", and drove the actors from the boards. 
 The audiences, when Lope began to write, 
 seem to have been very quiet and orderly; but 
 soon after 1600, they began to decide on the 
 merits of the plays, and the acting, with little 
 ceremony ; and before 1615, they took the 
 character, which, in Madrid at least, they main- 
 tained to the end of the century, of being the 
 most violent and rude audiences in Europe." 
 
 * The two theatres in Madrid are still called corrales. 
 
 FROM EL MAGICO PRODIGIOSO. 
 
 SCENE FIRST. 
 
 [Cyprian as a student; Clarinand Mosconas poor scholars, 
 with books.] 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 In the sweet solitude of this calm place, 
 This intricate wild wilderness of trees 
 And flowers and undergrowth of odorous plants, 
 Leave me ; the books you brought out of the 
 
 house 
 To me are ever best society. 
 And whilst with glorious festival and song 
 Antioch now celebrates the consecration 
 Of a proud temple to great Jupiter, 
 And bears his image in loud jubilee 
 To its new shrine, I would consume what still 
 Lives of the dying day in studious thought, 
 Far from the throng and turmoil. You, my 
 
 friends, 
 Go and enjoy the festival; it will 
 Be worth the labor ; and return for me 
 When the sun seeks its grave among the billows, 
 Which among dim gray clouds on the horizon 
 Dance like white plumes upon a hearse; — and 
 
 here 
 I shall expect you. 
 
 MOSCON. 
 
 I cannot bring my mind, 
 
 Great as my haste to see the festival 
 
 Certainly is, to leave you, Sir, without 
 
 Just saying some three or four hundred words. 
 
 How is it possible, that, on a day 
 
 Of such festivity, you can brin^ your mind 
 
 To come forth to a solitary country 
 
 With three or four old books, and turn your back 
 
 On all this mirth ? 
 
 CLARIN. 
 
 My master 's in the right ; 
 There is not any thing more tiresome 
 Than a procession-day, with troops of men 
 And dances, and all that. 
 
 MOSCON. 
 
 From first to last, 
 
 Clarin, you are a temporizing flatterer ; 
 
 You praise not what you feel, but what he does; — 
 
 Toad-eater ! 
 
 CLARIN. 
 
 You lie — under a mistake, — 
 For this is the most civil sort of lie 
 That can be given to a man's face. I now 
 Say what I think. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 Enough, you foolish fellows ! 
 
 Puffed up with your own doting ignorance, 
 
 You always take the two sides of one question. 
 
 Now go, and, as I said, return for me 
 
 When night falls, veiling in its shadows wide 
 
 This glorious fabric of the universe. 
 
 MOSCON. 
 
 How happens it, although you can maintain 
 The folly of enjoying festivals, 
 That yet you go there ? 
 
CALDERON DE LA BARCA. 
 
 '11 
 
 CLARIN. 
 
 Nay, the consequence 
 
 Is clear; — who ever did what he advises 
 
 Others to do ? 
 
 MOSCOS. 
 
 Would that my feet were wings ! 
 So would I fly to Livia. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 CLABLN. 
 
 To speak truth, 
 
 Livia is she who has surprised my heart ; 
 But he is more than half-way there. — Soho ! 
 Livia, I come ! good sport, Livia ! soho ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 Now, since I am alone, let me examine 
 
 The question which has long disturbed my mind 
 
 With doubt, since first I read in Plinius 
 
 The words of mystic import and deep sense 
 
 In which he defines God. My intellect 
 
 Can find no God with whom these marks and 
 
 signs 
 Fitly agree. It is a hidden truth, 
 Which I must fathom. [Reads. 
 
 [Enter the Devil, as a fine gentleman. 
 
 D.EMON. 
 
 Search even as thou wilt, 
 
 But thou shalt never find what I caa hide. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 What noise is that among the boughs ? 
 
 moves ? 
 What art thou ? 
 
 Who 
 
 'T is a foreign gentleman. 
 
 Even from this morning, I have lost my wav 
 
 In tli is wild place; and mv poor horse, at last 
 
 Quite overcome, has stretched himself upon 
 
 The enamelled tapestry of this mossy mountain, 
 
 And feeds and rests at the same time. I was 
 
 Upon my way to Antioch, upon business 
 
 Of some importance ; but, wrapt up in cares, 
 
 (Who is exempt from this inheritance?) 
 
 I parted from my company, and lost 
 
 My way, and lost my servants and my comrades. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 'T is singular, that, even within the sight 
 Of the high towers of Antioch, vou could lose 
 Tour way. Of all the avenues and green paths 
 Of this wild wood, there is not one but leads, 
 As to its centre, to the walls of Antioch; 
 Take which you will, you cannot miss vour road. 
 
 D.EAION. 
 
 And such is ignorance ! Even in the sight 
 Of knowledge, it can draw no profit from it. 
 But as it still is earlv, and as I 
 Have no acquaintances in Antioch, 
 Being a stranger there, I will even wait 
 The few surviving hours of the dav, 
 Until the night shall conquer it. I see, 
 Both by your dress and by the books in which 
 Tou find delight and company, that you 
 Are a great student ; — for my part, I feel 
 Much sympathy with such pursuits. 
 
 Have vou 
 Studied much ? 
 
 D.EUON. 
 
 No, — and yet I know enough 
 Not to be wholly ignorant. 
 
 CTPRIAX. 
 
 Pray, Sir, 
 
 What science may you know ? 
 
 Di3ION. 
 
 Many. 
 
 CYPRIAX. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 Much pains must we expend on one alone, 
 And even then attain it not; — but you 
 Have the presumption to assert that you 
 Know many without studv. 
 
 narwnv 
 
 And with truth ; 
 
 For in the countrv whence I come, sciences 
 
 Require no learning, — they are known. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 O, would 
 
 I were of that bright countrv ! for in this, 
 The more we study, we the more discover 
 Our ignorance. 
 
 D.ESION. 
 
 It is so true, that I 
 
 Had so much arrogance as to oppose 
 
 The chair of the most high professorship, 
 
 And obtained manv votes ; and though I lost, 
 
 The attempt was still more glorious than th 
 
 failure 
 Could be dishonorable : if you believe not, 
 Let us refer it to dispute respecting 
 That which you know best: and although I 
 Know not the opinion you maintain, and thougl 
 It be the true one, I will take the contrary. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 The offer gives me pleasure. I am now 
 Debating with mvself upon a passage 
 Of Plinius, and mv mind is racked with doubt 
 To understand and know who is the God 
 Of whom he speaks. 
 
 D^MON. 
 
 It is a passage, if 
 
 I recollect it right, couched in these words . 
 
 " God is one supreme goodness, one pure es 
 
 sence, 
 One substance, and one sense, all sight, al 
 
 hands." 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 'T is true. 
 
 D^LUON. 
 
 What difficulty find you here? 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 I do not recognize among the Gods 
 The God defined by Plinius: if he must 
 Be supreme goodness, even Jupiter 
 Is not supremely good ; because we «ee 
 
712 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 His deeds are evil, and his attributes 
 Tainted with mortal weakness: in what manner 
 Can supreme goodness be consistent with 
 Tbe passions of humanity ? 
 
 DiEMON. 
 
 The wisdom 
 
 Of the old world masked with the names of Gods 
 
 The attributes of Nature and of Man : 
 
 A sort of popular philosophy. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 This reply will not satisfy me ; for 
 
 Such awe is due to the high name of God, 
 
 That ill should never be imputed. Then, 
 
 Examining the question with more care, 
 
 It follows that the Gods should always will 
 
 That which is best, were they supremely good. 
 
 How, then, does one will one thing, — one, 
 
 another ? 
 And you may not say that I allege 
 Poetical or philosophic learning : 
 Consider the ambiguous responses 
 Of their oracular statues; from two shrines 
 Two armies shall obtain the assurance of 
 One victory. Is it not indisputable 
 That two contending wills can never lead 
 To the same end ? and being opposite, 
 If one be good, is not the other evil ? 
 Evil in God is inconceivable; 
 But supreme goodness fails among the Gods, 
 Without their union. 
 
 DJEaOX. 
 
 I deny your major. 
 
 These responses are means towards some end 
 
 Unfathomed by our intellectual beam ; 
 
 They are the work of Providence ; and more 
 
 The battle's loss may profit those who lose, 
 
 Than victory advantage. those who win. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 That I admit, and yet that God should not 
 (Falsehood is incompatible with deity) 
 Assure the victory ; it would be enough 
 To have permitted the defeat : if God 
 Be all sight, — God, who beheld the truth, 
 Would not have given assurance of an end 
 Never to be accomplished. Thus, although 
 The Deity may, according to his attributes, 
 Be well distinguished into persons, yet, 
 Even in the minutest circumstance, 
 His essence must be one. 
 
 To attain the end, 
 
 The affections of the actors in the scene 
 
 Must have been thus influenced by his voice. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 But for a purpose thus subordinate 
 
 He might have employed genii, good or evil, - 
 
 A sort of spirits called so by the learned, 
 
 Who roam about inspiring good or evil, 
 
 And from whose influence and existence we 
 
 May well infer our immortality : — 
 
 Thus God might easily, without descending 
 
 To a gross falsehood in his proper person, 
 Have moved the affections by this mediation 
 To the just point. 
 
 DJ3M0N. 
 
 These trifling contradictions 
 
 Do not suffice to impugn the unity 
 
 Of the high Gods; in things of great importance 
 
 They still appear unanimous : consider 
 
 That glorious fabric, man, — his workmanship 
 
 Is stamped with one conception. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 Who made man 
 
 Must have, methinks, the advantage of the 
 
 others. 
 If they are equal, might they not have risen 
 In opposition to the work ; and being 
 All hands, according to our author here, 
 Have still destroyed even as the other made? 
 If equal in their power, and only unequal 
 In opportunity, which of the two 
 Will remain conqueror ? 
 
 D.EMON. 
 
 On impossible 
 
 And false hypothesis there can be built 
 No argument. Say, what do you infer 
 From this ? 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 That there must be a mighty God 
 
 Of supreme goodness and of highest grace, 
 
 All sight, all hands, all truth, infallible, 
 
 Without an equal and without a rival ; 
 
 The cause of all things, and the effect of nothing , 
 
 One power, one will, one substance, and one 
 
 essence ; 
 And in whatever persons, one or two, 
 His attributes may be distinguished, one 
 Sovereign power, one solitary essence, 
 One cause of all cause. [They rise. 
 
 DiEMON. 
 
 How can I impugn 
 
 So clear a consequence ? 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 Do you regret 
 My victory ? 
 
 DJEMON. 
 
 Who but regrets a check 
 
 In rivalry of wit ? I could reply 
 
 And urge new difficulties, but will now 
 
 Depart ; for I hear steps of men approaching, 
 
 And it is time that I should now pursue 
 
 My journey to the city. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 Go in peace ! 
 
 DJEMON. 
 
 Remain in peace! — Since thus it profits him 
 
 To study, I will wrap his senses up 
 
 In sweet oblivion of all thought, but of 
 
 A piece of excellent beauty ; and as I 
 
 Have power given me to wage enmity 
 
 Against Justina's soul, I will extract 
 
 From one effect two vengeances. [hxi'- 
 
CALDERON DE LA BARCA. 
 
 713 
 
 I never 
 
 Met a more learned person. Let me now 
 Revolve this doubt again with careful mind. 
 
 [He reads. 
 [Enter Lelio and Flora. 
 
 LELIO. 
 
 Here stop. These toppling rocks and tangled 
 
 boughs, 
 Impenetrable by the noonday beam, 
 Shall be sole witnesses of what we 
 
 FLOEO. 
 
 Draw! 
 
 If there were words, here is the place for deeds. 
 
 LELIO. 
 
 Thou needest not instruct me : well I know 
 That in the field the silent tongue of steel 
 Speaks thus. [ They fight . 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 Ha ! what is this? Lelio, Floro, 
 
 Be it enough that Cyprian stands between you, 
 
 Although unarmed. 
 
 LELIO. 
 
 Whence comest thou, to stand 
 Between me and my vengeance ? 
 
 FLOEO. 
 
 From what rocks 
 And desert cells ? 
 
 [Enter Moscon and Clarin. 
 
 MOSCON. 
 
 Run, run ! for where we left my master, 
 We hear the clash of swords. 
 
 CLARIN. 
 
 I never 
 
 Run to approach things of this sort, but only 
 
 To avoid them. Sir ! Cyprian ! Sir ! 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 Be silent, fellows ! What! two friends, who are 
 In blood and fame the eyes and hope of Anti- 
 
 och, — 
 One, of the noble men of the Colatti, 
 The other, son of the governor, — adventure 
 And cast away, on some slight cause, no doubt, 
 Two lives, the honor of their country ? 
 
 LELIO. 
 
 Cyprian, 
 
 Although my high respect towards your person 
 Holds now my sword suspended, thou canst not 
 Restore it to the slumber of its scabbard. 
 Thou knowest more of science than the duel : 
 For when two men of honor take the field, 
 No counsel nor respect can make them friends; 
 But one must die in the pursuit. 
 
 FLOEO. 
 
 I pray 
 
 That vou depart hence with your people, and 
 Leave us to finish what we have begun 
 Without advantage. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 Though you may imagine 
 That I know little of the laws of duel, 
 Which vanity and valor instituted, 
 90 
 
 You are in error. By my birth I am 
 Held no less than yourselves to know the limits 
 Of honor and of infamy, nor has study 
 Quenched the free spirit which first ordered 
 
 them; 
 And thus to me, as one well experienced 
 In the false quicksands of the sea of honor, 
 You may refer the merits of the case ; 
 And if I should perceive in your relation 
 That either has the right to satisfaction 
 From the other, I give you my word of honor 
 To leave you. 
 
 LELIO. 
 
 Under this condition, then, 
 I will relate the cause, and you will cede 
 And must confess the impossibility 
 Of compromise; for the same lady is 
 Beloved by Floro and myself. 
 
 FLOEO. 
 
 It seems 
 
 Much to me that the light of day should look 
 
 Upon that idol of my heart ; — but he 
 
 Leave us to fight, according to thy word. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 Permit one question further : is. the lady 
 Impossible to hope, or not ? 
 
 LELIO. 
 
 She is 
 
 So excellent, that, if the light of day 
 Should excite Floro's jealousy, it were 
 Without just cause ; for even the light of day 
 Trembles to gaze on her. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 Would you, for your 
 Part, marry her ? 
 
 FLORO. 
 
 Such is my confidence. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 And you ? 
 
 LELIO. 
 
 O, would that I could lift my hope 
 
 So high ! for, though she is extremely poor, 
 
 Her virtue is her dowry. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 And if vou both 
 
 Would marrv her, is it not weak and vain, 
 Culpable and unworthy, thus beforehand 
 To slur her honor? What would the world say, 
 If one should slay the other, and if she 
 Should afterwards espouse the murderer?. 
 [The rivals agree lo refer their quarrel to Cyprian ; who, 
 in consequence, visits Justina, and becomes enamoured of 
 hei : she disdains him. and he tetires to a solitary sea- 
 shore. 
 
 SCENE SECOND. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 O memory ! permit it not 
 That the tyrant of my thought 
 Be another soul that still 
 Holds dominion o'er the will, — 
 3h* 
 
714 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 That would refuse, but can no more, 
 To bend, to tremble, and adore. 
 
 Vain idolatry ! — I saw, 
 And, gazing, became blind with error ; 
 
 Weak ambition, which the awe 
 Of her presence bound to terror ! 
 So beautiful she was, — and I, 
 Between my love and jealousy, 
 Am so convulsed with hope and fear, 
 Unworthy as it may appear, — 
 So bitter is the life I live, 
 That, hear me, Hell ! I now would give 
 To thy most detested spirit 
 My soul, for ever to inherit, 
 To suffer punishment and pine, 
 So this woman may be mine. 
 Hear'st thou, Hell ? dost thou reject it? 
 My soul is offered ! 
 
 djemon (unseen). 
 
 I accept it. 
 [Tempest, with thimaer and lightning. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 What is this? ye heavens for ever pure, 
 At once intensely radiant and obscure ! 
 Athwart the ethereal halls 
 The lightning's arrow and the thunder-balls 
 The day affright, 
 As from the horizon round 
 Burst with earthquake sound 
 In mighty torrents the electric fountains : — 
 Clouds quench the sun, and thunder-smoke 
 Strangles the air, and fire eclipses heaven. 
 Philosophy, thou canst not even 
 Compel their causes underneath thy yoke : 
 From yonder clouds, even to the waves below, 
 The fragments of a single ruin choke 
 Imagination's flight ; 
 For, on flakes of surge, like feathers light, 
 The ashes of the desolation cast 
 Upon the gloomy blast 
 Tell of the footsteps of the storm. 
 And nearer see the melancholy form 
 
 Of a great ship, the outcast of the sea, 
 Drives miserably ! 
 And it must fly the pity of the port, 
 Or perish, — and its last and sole resort 
 Is its own raging enemy. 
 The terror of the thrilling cry 
 Was a fatal prophecy 
 
 Of coming death, who hovers now 
 Upon that shattered prow, 
 That they who die not may be dying still. 
 And not alone the insane elements 
 Are populous with wild portents : 
 But that sad ship is as a miracle 
 
 Of sudden ruin ; for it drives so fast, 
 
 It seems as if it had arrayed its form 
 With the headlong storm. 
 It strikes ! — I almost feel the shock ! — 
 It stumbles on a jagged rock ! — 
 Sparkles of blood on the white foam are cast ! 
 [A tempest. — All exclaim within, 
 We are all lost ! 
 
 djemon (within). 
 Now from this plank will I 
 Pass to the land, and thus fulfil my scheme. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 As in contempt of the elemental rage, 
 
 A man comes forth in safety, while the ship's 
 Great form is in a watery eclipse 
 
 Obliterated from the Ocean's page, 
 
 And round its wreck the huge sea-monsters sit, 
 
 A horrid conclave, and the whistling wave 
 
 Are heaped over its carcass, like a grave. 
 
 [The Daemon enters, as escaped from the sea. 
 
 djemon (aside). 
 It was essential to my purposes 
 To wake a tumult on the sapphire ocean, 
 That in this unknown form I might at length 
 Wipe out the blot of the discomfiture 
 Sustained upon the mountain, and assail 
 With a new war the soul of Cyprian, 
 Forging the instruments of his destruction 
 Even from his love and from his wisdom. — O 
 Beloved earth ! dear mother ! in thy bosom 
 1 seek a refuge from the monster who 
 Precipitates itself upon me. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 Friend, 
 
 Collect thyself ; and be the memory 
 
 Of thy late suffering, and thy greatest sorrow, 
 
 But as a shadow of the past, — for nothing 
 
 Beneath the circle of the moon, but flows 
 
 And changes and can never know repose. 
 
 DjEMON. 
 
 And who art thou, before whose feet my fate 
 Has prostrated me ? 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 One who, moved with pity, 
 Would soothe its stings. 
 
 DJEMON. 
 
 O, that can never be ! 
 
 No solace can my lasting sorrows find. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 Wherefore ? 
 
 DJEMON. 
 
 Because my happiness is lost. 
 Yet I lament what has long ceased to be 
 The object of desire or memory, 
 And my life is not life. 
 
 CYPRIAN. 
 
 Now, since the fury 
 Of this earthquaking hurricane is still, 
 And the crystalline heaven has reassumed 
 Its windless calm so quickly, that it seems 
 As if us heavy wrath had been awakened 
 Only to overwhelm that vessel, — speak ! 
 Who art thou, and whence comesl thou ? 
 
 DJEMON. 
 
 Far more 
 
 My coming hither cost, than thou hast seen 
 Or I can tell. Among my misadventures, 
 This shipwreck is the least. Wilt thou hear? 
 
CALDERON DE LA BARCA. 
 
 715 
 
 3peak. 
 
 D.EMON. 
 
 Since thou desirest, I will, then, unveil 
 
 Myself to thee ; for in myself I am 
 
 A world of happiness and misery : 
 
 This I have lost, and that I must lament 
 
 For ever. In my attributes I stood 
 
 So high and so heroically great, 
 
 In lineage so supreme, and with a genius 
 
 Which penetrated with a glance the world 
 
 Beneath my feet, that, won by my high merit, 
 
 A king — whom I may call the King of Kings, 
 
 Because all others tremble in their pride 
 
 Before the terrors of his countenance, 
 
 In his high palace, roofed with brightest gems 
 
 Of living light — call them the stars of heaven — 
 
 Named me his counsellor. But the high praise 
 
 Stung me with pride and envy, and I rose 
 
 In mighty competition, to ascend 
 
 His seat and place my foot triumphantly 
 
 Upon his subject thrones. Chastised, I know 
 
 The depth to which ambition falls. Too mad 
 
 Was the attempt, and yet more mad were now 
 
 Repentance of the irrevocable deed : 
 
 Therefore I chose this ruin, with the glory 
 
 Of not to be subdued, before the shame 
 
 Of reconciling me with him who reigns 
 
 By coward cession. Nor was I alone, 
 
 Nor am I now, nor shall I be alone ; 
 
 And there was hope, and there may still be hope ; 
 
 For many suffrages among his vassals 
 
 Hailed me their lord and king, and many still 
 
 Are mine, and many more, perchance, shall be. 
 
 Thus vanquished, though in fact victorious, 
 
 I left his seat of empire, from mine eye 
 
 Shooting forth poisonous lightning, while my 
 
 words 
 With inauspicious thunderings shook heaven, 
 Proclaiming vengeance, public as my wrong, 
 And imprecating on his prostrate slaves 
 Rapine, and death, and outrage. Then I sailed 
 Over the mighty fabric of the world, 
 A pirate ambushed in its pathless sands, 
 A lynx crouched watchfully among its caves 
 And craggy shores ; and I have wandered over 
 The expanse of these wide wildernesses 
 In this great ship, whose bulk is now dissolved 
 In the light breathings of the invisible wind, 
 And which the sea has made a dustless ruin, — 
 Seeking ever a mountain, through whose forests 
 I seek a man, whom I must now compel 
 To keep his word with me. I came arrayed 
 In tempest; and although my power could well 
 Bridle the forest winds in their career, 
 For other causes I forbore to soothe 
 Their fury to favonian gentleness; 
 I could and would not. (Thus I wake in him 
 
 [Aside. 
 A love of magic art.) Let not this tempest, 
 Nor the succeeding calm, excite thy wonder; 
 For by my art the sun would turn as pale 
 As his weak sister, with unwonted fear. 
 And in my wisdom are the orbs of heaven 
 Written as in a record ; I have pierced 
 
 The flaming circles of their wondrous spheres, 
 And know them as thou knowest every corner 
 Of this dim spot. Let it not seem to thee 
 That I boast vainly : wouldst thou that I work 
 A charm over this waste and savage wood, 
 This Babylon of crags and aged trees, 
 Filling its leafy coverts with a horror 
 Thrilling and strange ? I am the friendless gues 
 Of these wild oaks and pines, — and as from thet 
 I have received the hospitality 
 Of this rude place, I offer thee the fruit 
 Of years of toil in recompense ; whate'er 
 Thy wildest dream presented to thy thought 
 As object of desire, that shall be thine. 
 
 And thenceforth shall so firm an amity 
 'Twixt thou and me be, that neither Fortune, 
 The monstrous phantom which pursues success 
 That careful miser, that free prodigal, 
 Who ever alternates, with changeful hand, 
 Evil and good, reproach and fame ; nor Time, 
 That loadstar of the ages, to whose beam 
 The winged years speed o'er the intervals 
 Of their unequal revolutions; nor 
 Heaven itself, whose beautiful bright stars 
 Rule and adorn the world, can ever make 
 The least division between thee and me, 
 Since now I find a refuge in thy favor. 
 
 SCENE THIRD. 
 [The Damon tempts Justina, who is a Christian.] 
 
 D^MON. 
 
 Abyss of Hell ! I call on thee, 
 Thou wild misrule of thine own anarchy 
 From thy prison-house set free 
 The spirits of voluptuous death, 
 That with their mighty breath 
 They may destroy a world of virgin thoughts. 
 Let her chaste mind with fancies thick as motes 
 Be peopled from thy shadowy deep, 
 Till her guiltless phantasy 
 Full to overflowing be ; 
 And with sweetest harmony, 
 Let birds, and flowers, and leaves, and al 
 
 things move 
 To love, — only to love. 
 Let nothing meet her eyes 
 But signs of Love's soft victories 
 Let nothing meet her ear 
 But sounds of Love's sweet sorrow: 
 So that from faith no succour may she borrow 
 But, guided by my spirit blind, 
 And in a magic snare entwined, 
 She may now seek Cyprian. 
 
 Begin, — while I in silence bind 
 My voice, when thy sweet song thou hast be 
 gun. 
 
 A VOICE WITHIN. 
 
 What is the glory far above 
 All else in human life ' 
 
 ALL. 
 
 Love ! love ! 
 
716 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 While these words are sung, the Dajmon goes out at one 
 door, and Justina enters at another. 
 
 THE FIRST VOICE. 
 
 There is no form in which the fire 
 Of love its traces has impressed not. 
 
 Man lives far more in love's desire 
 Than by life's breath, soon possessed not. 
 
 If all that lives must love or die, 
 
 All shapes on earth, or sea, or sky, 
 
 With one consent, to Heaven cry 
 
 That the glory far above 
 
 All else in life is 
 
 ALL. 
 
 Love ! O, love ! 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 Thou melancholy thought, which art 
 So fluttering and so sweet, to thee 
 When did I give the liberty 
 Thus to afflict my heart ? 
 What is the cause of this new power 
 
 Which doth my fevered being move, 
 Momently raging more and more? 
 What subtle pain is kindled now, 
 Which from my heart doth overflow 
 
 Into my senses ? 
 
 ALL. 
 
 Love ! O, love ! 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 T is that enamoured nightingale 
 
 Who gives me the reply ; 
 He ever tells the same soft tale 
 Of passion and of constancy 
 To his mate, — who rapt and fond 
 Listening sits, a bough beyond. 
 Be silent, Nightingale ! — no more 
 Make me think, in hearing thee 
 Thus tenderly thy love deplore, 
 If a bird can feel his so, 
 What a man would feel for me. 
 And, voluptuous Vine ! O thou 
 Who seekest most when least pursuing, — 
 To the trunk thou interlacest 
 Art the verdure which embracest, 
 And the weight which is its ruin, — 
 
 No more, with green embraces, Vine, 
 Make me think on what thou lovest ; — 
 
 For, whilst thou thus thy boughs entwine, 
 I fear lest thou shouldst teach me, sophist, 
 How arms might be entangled too. 
 Light-enchanted Sunflower ! thou 
 Who gazest ever true and tender 
 On the sun's revolving splendor, — 
 Follow not his faithless glance 
 With thy faded countenance, 
 Nor teach my beating heart to fear, 
 If leaves can mourn without a tear, 
 How eyes must weep. — O Nightingale, 
 Cease from thy enamoured tale ! 
 
 Leafy Vine, unwreathe thy bower! 
 Restless Sunflower, cease to move ! — 
 
 Or tell me, all, what poisonous power 
 Ye use against me ! 
 
 ALL. 
 
 Love ! love ! love ' 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 It cannot be ! — Whom have I ever loved ? 
 Trophies of my oblivion and disdain, 
 Floro and Lelio did I not reject.' 
 And Cyprian ? — 
 
 [She becomes troubled at the name of Cyprian. 
 Did I not requite him 
 With such severity, that he has fled 
 Where none has ever heard of him again ? — 
 Alas ! I now begin to fear that this 
 May be the occasion whence desire grows bold 
 As if there were no danger. From the mo 
 
 ment 
 That I pronounced to my own listening heart, 
 " Cyprian is absent," O miserable me ! 
 I know not what I feel ! — 
 
 It must be pity, [More calmly. 
 
 To think that such a man, whom all the world 
 Admired, should be forgot by all the world, 
 And I the cause. — 
 
 [She again becomes troubled. 
 And yet if it were pity, 
 Floro and Lelio might have equal share ; 
 For they are both imprisoned for my sake. — 
 
 [Calmly. 
 Alas ! what reasonings are these ? It is 
 Enough I pity him, and that in vain, 
 Without this ceremonious subtlety. 
 And, woe is me ! I know not where to find bin 
 
 now, 
 Even should I seek him through this wide world 
 
 [Enter Daemon. 
 
 D.EMON. 
 
 Follow, and I will lead thee where he is. 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 And who art thou who hast found entrancf 
 
 hither, 
 Into my chamber, through the doors and locks 
 Art thou a monstrous shadow which my madnes 
 Has formed in the idle air? 
 
 D.EMON. 
 
 No. I am one 
 
 Called by the thought which tyrannizes thee 
 From his eternal dwelling; who this day 
 Is pledged to bear thee unto Cyprian. 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 So shall thy promise fail. This agony 
 Of passion which afflicts my heart and soul 
 May sweep imagination in its storm ; 
 The will is firm. 
 
 DiEMON. 
 
 Already half is done 
 
 In the imagination of an act. 
 
 The sin incurred, the pleasure then remains : 
 
 Let not the will stop balf-way on the road. 
 
 I will not be discouraged, nor despair, 
 Although I thought it, and although 't is true 
 That thought is but a prelude to the deed ; 
 Thought is not in my power, but action is 
 I will not move my foot to follow thee. 
 
CALDERON DE LA BARCA. 
 
 717 
 
 DJEMON. 
 
 But a far mightier wisdom than thine own 
 Exerts itself within thee, with such power 
 Compelling thee to that which it inclines, 
 That it shall force thy step : how wilt thou then 
 Resist, Justina ? 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 By my free will. 
 
 DAEMON. 
 I 
 
 Must force thy will. 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 It is invincible : 
 
 It were not free, if thou hadst power upon it. 
 
 [He draws, but cannot move her. 
 
 DJEMON. 
 
 Come, where a pleasure waits thee. 
 
 JUSTIN A. 
 
 It were bought 
 Too dear. 
 
 D.EMON. 
 
 'T will soothe thy heart to softest peace. 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 'T is dread captivity. 
 
 R2EMON. 
 
 T is joy, 'tis glory. 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 'T is shame, 't is torment, 't is despair. 
 
 DJEMON. 
 
 But how 
 
 Canst thou defend thyself from that or me, 
 
 If my power drags thee onward ? 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 My defence 
 
 Consists in God. 
 
 [He vainly endeavours to force her, and at last releases her 
 
 D.EMON. 
 
 Woman, thou hast subdued me, 
 
 Only by not owning thyself subdued. 
 
 But since thou thus findest defence in God, 
 
 I will assume a feigned form, and thus 
 
 Make thee a victim of my baffled rage. 
 
 For I will mask a spirit in thy form, 
 
 Who will betray thy name to infamy, 
 
 And doubly shall I triumph in thy loss : 
 
 First by dishonoring thee, and then by turning 
 
 False pleasure to true ignominy. [Exit. 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 I 
 
 Appeal to Heaven against thee ; so that Heaven 
 
 May scatter thy delusions, and the blot 
 
 Upon my fame vanish in idle thought, 
 
 Even as flame dies in the envious air, 
 
 And as the floweret wanes at morning frost, 
 
 And thou shouldst never But, alas ! to 
 
 whom 
 Do I still speak ? — Did not a man but now 
 Stand here before me? — No, I am alone ; 
 And yet I saw him. Is he gone so quickly? 
 Or can the healed mind engender shapes 
 From its own fear ? Some terrible and strange 
 Peril is near. Lysander ! father! lord! 
 Livia ! — [Enter Lysander and Livia. 
 
 LYSANDER. 
 
 my daughter ! what ? 
 
 LIVIA. 
 
 What ? 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 Saw you 
 
 A man go forth from my apartment now ? — 
 
 1 scarce sustain myself! 
 
 LYSANDER. 
 
 A man here ! 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 Have you not seen him ? 
 
 LIVIA. 
 
 No, lady. 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 I saw him. 
 
 LYSANDER. 
 
 'T is impossible ; the doors 
 
 Which led to this apartment were all locked. 
 
 livia (aside). 
 I dare say it was Moscon whom she saw ; 
 For he was locked up in my room. 
 
 LYSANDER. 
 
 It must 
 
 Have been some image of thy phantasy 
 Such melancholy as thou feede~t is 
 Skilful in forming such in the vain air 
 Out of the motes and atoms of the day. 
 
 LIVIA. 
 
 My master 's in the right. 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 O, would it were 
 
 Delusion ! but I fear' some greater ill. 
 
 I feel as if out of my bleeding bosom 
 
 My heart was torn in fragments. Ay, 
 
 Some mortal spell is wrought against my frame 
 
 So potent was the charm, that, had not God 
 
 Shielded my humble innocence from wrong, 
 
 I should have sought my sorrow and my shame 
 
 With willing steps. — Livia, quick bring my 
 
 cloak ; 
 For I must seek refuge from these extremes 
 Even in the temple of the highest God, 
 Which secretly the faithful worship. 
 
 LIVIA. 
 
 Here. 
 
 justina (putting on her cloak). 
 In this, as in a shroud of snow, may I 
 Quench the consuming fire in which I burn, 
 Wasting away ! 
 
 LYSANDER. 
 
 And I will go with thee. 
 
 LIVIA. 
 
 When I once see them safe out of the house, 
 I shall breathe freely. 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 So do I confide 
 
 In thy just favor, Heaven ! 
 
 LYSANDER. 
 
 Let us go. 
 
 JUSTINA. 
 
 Thine is the cause, great God ! turn, for my sake 
 And for thine own, mercifully to me ! 
 
718 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 PEDRO DE CASTRO Y ANAYA. 
 
 This poet lived in the first half of the seven- 
 teenth century. Nothing further is known of 
 him, except that he wrote a work, entitled 
 " Auroras de Diana." 
 
 THE RIVULET. 
 
 Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave 
 
 The lovely vale that lies around thee ! 
 
 Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve, 
 
 When but a fount the morning found thee ' 
 
 Born when the skies began to glow, 
 
 Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters, 
 
 No blossom bowed its stalk to show 
 
 Where stole thy still and scanty waters. 
 
 Now on thy stream the noonbeams look, 
 Usurping, as thou downward driftest, 
 
 Its crystal from the clearest brook, 
 Its rushing current from the swiftest 
 
 Ah, what wild haste ! — and all to be 
 
 A river and expire in ocean ! 
 Each fountain's tribute hurries thee 
 
 To that vast grave with quicker motion. 
 
 Far better 't were to linger still 
 
 In this green vale, these flowers to cherish, 
 And die in peace, an aged rill, 
 
 Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish. 
 
 THIRD PERIOD.— FROM 1700 TO 1844. 
 
 IGNACIO DE LUZAN 
 
 Ignacio de Luzan was born at Saragossa, 
 March 28, 1702. The death of his parents, 
 and the disturbed state of the country, caused 
 him to be placed with a relative at Barcelona, 
 where he remained utitil 1715. His uncle, 
 Don Jose Luzan, then took him to Genoa and 
 Milan, and afterwards to Sicily, where he pur- 
 sued his studies, and took his degree in 1727. 
 His favorite occupations were literature and 
 poetry. He made himself master of the Latin, 
 Greek, Italian, French, and German. His 
 uncle dying in 1729, he went to Naples, and 
 joined his brother, the Count de Luzan, who 
 was governor of the castle of Sant Elmo. Four 
 years afterwards, he was sent to Spain, to attend 
 to his brother's affairs. He went to Madrid, and, 
 in 1741, was elected into the Royal Spanish 
 Academy. His learning, abilities, and agreea- 
 ble manners gained him the appointment of 
 Secretary of Legation at Paris, in 1747, and of 
 Charge d'AfFaires, the year following. In 1750, 
 he returned to Madrid, and established himself 
 there with his family. He continued to fill va- 
 rious public offices of high importance until his 
 death, which took place March 19, 1754. 
 
 Luzan is more distinguished as a critic than 
 as an original writer, his principal work being 
 nis " Poetica." He enjoys the questionable glory 
 of being the Coryphaeus of French taste in Spain. 
 
 FTOM THE ADDRESS TO LA ACADEMIA DE LAS 
 NOBLES ARTES. 
 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 Its ever-varying sway 
 Inconstant Fate exerts o'er all. 
 Born subject to successive fall 
 
 Each earthly state ! — Fleeting the ancient 
 glory 
 Of early Greece and Rome's immortal name: 
 
 Ruins whose grandeur yet survives in story, 
 And treasured fondly still by long-recording 
 Fame. 
 Even at the touch of years that pass away, 
 Cities and empires crumble to decay ! — 
 
 Virtue sole remains, — 
 Fair daughter of the Mighty, in whose mind 
 Perfection of all goodness rests enshrined, — 
 And, changeless still, her steadfastness main- 
 tains. 
 
 How vainly Chance 
 With desperate wrath that peaceful reign 
 
 would mar ! 
 So 'gainst the rock, 'midst raging ocean stance, 
 In idle war the headlong waves advance; 
 
 While, as the unvarying star 
 That to the trembling pilot points his course, 
 Though Aquilo and Notus try their force, 
 She guides our wandering bark to sheltering 
 havens far. 
 
 PAINTING. 
 
 Light and mingling shade 
 Being and birth on Painting first bestowed ; 
 Beneath her hand the varying colors glowed, 
 And fair design in long perspective showed 
 
 Touch alone could tell, 
 In the warm tablets' flowing lines, inwrought 
 With brightest hues, from living nature caught, 
 How deeply treasured there deception's spell. 
 
 All that the eyes surveyed, 
 All that imagination's power could trace, 
 Breathed in the Pencil's imitative grace: 
 O'er the cold canvass form, and soul, and feeling 
 That wondrous art infused, with nower of life 
 
LUZAN. — N. F. DE MORA TIN. — C A D ALSO. 
 
 719 
 
 Portrayed each pulse, each passion's might re- 
 vealing, 
 Sorrow and joy, love, hatred, fear, and strife. 
 Though haply mute, the eternal doubt upsprung, 
 Can such perfection be denied a tongue ? 
 
 NICOLAS FERNANDEZ DE MORATIN. 
 
 Nicolas Fernandez de Moratin was born 
 at Madrid, in 1737. He studied first at San 
 Ildefonso, and afterwards at the Jesuits' College 
 in Calatayud. Thence he went to Valladolid 
 to study the law, diversifying his pursuits by 
 reading the Greek and Latin classics. He re- 
 turned to San Ildefonso, where he married. 
 He went afterwards to Madrid, where he soon 
 became distinguished among the literary men 
 of the time. He wrote for the theatre, which 
 he endeavoured to reform. He received many 
 literary honors, and enjoyed the friendship of 
 the most eminent men in his own and in foreign 
 countries. His miscellaneous poems were first 
 published in a periodical form, and entitled "El 
 Poeta." He composed three tragedies, the best 
 of which, "La Hormesinda," was first acted in 
 1770. Shortly after this, he returned tempo- 
 rarily to the law, without, however, renouncing 
 his poetical pursuits. Having received an ap- 
 pointment as substitute for Ayala in the chair of 
 Poetry at Madrid, he retired from his profession. 
 The rest of his life was spent in literature, and 
 he died at Madrid, May 11, 1780. 
 
 FROM AN ODE TO PEDRO ROMERO, THE BULL- 
 FIGHTER. 
 
 Along the Plaza moved the gallant youth, 
 
 With head erect, and manly pride ; 
 Nor is there one from out the crowd, in sooth, 
 Who may his boding fears and pity hide. 
 Yet with smooth brow, and beauteous face, 
 He scorns the danger that awaits hiin there: 
 
 Scarce had the down begun to grace 
 His lip, yet conscious courage bids him dare 
 The fierce encounter; for he feels inspired, 
 E'en as of old Pelides young was fired. 
 Then onward doth he to the combat go, — 
 With what a gait of lordliness, 
 And manly grace and gentleness ! — 
 And in the midst the Spanish athlete low 
 Bends to the fair, — whose eyes all-joyous 
 
 glow 
 With hopes, — while cymbals loudly sound and 
 trumpets blow. 
 
 More valiant looked not iEson's godlike son, 
 
 When first in Colchian lands he stepped, 
 And, breathing fury, tamed the beasts of Mars, — 
 When from his covert close impetuous leaped 
 
 The fierce and pain-bemaddened bull, 
 Fed where the Jarama's blue waters flow. 
 Thou, like a god, of valor full, 
 
 Await'st the onset, — in that listed field, 
 Thy sole defence a simple shield, — * 
 Weak safeguard 'gainst so fierce a foe ! 
 With left foot fixed in the ground, 
 And breast exposed, thou proudly look'st 
 
 around ! 
 And in thy ample, sinewy right hand 
 (Flung nobly buck, — while smiles irradiant 
 play- 
 Around thy lips) a flaming brand 
 Is waved, — which Mars might covet in the 
 battle-fray ! 
 
 Save that the hearts of all are throbbing loud, 
 
 Within each pale spectator's breast, — 
 Deep silence hovered o'er the astonished crowd ■ 
 And on each lady's cheek had fear impressed 
 A mark, — to make their lovers frown, 
 And feel the pangs of jealousy : 
 With breath suppressed and strained eye, 
 The crowd in deep attention wait, 
 To see their youthful champion's fate. 
 Called at the signal, forth the bull hath flown 
 Bellowing with fury, breathing fire, 
 And mad with ire. 
 'Midst his career he sudden stops to look 
 Upon the matadore's wind-wafted cloak, — 
 In shape as huge as the Phalarian brute : 
 He snorts, recqils, — and eager to assail, 
 
 He proudly shakes aloft his ample front, 
 And scatters wide the sand, and points his 
 lengthened tail. 
 
 JOSE DE CADALSO. 
 
 This author was born at Cadiz, October 8, 
 1741. His parents sent him to Paris very young, 
 where he studied literature and the sciences. 
 Having travelled through France, England, 
 Germany, Italy, and Portugal, he returned to 
 Spain, took the military order of Santiago, and 
 entered the service in 1762, joining the Span- 
 ish forces then employed against Portugal. He 
 greatly distinguished himself in the profession 
 of arms, and rose to a high rank. But in the 
 midst of his military occupations he found time 
 for the cultivation of letters, and formed ac- 
 quaintance with the principal literary men o» 
 his time, among whom his advice and example 
 exercised much influence. He died, February 
 27, 1782, of a wound he received at the siege 
 of Gibraltar. 
 
 Cadalso wrote a tragedy after the French 
 models, entitled " Sancho Garcia ■' ; his lyrical 
 poems were first published in 1773, under the 
 title of " Los Ocios de mi Juventud." He is 
 chiefly known by his " Cartas Marruecas," or 
 Moorish Letters, written in the character of a 
 Moor travelling in Spain, on the model of the 
 " Lettres Persanes," and by "Los Eruditos a la 
 Violeta," a satirical work, in which he ridicules 
 the pretensions of literary charlatans. 
 
/20 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 ANACREONTIC. 
 
 Who, crowned with ivy 
 And vine leaves, descends 
 
 From yonder green mountain, 
 And hitherward wends, — 
 
 A flask in his hand 
 
 And a smile in his eye, 
 
 Surrounded by shepherds 
 And nymphs, who, with joy, 
 
 To the sound of their cymbals 
 His high deeds record, 
 
 Applauding and singing 
 The gifts of their lord? 
 
 'T is certainly Bacchus, 
 The monarch of vines: — 
 
 O, no, 't is the poet 
 
 Who fancied these lines! 
 
 IMITATION OF GdNGORA. 
 
 That much a widowed wife will moan, 
 When her old husband 's dead and gone, 
 
 I may conceive it: 
 But that she won't be brisk and gay, 
 Tf another offer the next day, 
 
 I won't believe it. 
 
 That Chloris will repeat to me, 
 " Of all men, I adore but thee," 
 
 I may conceive it : 
 But that she has not often sent 
 To fifty more the compliment, 
 
 I won't believe it. 
 
 That Celia will accept the choice 
 Elected by her parents' voice, 
 
 I may conceive it: 
 But that, as soon as all is over, 
 She won't elect a younger lover, 
 
 I won't believe it. 
 
 That, when she sees her marriage gown, 
 Inez will modestly look down, 
 
 I may conceive it : 
 But that she does not, from that hour, 
 Resolve to amplify her power, 
 
 I won't believe it. 
 
 That a kind husband to his wife 
 Permits each pleasure of this life, 
 
 I may conceive it : 
 But that the man so blind should be 
 As not to see what all else see, 
 
 I won't believe it. 
 
 That in a mirror young coquettes 
 Should study all their traps and nets, 
 
 I may conceive it : 
 But that the mirror, above all, 
 Should be the object principal, 
 
 I won't believe it. 
 
 GASPAR MELCHIOR DE JOVELLANOS. 
 
 This distinguished Spaniard was born at Gi- 
 jon, in Asturia, January 5, 1744. ^e studied 
 at Oviedo, Alcala de Henares, and Avila. He 
 rose rapidly in the profession of the law, and 
 became a member of various learned societies. 
 He occupied himself with poetry, and wrote a 
 play, entitled, "El Delinquente Honrado," the 
 tragedy of "Pelayo," a translation of the first 
 book of Milton's "Paradise Lost," and various 
 poems, which he entitled, " Ocios Juveniles." 
 He enjoyed the friendship of the most distin- 
 guished among his contemporaries. But his 
 prosperity was suddenly interrupted by the 
 downfall of his friend, the Count de Cabarrus, 
 in whose disgrace he was involved. Being 
 banished from the court, he retired to his native 
 place, where he lived from 1790 to 1797, wholly 
 occupied with literature, and with projects ot 
 practical utility At the end of this period, he 
 was nominated Ambassador to Russia, and soon 
 after was called to Madrid, and appointed Min- 
 ister of Grace and Justice. He did not long 
 remain in the ministry. The intrigues of the 
 favorite, Godoy, the Prince of the Peace, drove 
 him, in 1798, again to Gijon. In 1801, he was 
 arrested and sent to a Carthusian monastery in 
 the island of Majorca ; thence, in 1802, transfer- 
 red to the castle of Belver, where he endured 
 a close imprisonment for seven years. The 
 change of public affairs in 1808 led to his liber- 
 ation. Joseph Bonaparte offered him a place 
 in his cabinet, but Jovellanos refused it, and 
 embracing the cause of the insurgents, became 
 a member of the Central Junta, which had 
 the direction of the patriotic forces in defence 
 of the throne and of independence. The junta 
 was dissolved in 1810, in the island of Leon, 
 and Jovellanos embarked at Cadiz for Asturia. 
 But he was driven by a storm to Muros de Noya. 
 in Galicia, where he was detained more than a 
 year, Asturia being then occupied by the French. 
 He finally reached Gijon in 1811, and was re- 
 ceived with acclamations by the inhabitants. 
 But the enemy again invaded Asturia, and he 
 was forced to make his escape by sea. Having 
 encountered violent tempests, he died of an 
 acute pulmonary complaint, in the small por* 
 of Vega, November 27, 1811. 
 
 TO THE SUN. 
 
 Great parent of the universe ! 
 Bright ruler of the lucid day ! 
 
 Thou glorious Sun ! whose influence 
 The endless swarms of life obey, 
 Drinking existence from thy ray ! — 
 
 Thou, who from forth the opening womb 
 Of the fair dawning crystalline 
 Com'st radiant to thine eastern shrine, 
 Pouring thy golden floods in light 
 O'er humblest veil and proudest height; 
 
Whilst thy resplendent car reveals 
 Its rolling adamantine wheels, 
 That speed sublime, nor leave a trace, 
 Through all the airy realms of space 
 Welcome thy reign ! 
 Thy morning beams 
 And crown of rays, 
 Whose glory never more decays; 
 While every gladdening bosom feels the gleams 
 Of joy and peace again ! — 
 Dark-shading Night, 
 Parent of treasons, perfidies, and guile, 
 
 Flies from thy sight, 
 And far in deep abysses hides the while ; 
 
 And lazy Sleep, . 
 Her shadows, lying phantasms, and alarms, 
 
 A hateful train, 
 Melt into air; and in their place the charms 
 
 Of lucid light and joy gay vigil keep; 
 And peace and pleasure visit us again. 
 
 TOMAS DE YRIARTE. 
 
 Tomas de Yriarte was a native of the island 
 of Teneriffe, where he was born September 18, 
 1750. He studied first at Orotava, and after- 
 wards at Madrid. He wrote much for the 
 stage, furnishing both original plays and trans- 
 lations from the French. He held various pub- 
 lic employments, and wrote constantly for the 
 public; but he owes his literary fame chiefly to 
 a poem, entitled, " Musica," which he published 
 in 1780, and the " Fabulas Literarias," which 
 appeared in 1782. In 1786, he fell under the 
 censures of the Inquisition, on a charge of in- 
 culcating infidel principles, and was obliged to 
 perform a secret penance to obtain absolution. 
 His laborious and sedentary habits aggravated 
 the gout with which he was afflicted, and he 
 died September 17, 1791. 
 
 FROM THE FABULAS LITERARIAS. 
 THE ASS AND THE FLUTE. 
 
 You must know that this ditty, 
 
 This,Iittle romance, 
 Be it dull, be it witty, 
 
 Arose from mere chance. 
 
 Near a certain inclosure, 
 Not far from my manse, 
 
 An ass, with composure, 
 Was passing by chance. 
 
 As he went along prying, 
 
 With sober advance, 
 A shepherd's flute lying, 
 
 He found there by chance 
 
 Our amateur started 
 
 And eyed it askance, 
 Drew nearer, and snorted 
 
 Upon it by chance. 
 
 The breath of the brute, Sir, 
 Drew music for once ; 
 
 It entered the flute, Sir, 
 And blew it by chance. 
 
 "Ah ! " cried he, in wonder, 
 " How comes this to pass? 
 
 Who will now dare to slander 
 The skill of an ass ? " 
 
 And asses in plenty 
 
 I see at a glance, 
 Who, one time in twenty, 
 
 Succeed by mere chance. 
 
 THE BEAR AND THE MONKEY. 
 
 A bear, with whom a Piedmontese 
 Joined company to earn their bread, 
 
 Essayed on half his legs to please 
 The public, where his master led. 
 
 With looks that boldly claimed applause, 
 He asked the ape, "Sir, what think you?" 
 
 The ape was skilled in dancing-laws, 
 And answered, "It will never do." 
 
 "You judge the matter wrong, my friend," 
 Bruin rejoined; "you are not civil! 
 
 Were these legs given for you to mend 
 
 The ease and grace with which they swivel ? ' 
 
 It chanced a pig was standing by : 
 " Bravo ! astonishing ! encore ! " 
 
 Exclaimed the critic of the sty; 
 
 " Such dancing we shall see no more ! ' 
 
 Poor Bruin, when he heard the sentence, 
 
 Began an inward calculation ; 
 Then, with a face that spoke repentance, 
 
 Expressed aloud his meditation : — 
 
 " When the sly monkey called me dunce, 
 I entertained some slight misgiving; 
 
 But, Pig, thy praise has proved at once 
 That dancing will not earn my living." 
 
 Let every candidate for fame 
 
 Rely upon this wholesome rule : — 
 
 Your work is bad, if wise men blame; 
 But worse, if lauded by a fool. 
 
 JOSE IGLESIAS DE LA CASA. 
 
 Jose Iglesias was born at Salamanca, in 
 1753. He studied in the University of that 
 city. He devoted himself particularly to the 
 ancient Spanish poets, and to humorous and 
 satirical composition. He became a priest in 
 the neighbourhood of Salamanca, and discharg- 
 ed the duties of his office with great fidelity. 
 Having thus consecrated himself to the church, 
 he abandoned the light and humorous style of 
 his early writings, and wrote in a more serious 
 vein. He died August 26, 1791. 
 3i 
 
722 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Alexis calls me cruel ; 
 
 The rifted crags that hold 
 The gathered ice of winter, 
 
 He says, are not more cold : 
 
 When even the very blossoms 
 Around the fountain's brim, 
 
 And forest walks, can witness 
 The love I bear to him. 
 
 I would that I could utter 
 My feelings without shame; 
 
 And tell him how I love him, 
 Nor wrong my virgin fame. 
 
 Alas ! to seize the moment 
 When heart inclines to heart, 
 
 And press a suit with passion, 
 Is not a woman's part. 
 
 If man comes not to gather 
 The roses where they stand, 
 
 They fade among their foliage; 
 They cannot seek his hand. 
 
 JUAN MELENDEZ VALDES. 
 
 This writer was born at Ribera, in the bish- 
 opric of Badajoz, March 11, 1754. He studied 
 at Madrid, Segovia, and Salamanca. At the 
 last named city, he had the good fortune to gain 
 the friendship of Cadalso, who directed his 
 studies, and formed his taste to such an extent, 
 that it was said, " Melendez is Cadalso's best 
 work.' In 1781, he went to Madrid, where 
 he became acquainted with Jovellanos, who had 
 already formed a very favorable opinion of his 
 talents Jovellanos took him into his house, in- 
 troduced him to his friends, and did all that the 
 most generous fiiendship could" suggest, to pro- 
 mote his success. In 1784, he wrote the pas- 
 toral comedy, entitled, "Las Bodas de Camacho 
 el Rico," and in 1785, published his " Poesias 
 Liricas," which were received with extraordi- 
 nary applause, and established his reputation as 
 a poet. In 1789, he received an appointment 
 in Saragossa, and in 1791, was transferred to 
 Valladolid. In 1797, he was called to Madrid, 
 where his friend and protector, Jovellanos, was 
 at the height of his power; but in the next year 
 he shared in the fall of his illustrious friend, 
 and was banished to Medina del Campo, and in 
 1800, to Zamora. Having passed through a 
 series of vicissitudes, caused by the political and 
 military occurrences of the times, he returned 
 to Madrid, after the capitulation of Baylen, in 
 1808. With the final overthrow of the intru- 
 sive government of the French, under which he 
 had accepted office, he left Spain, and passed 
 the remainder of his life in France. He died 
 at Montpellier, May 24, 1817. 
 
 SACRED ODE. 
 
 Lokd ! in whose sight a thousand years but 
 
 seem 
 A fleeting moment, — O Eternal Being! 
 Turn towards me thy clemency, 
 Lest like a shadow vain my brief existence flee ! 
 
 Thou who dost swell with thine ineffable 
 Spirit the world, — O Being Infinite ! 
 Regard me graciously, 
 Since than an atom more invisible am I ! 
 
 Thou in whose mighty, all-protecting hand 
 The firmament of heaven abides, — O Power ! 
 Since of my soul thou know'st 
 The fallen and abject state, unveil the virtuous 
 boast ! 
 
 Thou who dost feed the world's immensity, 
 O Fount of Life, still inexhaustible ! 
 Hear my despised breath, 
 Since before thee my life will seem but wretch- 
 ed death ! 
 
 Thou who dost see within thy boundless mind 
 Whatever was or will be! — knowledge 
 vast ! — 
 Thy light I now implore, 
 That I in error's shades may wander lost no 
 more ! 
 
 Thou, who upon the sacred throne of heaven 
 In glorious light dost sit, Immutable ! 
 For thine eternal rest, 
 Exchange, my Lord, the thoughts of this unsta- 
 ble breast ! 
 
 Thou, whose right hand, if from the abyss 
 
 withdrawn, 
 Doth cause the stars to fall, — Omnipotent ! 
 Since I am nothing, take 
 Sweet mercy upon me, for thy dear Jesus' sake ! 
 
 Thou, by whose hand the sparrow is sustained, 
 Father of all, God of the universe! 
 Thy gifts with gracious speed 
 Scatter upon my head, since I am poor indeed ! 
 
 Being Eternal, Infinite ! Soul! Life! 
 Father all-knowing ! wise, omniscient Power ! 
 From thine exalted throne, 
 Since I thy creature am, look down upon thine 
 own ! 
 
 NOON. 
 
 The Sun, 'midst shining glory now concealed 
 
 Upon heaven's highest seat, 
 Darts straightway down upon the parched field 
 
 His fierce and burning heat; 
 
 And on revolving Noonday calls, that he 
 
 His flushed and glowing face 
 May show the world, and, rising from the sea, 
 
 Aurora's reign displace. 
 
MELENDEZ VALDES. 
 
 723 
 
 The wandering Wind now rests his weary wings, 
 And hushed in silence broods; 
 
 And all the vocal choir of songsters sings 
 Among the whispering woods. 
 
 And sweetly warbling on his oaten pipe 
 
 His own dear shepherd-maid, 
 The herdboy leads along his flock of sheep 
 
 To the sequestered shade ; 
 
 Where shepherd youths and maids in secret 
 bowers 
 
 In song and feast unite, 
 In joyful band, to pass the sultry hours 
 
 Of their siesta light. 
 
 The sturdy hunter, bathed in moisture well, 
 
 Beneath an oak-tree's boughs, 
 Beside his faithful dog, his sentinel, 
 
 Now yields him to repose. 
 
 All, all is calm and silent. O, how sweet, 
 
 On this enamelled ground, 
 At ease recumbent, from its flowery seat 
 
 To cast your eyes around ! 
 
 The busy bee, that round your listening ear 
 
 Murmurs with drowsy hum ; 
 The faithful turtles, perched on oak-trees near, 
 
 Moaning their mates' sad doom. 
 
 And ever in the distance her sweet song 
 
 Murmurs lorn Philomel ; 
 While the hoar forest's echoing glades prolong 
 
 Her love and music well. 
 
 And 'midst the grass slow creeps the rivulet, 
 
 In whose bright, limpid stream 
 The blue sky and the world of boughs are met, 
 
 Mirrored in one bright gleam. 
 
 And of the elm the hoar and silvery leaves 
 The slumbering winds scarce blow; 
 
 Which, pictured in the bright and tremulous 
 waves, 
 Follow their motion slow. 
 
 These airy mountains, and this fragrant seat, 
 Bright with a thousand flowers ; 
 
 These interwoven forests, where the heat 
 Is tempered in their bowers! 
 
 The dark, umbrageous wood, the dense array 
 Of trunks, through which there peers 
 
 Perchance the town; which, in the glow of 
 day, 
 Like crystal bright appears! 
 
 These cooling grottoes! — O retirement blest ! 
 
 Within thy calm abode, 
 My mind alone can from her troubles rest 
 
 With solitude and God. 
 
 Thou giv'st me life, and liberty, and love, 
 
 And all I now admire; 
 And from the winter of my soul dost move 
 
 The deep enth jsiast fire. 
 
 O bounteous Nature, 't is thy healing womb 
 
 Alone can peace procure ! 
 Thither all ye, the weary, laden, come, 
 
 From storms of life secure ! 
 
 TO DON GASPAR MELCHIOR JOVELLANOS. 
 FOR THE EASTER HOLIDAYS. 
 
 A truce now, dear Jove, to care for a season ! 
 Come, — Easter is nigh, — to the lute let us 
 sing, 
 Whilst the March wind pines sadly, gay strains 
 such as Teos 
 Heard warbled 'midst grapes to her bard's 
 Attic string. 
 Or, beside the mild fire, bid with exquisite con 
 verse 
 The fugitive hours pass in brilliant relief: 
 They go, — but from night's shady keeping re- 
 turn not ; 
 Why, then, by lost dreams should we make 
 them more brief? 
 
 As to gold the white down on the summer peach 
 changes, 
 So the bloom that my cheek early feathered 
 is fled, 
 And the years that have passed, bringing wis- 
 dom but slowly, 
 With thousand gray ringlets have mantled my 
 head. 
 I have seen the vale smile beneath April's sweet 
 blossoms, 
 Beneath burning June have I seen them de- 
 cay, 
 And the pomp and profusion of viny October 
 Before dull December waste coldly away. 
 
 Yes ! the days and winged months escape from 
 us like shadows, 
 And years follow months, as the sea-billows 
 pass : 
 Mind it not, — we 've a charm against Time's 
 revolutions, , 
 
 In the bright golden liquor that laughs in the 
 glass. 
 Pour it out; crowned with myrtle and rose, we 
 will frighten 
 Chagrin far away with our long, merry shout, 
 And in pledges quaffed off to wit, wine, and dear 
 woman, 
 Disregard the rude elements warring without. 
 
 For what are they to us, if our bosoms beat 
 lightly, 
 And beauty and song set our prisoned souls 
 free, 
 Whilst the bliss which a king would exchange 
 for a sceptre, 
 Love, the holy enchantress, consigns me in 
 thee ? 
 I remember, one eve, when the sun, haif ir 
 shadow, 
 Sank slow to his own western island afar, 
 
724 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 Whilst the peasants and peasant-girls danced 
 near my trellis, 
 And I in the porch touched my festal guitar; 
 
 How I sang the rich treasure which Heaven, in 
 its bounty, 
 Had lent, to console me in pleasure and pain, 
 And in prayers for thy welfare implored all its 
 angels, — 
 Thy welfare, so dear to our own native Spain ; 
 Smit with passionate thirst, in my right hand 
 the beaker 
 I filled till the bright bubbles danced o'er the 
 top, 
 And to thee and to thine, in a frenzy of feeling, 
 Drained it manfully off to the last purple drop ; 
 
 And whilst maiden and youth stood in loud ad- 
 miration 
 Applauding the feat, how I filled it again, 
 And with yet deeper rapture a second time 
 emptied 
 Its bowl of the glory that brightened my brain; 
 Singing still, singing still, in my zeal for thy 
 glory, 
 As now to my lute in its ardent excess, 
 Thy virtues, thy fame in the land's future story, 
 And the bliss, more than all, that in thee we 
 possess ! 
 
 LEANDRO FERNANDEZ MORATIN. 
 
 Leandro Fernandez Moratin, the son of 
 the poet Nicolas, was born at Madrid, March 
 10, 1760. His father destined him to a life of 
 business, and was not a little surprised to find, 
 that, at the age of eighteen, he ventured to com- 
 pete for the Royal Academy's poetical prize, by 
 offering, in 1779, a heroic ballad on the tak- 
 ing of Granada. The next year his father 
 died, and, in order to support his mother, he 
 continued to work several years at the trade of 
 jeweller, in which he had been brought up. 
 He did not, however, renounce his literary oc- 
 cupations. In 1782, he again offered a poem to 
 the Royal Academy ; but it was not until 1786 
 that he was able to find a position suitable to 
 his taste and talents. In that year, the Count 
 de Cabarrus, being sent to Paris on important 
 business, appointed Moratin his secretary, by 
 the advice of Jovellanos. There he became ac- 
 quainted with Goldoni, who contributed to the 
 formation of his taste in comedy. Returning 
 to Spain, he received from the government an 
 ecclesiastical benefice, and was ordained in 
 1739. His situation was greatly improved, soon 
 after, by a promotion to a much more valuable 
 benefice in Montoro, which enabled him to 
 follow his literary occupations uninterruptedly. 
 Having obtained leave to travel, he visited 
 France, England, Flanders, Germany, Switzer- 
 land, and Italy, and then fixed his residence at 
 Bologna, where he remained until 1796, when 
 
 he returned to Spain. In 1808, he withdrew 
 from Madrid, but returning with the French, 
 was appointed librarian in 1811. Again, when 
 the French evacuated Madrid in 1812, he was 
 forced to leave the capital, and was, for a time, 
 reduced to a state of the most lamentable desti- 
 tution ; but at length, his property, which had 
 been sequestrated, was restored to him In 1817, 
 he went to France, and remained in Paris until 
 1820, and thence returned to Barcelona, where, 
 in 1821, he published an edition of his father's 
 writings. Once more he took up his residence 
 in Paris, where he died June 21, 1828, at the 
 age of sixty-eight. 
 
 FROM EL VIEJO Y LA NINA. 
 
 DON ROQ.DE. 
 
 This, Munoz, is our opportunity. 
 
 MDNOZ. 
 
 Go to ! go to ! 
 
 DON ROO.DE. 
 
 But look ye, now, Muiioz, — 
 This is our opportunity ; while I 
 Keep watch to see if any one approach, 
 Do thou go hide, as we have settled it. 
 Bestir ! Why, how now, man ? How slow thou 
 art! 
 
 MDNOZ. 
 
 I am not very lively, it is true. 
 
 DON ROO.DE. 
 
 Come, come, — despatch ! On this side you 
 can enter. 
 
 [He walks to the canopy. Munoz remains still. 
 
 MDNOZ. 
 
 Sooth to say, an excellent contrivance ! 
 How now ? 
 
 DON ROO.DE. 
 
 MDNOZ. 
 
 Go to ! — I say, 't is useless all. 
 What, think you, shall we do by hiding here ? 
 'T is labor lost, — in vain, — if I have eyes. 
 I hope, — nay, take for granted, — that to-day 
 They go, — and we remain. What then? Why, 
 
 that 
 Trouble and jealousies will never cease. 
 
 DON ROO.DE. 
 
 And, prithee, wherefore? 
 
 MDNOZ. 
 
 Canst thou not divine ? 
 
 Because dull, frozen age and May-tide youth 
 Can never meet in dalliance. If she live 
 In constant fear, — to solitude condemned, — 
 Each day to play the nurse, and mend your 
 
 hose, — 
 To see this face and form, for aye, — to hear 
 The endless growling of your phthisicky 
 
 cough, — 
 To warm o' winter nights your woollen wrap 
 
 pers, — 
 To cook your herbs, prepare rank ointments, and 
 
L. F. M"ORATIN. 
 
 72o 
 
 Your powders, plasters, cataplasms; — how shall 
 Her delicate hands take pleasure in such work ? 
 'T is mingling oil and vinegar ! Go to ! 
 Believe me, master, though she smile, her face 
 Portrays her heart's dissemblance 
 
 DON ROQ.UE. 
 
 Thou mistak'st, — 
 
 Prate is thy pleasure. Come, now, to our pur- 
 pose ! 
 
 MUNOZ. 
 
 I will not crouch me like a spaniel hound ; 
 And thou art sore beset with gins and traps. 
 Look to hear tender whisperings at each step ; 
 Your movements will be watched by prying 
 
 eyes, 
 And juggling hands will dexterously convey 
 The billet-doux, for assignations sweet, 
 When they may carry on their vile intrigues. 
 
 DON ROO.UE. 
 
 Ay, now, in part I take thy meaning, Munoz, — 
 Her inclination hankers for such fare ! 
 
 MUNOZ. 
 
 No, no, — you understand not, — 't is not so : 
 Her age — her age is that wherein lies hid 
 The mystery. Men and women — more or 
 
 less — 
 Have minds o' th' selfsame metal, mould, and 
 
 form. 
 Doth not the infant love to sport and laugh, 
 And tie a kettle to a puppy's tail ? 
 Doth not the dimpled girl her kerchief don 
 (Mocking her elder) mantilla-wise, — then speed 
 To mass and noontide visits, where are bandied 
 Smooth gossip-words of sugared compliment? 
 But when at budding womanhood arrived, 
 She casts aside all childish games, nor thinks 
 Of aught save some gay paranymph, — who, 
 
 caught 
 In Love's stout meshes, flutters round the door, 
 And fondly beckons her away from home ; 
 The whilst, her lady mother fain would cage 
 The foolish bird within its narrow cell ! 
 And then the grandam idly wastes her" breath 
 In venting saws 'bout maiden modesty 
 And strict decorum, — from some musty vol- 
 ume : 
 But the clipped wings will quickly sprout 
 
 again ; 
 And whilst the doting father thinks his child 
 A paragon of worth and bashfulness, 
 Her thoughts are hovering round the precious 
 
 form 
 Of her sweet furnace-breathing Don Diego ; — 
 And he, all proof 'gainst dews and nightly blasts, 
 In breathless expectation waits to see 
 His panting Rosa at the postern-door ; 
 While she sighs forth, " My gentle cavalier ! " 
 And then they straightway fall to kissing hands, 
 And antic gestures, — such as lovers use, — 
 Expressive of their wish quickly to tie 
 The Gordian knot of marriage ; pretty creatures ! 
 But why not earlier to have thought of this, — 
 When he,tl s innocent youth, was wont to play 
 
 At coscogilla ; and the prattling girl, 
 
 Amid her nursery companions, toiled 
 
 In sempstress labors for her wooden dolls? 
 
 Ah ! wherefore, did I ask? Because, forsooth, 
 
 Their ways are changed with their increasing 
 
 years ! 
 For when for gallantry the time be come, 
 And when the stagnant blood begins to boil 
 Within the veins, my Master, — then the lads 
 Cast longing looks on damosels ; — for nature 
 Defies restraint, — and kin-birds flock together. 
 And think not, Master, Chance disposes thus; 
 Or were it so, then Chance directs us all, 
 Whene'er we have attained the important age. 
 I — thy Munoz — am a living instance ! 
 Was I not once a lively, laughing boy ? 
 And, in my stripling age, did I not love 
 The pastimes suited to those madcap days? 
 O, would to Heaven those times were present 
 
 still ! 
 But wherefore fret myself with hopes so vain ? 
 The silly thought doth find no shelter here, — 
 That any beauty, with dark, roguish eyes, 
 With sparkling blood, and rising warmth o» 
 
 youth, 
 Would e'er affect this wrinkled face of mine : 
 The very thought doth smack of foolishness ! 
 And though the truth may be a bitter pill, 
 Yet, Senor Don Roque de Urrutia, 
 It is most fitting that we know ourselves. 
 
 DON R0O.OE. 
 
 good Munoz, 
 
 for the love of 
 
 Peace, peace 
 Heaven ! 
 
 No more of this, — for every word 
 Is a sharp dagger to my heart. 
 
 MUNOZ. 
 
 'T is meet 
 
 That I explain myself in phrases such 
 
 As my poor wit can furnish. 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE TO LASO. 
 
 Sweet peace of mind, that only mortal joy, 
 Can ne'er be found, until ambitious rage 
 Is quelled, and vicious bonds are boldly severed. 
 Nor hope the charm to find in poverty, 
 Which squalid fevers, and despair, and crime 
 Accompany, — nor is it gained by all 
 The wealth which royal coffers can bestow. 
 The unenlightened vulgar and the vain 
 To Fortune's luring idol homage bring ; 
 But prudent moderation is alone 
 The virtue of the wise. O, blest is he 
 Who in the golden mean, from both extremes 
 Removed, enjoys that calm so little known ! 
 He envies not his neighbour's happiness ; 
 He neither fears the proud man's anger, nor 
 His favor courts ; truth falling from his tongue, 
 He Vice abhors, — and though earth's sceptre 
 
 she 
 Should grasp, and servile slaves should bow 
 
 before her, 
 Free, innocent, retired, and happy lives, 
 Of none the master, and of none the slave. 
 3i* 
 
726 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 O thou, fair wandering Arias' humble shore, 
 So rich in Ceres' gifts, her fruits and vines ! 
 Thou verdant plain, that giv 'st a pasture to 
 The wandering flock! thou lofty-towering hill ! 
 Thou forest dark and cool ! — ah ! when shall I, 
 A blest inhabitant, be here possessed 
 Of one small, rural, and convenient spot, 
 A temple sacred to the Muses and 
 To friendship, — grateful unto Heaven and 
 
 man, — 
 And see my fleeting years roll gently by 
 In a delicious peace ? A frugal board ; 
 A lovely garden rich in fruits and flowers, 
 Which I myself shall till ; melodious streams 
 From summits gliding downward to the vale, 
 And forming there a smooth, transparent lake 
 For Venus' swans; a hidden grotto, decked 
 With moss and laurel ; tuneful birds, that flit 
 Around as free as I ; the gentle sound 
 Of humming bees around the honeycomb; 
 And light winds breathing odoriferous balm . 
 This is sufficient for my hetirt, — and when 
 At length the silence of the eternal night 
 In gloom envelopes me, I shall repose 
 A happy shade, if but some tender tears 
 Should sweetly bathe my sepulchre. 
 
 JUAN BAUTISTA DE ARRIAZA Y 
 SUPERVIELA. 
 
 Juan Bautista de Ahriaza was born at 
 Madrid, in 1770. He acquired the rudiments 
 of education in the Seminary of Nobles there, 
 and studied the sciences in the military school 
 at Segovia. Having completed his studies, he 
 entered the service of the royal navy. He 
 continued in this career until 1798, when a se- 
 vere disease of the eyes compelled him to retire. 
 He had already published some of his poems, 
 which showed to the world his uncommon 
 talents. He now entered upon diplomacy, and 
 was appointed Secretary of Legation in London, 
 where he finished, in 1802, his descriptive and 
 moral poem, " Emilia," which was published 
 the following year at Madrid. In 1805, he 
 went to Paris, and on his return, two years after- 
 ward, to Spain, took part in the political move- 
 ments of the following years, and maintained 
 the cause of the king and of absolutism, both 
 against Joseph Bonaparte and the French fac- 
 tion, and against the constitutional party of 1812. 
 At the Restoration, his services were rewarded 
 by the king with several high appointments in 
 the court. Thenceforward, he gave much of 
 his time to poetry. The best edition of his 
 lyrical poems was published at Madrid, in 1829, 
 and reprinted at Paris, in 1834. His works are 
 distinguished for clearness, harmony, and ele- 
 gance of Style. He died in 1837. Juan Maria 
 Maury, in his " Choix de Poe'sies Castellanes," 
 says, " Since Lope de Vega, Arriaza is the only 
 one of our poets who seems to think in verse." 
 
 THE VAIN RESOLUTION. 
 
 In fair Elfrida's chains I once was bound; 
 
 She proudly with my faithful homage bore, 
 Then scorned my vows: — but time has closed 
 the wound, 
 
 And now, O Love, I swear to love no more ' 
 
 Love, in these latter days is lost in art, 
 And with the frost of falsehood it is hoar; 
 
 It has no charms to fascinate the heart, 
 
 Its better reign is Im? : — I '11 love no more ! 
 
 "Say," asked the little god, "what fears af- 
 fright thee? 
 All thy fair fortunes I will soon restore, 
 The Graces, three in one, shall now delight 
 thee." — 
 No matter, Love, I wish to love no more ! 
 
 Delina then he set before my eyes, — 
 One like the fair ideals known of yore; 
 
 A star she seemed, just fallen from the skies : - 
 But still I swore that I would love no more 
 
 At her fair side the rose would lose its smile, 
 And pale would burn the beacon on the shore , 
 
 Full many a heart her charms may well beguile, 
 But never mine : — for I will love no more ! 
 
 She walks, — and, springing up to kiss her feet, 
 The flowerets seem to me from earth to soar ; 
 
 She sings, with voice most musically sweet: — 
 Still, still I swear that I will love no more ! 
 
 Many the lovers who their homage bring; 
 
 Her conquests I would surely not deplore, — 
 Nay, her fair praises I would gladly sing: 
 
 I give my verse, — but I will love no more 
 
 " Join her gay train," the blind boy softly cried, 
 " Nor weakly fear her beauty to adore ; 
 
 If in its light thy heart is truly tried, 
 
 Thou canst renew thy vow to love no more." 
 
 Strange as it seems, I heeded not the wile 
 By which I had been led away before, 
 
 Nor even marked Love's bright malicious smile, 
 As, once again, I swore to love no more ! 
 
 In my lost heart there rises every hour 
 
 A purer flame than that which burned of yore : 
 
 Delina, thou hast taught me all Love's power ! 
 To see thee is to love thee evermore ! 
 
 FRANCISCO MARTINEZ BE LA ROSA. 
 
 This distinguished man was born at Granada, 
 March 10, 1789. He studied at the University, 
 and afterwards became Professor in the College 
 of San Miguel. When Spain was invaded va 
 1808, he enlisted under the standard of the na 
 tional party, which he encouraged and supporteJ 
 
MARTINEZ DE LA ROSA.— RIVAS. 
 
 72 1 
 
 by his patriotic writings. He was obliged to 
 take refuge in Cadiz from the victorious arms 
 of the French. He was intrusted with various 
 diplomatic negotiations, and, among the rest, was 
 sent to London, where he published his poem 
 of "Zaragoza." On his return to Cadiz, in 
 1812, he composed his tragedy of " La Viuda 
 de Padilla," which was represented in the 
 midst of the siege of that city, so that the spec- 
 tators, on their way to the theatre, were exposed 
 to danger from the bursting of the bombs which 
 were continually thrown into the city by the 
 French. In 1814, he was appointed a member, 
 from Granada, of the cortes convoked at Ma- 
 drid. At the Restoration, he was sent to Africa, 
 and imprisoned in consequence of the zeal with 
 which he had supported the constitutional par- 
 ty. The revolution of 1820 restored him to 
 liberty, and he was a member of the extraordi- 
 nary cortes of 1820 and 1821, i r . which he 
 distinguished himself by his eloquence and his 
 moderation. In 1822, he became, against his 
 will, a member of the cabinet; but was driven 
 from office by the crisis of the 7th of July, and 
 came near losing his life. ' The Restoration of 
 1823 again drove him into banishment. After 
 travelling through Holland, Switzerland, and 
 Italy, he fixed his residence in Paris, where 
 he remained, devoted to poetry and letters, and 
 occupied with the publication of his " Obras Lit- 
 erarias," until 1831, when, by the king's permis- 
 sion, he returned to his country, and lived in 
 Malaga. Here he collected and revised his 
 " Poesias Liricas," which were printed in 1833, 
 at Madrid. Since then, he has written a vari- 
 ety of historical, lyrical, and dramatic works. 
 His poetical style is marked by ease, pictu- 
 resqueness, and harmony. 
 
 THE ALHAMBRA. 
 
 Come to my bidding, gentle damsels fair, 
 That haunt the banks of Douro and Genii ! 
 
 Come, crowned with roses in your fragrant 
 hair, 
 More fresh and pure than April balms distil ! 
 
 With long, dark locks adown your shoulders 
 straying; 
 
 With eyes of fire, and lips of honeyed power; 
 Uncinctured robes, the bosom bare displaying, 
 
 Let songs of love escort me to the bower. 
 
 With love resounds the murmur of the stream; 
 With love the nightingale awakes the grove; 
 O'er wood and mountain love inspires the 
 theme, 
 And Earth and Heaven repeat the strain of 
 love. 
 
 Even there, where, 'midst the Alcazar's Moorish 
 pride, 
 
 Three centuries of ruin sleep profound, 
 From marble walls, with gold diversified, 
 
 The sullen echoes murmur love around. 
 
 Where are its glories now? — the pomps, the 
 charms, 
 The triumph, the emprise of proud display, 
 The song, the dance, the feast, the deeds of arms, 
 The gardens, baths, and fountains, — where 
 are they ? 
 
 Round jasper columns thorns and ivy creep; 
 
 Where roses blossomed, brambles now o'er- 
 spread : 
 The mournful ruins bid the spirit weep; 
 
 The broken fragments stay the passing tread. 
 
 Ye nymphs of Douro ! to my words give heed ; 
 
 Behold how transient pride and glory prove 
 Then, while the headlong moments urge theii 
 speed, 
 
 Taste happiness, and try the joys of love. 
 
 ANGEL DE SAAVEDRA, DUQUE DE 
 RIVAS. 
 
 This nobleman, who unites the qualities of 
 the soldier, patriot, and statesman to the genius 
 of the poet and painter, was born at Cordova, 
 March 1, 1791. He studied in the Seminary of 
 Nobles at Madrid, and in 1807 entered the royal 
 guards. He fought in the battles of Rio Seco, 
 Tudela, Ucles, Ciudad Real, Talavera, and 
 Ocana. In the last he received eleven severe 
 wounds, and was borne from the field by a 
 soldier of cavalry. He was made prisoner at 
 Malaga by General Sebastiani, but succeeded 
 in escaping to Gibraltar, and afterwards to Ca- 
 diz. He was present during the whole siege of 
 Cadiz, and took part in the battle of Chiclana. 
 In 1820, he supported the constitutional party 
 with great zeal, and about this time published 
 two volumes of " Poesias." He also repre 
 sented Cordova in the cortes, and when that 
 body was dissolved by the French in 1823, he 
 went to London, where he occupied himself 
 with literary labors. His love of painting at- 
 tracted him to Italy. He reached Leghorn in 
 July, 1825, but, not being allowed to remain 
 there, crossed over to Malta, where he was- 
 received, both by the English and the natives, 
 with great distinction. While here, he studied 
 painting and literature, and finished his epir 
 poem of " Florinda." He remained in Malta 
 until 1830. Not being permitted by the gov 
 eminent of Charles the Tenth to reside in Paris 
 he opened a school of drawing in Orleans ; but 
 after the July revolution, he lived in Paris, with 
 his wife and chilrlren. In 1832, he finished a 
 work, entitled "El Moro Exposito," written in 
 the romantic, as distinguished from the classical 
 style, to which he had adhered in his former 
 productions. In 1834, he was restored to his 
 country, and having succeeded to the dukedom 
 of Rivas, by the death of his elder brother, took 
 rank among the chief grandees of Spain. Since 
 then, he has written several dramatic pieces. 
 
728 
 
 SPANISH POETRY. 
 
 ODE TO THE LIGHTHOUSE AT MALTA. 
 
 The world in dreary darkness sleeps profound; 
 The storm-clouds hurry on, by hoarse winds 
 driven; 
 And night's dull shades and spectral mists con- 
 found 
 
 Earth, sea, and heaven ! 
 
 King of surrounding Chaos! thy dim form 
 
 Rises with fiery crown upon thy brow, 
 To scatter light and peace amid the storm, 
 And life bestow. 
 
 In vain the sea with thundering waves may 
 peal 
 And burst beneath thy feet in giant sport, 
 Till the white foam in snowy clouds conceal 
 The sheltering port : 
 
 Thy flaming tongue proclaims, " Behold the 
 shore ! " 
 And voiceless hails the weary pilot back, 
 Whose watchful eyes, like worshippers, explore 
 Thy shining track. 
 
 Now silent night a gorgeous mantle wears, — 
 By sportive winds the clouds are scattered 
 far, 
 And, lo ! with starry train the moon appears 
 In circling car : 
 
 While the pale mist, that thy tall brow enshrouds, 
 
 In vain would veil thy diadem from sight, 
 Whose form colossal seems to touch the clouds 
 With starlike light. 
 
 Ocean's perfidious waves may calmly sleep, 
 Yet hide sharp rocks, — the cliff, false signs 
 display, — 
 And luring lights, far flashing o'er the deep, 
 The ship betray : 
 
 But thou, whose splendor dims each lesser 
 beam, — 
 Whose firm, unmoved position might declare 
 Thy throne a monarch's, — like the North Star's 
 gleam, 
 
 Reveal'st each snare. 
 
 So Reason's steady torch, with light as pure, 
 Dispels the gloom, when stormy passions 
 rise, 
 Or Fortune's cheating phantoms would obscure 
 The soul's dim eyes. 
 
 Since I am cast by adverse fortunes here, 
 
 Where thou presidest o'er this scanty soil, 
 4nd bounteous Heaven a shelter grants to cheer 
 My spirit's toil ; 
 
 Frequent I turn to thee, with homage mute, 
 Ere yet each troubled thought is calmed in 
 sleep, 
 And still thy gem-like brow my eyes salute 
 Above the deep. 
 
 How many now may gaze on this seashore, 
 Alas ! like me, as exiles doomed to roam ! 
 Some who, perchance, would greet a wife once 
 more, 
 
 Or children's home! 
 
 Wanderers, by poverty or despots driven 
 
 To seek a refuge, as I do, afar, 
 Here find, at last, the sign of welcome given, — 
 A hospitable star ! 
 
 And still, to guide the bark, it calmly shines, — 
 The bark that from my native land oft bears 
 Tidings of bitter griefs, and mournful lines 
 Written with tears. 
 
 When first thy vision flashed upon my eyes, 
 
 And all its dazzling glory I beheld, 
 
 O, how my heart, long used to miseries, 
 
 With rapture swelled ! 
 
 Inhospitable Latium's shores were lost, 
 
 And, as amid the threatening waves we 
 steered, 
 When near to dangerous shoals, by tempests 
 tossed, 
 
 Thy light appeared. 
 
 No saints the fickle mariners then praised, 
 But vows and prayers forgot they with the 
 night, 
 While from the silent gloom the cry was raised 
 "Malta in sight ! " 
 
 And thou wert like a sainted image crowned, 
 
 Whose forehead bears a shower of golden rays, 
 Which pilgrims, seeking health and peace, sur- 
 round 
 
 With holy praise. 
 
 Never may I forget thee ! One alone 
 
 Of cherished objects shall with thee aspire, 
 King of the Night ! to match thy lofty thron 
 And friendly fire : 
 
 That vision still with sparkling light appears 
 In the sun's dazzling beams at matin hour 
 And is the golden angel memory rears 
 On Cordova's proud tower. 
 
 JOSE MARIA HEREDIA. 
 
 This poet was a native of the island of Cuba 
 During a residence in the United States, in the 
 year 1825, he published at New York a collec 
 tion of pieces, entitled, "Poesias de Jose Maria 
 Heredia," some of which are of distinguished 
 merit. He died in 1839, at the age of thirty- 
 five years. 
 
 NIAGARA. 
 
 Mv lyre ! give me my lyre ! my bosom feuls 
 The glow of inspiration. O, how long 
 Have I been left in darkness, since this light 
 
HEREDIA. 
 
 729 
 
 Last visited my brow ! Niagara ! 
 
 Thou with thy rushing waters dost restore 
 
 The heavenly gift that sorrow took away. 
 
 Tremendous torrent ! for an instant hush 
 The terrors of thy voice, and cast aside 
 Those wide-involving shadows, that my eyes 
 May see the fearful beauty of thy face ! 
 I am not all unworthy of thy sight ; 
 For from my very boyhood have I loved, 
 Shunning the meaner track of common minds, 
 To look on Nature in her loftier moods. 
 At the fierce rushing of the hurricane, 
 At the near bursting of the thunderbolt, 
 I have been touched witli joy ; and when the 
 
 sea, 
 Lashed by the wind, hath rocked my bark, and 
 
 showed 
 Its yawning caves beneath me, I have loved 
 Its dangers and the wrath of elements. 
 But never yet the madness of the sea 
 Hath moved me as thy grandeur moves me 
 
 now. 
 
 Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves 
 Grow broken 'midst the rocks; thy current then 
 Shoots onward like the irresistible course 
 Of Destiny. Ah, terribly they rage, — 
 The hoarse and rapid whirlpools there ! My 
 
 brain , 
 
 Grows wild, my senses wander, as I gaze 
 Upon the hurrying waters; and my sight 
 Vainly would follow, as toward the verge 
 Sweeps the wide torrent. Waves innumerable 
 Meet there and madden, — waves innumerable 
 Urge on and overtake the waves before, 
 And disappear in thunder and in foam. 
 
 They reach, they leap the barrier, — the abyss 
 Swallows insatiable the sinking waves. 
 A thousand rainbows arch them, and woods 
 Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock 
 Shatters to vapor the descending sheets. 
 A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves 
 The mighty pyramid of circling mist 
 To heaven. The solitary hunter near 
 Pauses with terror in the forest shades. 
 
 What seeks my restless eye ? Why are not 
 here, 
 About the jaws of this abyss, the palms, — 
 Ah, the delicious palms, — that on the plains 
 Of my own native Cuba spring and spread 
 Their thickly foliaged summits to the sun, 
 And, in the breathings of the ocean air, 
 Wave soft beneath the heaven's unspotted blue ? 
 
 But no, Niagara, — thy forest pines 
 Are fitter coronal for thee. The palm, 
 The effeminate myrtle, and frail rose may grow 
 In gardens, and give out their fragrance there, 
 Unmanning him who breathes it. Thine it is 
 To do a nobler office. Generous minds 
 Behold thee, and are moved, and learn to rise 
 92 
 
 Above earth's frivolous pleasures; they partake 
 Thy grandeur, at the utterance of thy name. 
 
 God of all truth ! in other lands I 've seen 
 Lying philosophers, blaspheming men, 
 Questioners of thy mysteries, that draw 
 Their fellows deep into impiety ; 
 And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face 
 In earth's majestic solitudes. Even here 
 My heart doth open all itself to thee. 
 In this immensity of loneliness, 
 I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear 
 The eternal thunder of the cataract brings 
 Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear. 
 
 Dread torrent, that with wonder and with 
 fear 
 Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks 
 Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself, — 
 Whence hast thou thy beginning? Who sup- 
 plies, 
 Age after age, thy unexhausted springs? 
 What power hath ordered, that, when all thy 
 
 weight 
 Descends into the deep, the swollen waves 
 Rise not and roll to overwhelm the earth? 
 
 The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand, 
 Covered thy face with clouds, and given his 
 
 voice 
 To thy down-rushing waters ; he bath girt 
 Thy terrible forehead with his radiant bow. 
 I see thy never-resting waters run, 
 And I bethink me how the tide of lime 
 Sweeps to eternity. So pass of man — 
 Pass, like a noonday dream — the blossoming 
 
 days, 
 And he awakes to sorrow. I, alas ! 
 Feel that my youth is withered, and my brow 
 Ploughed early with the lines of grief and care. 
 
 Never have I so deeply felt as now 
 The hopeless solitude, the abandonment, 
 The anguish of a loveless life. Alas ! 
 How can the impassioned, the unfrozen heart 
 Be happy without love? I would that one, 
 Beautiful, worthy to be loved and joined 
 In love with me, now shared my lonely walk 
 On this tremendous brink. 'T were sweet to 
 
 see 
 Her dear face touched with paleness, and become 
 More beautiful from fear, and overspread 
 With a faint smile while clinging to my side. 
 Dreams, — dreams ! I am an exile, and for me 
 There is no country and there is no love. 
 
 Hear, dread Niagara, mv latest voice ! 
 Yet a few years, and the cold earth shall close 
 Over the bones of him who sings thee now 
 Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble 
 
 verse, 
 Might be, like thee, immortal ! I, meanwhile, 
 Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest, 
 Might raise my radiant forehead in the clouds 
 To listen to the echoes of mv fame. 
 
PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE AND POETE\ 
 
 The Portuguese language is that form which 
 the Romance assumed on the Atlantic seaboard 
 of the Peninsula, and was originally one and 
 the same with the Galician dialect of Spain. 
 It is a sister dialect of the Spanish or Castilian, 
 to which it bears a striking resemblance. 
 " Daughters of the same country," says a Por- 
 tuguese writer,* "but differently educated, they 
 have distinct features, and a different genius, 
 gait, and manner ; and yet there is in the fea- 
 tures of both that family likeness (ar de fa- 
 milia), which is recognized at the first glance." 
 The Portuguese is softer and more musical than 
 the Spanish, but wants the Spanish strength 
 and majesty. It has discarded the Arabic 
 guttural, but has adopted the equally unmusical 
 nasal of the French. t Sismondi calls it un 
 Castilian d&sossi, " boned Castilian." 
 
 The history of Portuguese poetry may be di- 
 vided into three periods, corresponding with 
 those of the Spanish. I. From 1150 to 1500. 
 II. From 1500 to 1700. III. From 1700 to 
 the present time. 
 
 I. From 1150 to 1500. The first names re- 
 
 * Bosquejo da Historia da Poesia e Lingua Portugueza 
 (by Almeida Garrett), in Fonseca's Parnaso Lusitano. 
 5 vols. Paris. 32mo. 
 
 t " The Romance, out of which the present Portuguese 
 language has grown " (says Bouterwek, in the Introduction 
 to his History of Spanish and Portuguese Literature, Vol. 
 I , pp. 12-14), " was probably spoken along the coast of the 
 Atlantic long before a kingdom of Portugal was founded. 
 Though far more nearly allied to the Castilian dialect than 
 to the Catalonian, it resembles the latter in the remarkable 
 abbreviation of words, both in the grammatical structure 
 and in the pronunciation. At the same time, it is strikingly 
 distinguished from the Castilian by the total rejection of the 
 guttural, by the great abundance of its hissing sounds, and 
 by a nasal pronunciation common to no people in Europe 
 except the French and the Portuguese. In the Spanish 
 province of Galicia, only politically separated from Portu- 
 gal, this dialect, known under the name of lingoa Gallega, 
 is still as indigenous as in Portugal itself, and was. at an 
 early period, so highly esteemed, that Alfonso the Tenth, 
 king of Castile, surnamed the Wise (el Sabio), com- 
 posed verses in it. But the Galician modification of this 
 dialect of the western shores of the Peninsula has sunk, 
 like the Catalonian Romance of the opposite coast, into a 
 mere provincial idiom, in consequence of the language of 
 the Castilian court being adopted by the higher classes in 
 Galicia. Indeed, the Portuguese language, which, in its 
 present state of improvement, must no longer be con- 
 founded with the popular idiom of Galicia, would have 
 experienced great difficulty 'm obtaining a literary culti- 
 vation, had not Portugal, which, even in the twelfth cen- 
 tury, formed an independent kingdom, constantly vied in 
 arts and in arms with Castile, and during the sixty years 
 of her union with Spain, from 1530 to 1640. zealously 
 maintained her particular national character." 
 
 corded in the annals of Portuguese poetry are 
 those of Gonzalo Hermiguez, and Egaz Moniz. 
 They flourished about the middle of the twelfth 
 century, during the reign of Alfonso the First. 
 They were knights of his court, and, like all 
 poetic knights, since knighthood first began, 
 sang of love and its despairs, — "the sweet 
 pains and pleasant woes of true love." Some 
 specimens of their songs have been published 
 by Faria y Souza.* To the same period belongs 
 also the first essay in Portuguese epic poetry ; 
 the fragment of an old chronicle of the con- 
 quest of Spain by the Moors, from the hand of 
 an unknown author. 
 
 During the thirteenth century, no advance 
 was made in Portuguese poetrv, though the lan- 
 guage became more fixed and subject to rules. 
 In the last half of this centurv, King Diniz 
 (Dionysius), like his contetnporarv, Alfonso the 
 Wise, of Spain, displayed himself as a poet 
 and the t friend of poets. He likewise founded, 
 in 1290, the National University. His poems 
 are preserved in Cancioneiros, as yet unpub- 
 lished. 
 
 In the fourteenth century, the entire Portu- 
 guese Parnassus seems to have escheated to the 
 crown. Hardly a poetic name of that century 
 survives, which does not belong to the royal 
 family. Alfonso the Fourth, son of King 
 Diniz, was a poet; so was his brother, Alfonso 
 Sanchez; so was Pedro the First, the poetical 
 part of whose history is not in what he wrote, 
 but in what he did, in the romantic episode of 
 " Ignez de Castro." 
 
 The Portuguese poetry of the fifteenth cen- 
 tury, like the Spanish, is preserved, for the 
 most part, in the Song-books, or Cancioneiros 
 GeracsA That of Garcia de Resende is said 
 to contain the names of more authors than the 
 Spanish collection, that is, more than one hun- 
 dred and thirty-six. Among these, the most 
 distinguished are Bernardim Ribeyro, and Chris- 
 tovao Falcao. Ribeyro is called the Portuguese 
 Ennius; and his fame rests chiefly upon his 
 eclogues, and his pastoral romance in prose, 
 " Menina e Moga " (The Innocent Maiden), the 
 prototype of Montemayor's " Diana." Falcao 
 
 * Europa Portuiuesa. Por Manuel de Faria t Souza 
 3 vols Lisboa. 1673-80. fol. 
 
 t The Cancioneiro usually spoken of is that of Garcia 
 de Resende. published in 1516. Another was made in 1-577, 
 by Father Pedro Ribeyro, but never printed. One of the 
 series of the " Bibliothek des Literarischen Vereins," in 
 Stuttgart, now in press, is entitled " Der Portuguesische 
 Cancioneiro, herausgegeben von Archivrath Kausler. The 
 full title is not given. 
 
PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 731 
 
 was a knight of the order of Christ, an admiral, 
 and a sjovernor' of Madeira, as well as a poet. 
 His principal work is the eclogue of " Crisfal," 
 in which, as in the writings of Ribeyro, the 
 Tagus, the Mondego, and the rocks and groves 
 of Cintra form the scenery, and the heroine 
 is the poet's mistress. At the conclusion of 
 this pastoral, a wood nymph, who has over- 
 heard the lover's complaints, " inscribes them 
 on a poplar, in order, as it is said, that they 
 may grow with the tree to a height beyond the 
 reach of vulgar ideas."* 
 
 To this century belong, doubtless, many of 
 the Portuguese ballads, of which no collec- 
 tion has yet been published. - This was the 
 heroic age of Portugal, when " a tender as 
 well as heroic spirit, a fiery activity and a soft 
 enthusiasm, war and love, poetry and glory, 
 filled the whole nation ; which was carried, by 
 its courage and spirit of chivalrous enterprise, 
 far over the ocean to Africa and India. This 
 separation from home, and the dangers encoun- 
 tered on the ocean, in distant climes, and un- 
 known regions, gave their songs a- tone of mel- 
 ancholy and complaining love, which strangely 
 contrasts with their enthusiasm for action, their 
 heroic fire, and even cruelty." t 
 
 II. From 1500 to 1700.' This is the most 
 illustrious period of Portuguese literature. At 
 its commencement, the classic or Italian taste 
 was introduced by Saa de Miranda, and Anto- 
 nio Ferreira, as it was in Spain by Boscan and 
 Garcilaso. Saa de Miranda is called the Portu- 
 guese Theocritus, as indicating bis supremacy 
 in bucolic poetry. Living for the most part in 
 the seclusion of the country, he made his song 
 an image of his life ; for he divided his hours 
 between domestic ease, hunting the wolf through 
 the forests of Entre Douro e Minho, and, as 
 he himself expresses it, " culling flowers with 
 the Muses, the Loves, and the Graces." From 
 his solitude he sang to his countrymen the charms 
 of a simple life, the dangers of foreign luxuries, 
 and the enervating effects of " the perfumes of 
 Indian spices." Antonio Ferreira was surnamed 
 the Portuguese Horace. He is distinguished 
 for the beauty of his odes, which have become 
 the models for the poets of his nation, as those 
 of Herrera and Luis de Leon are for those of 
 Spain. To these distinguished names may be 
 added a third, of equal, if not greater, distinc- 
 tion, that of Gil Vicente, the Portuguese Plau- 
 tus. Had he been born later, or under more 
 auspicious dramatic influences, he might have 
 stood beside the great Lope de Vega ; as it is, 
 his fame is bv no means inconsiderable, and 
 Erasmus is said to have studied Portuguese 
 for the purpose of reading his comedies. He 
 persevered to the last in adhering to the old 
 national taste, in opposition to the new school 
 of Saa de Miranda and Ferreira. 
 
 But the greatest poet of the sixteenth cen- 
 
 * Ross's BotTTERWEK. Vol. II., p. 42. 
 t Encyclopaedia Americana, Art. Portuguese Language 
 and Literature. 
 
 tury, as of all others in Portuguese poetry, is 
 
 he who sang of 
 
 " the renowned men, 
 Who, from the western Lusilanian shore, 
 Sailing through seas man never sailed before, 
 Passed beyond Taprobane," — 
 
 Luis de Camoens, author of the national epic, 
 " Os Lusiadas," who lived in poverty and 
 wretchedness, died in the Lisbon hospital, and, 
 after death, was surnamed the Great, — a title 
 never given before, save to popes and emperors. 
 The life of no poet is so full of vicissitude and 
 romantic adventure as that of Camoens. In 
 youth, he was banished from Lisbon on account 
 of a love affair with Catharina de Altavda, a 
 dama do pa$o, or lady of honor at court ; 
 he served against the Moors as a volunteer on 
 board the fleet in the Mediterranean, and lost 
 his right eye by a gun-shot wound in a battle 
 off Ceuta ; he returned to Lisbon, proud and 
 poor, but found no favor at court, and no means 
 of a livelihood in the city ; he abandoned his 
 native land for India, indignantly exclaiming 
 with Scipio, "Ingrata patria,non possidebis ossa 
 mea ! " three ships of the squadron were lost 
 in a storm, he reached Goa safely in the fourth ; 
 he fought under the king of Cochin against 
 the king of Pimenta ; he fought against the 
 Arabian corsairs in the Red Sea; he was ban- 
 ished from Goa to the island of Macao, where 
 he became administrator of the effects of de- 
 ceased persons, and where he wrote the great- 
 er part of the " Lusiad " ; he was shipwrecked 
 on the coast of Camboya, saving only his life and 
 his poem, the manuscript of which he brought 
 ashore saturated with sea-water ; he was accus- 
 ed of malversation in office, and thrown into 
 prison at Goa ; after an absence of sixteen 
 years, he returned in abject poverty to Lisbon, 
 then ravaged by the plague ; he lived a few 
 years on a wretched pension granted him by 
 King Sebastian when the "Lusiad" was pub- 
 lished, and on the alms which a slave he had 
 brought with him from India collected at night 
 in the streets of Lisbon ; and finally died in 
 the hospital, exclaiming, "Who could believe 
 that on so small a stage as that of one poor bed 
 Fortune would choose to represent so great a 
 tragedy?" Thus was completed the Iliad ot 
 his woes. Fifteen years afterward, a splendid 
 monument was erected to his memory ; so that, 
 as has been said of another, " he asked for 
 bread, and they gave him a stone." 
 
 The other poets of this century are eclipsed 
 and rendered almost invisible by the superior 
 splendor of Camoens. Those most worthy o. 
 mention among them are Pedro de Andrade 
 Caminha, and Diogo Bernardes, both admirers 
 and disciples of Ferreira and the classic school; 
 and Francisco Rodriguez Lobo, whose " Corte 
 na Aldea, e Noites de Inverno " (The Court in 
 the Country, and Winter Nights), with its state- 
 ly phrases and Ciceronian fulness of periods, is 
 one of the earliest specimens of elegant and 
 cultivated prose in Portuguese literature, and 
 
732 
 
 PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE AND POETRY 
 
 •n whose three pastoral romances, " Prirnave- 
 ra ' (Spring), " O Pastor Peregrino " (The 
 Wandering Shepherd), and "O Desenganado " 
 (The Disenchanted), the whole bucolic passion 
 of the nation seems to have reached its per- 
 fect blossom and most luxuriant expansion, till, 
 overpowered by excess, in dreamy mazes lost, 
 the reader begins to " envy no man's nightin- 
 gale or spring," and exclaims, with George 
 Herbert, — 
 
 " Is it not verse, except enchanted groves 
 
 And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines? 
 Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves? 
 Must all be veiled, while he that reads divines, 
 Catching the sense at two removes ? " 
 
 To the sixteenth century belongs the origin of 
 the Portuguese drama, or, perhaps, more prop- 
 erly speaking, its entire history. It begins with 
 Saa de Miranda; for, if any dramatic works were 
 produced before his day, they are now lost and 
 forgotten. He is the author of two comedies in 
 prose, which are imitations of Plautus and Te- 
 rence, and in their general character not unlike 
 the Italian imitations of these classic models, of 
 the same age, the " Calandria " of Cardinal 
 Bibbiena, and Ariosto's " Cassaria." Ferreira 
 also wrote plays; and notwithstanding he was 
 called the Portuguese Horace for the excellence 
 of his odes, his fame at the present day rests 
 chief!)' upon his tragedy of " Ignez de Castro." 
 The subject of this tragedy is drawn from Portu- 
 guese history, being the well known tale of Dom 
 Pedro's wife. In style and management it is 
 an imitation of the Greek tragedy, with chorus- 
 es of Coimbrian women. 
 
 But the greatest of the old playwrights, and, 
 in truth, the greatest dramatic genius that Por- 
 tugal has produced, is Gil Vicente, who, as has 
 already been remarked, is surnamed the Portu- 
 guese Plautus. He belongs to the national or 
 romantic, not to the classic school ; and has 
 left behind him thirty-four pieces in his native 
 tongue, and several others in Spatiish. They 
 are divided into Christmas plays, or autos sacra- 
 rnentales, comedies, tragi-comedies, and farces. 
 Of these, the autos are the most important, and 
 display most prominently the author's charac- 
 teristic beauties and defects. The following 
 analysis of some of his pieces is from Bouter- 
 wek's excellent "History of Portuguese Litera- 
 ture " (pp. 92 — 99), and shows with what gaudy 
 colors, and on how large a canvass, this ancient 
 scene-painter illustrated his art. 
 
 " The invention and the execution of Gil 
 Vicente's autos present an equal degree of 
 rudeness The least artificial are also those 
 in which the most decided traits of national 
 character appear. The shepherds and shep- 
 herdesses who are introduced into these autos 
 are Portuguese and Spanish both in their names 
 and manners. Their simple phrases and turns 
 of language are similar to those employed by 
 the characters in Saa de Miranda's eclogues, 
 except that their discourse is more negligent, 
 and occasionally n ore coarse. In combining 
 
 the appearance of angels, the Devil, the Holy 
 Virgin, and allegorical character*, with popular 
 scenes, an effect perfectly consistent with the 
 ideas of the audience was produced ; for, ac- 
 cording to the Catholic doctrine, the miracles 
 .with which Christianity commenced are con- 
 tinued without intermission ; through the mys- 
 teries of faith, the connection between the 
 terrestrial, celestial, and infernal worlds is de- 
 clared ; and by allegory, that connection is ren- 
 dered perceptible. The critic would therefore 
 judge very unfairly, were he to regard as proofs 
 of bad taste the consequences which a poet 
 naturally entails on himself in writing according 
 to the spirit of his religion. Making allow- 
 ance, however, for that spirit, the rudeness of 
 Gil Vicente's autos must be acknowledged 
 even by him, who, measuring them by the rule 
 of critical judgment, is perfectly disposed to 
 view every system of religion only on its poetic 
 side. For instance, in one of the simplest of 
 these autos, some shepherds, who discourse in 
 Spanish, enter a chapel, which is decorated 
 with all the apparatus necessary for the cele- 
 bration of the festival of Christmas. The 
 shepherds cannot sufficiently express their rus- 
 tic admiration of the pomp exhibited in the 
 chapel. Faith (La Fe) enters as an allegorical 
 character. She speaks Portuguese, and, after 
 announcing herself to the shepherds as True 
 Faith, she explains to them the nature of faith, 
 and enters into an historical relation of the 
 mysteries of the incarnation. This is the whole 
 subject of the piece. Another auto, in which 
 the poet's fancy has taken a wider range, pre- 
 sents scenes of a more varied nature. Mercury 
 enters as an allegorical character, and as the 
 representative of the planet which bears his 
 name. He explains the theory of the plane- 
 tary system and the zodiac, and cites astro- 
 nomical facts from Regiomontanus, in a long 
 series of stanzas in the old national style. A 
 seraph then appears, who is sent down from 
 heaven by God in compliance with the prayers 
 of Time. The seraph, in the quality of a 
 herald, proclaims a large yearly fair in honor 
 of the Holy Virgin, and invites customers to it. 
 A devil next makes his appearance with a 
 little stall which he carries before him. He 
 gets into a dispute with Time and the seraph, 
 and asserts that among men such as they are 
 he shall be sure to find purchasers for his wares. 
 He therefore leaves to every customer his free 
 choice. Mercury then summons Eternal Rome 
 as the representative of the church. She ap- 
 pears, and offers for sale peace of mind, as the 
 most precious of her merchandise. The devil 
 remonstrates, and Rome retires. Two Por- 
 tuguese peasants now appear in the market. 
 One is very anxious to sell his wife, and ob- 
 serves, that, if he cannot sell her, he will give 
 her away for nothing, as she is a wicked spend- 
 thrift. Amidst this kind of conversation, a 
 party of peasant women enter, one of whom, 
 with considerable comic warmth, vents bitter 
 
PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 733 
 
 complaints against her husband. The man who 
 has already been inveighing against his wife 
 immediately recognizes her, and says, ' That is 
 my slippery helpmate.' During this succession 
 of comic scenes, the action does not advance. 
 The devil at last opens his little stall, and dis- 
 plays his stock of goods to the female peas- 
 ants ; but one of them, who is the most pious 
 of the party, seems to suspect that all is not 
 quite right with regard to the merchandise, 
 and she exclaims, ' Jesus ! Jesus ! True God 
 and man!' The devil immediately takes to 
 flight, and does not reappear; but the seraph 
 again comes forward and mingles with the rus- 
 tic groups. The throng continues to increase; 
 other countrywomen, with baskets on their 
 heads, arrive ; and the market is stored with 
 vegetables, poultry, and other articles of rural 
 produce. The seraph offers virtues for sale ; 
 but they find no purchasers. The peasant girls 
 observe, that in' their village money is more 
 sought after than virtue, when a young man 
 wants a wife. One of the party, however, 
 says, that she wished to come to the market, 
 because it happened to fall on the festival of 
 the Mother of God ; and because the Virgin 
 does not sell her gifts of grace (as gragas), but 
 she distributes them gratis (de graqa). This ob- 
 servation crowns the theological morality of the 
 piece, which terminates with a hymn of praise, in 
 the popular style, in honor of the Holy Virgin. 
 
 " These specimens will afford an adequate 
 idea of the spirit and style of Gil Vicente's 
 autos. His largest work of this class may, 
 however, be referred to, in proof of the little 
 attention he bestowed on dramatic plan in the 
 composition of his spiritual comedies. It pur- 
 ports to be 'A Summary of the History of 
 God.' After the prologue, which is spoken by 
 an angel, Sir Lucifer (Senhor Lucifer) enters, 
 attended by a numerous retinue of devils. 
 Belial is president of his court of justice (meirin- 
 ho de corte), and Satan gentleman of his privy 
 council (fidalgo do conselho). After this privy 
 councillor has performed his part in the temp- 
 tation of Adam and Eve in Paradise, the whole 
 details of which are represented on the stage, 
 Lucifer confers on him the dignities of duke 
 and captain of the kingdoms of the world. 
 Next succeeds a series of scenes which sum- 
 marily represent the history of the Christian 
 redemption. The World, accompanied by 
 Time and angels, enters as a king. The rep- 
 resentation of the fall of man is followed by 
 the history of Abel, by whom a beautiful and 
 simple hymn is sung. The next scenes exhibit 
 the histories of Abraham, Job, and David ; and 
 thus the auto proceeds through the incidents of 
 the Old and New Testaments, until the ascen- 
 sion of Christ, which is represented on the stage 
 amidst an accompaniment of drums and trum- 
 pets. 
 
 " On comparing the autos of Gil Vicente with 
 those of Calderon, the difference appears not 
 much less considerable than that which exists be- 
 
 tween the works of Hans Sachs and Shakspeare. 
 But the graceful simplicity with which many of 
 the scenes of these spiritual dramas are executed 
 raises the Portuguese poet infinitely above the 
 poetic shoemaker of Nuremberg." 
 
 Camoens, also, was a dramatic writer, and has 
 left behind him three comedies, which were 
 probably written in his youth, and rather show 
 the versatility of his talent than increase his 
 fame. In the latter half of the sixteenth cen- 
 tury, the Portuguese stage, like the Portuguese 
 monarchy, was subdued by the Spanish, and 
 Lope de Vega took possession of the theatre, as 
 Philip did of the throne. There was no longer 
 a national court nor a national drama. 
 
 In the seventeenth century, the national taste 
 became more and more corrupted, and the in- 
 fluences of the Spanish language and literature 
 were more extensive and obvious. Few names 
 are recorded, and these few, like words written 
 with phosphorus, burn with a pale light, and 
 are visible only from the surrounding darkness. 
 This century has been called The Age of Son- 
 nets. Manoel de Faria e Souza, the commen- 
 tator of the " Lusiad," opened the poetic can- 
 nonade with six hundred, or, as he expresses it, 
 "Six Centuries of Sonnets." He was followed 
 by Barbosa Bacellar, noted for his Saudades, 
 or "Complaints of a Lovelorn Heart, vented in 
 Solitude " ; then came Torrezao Coelho, Ribeiro 
 de Macedo, Correa de la Cerda, Violante do Ceo, 
 Jeronymo Bahia, and Alvares da Cunha, all 
 infected with Italian Marinism and the Span- 
 ish Gongorism. Bahia wrote an idyl, of fifty 
 octavo pages, on a chandelier which the duchess 
 of Savoy presented to the queen of Portugal ; 
 and Da Cunha says, in one of his epistles, 
 "Though the pen touch softly the guitar of the 
 paper, rude thunder resounds from that guitar." 
 One poet, however, Freire de Andrada, arose 
 in determined opposition to this bad taste, and 
 opposed it with ineffectual sallies of wit, and a 
 comic power, which, had it been employed upon 
 themes of more general interest, would have 
 given him a more prominent station in the liter- 
 ature of his country. The writings of the most 
 celebrated of these poets may be found in a col- 
 lection entitled "A Fenix Renascida," edited 
 by Matthias Pereira da Sylva.* 
 
 III. From 1200 to the present time. At 
 length, the long caravan of sonneteers, crossing 
 the desert of the seventeenth century, disap- 
 pears, and the tinkling of their little rhymes is 
 heard no more; but the barren waste is around 
 us still, and at the commencement of the eight- 
 eenth century, like the Sphinx half buried in 
 the sand, lies the " Henriqueida " of Ericeyra, 
 in all its epic ponderosity. Francisco Xavier 
 de Menezes, Conde da Ericeyra, was president 
 of the Spanish Academy, and a man of distinc- 
 tion and letters. He was mainly instrumental 
 in introducing into Portuguese literature the 
 
 * A Fenix Renascida, ou Obras Poedcas do3 melhores en- 
 genhos Portugueses. Segunda Edi^ao. 3 vols. Lisboa: 1746 
 8vo. 
 
 3j 
 
"34 
 
 PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE AND POETRY. 
 
 French taste, which prevailed extensively, 
 though not universally, during the first part of 
 this period. His principal work is the " Hen- 
 riqueida," an epic poem, of which Henry of 
 Burgundy, the founder of the Portuguese mon- 
 archy, is the hero. "In his theoretical intro- 
 duction," says Bouterwek, " Ericeyra declares, 
 that he has, in a certain measure, endeavoured 
 to imitate all epic poets, and to imbibe a portion 
 of the manner of each ; but had he withheld 
 this acknowledgment, no reader acquainted with 
 other epic poems could have failed to recog- 
 nize in the ' Henriqueida' the styles of Homer, 
 Virgil, Ariosto, Tasso, and, progressively, of 
 Lucan, Silius Italicus, and Statius, but without 
 ever discerning the animating spirit of genuine 
 poetry. The tedious coldness which pervades 
 the whole poem destroys the effect of those 
 incidental beauties of style which it must be 
 allowed to possess."* Five counts of Ericeyra, 
 in succession, were distinguished as men of 
 letters; till at length a degenerate scion of the 
 race scattered the magnificent library that five 
 generations had accumulated, and even bartered 
 a portion of its treasures for "a great Spanish 
 ass ! " t 
 
 This was the iron age of Portuguese song. 
 But in the latter half of the eighteenth century, 
 sublime and more harmonious strains were 
 heard, welcome as music at night, in the odes 
 of Pedro Antonio Correa Gar§ao. He was the 
 founder of the Arcadian Society, and the first 
 to renovate the spirit of poetry in his benighted 
 country; and he perished miserably in a dun- 
 geon. He was followed by Antonio Diniz da 
 Cruz, also an Arcadian, who wrote a "Century 
 of Sonnets," and a heroi-comic poem, entitled 
 " O Hysope," the Hyssop, or Holy-water 
 Sprinkler. Then came Domingos dos Pteis 
 Quita, the barber's apprentice, and author of 
 eclogues, idyls, odes, and a new tragedy of 
 " Ignez de Castro." Then Claudio Manoel 
 da Costa, the earliest of the Brazilian poets, 
 who, first as a student under the cork-trees of 
 Coimbra, and afterwards among the gold and 
 diamond mines of his native country, imitated 
 the songs of Petrarch and Metastasio, and sang 
 so melodiously, that " the reader cannot fail 
 sometimes to fancy he recognizes the sim- 
 ple tone of the old Portuguese lyric poetry, 
 reflected by an Italian echo." Then the reck- 
 less and dissolute improvvisatore, Barbosa du 
 Bocage, the gay Lothario of Setubal, who, 
 like Byron, died old at thirty-nine; and finally, 
 Francisco Manoel do Nascimento, who probably 
 did more for Portuguese poetry than any man 
 since Camoens, and who, from the bosom of 
 wealth and literary ease, was driven into exile 
 by the Inquisition, and died in Paris, a poor old 
 man, of more than eighty years. Surely, if 
 ever a country dishonored itself by stoning its 
 prophets, that country is Portugal. 
 
 * History of Portuguese Literature, p. 342. 
 t Quarterly Review, Vol. I., p. 255. 
 
 The state of Portuguese literature since the 
 commencement of the present century is far 
 from brilliant. Among the most distinguished 
 of the living poets are Curvo Semedo, J. A. de 
 Macedo, Evangelista Moraes Sarmento, the 
 Chevalier de Almeida Garrett, Silva Mozinho 
 de Albuquerque, Pina Leitao, a Brazilian, and 
 Medina e Vasconcellos, a native of Madeira 
 To these may be added the names of four female 
 writers who have distinguished themselves in 
 poetry, Dona Marianna Maldonado, Dona Fran- 
 cisca da Costa, Dona Leonor de Almeida, and the 
 Viscondessa de Balsemao, an ancient lady, whom 
 we lose sight of between the ages of seventy 
 and eighty, still warbling songs of love. Many 
 of these writers have a mournful destiny, and 
 are of that class which Dante thought most of 
 all men to be pitied, "who, being in exile and 
 affliction, behold their native land in dreams 
 only." 
 
 Speaking of the Portuguese poetry, and that 
 of the other Romance languages, Sismondi grace- 
 fully remarks: "Its writers do not attempt to 
 engage our attention with ideas, but with ima- 
 ges richly colored, which incessantly pass before 
 our view. Neither do they ever name any ob- 
 ject that they do not paint to the eye. The 
 whole creation seems to grow brighter around 
 us, and the world always appears to us through 
 the medium of this poetry as when we gaze on 
 it near the beautiful waterfalls of Switzerland, 
 while the sun is upon their waves. The land- 
 scape suddenly brightens under the bow of 
 heaven, and all the objects of nature are tinged 
 with its colors. It is quite impossible for any 
 translation to convey a feeling of this pleasure. 
 The romantic poet seizes the most bold and 
 lofty image, and is little solicitous to convey its 
 full meaning, provided it glows brightly in his 
 verse. In order to translate it into another lan- 
 guage, it would first of all be requisite to soften 
 it down, that it might not stand forward out of 
 all proportion with the other figures; to com- 
 bine it with what precedes and follows, that it 
 might neither strike the reader unexpectedly, 
 nor throw the least obscurity over the style." 
 
 For a farther account of Portuguese poetry, 
 the reader is referred to the following works : — 
 "History of Spanish and Portuguese Litera- 
 ture," by Frederick Bouterwek; translated by 
 Thomasina Ross, 2 vols., London, 1823, 8vo. ; 
 — "Historical View of the Literature of the 
 South of Europe," by J. C. L. Simonde de Sis- 
 mondi ; translated by Thomas Roscoe, 4 vols., 
 London, 1823, 8vo. ; republished in New York, 
 1827, 2 vols., 8vo. ; — " Bosquejo da Historia 
 da Poesia e Lingua Portugueza," by Almeida 
 Garrett, in Fonseca's " Parnaso Lusitano," 5 
 vols., Paris, 1826, 32mo. ; — Articles in the 
 " Quarterly Review," Vol I., p. 235, and the 
 " Foreign Quarterly Review," Vol. X., p. 437. 
 See, also, " Bibliotheca Lusitana Historica, Cri- 
 tica, e Cronologica," by Diogo Barbosa Macha- 
 do, 4 vols., Lisboa, 1741-59, folio. 
 
FIRST PERIOD. — CENTURIES XII. -XV. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN OLD HISTORIC POEM. 
 
 " In his ' Europa Portuguesa,' " says Sismon- 
 di, "Manuel de Faria y Sousa presents us with 
 fragments of an historical poem, in verses of arte 
 mayor, and which he asserts had been discover- 
 ed, in the beginning of the twelfth century, in 
 the castle of Lousam, when it was taken from 
 the Moors. The manuscript containing them 
 appeared, even then, he observes, to have been 
 defaced by time ; from which he would infer 
 that the poem may be attributed to the period of 
 the conquest of the Arabs. But the fact itself 
 seems to rest on very doubtful authority, and the 
 verses do not appear, either in their construction, 
 in their language, or even in their ideas, to lay 
 claim to so high an antiquity. This earliest mon- 
 ument of the Romance language is, however, 
 sufficiently curious to merit attention, and three 
 stanzas are therefore here subjoined." 
 
 Julian and Horpas, with the adulterous blood 
 
 Of Agar, fiercest spoilers of the land, 
 These changes wrought. They called fierce 
 Islam's brood 
 'Neath the Miramolin's sway; a numerous 
 band 
 Of shameless priests and nobles. Musa stood, 
 And Zariph there, upon the Iberian strand, 
 Hailed by the false count, who betrayed the 
 
 power 
 Of Boetica, and yielded shrine and tower. 
 
 He led them safely to that rocky pile, 
 
 Gibraltar's strength. Though stored with rich 
 resource 
 
 Of full supplies, though men and arms the while 
 Bristled its walls, its keys without remorse 
 
 Or strife he gave, a prey, by shameless guile, 
 To that vile, unbelieving herd, the curse 
 
 Of Christian lands, who, rifling all its pride, 
 
 To slavery doomed the fair; the valiant died. 
 
 And died those martyrs to the truth, who clung 
 To their dear faith, 'midst every threatening 
 ill; 
 Nor pity for the aged or the young 
 
 Stayed their fierce swords, till they had drunk 
 their fill ; 
 No sex found mercy, though, unarmed, they 
 hung 
 Round their assassins' knees, rejoiced to kill ; 
 And Moors, within the temples of the Lord, 
 Worsnipped their prophet false with rites ab- 
 horred. 
 
 BERNARDIM RIBEYRO 
 
 Bernardim Ribeyro is one of the best poets 
 of Portugal. He flourished in the reign of Em- 
 manuel, between 1495 and 1521. He was born 
 at Torrao, in the province of Alemtejo, and after 
 having studied the law entered the service of 
 the king. A passion for one of the ladies of 
 the court, said by some to have been Dona 
 Beatrix, the daughter of the king, absorbed him 
 to such a degree, that he often retired into the 
 solitude of the fields and the woods, or wandered 
 along the banks of some stream, mourning all 
 night long his woes But, as Bouterwek says, 
 it is a comfort to know "that he was married, 
 and was affectionately attached to his consort"; 
 and yet some expressions in one of his cantigas 
 seem to prove that " ancient recollections still 
 agitated him during this union." 
 
 Bernardim was the first Portuguese writer 
 who gained a high reputation as a pastoral poet. 
 His most celebrated pieces are five eclogues, the 
 scenes of which are laid on the banks of the 
 Tagus and the Mondego. They are written, for 
 the most part, in redondilhas. The poet gives 
 utterance in them to the monotonous accents o 
 despairing love ; but the subject is rendered less 
 fatiguing by the graces of his poetry. Ribeyro 
 was the author of another work, entitled "Me- 
 nina e Moca," which is remarkable for being 
 the earliest Portuguese prose work which aims 
 at the expression of impassioned sentiment in an 
 elevated style. Although fragmentary and ob- 
 scure, it was the model of the pastoral romances 
 with which the literature of Spain afterwards 
 abounded. 
 
 FROM THE THIRD ECLOGUE. 
 
 O wretched lover ! whither flee? 
 
 What refuge from the ills I bear? 
 None to console me, or to free, 
 
 And none with whom my griefs to share! 
 Sad, to the wild waves of the sea 
 
 I tell the tale of my despair 
 In broken accents, passion-fraught, 
 
 As wandering by some rocky steep, 
 
 I teach the echoes how to weep 
 In dying strains, strains dying Love hath taught. 
 
 There is not one of all I loved 
 
 But failed me in my suffering hour, 
 
 And saw my silent tears unmoved. 
 
 Soon may these throbbing griefs o'erpower 
 
 Both life and love, so Heaven approved! 
 For she hath bade me hope no more. 
 
736 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 I would not wish her such a doom 
 
 No ! though she break this bruised heart, 
 I could not wish her so to part 
 
 From all she loved, to seek, like me, the tomb. 
 
 How long these wretched days appear, 
 Consumed in vain and weak desires, 
 
 Imagined joys that end in fear, 
 
 And baffled hopes and wild Love's fires ! 
 
 At last, then, let me cease to bear 
 The lot my sorrowing spirit tires! 
 
 For length of days fresh sorrow brings: 
 I meet the coming hours with grief, — 
 Hours that can bring me no relief, 
 
 But deeper anguish on their silent wings. 
 
 FRANCISCO DE PORTUGAL, CONDE 
 DO VIMIOSO. 
 
 This nobleman held a high rank at the court 
 of Manoel, being connected with the royal 
 family. He was born in the last half of the 
 fifteenth century, at Evora, was elevated to the 
 dignity of Count in 1515, and died in 1549. 
 His " Obras Poeticas " were published in the 
 Cancioneiro of 1516. 
 
 LOVE AND DESIRE. 
 
 O Love ! sweet Love ! I love you so, 
 That my desire dares not aspire 
 Even to Desire. 
 
 For if I dared desire, sweet Hope 
 Would follow in its train; and how 
 
 Could I with thy displeasure cope, 
 Who wilt no glance of Hope allow.' 
 And so to Death I turn me now, 
 For my desire dare not aspire 
 Even to Desire. 
 
 FERNANDO DE ALMEYDA. 
 
 This poet was born at Alberca, in 1459. His 
 poetical pieces are mostly of a religious charac 
 ter. 
 
 THE TIMBREL. 
 
 When I strike thee, O my timbrel, 
 Think not that I think of thee ! 
 
 Couldst thou know, ungentle timbrel, 
 
 Couldst thou know my misery, 
 All thy notes of mirth and gladness 
 
 Soon transformed to gloom would be, — 
 Couldst thou know that when I strike thee 
 
 'T is in sorrow's agony, 
 To escape the recollection 
 
 Of the woes that visit me. 
 
 Sirs ! my heart is now the mansion 
 
 Of a clamorous misery : 
 Timbrel! dost thou hear my sadness? — 
 
 Think not that I think of thee ! 
 
 SECOND PERIOD.-CENTURIES XVI., XVII. 
 
 GIL VICENTE. 
 
 This famous poet, the founder of the theatre 
 in Spain and Portugal, was born at Barcellos, 
 about the year 1480. He studied the law, but 
 abandoned it for dramatic poetry, in which he 
 acquired such distinction that he has been called 
 the Portuguese Plautus. His pieces were rep- 
 resented before the court of King Emmanuel, 
 and afterwards of Joao III., and one was printed 
 in 1504. As a dramatist, Gil Vicente stood 
 alone in that age ; for he preceded all the great 
 dramatic poets of England, France, and Spain. 
 Erasmus is said to have studied Portuguese that 
 he might read his works in the original. Vicente 
 died at Evora, in 1557. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 If thou art sleeping, maiden, 
 
 Awake, and open thy door . 
 'T is the break of day, and we must away, 
 
 O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. 
 
 Wait not to find thy slippers, 
 
 But come with thy naked feet : 
 We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, 
 
 And waters wide and fleet. 
 
 HOW FAIR THE MAIDEN! 
 
 How fair the maiden ! what can be 
 So fair, so beautiful, as she ? 
 
 Ask the mariner who sails 
 
 Over the joyous sea, 
 If wave, or star, or friendly gales, 
 
 Are half so fair as she. 
 
 Ask the knight on his prancing steed 
 
 Returning from victory, 
 If weapon, or war, or arrow s speed, 
 
 Is half so fair as she. 
 
 Ask the shepherd who leads his flocks 
 
 Along he flowery lea, 
 If the vallty 's lap, or the sun-crowned rocks 
 
 Are half so fair as she. 
 
GIL VICENTE. — SAA DE MIRANDA. 
 
 737 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 The rose looks out in the valley, 
 
 And thither will I go, — 
 To the rosy vale, where the nightingale 
 
 Sings his song of woe. 
 
 The virgin is on the river-side, 
 Culling the lemons pale : 
 
 Thither, — yes! thither will I go, 
 To the rosy vale, where the nightingale 
 
 Sings his song of woe. 
 
 The fairest fruit her hand hath culled, 
 'T is for her lover all : 
 
 Thither, — yes ! thither will I go, 
 To the rosy vale, where the nightingale 
 
 Sings his song of woe. 
 
 In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain, 
 She has placed the lemons pale : 
 
 Thither, — yes ! thither will I go, 
 To the rosy vale, where the nightingale 
 
 Sings his song of woe. 
 
 FRANCISCO DE SAA DE MIRANDA. 
 
 This poet, one of the first that distinguished 
 themselves at the court of John the Third, was 
 born at Coimbra, in 1495. He studied the law 
 at the University in that city, in compliance 
 with the wishes of his father, though his own 
 taste inclined him strongly to poetry. After 
 his father's death, he left the law, and travelled, 
 visiting the principal cities of Spain and Italy. 
 On his return, he was well received by the 
 king, and attached himself for a time to the 
 court; but having given ofFence to a powerful 
 court lady, by a passage in one of his poems, he 
 soon retired, dissatisfied and disappointed, to his 
 estate of Tapada, near Ponte de Lima, where he 
 passed the rest of his life. He married Dona 
 Briolanja de Azevedo, a lady who had neither 
 youth nor beauty, but whose amiable qualities 
 attached him so strongly to her that he never 
 recovered from the shock occasioned by her 
 death. After this event, he never trimmed his 
 beard, nor pared his nails, nor answered a letter, 
 nor left his house, except to go to church. He 
 survived her three years, in a state of the deep- 
 est melancholy, and died in the year 1558, at 
 the age of sixty-three. 
 
 Saa de Miranda, after the custom of the liter- 
 ary men of his time, wrote both in Castilian 
 and Portuguese, and some of his best eclogues 
 are in the former language, two of them only 
 being in his native tongue. He is remarkable 
 for being the first who introduced poetical epis- 
 tles to the Portuguese. "Saa de Miranda," says 
 Garrett, in his "Historia da Lingua e da Poesia 
 Portugueza," prefixed to the " Parnaso Lusita- 
 no," — " the true father of our poetry, one of 
 the greatest men of his age, was the poet of 
 93 
 
 reason and of virtue; he philosophized with the 
 Muses, and poetized with philosophy. His 
 great knowledge, his experience, his affable 
 manners, and even the nobility of his birth, 
 gave him an undisputed superiority over all the 
 writers of that time, by whom he was listened 
 to, consulted, and imitated. Saa de Miranda 
 exercised over all the poets of that epoch the 
 same species of power which Boileau succeeded 
 in acquiring in France." 
 
 SONNETS. 
 I know not, lady, by\vhat nameless charm 
 Those looks, that voice, that smile, have each the 
 
 power 
 Of kindling loftier thoughts, and feelings more 
 Resolved and high. Even in your silence, warm, 
 Soft accents seem my sorrows to disarm ; 
 And when with tears your absence I deplore, 
 Where'er I turn, your influence, as before, 
 Pursues me, in your voice, your eye, your form 
 Whence are those mild and mournful sounds I 
 
 hear, 
 Through every land, and on the pathless sea? 
 Is it some spirit of air or fire, from thee, 
 Subject to laws I move by and revere ; 
 Which, lighted by thy glance, can ne'er de- 
 cay ? — 
 But what I know not, why attempt to say ? 
 
 As now the sun glows broader in the west, 
 Birds cease to sing, and cooler breezes blow, 
 And from yon rocky heights hoarse waters flow, 
 Whose music wild chases the thoughts of rest; 
 With mournful fancies and deep cares oppressed, 
 I gaze upon this fleeting worldly show, 
 Whose vain and empty pomps like shadows go, 
 Or swift as light sails o'er the ocean's breast. 
 Day after day, hope after hope, expires ! 
 Here once I wandered, 'mid these shades and 
 
 flowers, 
 Along these winding banks and greenwood 
 
 bowers, 
 Filled with the wild-bird's song, that never tires : 
 Now all seems mute, — all fled ! But these shall 
 
 live, 
 And bloom again : alone unchanged, I grieve. 
 
 The sun is high, — the birds oppressed with heat 
 
 Fly to the shade, until refreshing airs 
 
 Lure them again to leave their cool retreat. 
 
 The falls of water but of wearying cares 
 
 To me the memory give. Things changeful all 
 
 And vain ! what heart in you its trust may 
 
 place ? 
 While day succeeds to day with rapid pace, 
 Far more uncertain we, than whether squall 
 Or favoring breeze the ships betide. I see 
 About me shady groves with flowerets decked, 
 Waters and fountains, fields with verdure gay, 
 The birds are singing of their loves the lay. 
 Now, like myself, is all grown dry and checked 
 Yet all shall change again, save only me ! 
 3j* 
 
738 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 That spirit pure, which from this world of woe 
 Contented journeyed, in exalted spheres 
 Justly rewarded for its well spent years, 
 Left us, as weary grown of scenes below : 
 That noble mini a harbour safe hath gained, 
 Through life's vexed sea its voyage performed 
 
 at last ; 
 Leaving the track by which it fleeting passed 
 To that pure glory rightfully obtained. 
 Thou soul, that cam'st in this our iron age, 
 By deeds, which with humanity were fraught, 
 Fain hadst restored the olden time, of sage 
 The theme, and hoards of purer treasure 
 
 brought, 
 Designed to everlast, — presumption bold ! — 
 While Tejo's sands are rich, and Douro's shores, 
 
 with gold. 
 
 FROM HIS EPISTLE TO KING JOHN. 
 
 Great king of kings, one single day, 
 One hour of yours, in idle mood 
 
 Should I consume, it would betray, 
 
 That, guiltily, I did not pay 
 
 Due reverence to the general good. 
 
 For in a distant hemisphere, 
 
 Where other stars gem other skies, 
 
 Nations of various fotm and cheer, — 
 By God till now hid from our eyes, — 
 
 Submiss, your mandates wait to hear. 
 
 You in all subject hearts abide, 
 
 O monarch powerful as just, — 
 You who will knots the hardest tied 
 Untangle, or with sword divide, — 
 Great living law in whom we trust! 
 
 Where men are, Covetise is ever ; 
 
 All she bewilders, all deceives; 
 Less foiled by Justice's firm endeavour, 
 
 The web that fraudful Malice weaves, 
 Or to unravel or dissever. 
 
 Your ships that boldly navigate, 
 Sailing this solid globe around, 
 
 'Midst their discoveries, no state 
 
 Ungoverned by some king have found. 
 
 What were a headless body's fate ? 
 
 Kingdoms confessing two kings' right 
 
 Inevitable ills o'erwhelm. 
 Earth from one sun receives her light, 
 One God upholds her by his might: 
 
 One monarch only suits one realm. 
 
 With privileges high as these, 
 
 Conscientiously should kings beware 
 
 Of looks deceptive, arts to please, 
 Practised their justice to ensnare, 
 
 And cobweb laws to break with ease. 
 
 Who cannot 'gainst the law prevail 
 By force, or art, or favor, Sire, 
 
 Is deemed in interest to fail : 
 If valueless at public sale, 
 
 None will to favoritism aspire. 
 
 The man who bears a single mind, 
 
 A single face, a single truth, 
 Uptorn, not bent, by stormiest wind, 
 For all besides on earth 's designed ; 
 But for a courtier, — no, in sooth ! 
 
 O BASE GALICIAN! 
 
 base Galician ! lone and lost, 
 Thou 'st left me on the desert coast, 
 Vile, base Galician ! 
 
 1 went where once thou didst abide, — 
 
 There thou abid'st not; 
 The valley to my cries replied, — 
 
 But thou repliedst not. 
 Sad, melancholy, mortified, 
 I wander weeping, while 
 Thou dost but smile. 
 
 Say where thy mother's dwelling is, - 
 
 I will go to her. 
 Galician ! who could dream of this, 
 
 Thou — thou no truer ! 
 Eyes filled with tears of bitterness, 
 A heart where flames of anguish burn,- 
 O, when shall peace return ? 
 
 LUIS DE CAMOENS. 
 
 Luis de Camoens, the glory of Portugal, and 
 one of the most illustrious poets of modern times, 
 was born of a noble family, at Lisbon, in 1524. 
 He studied at the University of Coimbra, which 
 he entered in 1537 or 1538. In 1545, he left the 
 University for Lisbon and the court, having ac- 
 complished himself in elegant literature, and 
 contrary to the customs of the time and place, 
 having assiduously cultivated the art of writing 
 in his mother tongue. While he was residing 
 in Lisbon, he fell deeply in love with a lady o' 
 the palace, Dona Catharina de Attayda, whose 
 charms are celebrated in his poems. This pas 
 sion involved him in some difficulties, and he 
 was banished from the court to Santarem 
 Here he wrote an elegy bewailing the hardship 
 of his lot, and comparing his own exile to thai 
 of Ovid : — 
 
 "Thus fancy paints me, thus, like him, forlorn, 
 Condemned the hapless exile's fate to prove ; 
 In life-consuming pain thus doomed to mourn 
 The loss of all I prized, — of her I love." 
 
 Like Ovid, he beguiled the weariness of ban 
 ishment with study and composition. He is 
 supposed to have conceived the idea of his great 
 poem at this period ; but at length, despairing of 
 a restoration to the favor of the court, he deter- 
 mined to become a soldier. His first plan was 
 
CAMOENS. 
 
 739 
 
 to go to India, and he actually took passage on 
 board the vessel in which Dora Affonso de 
 Noronha, the Portuguese viceroy, sailed ; but he 
 changed his mind, and, with his friend, Dom 
 Antonio de Noronha, joined the troops at Ceuta, 
 which were assembled for an expedition to 
 Africa. He displayed great bravery, and, in a 
 naval engagement in the Straits of Gibraltar, 
 received a wound from a splinter, which de- 
 prived him of his right eye. He remained 
 some time in Africa, and then returned to Lis- 
 bon, ind finding his fortunes at a low ebb, being 
 hopelessly separated from the object of his at- 
 tachment, and his father having died at Goa, 
 after a disastrous shipwreck on the coast of Mal- 
 abar, he now, having reached the twenty-ninth 
 year of his age, embarked for India. The ship 
 in which he sailed was the only one out of the 
 whole squadron which reached its destination. 
 
 Immediately on his arrival at Goa, he joined 
 an expedition against the king of Pimenta, re- 
 turning from which, he received the sorrow- 
 ful news of the death of his friend, Antonio de 
 Noronha, who fell in battle with the Moors near 
 Tetuan, in Africa. In 1554, he served as a 
 volunteer against the Mahometans, who cruised 
 in the straits of Mecca, and inflicted much in- 
 jury on the Portuguese trade. The hardships he 
 endured in this expedition are described in one 
 of his pooms. When he returned to Goa, he is 
 said to have made enemies among the persons 
 composing the Portuguese administration of In- 
 dia, by writing a satire, in which their infamous 
 conduct was severely reprobated. They applied 
 for redress to Barreto, who was then exercising 
 the powers of viceroy, and Camoens was sent, 
 or, as it is sometimes expressed, banished, to 
 China. Arriving at Macao, he held the office 
 of Provedor dos Defuntos, or commissary for 
 the effects of persons deceased. The situa- 
 tion appears to have been both profitable and 
 easy, for he amassed a small fortune, and found 
 much leisure from the details of business, which 
 he devoted to his poem. He spent much of his 
 time in a grotto overlooking the sea, and there 
 the greater part of the " Lusiad " is said to 
 have been written. The place is still shown 
 to strangers as the Grotto of Camoens. 
 
 After a few years passed in this manner, he 
 was invited by Constantino de Braganza, the 
 new viceroy, to return to Goa. He embarked 
 with the little fortune he had accumulated, but 
 his evil destiny still pursued him, and he was 
 wrecked at the mouth of the river Mecon, es- 
 caping with his life, and saving only the manu- 
 script of his " Lusiad," which he justly regarded 
 as the most precious of his possessions. He 
 thus alludes to his misfortune in the seventh 
 canto of the poem : — 
 
 " Now blest with all the wealth fond hope could crave, 
 Soon I beheld that wealth beneath the wave 
 For ever lost; — myself escaped alone, 
 On the wild shore all friendless, hopeless, thrown ; 
 My life, like Judah's Heaven-doomed king of yore, 
 ty miracle prolonged." 
 
 He was kindly treated by the natives of the 
 country, among whom he remained some days. 
 He is said to have written, at this time, his par- 
 aphrase of the one hundred and thirty-seventh 
 Psalm. Arriving at Goa in 1561, h-e was 
 well received by the viceroy, to whom he ad- 
 dressed a poem, in imitation of the epistle of 
 Horace to Augustus. The departure of Con- 
 stantino, the same year, again exposed Camoens 
 to the machinations of his enemies. He was 
 arrested and imprisoned, on a charge of malver- 
 sation in the office he had held at Macao. 
 
 " Woes, succeeding woes, 
 Belied my earnest hope of sweet repose; 
 In place of bays around my brows to shed 
 Their sacred honors o'er my destined head, 
 Foul calumny proclaimed the fraudful tale, 
 And left me mourning in a dreary jail." 
 
 He proved his innocence, but was still detain- 
 ed in custody by a hard creditor, named Miguel 
 Rodrigues Coutinho, to whom he owed a trifling 
 debt. From his prison he addressed some play- 
 ful verses to the viceroy, praying to be released, 
 and he was at length liberated. He remained 
 in India several years longer, occupying his 
 winters in composition, and the spring and 
 summer serving as a volunteer in the military 
 and naval expeditions, always displaying a bra- 
 very in danger, arid a cheerful fortitude under 
 hardships and misfortunes, which won for him 
 the love and admiration of his companions in 
 arms. 
 
 About this time he is said to have heard ot 
 the death of Catharina de Attayda. He laments 
 her loss and commemorates her virtues in sev- 
 eral of his most beautiful poems. The follow- 
 ing sonnet on that subject was translated by 
 Hayley : — 
 
 "While, pressed with woes from which it cannot flee, 
 My fancy sinks, and slumber seals my eyes, 
 Her spirit hastens in my dreams to rise, 
 Who was in life but as a dream to me. 
 O'er the drear waste, so wide no eye can see 
 How far its sense-evading limit lies, 
 1 follow her quick step; but, ah, she flies! 
 Our distance widening by fate's stern decree. 
 'Fly not from me, kind shadow ! ' I exclaim ; — 
 She, with fixed eyes, that her soft thoughts reveal. 
 And seemed to say, 'Forbear thy fond design,' — 
 Still flies. I call her, but her half-formed name 
 Dies on my faltering tongue ; — I wake, and feel 
 Not e'en one short delusion can be mine." 
 
 Having at length completed the " Lusiad," Ca- 
 moens determined to return to Europe, and lay 
 the work at the feet of his sovereign, the youth- 
 ful Dom Sebastian ; but not having the means 
 in his power, he accepted an invitation to ac- 
 company Pedro Barreto, who was on the point 
 of embarking to assume the government of 
 Sofala. This vain, mean, and tyrannical man 
 soon made the condition of Camoens intolerable ; 
 and when some of his friends, who had newly 
 arrived, relieved his pressing wants, and invited 
 him to join them on their return to Portugal, 
 Barreto refused to let him go until he had paid 
 two hundred ducats, which he asserted Camo- 
 
740 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 ens owed him. The money was contributed 
 by the gentlemen, and Camoens continued his 
 homeward voyage. He reached Portugal in 
 1569. King Sebastian was at this time mak- 
 ing preparations for his disastrous expedition to 
 Africa, and had but little time or thought for 
 the merits and services of a man like Camoens. 
 The " Lusiad " was not published until two years 
 afterwards; and the king is said to have granted 
 the poet an insignificant pension. The poem 
 was received with enthusiasm, and was reprint- 
 ed within a year. The situation of Camoens, 
 however, became more and more disheartening. 
 He was poor, and no further favor or assistance 
 was offered him by the court. His health was 
 so broken by the hardships he had undergone 
 and by the climate of India, that he was una- 
 ble to write ; and he is said to have sunk into 
 such extreme and utter poverty, that his exist- 
 ence was maintained from day to day by his 
 servant Antonio, a native of Java, whom he 
 had brought home from India, and who begged 
 by night for the bread which kept his master 
 from starving the following day. At length, he 
 was reduced so low that he lost all power of 
 exertion. He closed his days in a hospital, 
 dying in 1579, at the age of fifty-five. The 
 very sheet in which he was shrouded was the 
 gift of charity. His deathbed was watched by 
 a friar, Josepe Indio, who wrote in a copy of the 
 first edition of the "Lusiad" these words: — 
 " How miserable a thing to see so great a genius 
 so ill rewarded I I saw him die in a hospital at 
 Lisbon, without possessing a shroud to cover his 
 remains, after having borne arms victoriously in 
 India, and having sailed five thousand five hun- 
 dred leagues : — a warning for those who weary 
 themselves by studying night and day without 
 profit, as the spider who spins his web to catch 
 flies." 
 
 Besides the "Lusiad," Camoens wrote son- 
 nets, songs, odes, elegies, eclogues, redondilhas, 
 epigrams, epistles, and three comedies. They all 
 exhibit an exalted genius, and the noblest traits 
 of character. But his great national epic, the 
 "Lusiad," is the crowning glory of his life, and 
 the highest literary claim that his country has to 
 urge upon the respect of foreign nations. In it 
 are immortalized the grand discoveries of Vasco 
 de Gama, and the illustrious deeds that adorn 
 the annals of the great age of Portugal, — the 
 age of enthusiasm, adventure, and gigantic en- 
 terprise. In spirit and style it is more national 
 than any other heroic poem of modern times; 
 and notwithstanding the incongruities of the su- 
 pernatural machinery, introduced by the poet in 
 compliance with the pedantic views that pre- 
 vailed in his age, it must be considered an ad- 
 mirable monument of genius. It displays great 
 powers of invention, the most plastic command 
 of style, and, at times, a wonderful sublimity of 
 conception. Many passages are adorned with 
 the most exquisite beauties and the most melt- 
 ing tenderness of sentiment, the richest music 
 of language and the most glowing imagery. 
 
 Above all, it is informed with the profoi nd and 
 impassioned feelings of the poet's heart. 
 
 The "Lusiad " has been translated into nearly 
 all the languages of modern Europe, not to 
 mention the versions into Hebrew and Latin. 
 The best account of the author is found in the 
 " Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Luis de 
 Camoens," by John Adamson, London, 1820, 
 2 vols., 8vo. 
 
 FROM THE LUSIAD. 
 IGNEZ DE CASTRO. 
 
 While glory thus Alonzo's name adorned, 
 To Lisboa's shores the happy chief returned, 
 In glorious peace and well deserved repose 
 His course of fame and honored age to close. 
 When now, O king, a damsel's fate severe, 1 
 A fate which ever claims the woful tear, 
 Disgraced his honors. On the nymph's lorn 
 
 head 
 Relentless rage its bitterest rancor shed : 
 Yet such the zeal her princely lover bore, 
 Her breathless corse the crown of Lisboa wore. 
 'T was thou, O Love, whose dreaded shafts 
 
 control 
 The hind's rude heart, and tear the hero's soul; 
 Thou ruthless power, with bloodshed never 
 
 cloyed, 
 'T was thou thy lovely votary destroyed. 
 Thy thirst still burning for a deeper woe, 
 In vain to thee the tears of beauty flow ; 
 The breast, that feels thy purest flames divine, 
 With spouting gore must bathe thy cruel shrine. 
 Such thy dire triumphs ! — Thou, O Nymph, the 
 
 while, 
 Prophetic of the god's unpitying guile, 
 In tender scenes by lovesick fancy wrought, 
 By fear oft shifted as by fancy brought, 
 In sweet Mondego's ever-verdant bowers, 
 Languished away the slow and lonely hours : 
 While now, as terror waked thy boding fears, 
 The conscious stream received thy pearly tears; 
 And now, as hope revived the brighter flame, 
 Each echo sighed thy princely lover's name. 
 Nor less could absence from thy prince remove 
 The dear remembrance of his distant love : 
 Thy looks, thy smiles, before him ever glow, 
 And o'er his melting heart endearing flow: 
 By night his slumbers bring thee to his arms, 
 By day his thoughts still wander o'er thy charms, 
 By night, by day, each thought thy loves employ, 
 Each thought the memory or the hope of joy. 
 Though fairest princely dames invoked his love, 
 No princely dame his constant faith could move • 
 For thee alone his constant passion burned, 
 For thee the proffered royal maids he scorned. 
 Ah, hope of bliss too high ! — the princely dames 
 Refused, dread rage the father's breast inflames: 
 
 i Dona Ignez de Castro, daughter of a Castilian gentle- 
 man who had taken refuge in the court of Portugal, and 
 privately married to Dom Pedro; she was, however, cruelly 
 murdered, at the instigation of the politicians, on account 
 of her partiality to Castilians. 
 
CAMOENS. 
 
 741 
 
 He, with an old man's wintry eye, surveys 
 The youth's fond love, and coldly with it weighs 
 The people's murmurs of his son's delay 
 To bless the nation with his nuptial day ; 
 (Alas ! the nuptial day was passed unknown, 
 Which but when crowned the prince could dare 
 
 to own ;) 
 And with the fair one's blood the vengeful sire 
 Resolves to quench his Pedro's faithful fire. 
 O thou dread sword, oft stained with heroes' gore, 
 Thou awful terror of the prostrate Moor, 
 What rage could aim thee at a female breast, 
 Unarmed, by softness and by love possessed ? 
 
 Dragged from her bower by murderous, ruffian 
 
 hands, 
 Before the frowning king fair Ignez stands ; 
 Her tears of artless innocence, her air 
 So mild, so lovely, and her face so fair, 
 Moved the stern monarch ; when with eager zeal 
 Her fierce destroyers urged the public weal : 
 Dread rage again the tyrant's soul possessed, 
 And his dark brow his cruel thoughts confessed. 
 O'er her fair face a sudden paleness spread ; 
 Her throbbing heart with generous anguish bled, 
 Anguish to view her lover's hopeless woes ; 
 And all the mother in her bosom rose. 
 Her beauteous eyes, in trembling tear-drops 
 
 drowned, 
 To heaven she lifted, but her hands were bound ; 
 Then on her infants turned the piteous glance, 
 The look of bleeding woe : the babes advance, 
 Smiling in innocence of infant age, 
 Unawed, unconscious of their grandsire's rage; 
 To whom, as bursting sorrow gave the flow, 
 The native, heart-sprung eloquence of woe, 
 The lovely captive thus: — "O monarch, hear, 
 If e'er to thee the name of man was dear, — 
 If prowling tigers, or the wolf's wild brood, 
 Inspired by nature with the lust of blood, 
 Have yet been moved the weeping babe to spare, 
 Nor left, but tended with a nurse's care, 
 As Rome's great founders to the world were 
 
 given ; 
 Shalt thou, who wear'st the sacred stamp of 
 
 Heaven, 
 The human form divine, — shalt thou deny 
 That aid, that pity, which e'en beasts supply? 
 O, that thy heart were, as thy looks declare, 
 Of human mould! superfluous were my prayer ; 
 Thou couldst not then a helpless damsel slay, 
 Whose sole offence in fond affection lay, 
 In faith to him who first his love confessed, 
 Who first to love allured her virgin breast. 
 In these my babes shalt thou thine image see, 
 And still tremendous hurl thy rage on me? 
 Me, for their sakes, if yet thou wilt not spare, 
 O, let these infants prove thy pious care ! 
 Yet pity's lenient current ever flows 
 From that brave breast where genuine valor 
 
 glows; 
 That thou art brave let vanquished Afric tell, 
 Then let thy pity o'er mine anguish swell ; 
 Ah ! let my woes, unconscious of a crime, 
 Procure mine exile to some barbarous clime- 
 
 Give me to wander o'er the burning plains 
 
 Of Lybia's deserts, or the wild domains 
 
 Of Scythia's snow-clad rocks and frozen shore; 
 
 There let me, hopeless of return, deplore. 
 
 Where ghastly horror fills the dreary vale, 
 
 Where shrieks and howlings die on every gale, 
 
 The lion's roaring, and the tiger's yell, 
 
 There with mine infant race consigned to dwell, 
 
 There let me try that piety to find, 
 
 In vain by me implored from human-kind: 
 
 There in some dreary cavern's rocky womb, 
 
 Amid the horrors of sepulchral gloom, 
 
 For him whose love I mourn, my love shall glow, 
 
 The sigh shall murmur, and the tear shall flow: 
 
 All my fond wish, and all my hope, to rear 
 
 These infant pledges of a love so dear, — 
 
 Amidst my griefs a soothing, glad employ, 
 
 Amidst my fears a woful, hopeless joy." 
 
 In tears she uttered. As the frozen snow, 
 Touched by the spring's mild ray, begins to 
 
 flow, — 
 So just began to melt his stubborn soul, 
 As mild-rayed pity o'er the tyrant stole : 
 But destiny forbade. With eager zeal, 
 Again pretended for the public weal, 
 Her fierce accusers urged her speedy doom; 
 Again dark rage diffused its horrid gloom 
 O'er stern Alonzo's brow : swift at the sign, 
 Their swords unsheathed around her brandished 
 
 shine. 
 O foul disgrace, of knighthood lasting stain, 
 By men of arms an helpless lady slain ! 
 
 Thus Pyrrhus, burning with unmanly ire, 
 Fulfilled the mandate of his furious sire : 
 Disdainful of the frantic matron's prayer, 
 On fair Polyxena, her last fond care, 
 He rushed, his blade yet warm with Priam's 
 
 gore, 
 And dashed the daughter on the sacred floor; 
 While mildly she her raving mother eyed, 
 Resigned her bosom to the sword, and died. 
 Thus Ignez, while her eyes to Heaven appeal, 
 Resigns her bosom to the murdering steel : 
 That snowy neck, whose matchless form sus- 
 tained 
 The loveliest face, where all the Graces reigned, 
 Whose charms so long the gallant prince in- 
 flamed, 
 That her pale corse was Lisboa's queen pro- 
 claimed, — 
 That snowy neck was stained with spouting 
 
 gore; 
 Another sword her lovely bosom tore. 
 The flowers, that glistened with her tears be- 
 dewed, 
 Now shrunk and languished with her blood im- 
 brued. 
 As when a rose, erewhile of bloom so gay, 
 Thrown from the careless virgin's breast away, 
 Lies faded on the plain, the living red, 
 The snowy white, and all its fragrance fled; 
 So from her cheeks the roses died away, 
 And pale in death the beauteous Ignez lay. 
 
/42 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 With dreadful smiles, and crimsoned with her 
 
 blood, 
 Round the wan victim the stern murderers stood, 
 Unmindful of the sure, though future hour, 
 Sacred to vengeance and her lover's power. 
 
 O sun, couldst thou so foul a crime behold, 
 Nor veil thine head in darkness, — as of old 
 A sudden night unwonted horror cast 
 O'er that dire banquet, where the sire's repast 
 The son's torn limbs supplied? — Yet you, ye 
 
 vales, 
 Ye distant forests, and ye flowery dales, 
 When, pale and sinking to the dreadful fall, 
 You heard her quivering lips on Pedro call ; 
 Your faithful echoes caught the parting sound, 
 And " Pedro ! Pedro ! " mournful, sighed around. 
 Nor less the wood-nymphs of Mondego's groves 
 Bewailed the memory of her hapless loves: 
 Her griefs they wept, and to a plaintive rill 
 Transformed their tears, which weeps and mur- 
 murs still : 
 To give immortal pity to her woe, 
 They taught the rivulet through her bowers to 
 
 flow ; 
 And still through violet beds the fountain pours 
 Its plaintive wailing, and is named Amours. 
 Nor long her blood for vengeance cried in vain : 
 Her gallant lord begins his awful reign. 
 In vain her murderers for refuge fly ; 
 Spain's wildest hills no place of rest supply. 
 The njured lover's and the monarch's ire, 
 And stern-browed justice, in their doom conspire : 
 In hissing flames they die, and yield their souls 
 in fire. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE CAPE. 
 
 Now prosperous gales the bending canvass 
 
 swelled ; 
 From these rude shores our fearless coiuse we 
 
 held. 
 Beneath the glistening wave the god of day 
 Had now five times withdrawn the parting ray, 
 When o'er the prow a sudden darkness spread, 
 And slowly floating o'er the mast's tall head 
 A black cloud hovered ; nor appeared from far 
 The moon's pale glimpse, nor faintly twinkling 
 
 star : 
 So deep a gloom the lowering vapor cast, 
 Transfixed with awe, the bravest stood aghast. 
 Meanwhile a hollow bursting roar resounds, 
 As when hoarse surges lash their rocky mounds; 
 Nor had the blackening wave, nor frowning 
 
 heaven, 
 The wonted signs of gathering tempest given. 
 Amazed we stood. — "O thou, our fortune's 
 
 guide, 
 Avert this omen, mighty God ! " I cried. 
 "Or through forbidden climes adventurous 
 
 strayed, 
 Have we the secrets of the deep surveyed, 
 Which these wide solitudes of seas and sky 
 Were doomed to hide from man's unhallowed 
 
 eye? 
 
 Whate'er this prodigy, it threatens more 
 Than midnight tempests and the mingled roar, 
 When sea and sky combine to rock the marble 
 shore." 
 
 I spoke ; — when, rising through the dark- 
 ened air, 
 Appalled we saw an hideous phantom glare ; 
 High and enormous o'er the flood he towered, 
 And 'thwart our way with sullen aspect lowered. 
 An earthly paleness o'er his cheeks was spread ; 
 Erect uprose his hairs of withered red; 
 Writhing to speak, his sable lips disclose, 
 Sharp and disjoined, his gnashing teeth's blue 
 
 rows; 
 His haggard beard flowed quivering on the wind, 
 Revenge and horror in his mien combined; 
 His clouded front, by withering lightnings 
 
 scarred, 
 The inward anguish of his soul declared ; 
 His red eyes glowing from their dusky caves 
 Shot livid fires; far echoing o'er the waves 
 His voice resounded, as the caverned shore 
 With hollow groan repeats the tempest's roar. 
 Cold-gliding horrors thrilled each hero's breast; 
 Our bristling hair and tottering knees confessed 
 Wild dread ; — the while, with visage ghastly wan, 
 His black lips trembling, thus the fiend began : — 
 
 " O you, the boldest of the nations, fired 
 By daring pride, by lust of fame inspired ; ' 
 Who, scornful of the bowers of sweet repose, 
 Through these my waves advance your fearless 
 
 prows, 
 Regardless of the lengthening watery way, 
 And all the storms that own my sovereign sway ; 
 Who, 'mid surrounding rocks and shelves, ex- 
 
 plore 
 Where never hero braved my rage before ; — 
 Ye sons of Lusus, who with eyes profane 
 Have viewed the secrets of my awful reign, 
 Have passed the bounds which jealous Nature 
 
 drew 
 To veil her secret shrine from mortal view: 
 Hear from my lips what direful woes attend, 
 And bursting soon shall o'er your race descend! 
 
 " With every bounding keel that dares my rage 
 Eternal war my rocks and storms shall wage ; 
 The next proud fleet ' that through my drear 
 
 domain, 
 With daring search, shall hoist the streaming 
 
 vane, — 
 That gallant navy, by my whirlwinds tossed, 
 And raging seas, shall perish on my coast; 
 Then he, who first my secret reign descried, 
 A naked corse wide floating o'er the tide 
 Shall drive. Unless my heart's full raptures fail, 
 O Lusus, oft shalt thou thy children wail ; 
 
 i On the return of Gama lo Portugal, a fleet of thirteen 
 sail, under the command of Pedro Alvarez de Cabral, was 
 sent out on the second voyage to India, where the admiral, 
 with only six ships, arrived. The rest were mostly destroyed 
 by a terrible tempest at the Cape of Good Hope, which lasted 
 twenty days. 
 
CAMOENS. 
 
 745 
 
 Each year thy shipwrecked sons shalt thou de- 
 plore, 
 
 Each year thy sheeted masts shall strew my 
 shore. 
 
 " With trophies plumed behold a hero come ! 2 
 Ye dreary wilds, prepare his yawning tomb ! 
 Though smiling fortune blessed his youthful 
 
 morn, 
 Though glory's rays his laurelled brows adorn, 
 Full oft though he beheld with sparkling eye 
 The Turkish moons in wild confusion fly, 
 While he, proud victor, thundered in the rear, — 
 All, all his mighty fame shall vanish here : 
 Quiloa's sons, and thine, MomJbaze, shall see 
 Their conqueror bend his laurelled head to me; 
 While, proudly mingling with the tempest's 
 
 sound, 
 Their shouts of joy from every cliff rebound. 
 
 " The howling blast, ye slumbering storms, 
 
 prepare ! 
 A youthful lover and his beauteous fair 
 Triumphant sail from India's ravaged land; 
 His evil angel leads him to my strand. 
 Through the torn hulk the dashing waves shall 
 
 roar, 
 The shattered wrecks shall blacken all my shore. 
 Themselves escaped, despoiled by savage hands, 
 Shall naked wander o'er the burning sands, 
 Spared by the waves far deeper woes to bear, 
 Woes even by me acknowledged with a tear. 
 Their infant race, the promised heirs of joy, 
 Shall now no more an hundred hands employ; 
 By cruel want, beneath the parents' eye, 
 In these wide wastes their infant race shall die. 
 Through dreary wilds, where never pilgrim trod, 
 Where caverns yawn and rocky fragments nod, 
 The hapless lover and his bride shall stray, 
 By night unsheltered, and forlorn by day. 
 In vain the lover o'er the trackless plain 
 Shall dart his eyes, and cheer his spouse in vain ; 
 Her tender limbs, and broast of mountain snow, 
 Where ne'er before intruding blast might blow, 
 Parched by the sun, and shrivelled by the cold 
 Of dewy night, shall he, fond man, behold. 
 Thus wandering wide, a thousand ills o'erpassed, 
 In fond embraces they shall sink at last; 
 While pitying tears their dying eyes o'erflow, 
 And the last sigh shall wail each other's woe. 
 
 " Some few, the sad companions of their fate, 
 Shall yet survive, protected by my hate, 
 On Tagus' banks the dismal tale to tell 
 How blasted by my frown your heroes fell." 
 
 He paused, in act still further to disclose 
 A long, a dreary prophecy of woes; 
 When, springing onward, loud my voice re- 
 sounds, 
 And 'midst his rage the threatening shade con- 
 founds: 
 
 2 Dom Francisco de Almeyda, first Portuguese viceroy of 
 India, where he obtained several great victories over the 
 Mohammedans and pagans. 
 
 " What art thou, horrid form, that rid'st the air? 
 By heaven's eternal light, stern fiend, declare ! " 
 His lips he writhes, his eyGs far round he throws, 
 And from his breast deep hollow groans arose; 
 Sternly askance he stood : with wounded pride 
 And anguish torn, " In me, behold," he cried, 
 While dark-red sparkles from his eyeballs rolled, 
 "In me, the Spirit of the Cape behold, — 
 That rock by you the Cape of Tempests named, 
 By Neptune's rage in horrid earthquakes framed, 
 When Jove's red bolts o'er Titan's offspring 
 
 flamed. 
 With wide-stretched piles I guard the pathless 
 
 strand, 
 And Afric's southern mound unmoved I stand : 
 Nor Roman prow, nor daring Tyrian oar, 
 E'er dashed the white wave foaming to my shore; 
 Nor Greece nor Carthage ever spread the sail 
 On these my seas to catch the trading gale ; — 
 You, you alone, have dared to plough my main, 
 And with the human voice disturb my lonesome 
 
 reign." 
 
 He spoke, and deep a lengthened sigh he 
 
 drew, 
 A doleful sound, and vanished from the view: 
 The frightened billows gave a rolling swell, 
 And distant far prolonged the dismal yell ; 
 Faint and more faint the howling echoes die, 
 And the black cloud dispersing leaves the sky. 
 High to the angel host, whose guardian care 
 Had ever round us watched, my hands I rear, 
 And heaven's dread King implore, — " As o'er 
 
 our head 
 The fiend dissolved, an empty shadow, fled ; 
 So may his curses by the winds of heaven 
 Far o'er the deep, their idle sport, be driven ! " 
 
 With sacred horror thrilled, Melinda's lord 
 Held up the eager hand, and caught the word 
 "O wondrous faith of ancient days," he cries, 
 " Concealed in mystic lore and dark disguise ! 
 Taught by their sires, our hoary fathers tell, 
 On these rude shores a giant spectre fell, 
 What time from heaven the rebel band were 
 
 thrown : 
 And oft the wandering swain has heard his moan. 
 While o'er the wave the clouded moon appears 
 To hide her weeping face, his voice he rears 
 O'er the wild storm. Deep in the days of yora 
 A holy pilgrim trod the nightly shore ; 
 Stern groans he heard ; by ghostly spells con 
 
 trolled, 
 His fate mysterious thus the spectre told: — 
 
 "'By forceful Titan's warm embrace com 
 
 pressed, 
 The rock-ribbed mother Earth his love con 
 
 fessed ; 
 The hundred-handed giant, at a birth, 
 And me she bore. Nor slept my hopes on earth 
 My heart avowed my sire's ethereal flame: 
 Great Adamastor then my dreaded name. 
 In my bold brothers' glorious toils engaged, 
 Tremendous war against the gods I waged : 
 
744 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 Yet not to reach the throne of heaven I try, 
 
 With mountain piled on mountain to the sky; 
 
 To me the conquest of the seas befell, 
 
 In his green realm the second Jove to quell. 
 
 Nor did ambition all my passions hold ; 
 
 'T was love that prompted an attempt so bold. 
 
 Ah me! one summer, in the cool of day, 
 
 I saw the Nereids on the sandy bay, 
 
 With lovely Thetis, from the wave advance 
 
 In mirthful frolic and the naked dance : 
 
 In all her charms revealed the goddess trode. 
 
 With fiercest fires my struggling bosom glowed: 
 
 Yet, yet I feel them burning in my heart, 
 
 And hopeless languish with the raging smart. 
 
 For her, each goddess of the heavens I scorned; 
 
 For her alone my fervent ardor burned. 
 
 In vain I wooed her to the lover's bed ; 
 
 From my grim form with horror mute she fled. 
 
 Maddening with love, by force I ween to gain 
 
 The silver goddess of the blue domain ; 
 
 To the hoar mother of the Nereid band 
 
 I tell my purpose, and her aid command: 
 
 By fear impelled, old Doris tries to move 
 
 And win the spouse of Peleus to my love. 
 
 The silver goddess with a smile replies, 
 
 " What nymph can yield her charms a giant's 
 
 prize ? 
 Yet from the horrors of a war to save, 
 And guard in peace, our empire of the wave, 
 Whate'er with honor he may hope to gain, 
 That let him hope his wish shall soon attain." 
 The promised grace infused a bolder fire, 
 And shook my mighty limbs with fierce de- 
 sire. 
 But, ah, what error spreads its dreamful might ! 
 What phantoms hover o'er the lover's sight! 
 The war resigned, my steps by Doris led, 
 While gentle eve her shadowy mantle spread, 
 Before my steps the snowy Thetis shone 
 In all her charms, all naked, and alone. 
 Swift as the wind, with open arms I sprung, 
 And round her waist with joy delirious clung; 
 In all the transports of the warm embrace, 
 An hundred kisses on her angel face, 
 On all its various charms, my rage bestows, 
 And on her cheek my cheek enraptured glows: 
 When — O, what anguish, while my shame I 
 
 tell ! 
 What fixed despair, what rage my bosom 
 
 swell ! — 
 Here was no goddess, here no heavenly charms; 
 A rugged mountain filled my eager arms, 
 Whose rocky top, o'erhung with matted brier, 
 Received the kisses of my amorous fire. 
 Waked from my dream, cold horror freezed my 
 
 blood ; 
 Fixed as a rock before the rock I stood : 
 " O fairest goddess of the ocean train, 
 Behold the triumph of thy proud disdain ! 
 Yet why," I cried, " with all I wished decoy, 
 And, when exulting in the dream of joy, 
 An horrid mountain to mine arms convey? " 
 Maddening I spoke, and furious sprung away. 
 Far to the south I sought the world unknown, 
 Where I, unheard, unscorned, might wail alone, 
 
 My foul dishonor and my tears to hide, 
 And shun the triumph of the goddess' pride. 
 My brothers now, by Jove's red arm o'erthrown, 
 Beneath huge mountains piled on mountains 
 
 groan ; 
 And I, who taught each echo to deplore, 
 And tell my sorrows to the desert shore, — 
 I felt the hand of Jove my crimes pursue: 
 My stiffening flesh to earthy ridges grew; 
 And my huge bones, no more by marrow 
 
 warmed, 
 To horrid piles and ribs of rock transformed, 
 Yon dark-browed cape of monstrous size became; 
 Where round me still, in triumph o'er my shame, 
 The silvery Thetis bids her surges roar, 
 And waft my groans along the dreary shore.' " 
 
 CANCAO. 
 j 
 
 Canst thou forget the silent tears 
 
 Which I have shed for thee, — 
 
 And all the pangs, and doubts, and fears, 
 
 Which scattered o'er my bloom of years 
 
 The blights of misery ? 
 
 I never close my languid eye, 
 
 Unless to dream of thee ; 
 My every breath is but the sigh, 
 My every sound the broken cry, 
 
 Of lasting misery. 
 
 O, when in boyhood's happier scene 
 I pledged my love to thee, 
 
 How very little did I ween 
 
 My recompense should now have been 
 So much of misery ! 
 
 CANZONET. 
 Flowers are fresh, and bushes green ; 
 
 Cheerily the linnets sing ; 
 Winds are soft, and skies serene : 
 
 Time, however, soon shall throw 
 Winter's snow 
 O'er the buxom breast of Spring. 
 
 Hope that buds in lover's heart 
 
 Lives not through the scorn of years: 
 Time makes Love itself depart; 
 
 Time and scorn congeal the mind , 
 Looks unkind 
 Freeze Affection's warmest tears. 
 
 Time shall make the bushes green, 
 
 Time dissolve the winter snow, 
 Winds be soft, and skies serene, 
 
 Linnets sing their wonted strain 
 But again 
 Blighted Love shall never blow ! 
 
 STANZAS. 
 I saw the virtuous man contend 
 
 With life's unnumbered woes ; 
 And he was poor, — without a friend, 
 
 Pressed by a thousand foes. 
 
CAMOENS. 
 
 -45 
 
 I saw the Passions' pliant slave 
 
 In gallant trim, and gay ; 
 His course was Pleasure's placid wave, • 
 
 His life, a summer's day. 
 
 And I was caught in Folly's snare, 
 And joined her giddy train, — 
 
 But found her 6oon the nurse of Care, 
 And Punishment, and Pain. 
 
 There surely is some guiding power 
 Which rightly suffers wrong, — 
 
 Gives Vice to bloom its little hour, — 
 But Virtue, late and long. 
 
 CANCAO. 
 •> 
 
 When day has smiled a soft farewell, 
 
 And night-drops bathe each shutting bell, 
 
 And shadows sail along the green, 
 
 And birds are still and winds serene, 
 
 I wander silently. 
 
 And while my lone step prints the dew, 
 Dear are the dreams that bless my view; 
 To Memory's eye the maid appears, 
 For whom have sprung my sweetest tears, 
 So oft, so tenderly ! 
 
 I see her, as with graceful care 
 She binds her braids of sunny hair; 
 I feel her harp's melodious thrill 
 Strike to my heart, and thence be still 
 Reechoed faithfully. 
 
 I meet her mild and quiet eye, 
 Drink the warm spirit of her sigh, 
 See young Love beating in her breast, 
 And wish to mine its pulses pressed, — 
 
 God knows how fervently ! 
 
 Such are my hours of dear delight; 
 And morn but makes me long for night, 
 And think how swift the minutes flew, 
 When last amongst the dropping dew 
 I wandered silently. 
 
 CANCAO. 
 
 f b 
 
 O, weep not thus! — we both shall know 
 
 Ere long a happier doom : 
 There is a place of rest below, 
 Where thou and I shall surely go, 
 And sweetly sleep, released from woe, 
 Within the tomb. 
 
 My cradle was the couch of Care, 
 And Sorrow rocked me in it : 
 Fate seemed her saddest robe to wear, 
 On the first da)' that saw me there, 
 And darkly shadowed with despair 
 
 My earliest minute. 
 
 E en then the griefs I now possess 
 
 As natal boons were given ; 
 And the fair form of Happiness, 
 94 
 
 Which hovered round, intent to bless, 
 Scared by the phantoms of distress, 
 
 Flew back to heaven. 
 
 For I was made in Joy's despite, 
 
 And meant for Misery's slave ; 
 And all my hours of brief delight 
 Fled, like the speedy winds of night, 
 Which soon shall wheel their sullen flight 
 Across my grave. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 TO NIGHT. 
 Night ! to thee my vows are paid ; 
 Not that e'er thy quiet shade 
 Me, in bower of dalliance laid 
 
 Blest and blessing, covers : 
 No, — for thy friendly veil was made 
 To shroud successful lovers ; 
 And I, Heaven knows, 
 Have never yet been one of those 
 Whose love has proved a thornless rose 
 
 But since, as piteous of my pain, 
 Goddess ! when I to thee complain 
 Of truth despised and hard disdain, 
 
 Thou dost so mutely listen ; 
 For this, around thy solemn fane 
 
 Young buds I strew, that glisten 
 With tears of woe 
 By jealous Tithon made to flow, 
 From Morning, — thine eternal foe ! 
 
 CANZONET. 
 How sprightly were the roundelays 
 I sang in Love's beginning days ! 
 Now, alas, I but deplore 
 Death of all that blessed before ! 
 
 Then my heart was in its prime, — 
 'T was Affection's budding-time ! 
 It is broken now, and knows 
 One sense only, — sense of woes! 
 
 Joy was whilom dashed with ill, 
 Yet my songs were cheerful still ; 
 They were like the captive's strains, 
 Chanted to the sound of chains ! 
 
 CANZONET. 
 
 Since in this dreary vale of tears 
 
 No certainty but death appears, 
 
 Why should we waste our vernal years 
 
 In hoarding useless treasure? 
 
 No, — let the young and ardent mind 
 Become the friend of human-kind, 
 And in the generous service find 
 
 A source of purer pleasure ! 
 
 Better to live despised and poor, 
 Than guilt's eternal stings endure ; 
 The future smile of God shall cure 
 
 The wound of earthly woe? 
 3k 
 
746 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 Vain world ! did we but rightly feel 
 What ills thy treacherous charms conceal, 
 How would we long from thee to steal 
 
 To death, — and sweet repose 
 
 CANCAO. 
 
 T is done ! by human hopes and human aid 
 Abandoned, and unpitied left to mourn, 
 [ weep o'er all my wrongs ; o'er friends fast 
 
 sworn, 
 Whose friendship but betrayed, 
 But whose firm hatred not so soon decayed. 
 The land that witnessed my return, 
 The land I loved above all lands on earth, 
 Twice cast me like a weed away ; 
 And the world left me to the storm a prey : 
 While the sweet airs I first drank at my birth, 
 My native airs, once round me wont to blow, 
 No more were doomed to fan the exile's fever- 
 ish brow. 
 
 strange, unhappy sport of mortal things! 
 To live, yet live in vain; 
 
 Bereft of all that Nature's bounty brings, 
 That life to sweeten or sustain ; 
 Doomed still to draw my painful breath, 
 Though borne so often to the gates of death. 
 For, ah, not mine — like the glad mariner 
 To his long-wished-for home restored at last, 
 Telling his chances to his babes, and her 
 Whose hope had ceased — to paint misfortunes 
 
 past : 
 Through the dread deep my bark, still onwards 
 
 borne, 
 As the fierce waves drive o'er it tempest-torn, 
 Speeds 'midst strange horrors to its fatal bourn. 
 Yet shall not storms or flattering calms delude 
 My voyage more ; no mortal port is mine : 
 So may the Sovereign Ruler of the flood 
 Quell the loud surge, and with a voice divine 
 Hush the fierce tempest of my soul to rest, — 
 The last dear hope of the distressed, 
 And the lost voyager's last unerring sign. 
 But man — weak man ! — will ever fondly cast 
 A forward glance on beckoning forms of bliss ; 
 And when he deems the beauteous vision his, 
 Grasps but the painful memory of the past. 
 In tears my bread is steeped ; the cup I drain 
 Is filled with tears, that never cease to flow, 
 Save when with dreams of pleasure short and 
 
 vain 
 
 1 chase the conscious pangs of present woe. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Few years I number, — years of anxious care, 
 Sad hours and seasons of unceasing woe ; 
 My fifth short lustre saw my youth laid low : 
 So soon was overcast life's morning fair! 
 Far lands and seas I roamed, some hope to 
 
 share 
 Of solace for the cares that stamped my brow : 
 But they, whom fortune fails, in vain bestow 
 Stern toils, and imminent hazards vainly dare. 
 
 Beside Alanquer first my painful breath 
 
 I drew, 'midst pleasant fields of fruits and 
 
 flowers ; 
 But fate hath driven me on, and dooms that here 
 These wretched limbs be rendered up to death, 
 A prey to monsters of the sea, where lowers 
 The Abyssinian steep, far from my country dear. 
 
 Ah, vain desires, weak wishes, hopes that fade ! 
 Why with your shadowy forms still mock my 
 
 view ? 
 The hours return not; nor could Time renew, 
 Though he should now return, my youth de- 
 cayed : 
 But lengthened years roll on in deepening shade, 
 And warn you hence. The pleasures we pursue 
 Vary, with every fieeting'day, their hue ; 
 And our frail wishes alter soon as made. 
 The forms I loved, all once most dear, are fled, 
 Or changed, or no more the same semblance 
 
 wear 
 To me, whose thoughts are changed, whose 
 
 joys are dead : 
 For evil times and fortunes what small share 
 Of bliss was mine with daily cares consume, 
 Nor l»sve a hope to gild the hours to come. 
 
 What is there left in this vain world to crave, 
 To love, to see, more than I yet have seen ? 
 Still wearying cares, disgusts and coldness, 
 
 spleen, 
 Hate, and despair, and death, whose banners' 
 
 wave 
 Alike o'er all ! Yet, ere I reach the grave, 
 'T is mine to learn, no woes nor anguish keen 
 Hasten the hour of rest; woes that have been, 
 And worse to come, if worse, 't is mine to brave. 
 I hold the future frowns of fate in scorn ; 
 Against them all hath death a stern relief 
 Afforded, since my best-loved friend was torn 
 From this sad breast. In life I find but grief; 
 By death with deepest woe my heart was riven ; 
 For this alone I drew the breath of heaven ! 
 
 Sweetly was heard the anthem's choral strain, 
 And myriads bowed before the sainted shrine, 
 In solemn reverence to their Sire Divine, 
 Who gave the Lamb, for guilty mortals slain : 
 When, in the midst of God's eternal fane, — 
 Ah, little weening of his fell design ! — 
 Love bore the heart, which since hath ne'er 
 
 been mine, 
 To one who seemed of Heaven's elected train ! 
 For sanctity of place or time were vain, 
 'Gainst that blind archer's soul-consuming 
 
 power, 
 Which scorns, and soars all circumstance above. 
 O lady ! since I 've worn thy gentle chain, 
 How oft have I deplored each wasted hour, 
 When I was free, and had not learned to 
 
 love ! 
 
CAMOENS. 
 
 747 
 
 Silent and cool, now freshening breezes blow 
 Where groves of chestnut crown yon shadowy 
 
 steep ; 
 And all around the tears of evening weep 
 For closing day, whose vast orb, westering slow, 
 Flings o'er the embattled clouds a mellower 
 
 glow; 
 While hum of folded herds, and murmuring 
 
 deep, 
 And falling rills, such gentle cadence keep, 
 As e'en might soothe the weary heart of woe. 
 Yet what to me is eve, what evening airs, 
 Or falling rills, or ocean's murmuring sound, 
 While sad and comfortless I seek in vain 
 Her who in absence turns my joy to cares, 
 And, as I cast my listless glances round, 
 Makes varied scenery but varied pain ? 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF CATHARINA DE ATTAYDA. 
 
 Those charming eyes, within whose starry 
 
 sphere 
 Love whilom sat, and smiled the hours away, — 
 Those braids of light, that shamed the beams 
 
 of day, — 
 That hand benignant, and that heart sincere, — 
 Those virgin cheeks, which did so late appear 
 Like snow-banks scattered with the blooms of 
 
 May, 
 Turned to a little cold and worthless clay, 
 Are gone, for ever gone, and perished here, — 
 But not unbathed by Memory's warmest tear ! 
 Death ! thou hast torn, in one unpitying hour, 
 That fragrant plant, to which, while scarce a 
 
 flower, 
 The mellower fruitage of its prime was given : 
 Love saw the deed, — and, as he lingered near, 
 Sighed o'er the ruin, and returned to heaven ! 
 
 High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless 
 
 beam, 
 The sun had reached the zenith of his reign, 
 And for the living fount, the gelid stream, 
 Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain ; 
 'Midst the dark foliage of the forest-shade, 
 The birds had sheltered from the scorching 
 
 ray,— 
 Hushed were their melodies, and grove and 
 
 glade 
 Resounded but the shrill cicada's lay ; — 
 When through the glassy yale a lovelorn swain, 
 To seek the maid who but despised his pain, 
 Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, roved: 
 " Why pine for her," the slighted wanderer 
 
 cried, 
 " By whom thou art not loved?" — and thus 
 
 replied 
 An echo's murmuring voice, — "Thou art not 
 
 loved ! " 
 
 Fair Tejo ! thou, whose calmly flowing tide 
 Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains, 
 
 Enlivening all where'er thy waves may glide, — 
 Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs 
 
 and swains : 
 Sweet stream ! I know not when my steps 
 
 again 
 Shall tread thy shores , and while to part I 
 
 mourn, 
 I have no hope to meliorate my pain, 
 No dream that whispers, — I may yet return ! 
 My frowning destiny, whose watchful care 
 Forbids me blessings, and ordains despair, 
 Commands me thus to leave thee and repine : 
 And I must vainly mourn the scenes I fly, 
 And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh, 
 And blend my tears with other waves than thine ! 
 
 Spirit beloved ! whose wing so soon hath flown 
 The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere, 
 Now is yon heaven eternally thine own, — 
 Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here. 
 O, if allowed in thy divine abode 
 Of aught on earth an image to retain, 
 Remember still the fervent love which glowed 
 In my fond bosom, pure from every stain ! 
 And if thou deem that all my faithful grief, 
 Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief, 
 Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies, — 
 O, ask of Heaven, which called thee soon away. 
 That I may join thee in those realms of day, 
 Swiftly as thou hast vanished from mine eyes ! 
 
 Saved from the perils of the stormy wave, 
 And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main, 
 But just escaped from shipwreck's billowy grave. 
 Trembles to hear its horrors named again. 
 How warm his vow, that Ocean's fairest mien 
 No more shall lure him from the smiles of home ! 
 Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene, 
 Once more he turns, o'er boundless deeps to 
 
 roam. 
 Lady ! thus I, who vainly oft in flight 
 Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight, 
 Make the firm vow to shun thee and be free : 
 But my fond heart, devoted to its chain, 
 Still draws me back where countless perils reign, 
 And grief and ruin spread their snares for me. 
 
 Waves of Mondego, brilliant and serene ! 
 Haunts of my thought, where Memory fondly 
 
 strays ; 
 Where Hope allured me with perfidious mien, 
 Witching my soul, in long-departed days ; 
 Yes ! I forsake your banks : but still my heart 
 Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore 
 And, suffering not one image to depart, 
 Find lengthening distance but endear you more 
 Let fortune's will, through many a future day, 
 To distant realms this mortal frame convey, 
 Sport of each wind, and tossed on every wave 
 Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true, 
 On thought's light passion still shall fly to you 
 And still, bright waters, in your current lave ! 
 
748 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 ANTONIO FERREIRA. 
 
 This elegant and classical poet has been 
 called the Horace of Portugal. He was born at 
 Lisbon, in 1528, and was educated at the Uni- 
 versity of Coimbra, where he afterwards became 
 a professor. He followed the example of Saa de 
 Miranda in studying the Italian poets, and in 
 writing exclusively in the Portuguese, notwith- 
 standing the custom of the place to compose 
 Latin verses. He was subsequently appointed 
 to a place at court, and gained a high reputation 
 by his literary acquirements and his critical 
 ability. He died suddenly of the plague, in 
 1569, in the forty-first year of his age. 
 
 The reputation of Ferreira rests chiefly on 
 his tragedy of " Ignez de Castro," written after 
 the antique model, with a chorus of Coimbrian 
 women. The subject is the murder of Ignez 
 de Castro, the wife of Dom Pedro, whose story 
 is so beautifully told in the " Lusiad." In 
 point of time, this is the second regular drama in 
 modern literature ; the " Sofonisba " of Trissino 
 having appeared a few years earlier. Ferreira 
 composed also sonnets, epigrams, odes, poetical 
 epistles, and various other minor poems, togeth- 
 er with two comedies. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 O spirit pure, purer in realms above 
 Than whilst thou tarriedst in this vale of pain, 
 Why hast thou treated me with cold disdain, 
 Nor, as thou ought'st, returned my faithful love ? 
 Was it for this, thou hast so oft professed, — 
 And thee believing was my heart secure, — 
 That the same moment of death's night ob- 
 scure 
 Should lead us both to days of happy rest? 
 Ah, why, then, leave me thus imprisoned here? 
 And how didst thou alone thy course pursue, 
 My body lingering in existence drear 
 Without its soul? — Too clear the reason true ! — 
 Thy virtues rare the glorious palm obtain, 
 While I, unworthy, sorrowful remain. 
 
 To thy clear streams, Mondego, I return 
 With renovated life and eyes now clear. 
 How fruitless in thy waters fell the tear, 
 When Love's delirium did with me sojourn, — 
 When I, with face betraying anguish deep, 
 And hollow voice, 3nd unsuspecting ear, 
 Knew not the danger of the mountain steep 
 Whereon I stood, — of which my soul with 
 
 fear 
 The memory chills ! Seducing wiles of Love ! 
 'Neath what vain shadows did you hide my 
 
 fate, — 
 Shadows that swiftly passed the happier state 
 Which now this breast enjoys ! Now peace I 
 
 prove ; 
 For smiling day succeeds the clouds of night, 
 An A sweet repose, and joys, and prospects 
 
 bright. 
 
 FROM THE TRAGEDY OF IGNEZ DE CASTRO. 
 
 SEMI-CHORUS. 
 When first young Love was born, 
 Earth was with life imbued ; 
 The sun acquired his beams, the stars their light 
 Heaven shone in Nature's morn ; 
 And, by the light subdued, 
 Darkness revealed long-hidden charms to sight; 
 And she, the rosy-hued, 
 Who rules heaven's fairest sphere, 
 Daughter of Ocean rude, — 
 She to the world gave Love, her offspring dear 
 
 'T is Love adorns our earth 
 With verdure and soft dews ; 
 With colors decks the flowers, with leaves the 
 groves ; 
 Turns war to peace and mirth ; 
 O'er harshness softness strews; 
 And melts a thousand hates in thousand loves 
 Incessant he renews 
 The lives stern Death consumes, 
 And gives the brilliant hues 
 In which earth's beauteous picture ever blooms 
 
 The raging of his flames 
 'T were cowardice to fear ; 
 For Love is soft and tender as a child. 
 His rage entreaty tames; 
 And passion's starting tear 
 He kisses from the eyes, tenderly mild. 
 Within his quiver hear 
 The golden arrows ring ; 
 They deadly shafts appear; 
 But love-fraught, love-impelled, their flight they 
 wing. 
 
 Love sounds in every lay, 
 In every tuneful choir; 
 Tempestuous winds are lulled by his sweet voice; 
 Sorrow is chased away ; 
 And in his genial fire 
 The limpid streams, the hills and vales rejoice. 
 Love's own harmonious lyre 
 In heaven is heard to sound ; 
 And whilst his flames inspire 
 Thy heart, thou, Castro, by Love's God art 
 crowned. 
 
 SECOND SEMI-CHORUS. 
 
 Rather, a tyrant blind, 
 Forged by the poet's brain ; 
 Desire, deceit unkind, 
 Offspring of idleness, god of the vain ; 
 The never-failing bane 
 
 Of all high thoughts inspire. 
 His arrows, tipped with fire, 
 Madly he hurls around: 
 Apollo, Mars, groan with the scorching wound. 
 
 Aloft in air he flies, 
 And the earth burns below ; 
 
 His deadly shafts he plies, 
 And, when he misses, causes bitterest woe 
 He glories foe with foe 
 
FERREIRA. 
 
 749 
 
 In passion's chaini to bind ; 
 And those by Fate designed 
 For union, those he parts : 
 Unsated he with tears, blood, breaking hearts. 
 
 Into the tender breast 
 Of chastely blushing maid, 
 As time and chance suggest, 
 He 'II steal, or furiously her heart invade. 
 The fire, by reason's aid 
 Extinguished, will revive; 
 In cold blood, scarce alive, 
 In age's snows will blaze, 
 Kindling the inmost soul with beauty's rays. 
 
 From thence the venom streams 
 Through the erst healthy frame : 
 The slumbering spirit dreams 
 In self-delusion, weaving webs of flame. 
 Then disappear chaste shame 
 And generous constancy ; 
 Then death and misery 
 Enter in softness' guise, 
 The heart is hardened, and the reason dies. 
 
 From great Alcides' hand 
 Who snatched the iron mace, 
 At foot of maiden bland 
 Marking the lion-conqueror's maid-like place ? 
 The spoils of that dread chase 
 Who turned to delicate 
 Attire of female state; 
 And fingers, wont to hurl 
 War's weapons round, the distaff forced to twirl ? 
 
 What other fire consumed 
 The glories of old Troy? 
 
 Or Spain, the mighty, doomed 
 To groan beneath a paynim yoke's annoy? 
 A blind and wanton boy 
 
 The noblest minds o'erthrew, 
 Mangled, and maimed, and slew; 
 Triumphing over lives and blood, 
 The prey of appetite's remorseless mood. 
 
 Blest, O, how wondrous blest, 
 Who 'gainst the fatal dart 
 
 Has known to guard his breast, 
 Or quench the flames whilst kindling in his 
 heart ! 
 Such grace doth Heaven impart 
 But to a favored fa,w. 
 Vain joys, that quickly flew, 
 Thousands with tears lament, 
 And their submission to Love's power repent. 
 
 DOM PEDRO S LAMENT. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 O, heavy tidings! — A sad messenger, 
 My lord, thou seest. 
 
 DOM PEDRO. 
 
 What tidings bring'st thou ? 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 Tidings 
 
 So cruel, that, in bearing them, myself 
 
 Towards thee am cruel. But first calm thy spirit, 
 
 And in it fashion of calamities 
 
 The worst that could befall. A soul thus armed 
 
 Is the best remedy against ill fortune. 
 
 DOM PEDRO. 
 
 Thou hold'st me in suspense. I pray thee, speak ! 
 Procrastination aggravates the ill. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 That Dona Ignez, thou so lov'st, is dead ! 
 
 O God! 
 
 DOM PEDRO. 
 
 O Heavens ! What say'st thou ? 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 By a death 
 
 So cruel, to relate it were fresh sorrow. 
 
 DOM PEDRO. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 Is dead ? 
 She is. 
 
 DOM PEDRO. 
 
 Who murdered her? 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 This day, 
 
 Thy father with armed followers surprised her. 
 
 Secure in innocence, she did not fly; 
 
 But naught availed her, nor her love for thee, 
 
 Nor yet thy sons, in whom she sought defence, 
 
 No, nor the innocence and piety 
 
 With which, down falling at thy father's feet, 
 
 So forcefully for pardon she entreated, 
 
 That weeping he pronounced it. But even then 
 
 His cruel ministers and counsellors 
 
 Against a pardon so well merifed 
 
 Unsheathed their swords, and plunged them in 
 
 her breast. 
 They murdered her as she embraced her babes, 
 Who there remained discolored with her blood. 
 
 DOM PEDRO. 
 
 What should I say? what do? what shriek or 
 
 groan ? 
 O fortune ! O barbarity ! O grief ! 
 
 mine own Dona Ignez ! O my soul ! 
 
 And art thou slain ? Hath death the audacity 
 To touch thee ? Do I hear it, and survive ? 
 
 1 live, and thou art dead ! O cruel death ! 
 My life thou 'st slain, and jet I am not dead ! 
 Open, thou earth, and swallow me at once ! 
 Burst, burst away, my soul, from this evil body. 
 Whose weight by force detains thee ! 
 
 O mine own Dona Ignez ! O my soul ! 
 
 My love, my passion, my desire, my care, 
 
 Mine only hope, my joy, and art thou murdered ' 
 
 They 've murdered thee ! Thy soul, so innocent 
 
 So beautiful, so humble, and so holy, 
 
 Has left its home ! Thy blood has drenched 
 
 their swords ! 
 Thy blood ! What cruel swords ! What cruel 
 
 hands! 
 
 3k* 
 
/50 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 How could they move against thee? Those 
 
 hard weapons, 
 How had they strength or edge, turned against 
 
 thee ? 
 How, cruel king, couldst thou allow the deed? 
 Mine enemy, — not father, — enemy! 
 Wherefore thus murder me ? Ye savage lions, 
 Ye tigers, serpents! why, if for my blood 
 Athirst, glutted ye not on me your rage? 
 Me had you slain, I might survive. Barbarians, 
 Wherefore not murder me? If wronged by me, 
 Mine enemies, why not on me revenge 
 Your wrongs? She had not wronged you, that 
 
 meek lamb, 
 Innocent, beautiful, sincere, and chaste; 
 But you, as rancorous enemies, would slay me, — 
 Not in my life, but soul. Ye heavens, that saw 
 Such monstrous cruelty, how fell ye not? 
 Ye mountains of Coimbra, 'neath your rocks 
 Why overwhelmed ye not such ministers? 
 Why trembles not the earth? why opens not? 
 Wherefore supports it such barbarity ? 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 My lord, for weeping there is ample leisure ; 
 But what can tears 'gainst death ? I pray thee, 
 
 now, 
 Visit the corse, and render it due honors. 
 
 DOM PEDRO. 
 
 Sad honors! Other honors, lady mine, 
 I had in store for thee, — honors thy due! 
 
 How look upon those eyes, for ever closed ? 
 Upon those tresses, now not gold, but blood? 
 Upon those hands, so cold and livid now, 
 That used to be so white and delicate? 
 On that fair bosom, pierced with cruel wounds? 
 Upon that form, so often in mine arms 
 Clasped living, beautiful, now dead and cold? 
 How shall I see the pledges of our loves? 
 
 cruel father, didst thou not in them 
 Behold thy son? Thou hear'st not, my be- 
 loved ! 
 
 1 ne'er shall see thee more ! throughout the 
 
 world 
 Shall never find thee! — Weep my griefs with 
 
 me, 
 All you who hear me! Weep with me, ye 
 
 rocks, 
 Since in men's hearts dwells such barbarity! 
 And thou, Coimbra, shroud thyself for ever 
 In melancholy ! Ne'er within thy walls 
 Be laughter heard, or aught save tears and sighs ! 
 Be thy Mondego's waters changed to blood ! 
 Withered thy trees, thy flowers ! Help me to 
 
 call 
 Upon Heaven's justice to avenge my woes ! — 
 I slew thee, lady mine ! 'T was I destroyed 
 
 thee! 
 With death I recompensed thy tenderness! 
 But far more cruelly than thee they slew 
 Will I destroy myself, if I avenge not 
 Thy murder with unheard-of cruelties ! 
 For this alone does God prolong my life ! 
 
 With mine own hands their breasts I '11 open ; 
 
 thence 
 I '11 tear out the ferocious hearts that durst 
 Conceive such cruelty : then let them die ! 
 Thee, too, I '11 persecute, thou king, my foe ! 
 Quickly shall wasting fires work ravages 
 Amidst thy friends, thy kingdom ! Thy slain 
 
 friends 
 Shall look on others' deaths, whose blood shall 
 
 drown 
 The plains, with whose blood shall the rivers 
 
 stream, 
 For hers in retribution ! Slay me thou, 
 Or fly my rage ! No longer as my father 
 Do I acknowledge thee ! Thine enemy 
 I call myself, — thine enemy ! My father 
 Thou 'rt not, — I 'm no son, — I'man enemy !- 
 Thou, Ignez, art in heaven ! I remain 
 Till I 've revenged thee ; then I there rejoin 
 
 thee ! 
 Here shalt thou be a queen, as was thy due ; 
 Thy sons shall, only as thy sons, be princes; 
 Thine innocent body shall in royal state 
 Be placed on high ! Thy tenderness shall be 
 Mine indivisible associate, 
 Until I leave with thine my weary body, 
 And my soul hastes to rest with thine for ever! 
 
 PEDRO DE ANDRADE CAMINHA. 
 
 This poet was a native of Oporto. His 
 family came originally from Castile. He was 
 the friend of Ferreira and Bernardes. He held 
 the post of Gentleman of the Chamber to Dom 
 Duarte, brother of King Joao III., and after- 
 wards enjoyed the favor of Sebastian. Camin- 
 ha was not a poet of a high order of genius, 
 but his style is elegant and correct. He has 
 been called the Fontenelle of Portuguese litera- 
 ture. 
 
 Caminha died in 1594, at Villa Vicosa; but 
 his works were not collected and printed until 
 1791. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 With equal force should sweep the poet's lyre 
 As filled the spirits of those sons of fame 
 Whose valorous deeds secured the world's ac- 
 claim. • 
 The hero's ardor and the warrior's fire 
 Should in the cadence of his measures gleam: 
 Harmonious sounds, unknown in vulgar song, 
 Justly to deeds of bold emprise belong, 
 When such brave actions form the poet's theme 
 Full well thy lay, Jeronimo, portrays 
 In lively tints, revealing to the eye, 
 The achievements grand which bear thy Muse's 
 
 praise ; 
 And for that praise, from all who can descry 
 The beauties of thy verse and feel its power, 
 Is due the approving meed, the bard's immortal 
 dower. 
 
BERNARDES. 
 
 751 
 
 DIOGO BERNARDES. 
 
 Diogo Bernardes, who has been pronounced 
 by Mr. Southey one of the best Portuguese poets, 
 was born at Ponte de Barca, on the river Lima, 
 in the province of Entre Douro e Minho. He 
 was secretary of the embassy to Spain, and 
 afterwards accompanied Sebastian in his expe- 
 dition for the conquest of Africa. He was 
 made prisoner in the disastrous battle of Alca- 
 zar, remained some time in captivity, and 
 wrote several pieces describing his misfortunes. 
 Though he had encouraged Sebastian in the 
 rash enterprise, he complained bitterly of the 
 king's folly, when he himself had to share in its 
 consequences. After obtaining his liberty, he 
 returned to Lisbon, where he died in 1596. 
 
 The character of Bernardes has suffered from 
 a charge of plagiarism that has been sometimes 
 brought against him. He is accused of having 
 printed several of Camoens's sonnets as his own. 
 Upon this, Mr. Southey remarks, in his Notes 
 to "Roderick": — "To obtain any proofs upon 
 this subject would be very difficult; this, how- 
 ever, is certain, that his own undisputed pro- 
 ductions resemble them so closely, in unaffected 
 tenderness and in sweetness of diction, that the 
 whole appear like the works of one author." 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 O Lima ! thou that in this valley's sweep 
 Now murmuring glid'st, with soothing sounds, 
 
 the while 
 That western skies obscure Sol's gilded smile, 
 Luring the neighbours of thy stream to sleep: 
 I, now lovelorn, of other sounds than thine 
 Catch but the whispers as thy waters flow, 
 And, in the loved one's absence sunk in woe, 
 Increase thy wave with gushing tears of mine. 
 And whilst meandering gently to the sea, 
 Seerneth, methinks, — so sweet the moan thou 
 
 makest, — 
 That thou a share in all my griefs partakest : 
 Yet I 'm deceived; thou but complain'st of me, 
 That the intrusion of my faljing tear 
 Should break the surface of thy waters clear. 
 
 if thee, my friend, should Love, of nature kind, 
 Like to a tyrant treat, and e'er impose 
 Upon thee, blameless, all his host of woes, — 
 And well thy mien betrays what now thy mind 
 In sorrow feels, — contented suffer all 
 The cruel pangs which she thou lov'st ordains; 
 For gentle calm succeeds the direful squall, 
 And gilded mornings follow nights' dark reigns. 
 As well I hope, when these thy torments end, 
 Thou 'It gather the sweet fruit of all thy toil ; 
 Then dear will be the memory of the past: 
 And e'en should fate thine ardent wishes foil, — 
 For the loved cause that did thy bloom o'er- 
 
 cast, 
 Pride shouldst thou in the tears which thou 
 
 didst so misspend. 
 
 Since, now that Lusitania's king benign, 
 To wage thy battle, Christ, to arms resorts, 
 And high aloft — his guide — the standard sports., 
 Bearing the picture of thy death divine : 
 What, Afric, canst thou hope, but by such host 
 To see thyself o'erwhehned ; e'en could that 
 
 chief, 
 Thy Hannibal, and other warriors lost, 
 Come to thy succour and attempt relief? 
 Wouldst thou avert a desolation new, 
 Such as thy Carthage still in memory bears, 
 Then bow submissive, where no chance appears ; 
 Accept Sebastian's sway, — God's ordinance 
 
 true : 
 If Lusian valor ne'er was known to quail, 
 With such a king and God how must its force 
 
 prevail ! 
 
 FROM THE FIRST ECLOGUE. 
 
 SERRANO. 
 
 O bright Adonis ! brightest of our train ! 
 For thee our mountain pastures greenest 
 sprung, 
 Transparent fountains watered every plain, 
 And lavish Nature poured, as once when 
 young, 
 Spontaneous fruits, that asked no fostering care; 
 With thee our flocks from dangers wandered 
 free 
 Along the hills, nor did the fierce wolf dare 
 To snatch by stealth thy timorous charge from 
 thee. 
 
 STLVIO. 
 
 Come, pour with me your never-ceasing tears ! 
 
 Come, every nation, join our sad lament 
 For woes that fill our souls with pains and fears ; 
 
 Woes, at which savage nations might relent ! 
 
 SERRANO. 
 
 Let every living thing that walks the earth, 
 Or wings the heavens, or sails the oozy deep, 
 
 Unite their sighs to ours ! Adieu to mirth ! 
 Pleasures, and joys, adieu ! for we must weep. 
 
 SYLVIO. 
 
 O ill-starred day ! O day that brought our woe, 
 
 Sacred to grief! that saw those bright eyes 
 
 close, 
 
 And Death's cold hand from the unsullied snow 
 
 Of thy fair cheek pluck forth the blooming 
 
 rose ! 
 
 SERRANO. 
 
 Faint and more faint, the tender colors died, 
 Like the sweet lily of the summer day, — 
 
 Found by the ploughshare in its fragrant pride, 
 And torn, unsparing, from its stern away. 
 
 FROM THE ECLOGUE OF MARILIA. 
 
 How sweetly 'midst these hazel-bushes rose 
 E'en now the nightingale's melodious lay, 
 Whilst the unhappy Phyllis mourned her woes! 
 
 I came to drive my lambs, idly that stray, 
 From yonder wheat, and caught, as I drew near, 
 Either's last cadence, ere both fled away. 
 
752 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 Sad Phyllis cried, "Alas! " in tone so drear, 
 So inly felt, that sorrow's voice I knew, 
 And my heart bled such suffering to hear: 
 
 Complaining thus, she mournfully withdrew; 
 The bird flew off, and my regrets are vain. 
 
 " Those nymphs who from their bosoms Love 
 exclude 
 Are happy, — O, how enviable their state! 
 How wretched those whose hearts he has sub- 
 dued ! 
 
 " How often do they vainly call on Fate ! 
 How often cruel Love invoke, and wail, 
 And lavish sighs and tears on an ingrafce ! 
 
 " Vainly their eyes disclose the tender tale 
 Of a lost heart. In us, foredoomed to grief, 
 Beauty and grace, alas! of what avail? 
 
 " If we 're disdained, 't is sorrow past relief; 
 In which if curelessly the heart must pine, 
 The term of life and suffering will be brief. 
 
 " I loved thee holily as the chaste dove : 
 If other thoughts within thy bosom dwell, 
 Thine own heart must that wrongful thought 
 reprove. 
 
 " But wherefore do I here my sorrows tell, 
 Where Echo only to my sad lament 
 Can answer, and not he I love so well? 
 
 " Across these mountains since his course he 
 bent, 
 Never again revisiting our plains, 
 By what dark jealousies my heart is rent ! 
 
 " So little room for hope to me remains, 
 Despair were haply lesser misery : 
 But Love resists despair, and Love still reigns." 
 
 FRA AGOSTINHO DA CRUZ. 
 
 This religious poet was the brother of Diogo 
 Bernardes, and took the name of Da Cruz, from 
 the convent of Santa Cruz, where he served his 
 novitiate. He was born in 1540, and early 
 manifested the devotional and pious feelings 
 which led him to consecrate his life to religion. 
 The order to which he joined himself was one 
 of the most austere in Portugal ; but, not satisfied 
 with the ordinary rigors of ascetic life, he ob- 
 tained permission to retire and become a hermit 
 on the Serra de Arrabida. Here he took up his 
 abode in a small hut, and lived until 1619; 
 when, being attacked by a fever, he was carried 
 to a hospital at Setubal, and died there, May 14 
 of the same year. 
 
 The works of Fra Agostinho, entitled " Va- 
 rias Poesias," consisting of sonnets, eclogues, 
 and elegies, were published at Lisbon, in 1771. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 TO HIS SORROWFUL STATE. 
 
 Of lively spring this vale displays the charms; 
 The birds here sing, and plants and flowers are 
 seen 
 
 With joy to deck the fields; the ivy green 
 Around the loftiest laurel twines its arms. 
 Calm is the sea, and from the river's flow, 
 Now gently ebbing, asks a smaller due, — 
 Whilst loveliest dawnings waken to the view: 
 But not for me, who ne'er a change must know. 
 In tears I fearful wait my coming fate, 
 And mourn the memory of my former state, 
 And naught have I to lose, nor aught to hope. 
 Useless to him a change, for whom nor joy 
 Nor pleasure may his future time employ, 
 Whose sorrows can admit no wider scope. 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER, DIOGO BERNARDES. 
 
 Of Lima, whence I bent my pilgrim way 
 In this lone mount my sepulchre to make, 
 I may not to the beauties tune my lay ; 
 For thoughts would rise which I should now 
 
 forsake. 
 The humble garb of wool about me bound, 
 Formed to no fashion but a lowly vest, 
 And feet which naked tread the stony ground, 
 From worldly converse long have closed my 
 
 breast. 
 The gaysome throng, who loudly laud thy name, 
 Seeing thy gentle Lima 'neath the care 
 Of one, a noble prince and monarch's heir, 
 The more thou writ'st, the more will sound thy 
 
 fame. 
 Brother, though I on thee less praise bestow, 
 Jointly let ours to God eternal flow ! 
 
 FERNAO ALVARES DO ORIENTE. 
 
 This poet was born about the middle of the 
 sixteenth century, in Goa. He is supposed to 
 have passed his life in the Portuguese posses- 
 sions in India, and never to have visited Portu- 
 gal. He bore arms under the command of 
 Fernao Tellez, in an expedition undertaken by 
 that officer to the North. He lived until after 
 1607. His principal work is a pastoral, partly 
 in prose and partly in verse, entitled " Lusitania 
 Transformada." 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Placed in the spangled sky, with visage bright, 
 The full-orbed moon her radiant beams displays ; 
 But 'neath the vivid sun's more splendid rays 
 Sink all her charms, and fades her lovely light'. 
 Spring with the rose and flowers adorns the 
 
 field, 
 Yet they are doomed to doff their gay attire ; — 
 The murmuring fountain to Sol's parching fire, 
 The sparkling stream from rock distilled, must 
 
 yield. 
 And he who founds on earth his hopes of ease 
 III knows the order which this earth obeys: 
 Nor sky, nor sun, nor moon, a lasting peace 
 Enjoy, but ever change; and so the days 
 Of man precarious are, that, though he seem 
 To flourish long, yet falls the fabric like a dream 
 
LOBO. — FARIA E SOUZA.-DO CEO. 
 
 753 
 
 FRANCISCO RODRIGUEZ LOBO. 
 
 This poet, who has been called the Portu- 
 guese Theocritus, was born about 1550, at 
 Leiria, in Portuguese Estremadura. He was 
 distinguished while yet at the University. But 
 little is known of his life. He is said to have 
 travelled ; but he passed the greater portion of 
 his time in the country, occupied with study. 
 He was drowned in attempting to cross the 
 Tagus, which he had so often celebrated in his 
 writings. 
 
 As a poet, Lobo has been ranked next to Saa 
 de Miranda and Camoens. He was a scholar of 
 great erudition, and the services he rendered to 
 the Portuguese language and style make an era 
 in that literature. His principal prose work is 
 the " Corte na Aldea, e Noites de Inverno " 
 (the Court in the Country, and Winter Nights). 
 He also wrote pastoral romances, in which were 
 introduced sonnets, songs, redondilhas, &c, of 
 great beauty; and an epic poem, entitled, "O 
 Condestable de Portugal," in which .he chron- 
 icled, in twenty mortal cantos, the exploits of 
 Nuno Alvares Pereyra, the renowned constable 
 of Portugal. He also composed a hundred ro- 
 mances, or occasional poems, the greater portion 
 of which are in the Spanish language. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Waters, which, pendent from your airy height, 
 Dash on the heedless rocks and stones below, 
 Whilst in your white uplifted foam ye show, 
 Though vexed yourselves, your beauties much 
 
 more bright, — 
 Why, as ye know that changeless is their doom, 
 Do ye, if weary, strive against them still ? 
 Year after year, as ye your course fulfil, 
 Ye find them rugged nor less hard become. 
 Return ye back unto the leafy grove, 
 Through which your way ye may at pleasure 
 
 roam, 
 Until ye reach at last your longed-for home. 
 How hid in mystery are the ways of Love ! 
 Ye, if ye wished, yet could not wander free: — 
 Freedom, in my lorn state, is valueless to me. 
 
 How, lovely Tagus, different to our view 
 Our past and present states do now appear! 
 Muddy the stream, which I have seen so clear, — 
 And sad the breast, which you contented knew. 
 Thy banks o'erflowed, through unresisting plains 
 Thy waters stray, by fitful tempests driven, — 
 Lost is to me the object which had given 
 A life of pleasures or a life of pains. 
 As thus our sorrows such resemblance bear, 
 May we of joy an equal cup partake ! 
 But, ah, what favoring power to me can make 
 Our fates alike? — for spring, with soothing air, 
 Shall to its former state thy stream restore ; 
 Whilst hid if I again may be as heretofore. 
 95 
 
 MANOEL DE FARIA E SOUZA. 
 
 This voluminous author, whose writings be- 
 long more to Spanish than to Portuguese litera- 
 ture, was born in 1590. At the age of fifteen, 
 he was appointed secretary by one of his rela- 
 tions who held an office, and he soon displayed 
 a remarkable capacity for business. Not having, 
 however, obtained an appointment commensu- 
 rate with his desires, he left his native country 
 and went to Madrid. He was appointed to a 
 place in the embassy to Rome ; but on his return 
 to Madrid, withdrew from public affairs and de- 
 voted himself to literature. He boasted that he 
 filled every day twelve sheets of paper, each 
 page containing thirty lines. He died in 1649. 
 
 Souza's historical works were written in Span- 
 ish ; the greater part of his poems are also in that 
 language. In Portuguese he wrote only sonnets 
 and eclogues. Some of the sonnets are of great 
 beauty, but most of them abound in conceits, 
 and extravagant figures of speech. He is also 
 known in literature as the author of several 
 critical treatises. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Now past for me are April's maddening hours, 
 Whose freshness feeds the vanity of youth ; 
 A spring so utterly devoid of truth, 
 Whose fruit is error, and deceit whose flowers. 
 Gone, too, for me, is summer's sultry time, 
 When idly, reasonless, I sowed those seeds 
 Yielding to manhood charms, now provirg 
 
 weeds, 
 With gaudy colors, poisoning as they climb. 
 And well I fancy that they both are flown, 
 And that beyond their tyrant reach I 'm placed ; 
 But yet I know not if I yet must taste 
 Their vain attacks : my thoughts still make me 
 
 own, 
 That fruits of weeds deceitful do not die, 
 When feelings sober not as years pass by. 
 
 VIOLANTE DO CEO. 
 
 This poetess, who has been somewhat ex- 
 travagantly called the Tenth Muse of Portu- 
 gal, was born at Lisbon, in 1601. At the age of 
 eighteen, she wrote a comedy in verse. She is 
 said to have been a good singer and perforrnei 
 on the harp. Afterwards she devoted herself 
 to a religious life, and entered a cloister. She 
 lived to the age of ninety-two, dying in 1693. 
 
 Violante do Ceo wrote in Portuguese and 
 Spanish. Her poems were not collected until 
 after her death. Her writings are marked by 
 the characteristic faults of her age. They are 
 full of far-fetched antitheses, conceits, and, in 
 general, of the affectations of the Gdngora and 
 Marini schools. 
 
754 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 SONNET. 
 Thou, who amidst the world's alluring toil 
 Liv'st joyous, and neglectful of thy state, — 
 Take here a warning, ere it be too late, 
 Which thy expected conquests all should foil. 
 Ponder; again to earth resigned the trust, 
 Lies one whose beauty bore the praise of all; — 
 Think that whate'erhas life is naught but dust, — 
 That thy existence, too, is less than small. 
 Let this my tomb instruct, — Death comes, and 
 
 then 
 E'en beauty bows before his rigorous power; 
 And skill avails not to avert the hour, 
 To all appointed, but uncertain when. 
 Live as thou ought'st; be mindful that thy fate 
 Is fixed, — although unknown if soon or late. 
 
 WHILE TO BETHLEM WE ARE GOING. 
 
 "While to Bethlem we are going, 
 Tell me, Bias, to cheer the road, 
 
 Tell me why this lovely infant 
 Quitted his divine abode." 
 
 " From that world to bring to this 
 Peace, which, of all earthly blisses, 
 
 Is the brightest, purest bliss." 
 
 " Wherefore from his throne exalted 
 Came he on this earth to dwell, — 
 
 All his pomp a humble manger, 
 All his court a narrow cell ? " 
 
 "From that world to bring to this 
 Peace, which, of all earthly blisses, 
 
 Is the brightest, purest bliss." 
 
 " W'hy did he, the Lord Eternal, 
 Mortal pilgrim deign to be, — 
 
 He who fashioned for his glory 
 Boundless immortality ? " 
 
 " From that world to bring to this 
 Peace, which, of all earthly blisses 
 
 Is the brightest, purest bliss." 
 
 Well, then, let us haste to Bethlem, — 
 Thither let us haste and rest: 
 
 For, of all Heaven's gifts, the sweetest, 
 Sure, is peace, — the sweetest, best. 
 
 NIGHT OF MARVELS. 
 
 In such a marvellous night, so fair, 
 And full of wonder strange and new, 
 
 Ye shepherds of the vale, declare, 
 
 Who saw the greatest wonder? Who? 
 
 FIRST. 
 
 I saw the trembling fire look wan. 
 
 SECOND. 
 
 I saw the sun shed tears of blood. 
 
 THIRD. 
 
 I saw a God become a man. 
 
 FOURTH. 
 
 I saw a man become a God. 
 
 O wondrous marvels ! at the thought, 
 The bosom's awe and reverence move. 
 
 But who such prodigies has wrought? 
 
 What gave such wonders birth ? 'T waE 
 love ! 
 
 What called from heaven that flame divine 
 Which streams in glory from above ; 
 
 And bid it o'er earth's bosom shine, 
 
 And bless us with its brightness? Love I 
 
 Who bid the glorious sun arrest 
 
 His course, and o'er heaven's concave move 
 In tears, — the saddest, loneliest, 
 
 Of the celestial orbs? 'T was love ' 
 
 Who raised the human race so high, 
 
 E'en to the starry seats above, 
 That, for our mortal progeny, 
 
 A man became a God? 'T was love I 
 
 Who humbled from the seats of light 
 Their Lord, all human woes to prove ; 
 
 Led the great source of day to night; 
 
 And made of God a man? 'T was love 
 
 Yes ! love has wrought, and love alone, 
 The victories all, — beneath, above; 
 
 And earth and heaven shall shout, as one. 
 The all-triumphant song of love. 
 
 The song through all heaven's arches ran, 
 And told the wondrous tales aloud : 
 
 The trembling fire that looked so wan, — 
 The weeping sun behind the cloud, — 
 
 A God — a God — become a man ! — 
 
 A mortal man become a God ! 
 
 ANTONIO BARBOSA BACELLAR. 
 
 Antonio Barbosa Bacellar was born at 
 Lisbon, about 1610. He gave early manifesta- 
 tions of talent, and acquired in his youth a 
 knowledge of several sciences and languages. 
 He was particularly noted for the excellence of 
 his memory. He wrote with equal facility in 
 Spanish and Portuguese. He studied the law 
 at Coimbra, went afterwards to Lisbon, and 
 was appointed to several high judicial stations 
 in succession. He died at Lisbon, in 1663. 
 
 Bacellar was an admirer and imitator of Ca- 
 moens. His works, having long remained in 
 manuscript, were published in 1716, in a col- 
 lection entitled " A Fenix Renascida, ou Obras 
 Poeticas dos melhores engenhos Portugueses." 
 He wrote many poems, called Saudades, or 
 Complaints in Solitude. 
 
 SONNET. 
 Gay, gentle bird ! thou pour'st forth sweetest 
 
 strains, 
 Although a captive, yet as thou wert free ; 
 Like Orpheus singing to the winds with glee, 
 And as of old Amphion charmed the plains. 
 
B A CELLAR. — V AS CONCELLO S COUTINHO. — GARCAO. 
 
 Near where the brooklet's cooling waters lave 
 The meads around, the traitorous snare was laid, 
 Which thee, unconscious of thy lot, betrayed, 
 And to thy free enjoyment fetters gave. 
 Just so with me, — my liberty I lost; — 
 For Love, in ambush of soft beaming eyes, 
 
 Seized on my heart, and I became his prize. 
 Yetliv'st thou gladsome, — whilst, with sorrow 
 
 crossed, 
 I linger sad. How different do we bear 
 The chains which Fate has fixed that we alike 
 
 must wear ! 
 
 THIRD PERIOD.— FROM 1700 TO 1844, 
 
 FRANCISCO DE VASCONCELLOS COU- 
 TINHO. 
 
 This poet was born at Funchal, in Madeira. 
 He belongs to the last part of the seventeenth, 
 and the beginning of the eighteenth century. 
 He studied at the University of Coimbra, and 
 took the degree of Bachelor of Canon Law. 
 His writings are less infected with extravagant 
 mannerisms than those of most of his contem- 
 poraries. He wrote a poem on the story of 
 Polyphemus and Galatea. Many of his sonnets 
 were published in "A Fenix Renascida." 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 To tell of sorrows doth the pangs increase, 
 While silence dulls such feelings as oppress; 
 So, if remembrance doubles loss of peace, 
 The man- who stifles thought will suffer less 
 Silence may still the memory of pain, — 
 Thus grief may be divested of its sting; 
 But if of woe the image back we bring, 
 The wounds of sorrow become green again. 
 If memory thus augments the force of woes, 
 He, who that memory wakes, the more will feel 
 Than he who puts upon his tongue the seal. 
 In silence sorrows ofttimes find repose; 
 While he, whose feelings will not brook restraint, 
 Renews his sorrows when he makes complaint. 
 
 O thoughtless bird, that thus, with carol 
 
 sweet, 
 From airy bough pour'st forth thy joyous tale, 
 Regardless of the ills which may assail, 
 When thou art absent from thy lone retreat ! 
 Fly, quickly haste, — give heed, while I protest, 
 If still thou tarriest here, that, sunk in woe, 
 Thy tears eternally are doomed to flow, 
 And wail thy young ones stolen, and spoiled thy 
 
 nest. 
 Ah, let my griefs thy slumbering feelings wake ! 
 For I, while absent, trusting all to Fate, 
 Lost the reward which I had sought to gain. 
 Why dost thou yet delay, nor counsel take ? 
 Soon by thy loss convinced, thou 'It mourn too 
 
 late, 
 Though happy now thou pour'st thy lively strain. 
 
 TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Nature's sweet enchanter ! Flower of Song! 
 E'en joyous seem the notes you sing of grief, — 
 Those plaintive strains afford to you relief; 
 Whilst weepings still my hapless loves prolong. 
 For mine 's the grief that must in patience wait, 
 While you your sorrows tell to whom you love ; 
 You hope each hour some happy bliss to prove, 
 While I each moment dread disastrous fate. 
 We both now suffer from Love's tyrant sway; 
 But cruel, ah, my lot, compared with thine ! 
 
 'T is I whom reason teaches to repine, 
 But thou unconscious pourest forth thy lay; 
 Thou sing'st of sorrows which do now assail, 
 
 1 present ills and those I fear bewail. 
 
 PEDRO ANTONIO CORREA GARCAO. 
 
 This poet is noted in the literary history of 
 Portugal for his instrumentality in the formation 
 of the Portuguese Arcadian Society, which was 
 established about 1756. He belongs, therefore, 
 to the middle and latter part of the eighteenth 
 century. He formed his style on the model of 
 Horace, and, since Ferreira, no writer had ap- 
 proached so near the ancient prototype, so that 
 he was called the Second Portuguese Horace. 
 He even introduced into the Portuguese the 
 ancient metres. Besides lyric poems, he wrote 
 several plays, by which he endeavoured to form 
 a more correct dramatic taste than then prevailed 
 among his countrymen. Having given offence 
 to the government, which was at that time ad- 
 ministered by the rigid Pombal, he was thrown 
 into prison, where he died miserably. 
 
 The writings of Garijao are distinguished by 
 purity of language, delicacy of taste, and fine- 
 ness of tact. His "Cantata de Dido" is pro- 
 nounced by Almeida Garrett "one of the most 
 sublime conceptions of human genius, one of 
 the most perfect works executed by the hand of 
 man " ; a judgment far more patriotic than dis- 
 criminating. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 The gentle youth, who reads my hapless strain, 
 And ne'er hath felt the shafts of frenzied Love, 
 
756 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 Nor knows the anguish he is doomed to prove, 
 Whom vile deceit, when kept in beauty's chain, 
 Torments, — if than a stone less hard his heart, 
 Would fly the sad recital of my woes; 
 For faces firm the tale would discompose 
 Of Love's deceptions causing so much smart. 
 O, list, ye doomed to weep ! while I display 
 The drear and mournful scene in saddest plaint, 
 The scaffold base and platform's bloody way, — 
 Where, dragged to death, behold a martyred 
 
 saint ; — 
 And where to shameful pain unto your view 
 Love faithful and sincere condemned I show. 
 
 In Moorish galley chained, unhappy slave, 
 Poor, weary Corydon, with grief oppressed, 
 Upon his oar had crossed his hands in rest, 
 Tired by the breeze which roughly kissed the 
 
 wave. 
 What time he slept and fondly thought him free,— 
 Folded in sweet oblivion all his woes, — 
 The beauteous Lilia on his view arose, 
 Cleaving with snowy breast the rippled sea. 
 The wishing lover trembled, as he strove 
 To rise and meet the object of his love, 
 To greet the maid, and catch the fond embrace : 
 His cruel chains still fixed him to the place. 
 In vain amidst th<! crew he sought relief: 
 Each had to wai his own peculiar grief. 
 
 DIDO. — A CANTATA. 
 Already in the ruddy east shine white 
 The pregnant sails that speed the Trojan fleet: 
 Now wafted on the pinions of the wind, 
 They vanish 'midst the golden sea's blue waves. 
 
 The miserable Dido 
 Wanders loud shrieking through her regal halls, 
 With dim and turbid eyes seeking in vain 
 
 The fugitive iEneas. 
 Only deserted streets and lonesome squares 
 Her new-built Carthage offers to her gaze ; 
 And frightfully along the naked shore 
 The solitary billows roar i' th' night; 
 
 And 'midst the gilded vanes 
 
 Crowning the splendid domes 
 Nocturnal birds hoot their ill auguries. 
 
 In fancy now she hears, 
 
 Amazed, the ashes cold 
 Of dead Sichseus, from his marble tomb, 
 In feeble accents mixed with heavy sighs, 
 "Eliza ! mine Eliza ! " ceaseless call. 
 
 To the dread gods of hell 
 
 A solemn sacrifice 
 
 Prepares she ; but, dismayed, 
 Upon the incense-fuming altars sees 
 The sacred vases mantling with black scum, 
 
 And the libation wine 
 Transformed into abhorrent lakes of blood. 
 
 Deliriously she raves; 
 
 Pale is her beauteous face, 
 Her silken tresses all dishevelled stream, 
 And with uncertain foot, scarce conscious, she 
 
 That happy chamber seeks, 
 
 Where she with melting heart 
 Her faithless lover heard 
 Whisper impassioned sighs and soft complaints. 
 
 There the inhuman Fates before her sight, 
 Hung o'er the gilded nuptial couch, displayed 
 The Teucrian mantles, whose loose folds dis- 
 closed 
 The lustrous shield and the Dardanian sword. 
 She started; — suddenly, with hand convulsed, 
 From out the sheath the glittering blade she 
 
 snatched, 
 And on the tempered, penetrating steel 
 Her delicate, transparent bosom cast; 
 And murmuring, gushing, foaming, the warm 
 
 blood 
 Bursts in a fearful torrent from the wound ; 
 And, from the encrimsoned rushes spotted red, 
 Tremble the Doric columns of the hall. 
 
 Thrice she essayed to rise ; 
 Thrice fainting on the bed she prostrate fell, 
 And, writhing as she lay, to heaven upraised 
 
 Her quenched and failing eyes. 
 Then earnestly upon the lustrous mail 
 
 Of Ilium's fugitive 
 Fixing her look, she uttered these last words; 
 And hovering 'midst the golden vaulted roofs, 
 The tones, lugubrious and pitiful, 
 In after days were often heard to moan : — 
 
 " Ye precious memorials, 
 
 Dear source of delight, 
 
 Enrapturing my sight, 
 
 Whilst relentless Fate 
 
 Whilst the gods above, 
 
 Seemed to bless my love, 
 
 Of the wretched Dido 
 
 The spirit receive ! 
 
 From sorrows whose burden 
 
 Her strength overpowers 
 
 The lost one relieve ! 
 
 The hapless Dido 
 
 Not timelessly dies : 
 
 The walls of her Carthage, 
 
 Loved child of her care, 
 
 High towering rise. 
 
 Now a spirit bare, 
 
 She flies the sun's beam ; 
 
 And Phlegethon's dark 
 
 And horrible stream, 
 
 In Charon's foul bark, 
 
 She lonesomely ploughs." 
 
 DOMINGOS DOS REIS QUITA. 
 
 This poet, the son of a tradesman, was born 
 in 1717, at Lisbon. His father, being unfortu- 
 nate in business, left Portugal for America when 
 Domingos was only seven years old. For a 
 time, the family was supported humbly by the 
 remittances which Quita was able to send home 
 from America. But these at length failing 
 
QUITA.-DA COSTA. 
 
 757 
 
 Domingos was apprenticed to a hair-dresser, at 
 the age of thirteen. Having always been fond 
 of reading and poetry, he studied diligently the 
 works of Camoens and Lobo, and imitated the 
 best models in the language. His modesty was 
 so great that he did not venture to show his 
 verses to his friends as his own, but produced 
 them as the composition of a monk in the 
 Azores. His talent's became known to the 
 Conde de San Lourenco, whose patronage en- 
 abled him to acquire the Spanish, Italian, and 
 French languages; and he studied all the best 
 authors in them, and as many of the Latin, 
 German, and English, as were translated. He 
 was elected into the Portuguese Arcadia, a so- 
 ciety formed for the restoration of polite litera- 
 ture. The archbishop of Braga was desirous 
 of taking him into his household, but some 
 stupid bigot persuaded him that it would be un- 
 becoming to have a man of wit about his person, 
 and so the place was lost to the poet. The 
 marquis of Pombal, the great minister of Portu- 
 gal, proposed to reward him for his excellent 
 character and abilities; but some malignant in- 
 fluence interfered, and deprived him of the 
 statesman's favor. The earthquake of Lisbon 
 stripped him of the little he possessed ; but he 
 was kindly received into the house of Dona 
 Theresa Theodora de Aloim, the wife of a phy- 
 sician, named Balthazar Tara, and every atten- 
 tion was bestowed upon him by these affectionate 
 friends. He lived with them many years ; but 
 finally, from a sense of duty to his infirm and 
 aged mother, Domingos left the hospitable roof 
 of his benefactors, and took a house, that she 
 might reside with him. He removed to his 
 new home in 1770, but in a few weeks he was 
 seized with a severe illness, which ended his 
 life, in the fifty-third year of his age. 
 
 Domingos wrote eclogues, idyls, odes, son- 
 nets, and tragedies, one of which, founded on 
 the story of Ignez de Castro, has been translated 
 into English 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 The wretches, Love, who of thy laws complain, 
 And, bold, conspire against thy fixed decree, 
 Have never felt the pleasure of that chain 
 Whose sweet endearment binds my soul to thee. 
 Those callous breasts, unbending to thy sway, 
 Which ne'er have heaved with throbs of soft 
 
 desire, 
 Have never seen those fond allurements play 
 Which fill my heart with flames of living fire. 
 O, come, ye hapless railers ! come, and see 
 The bliss for which are raised my constant sighs, 
 And ye shall taste of Love the golden prize : — 
 But hold, ye railers ' hold ! — there must not be 
 A change in your hard fate, until those eyes 
 On their Alcino only shine with glee. 
 
 'T was on a time, — the sun's last glimmering ray 
 In ocean sunk, — that, sore by Fate dismayed, 
 
 Along the shore Alcino lovelorn strayed, 
 His woes the lone companions of his way ; 
 And o'er the vast expanse of waters drear 
 His eyes he cast, for there he found relief. 
 Whilst heaved his sighs, and fast the trickling tear 
 Paced his sad cheek, the youth thus told his 
 
 grief: 
 " Ye waves, transport the tears which now I 
 
 weep, — 
 Ye winds, upon your breezes waft my sighs 
 To where my fondest hopes of comfort sleep, 
 Where ye have borne the form of her I prize. 
 O, if ye can, have pity on my care; 
 Restore the bliss which ye removed so far ! " 
 
 Amidst the storms which chilling winter brings, 
 All horror seems, — the gladsome hours are past; 
 The laboring sky, with darkening clouds o'er- 
 
 cast, 
 In mingling wind and rain its fury flings ; 
 Spoiled of their mantles green, the meadows 
 
 mourn; 
 And headlong rushing o'er its bed, the stream 
 Its turbid course pursues. I equal deem 
 The gloom of nature and my state forlorn. 
 But winter's reign is o'er ; again the sky 
 Beams forth its lustre, and its crystal range 
 The river takes; no more the meadows sigh, 
 But smiling Nature greets the lovely change. 
 Not thus with me ; no rest these eyes may know 
 From tears of sadness, caused by ceaseless woe. 
 
 CLAUDIO MANOEL DA COSTA. 
 
 This poet flourished about the middle of the 
 eighteenth century. He was born in Brazil, in 
 the province of Minas Geraes, where the princi- 
 pal occupation is the working of the mines. He 
 spent five years at the University ofCoimbra. 
 While there, he applied himself to the study of 
 the older Italian poets, and composed sonnets in 
 imitation of Petrarch, in the Italian language. 
 On his return to Brazil, he continued his poetic 
 studies. He wrote sonnets, elegies, eclogues, 
 imitations of the Italian canzoni, and various 
 other lyrical pieces. 
 
 The style of this poet, unlike the literary fash- 
 ion of his day, is free from exaggeration and 
 affectation : his language is simple and elegant, 
 and some of his sonnets have been ranked 
 among the best in Portuguese literature. His 
 works were published at Coimbra, in 1768. 
 
 SONNET. 
 Short were the hours which were so gayly 
 
 passed, 
 When, Love, in thee my trust I fondly placed; 
 Possessed of all my soul desired to taste, 
 I careless deemed they would for ever last. 
 Quite unsuspecting any fraud of thi le, 
 In that blessed state my time was thus em- 
 ployed; 
 
 3i 
 
758 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 Each passing scene I proudly thus enjoyed, 
 Thinking what truly happy lot was mine. 
 The glittering veil removed, no joys remain; 
 The brilliant structure, which thou bad'st arise, 
 Which fed my vanity, in ruin lies. 
 What hapless end ! in Love to trust how vain ! 
 But why surprised ? — the fate may soon be 
 
 guessed 
 Of hopes which in the hands of fickle beauty 
 
 rest. 
 
 THE LYRE. 
 
 Yes ! I have loved thee, O my Lyre ! 
 My day, my night-dream, loved thee long ! 
 When thou wouldst pour thy soul of song, 
 When did I turn away? 
 
 'T is thine,- with thy bewitching wire, 
 To charm my sorrow's wildest mood, 
 To calm again my feverish blood, 
 Till peace resumes her sway. 
 
 How oft with fond and flattering tone 
 I wooed thee through the still midnight, 
 And chasing slumbers with delight, 
 Would vigils hold with thee ; 
 
 Would tell thee I am all thine own ; 
 That thou, sweet Lyre, shalt rule me still ; 
 My love, my pride, through every ill, 
 My world of bliss to me! 
 
 Thine are those quenchless thoughts of fire, 
 The beamings of a burning soul, 
 That cannot brook the world's control, 
 Or breathe its sickening air; 
 
 And thine the raptures that inspire 
 With antique glow my trembling frame,. 
 That bid me nurse the wasting flame, 
 And court my own despair. 
 
 JOAO XAVIER DE MATOS. 
 
 This poet belongs to the latter half of the 
 eighteenth century. He was highly esteemed 
 at Lisbon. His works consist of sonnets, odes, 
 and other miscellaneous pieces, together with a 
 translation of a tragedy by the Abbfe Genest, and 
 an original tragedy, entitled " Viriacia," on a 
 subject drawn from the early history of Portugal. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The sun now sets; whilst twilight's misty hue 
 Closes with slow approach the light of day ; 
 And sober night, with hand of mantling gray, 
 In gathering clouds obscures the fading view : 
 Scarce do I see my villa through the gloom, 
 Or from the beech discern the cypress grave. 
 All wears the stilly silence of the tomb, 
 Save that the sound is heard of measured wave 
 
 Upon the neighbouring sand. With face erect, 
 Looks raised to heaven, in anguish of my soul, 
 From my sad eyes the frequent tear-drops roll ; 
 And if a comfort I might now select, 
 'T would be that night usurp so long a reign, 
 That never more should day appear again. 
 
 PAULINO CABRAL DE VASCONCEL- 
 LOS. 
 
 Paulino Cabral de Vasconcellos is known 
 as the abbot of Jacente. He belongs to the lat- 
 ter part of the eighteenth century. His works, 
 consisting of sonnets and other poems, are writ- 
 ten with polished elegance, and contributed to 
 reclaim his countrymen from the extravagan- 
 ces of the prevailing bad taste, to a clear and 
 classical style. They were published at Oporto, 
 in two volumes, 1786-87 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Love is a power which all controlling spurns, 
 Nor youth nor age escape, nor high nor low ; 
 When most concealed, more lively still it burns, 
 And, least expected, strikes the fatal blow. 
 E'en conquering heroes to its sway must yield, 
 Disdains not it the humble cottage roof, 
 Nor will it from the palace keep aloof, 
 Nor offers wisdom's mantle any shield. 
 Against its shafts the convent's awful fane 
 No sacred shelter can to beauty give ; 
 Naught is so strong against its force to live; 
 It combats honor, and would virtue gain. 
 Where'er its cruel banner is unfurled, 
 It as its vassal binds the universal world. 
 
 J. A. DA CUNHA. 
 
 J. A. da Cunha is known chiefly as an emi- 
 nent mathematician of the latter part of the 
 eighteenth century. He is also placed high 
 among the poets of his age. His poetical 
 writings were collected in 1778, but remained 
 in manuscript. Sismondi says, "The manu- 
 scripts have been in my possession ; and so far 
 from detecting in them any traces of that tame- 
 ness, or want of vigor and imagination, which 
 might be supposed to result from a long appli- 
 cation to the exact sciences, I was surprised by 
 their tender and imaginative character, and in 
 particular by that deep tone of melancholy 
 which seems peculiar to the Portuguese poetry 
 above that of all the languages of the South." 
 
 LINES WRITTEN DURING SEVERE ILLNESS. 
 
 O grief beyond all other grief, 
 
 Com'st thou the messenger of Death ? 
 
 Then come ! I court thy wished relief, 
 And pour with joy this painful breath. 
 
DA CUNHA— VALADARES GAMBOA. 
 
 759 
 
 But thou, my soul, what art thou ? Where 
 Wing'st thou thy flight, immortal flame? 
 
 Or fad'st thou into empty air, 
 
 A lamp burnt out, a sigh, a name ? 
 
 I reck not life, nor that with life 
 
 The world and the world's toys are o'er: 
 
 But, ah, 't is more than mortal strife 
 To leave the loved, and love no more ! 
 
 To leave her thus ! — my fond soul torn 
 From hers, without e'en time to tell 
 
 Hers are these tears and sighs that burn, 
 And hers this last and wild farewell ! 
 
 Tes ! while, upon the awful brink 
 
 Of fate,- I look to worlds above, 
 How happy, did I dare to think 
 
 These last faint words might greet my love : 
 
 " O ever loved, though loved in vain, 
 With such a pure and ardent truth 
 
 As grows but once, and ne'er again 
 Renews the blossom of its youih ! 
 
 " To breathe the oft repeated vow, 
 To say my soul was always thine, 
 
 Were idle here. Live happy thou, — 
 As I had been, hadst thou been mine ! " 
 
 Now grief and anguish drown my voice, 
 Fresh pangs invade my breast ; more dim 
 
 Earth's objects on my senses rise, 
 And forms receding round me swim. 
 
 Shroud me with thy dear guardian wings, 
 
 Father of universal love ! 
 Be near me now, with faith that springs 
 
 And joys that bloom in worlds above ! 
 
 A mourner at thine awful throne, 
 
 I bring the sacrifice required, — 
 A laden heart, its duties done, 
 
 By simple truth and love inspired : 
 
 Love, such as Heaven may well approve, 
 
 Delighting most in others' joy, 
 Though mixed with errors such as love 
 
 May pardon, when no crimes alloy. 
 
 Come, friendship, with thy last sad rite, 
 
 Thy pious office now fulfil ! 
 One tear and one plain stone requite 
 
 Life's tale of misery and ill. 
 
 And thou, whose name is mingled thus 
 
 With these last trembling thoughts and sighs, 
 
 Though love his fond regrets refuse, 
 Let the soft voice of friendship rise, 
 
 And gently whisper in thine ear, 
 
 "He loves no more who loved so well ! " 
 
 And when thou wanderest through those dear, 
 Delicious scenes, where, first to tell 
 
 The secrets of my glowing breast, 
 
 I led thee to the shadiest bower, 
 And at thy feet, absorbed, oppressed, 
 
 With faltering tongue confessed thy power, — 
 
 Then own no truer, holier vow 
 
 Was ever breathed in woman's ear ; 
 
 And let one gush of tears avow 
 
 That he who loved thee once was dear. 
 
 Yet weep not bitterly, but say, 
 
 " He loved me not as others love ; 
 
 Mine, only mine, ere called away, — 
 Mine, only mine in heaven above ! " 
 
 JOAQUIM FORTUNATO DE VALA- 
 DARES GAMBOA. 
 
 This poet belonged to the latter half of the 
 eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth 
 century. His poems were first published at 
 Lisbon in 1779, and again in 1791. A second 
 volume appeared in 1804. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 My gentle love, — to bid this valley smile, 
 Which now in sadness droops, thy steps retrace; 
 Denied the gladdening influence of thy face, 
 Unjoyous hours and sadness reign the while. 
 Now slowly falling drops alone employ 
 The fountain pure, which flowed with copious 
 
 stream ; 
 And parched and languishing the meadows seem, 
 That showed before the laughing garb of joy. 
 E'en, at the dawning hour, in gleams less bright 
 The purple east emits its cheering rays ; 
 All nature, mourning, signs of grief displays, 
 And weeps the memory of her past delight. 
 Judge, then, what pangs my stricken heart must 
 
 prove, 
 Which ceaseless pours for thee the sighs of faith- 
 ful love ! 
 
 How calm and how serene yon river glides 
 Through verdant meads, that smiling meet my 
 
 view ! 
 And upland slopes, which glow with sunny hue, 
 And vales, with flowerets gemmed, adorn its 
 
 sides. 
 Now basking in von elm, from loftiest spray 
 A little songster, careless, pours his strain 
 And decks his plumes ; while to his woodland lay 
 From willow-bough, a chorister again 
 Returns the lively song. All bears around 
 Accordant joy and signs of sweet repose; 
 And he may well rejoice and glad appear, 
 Who ne'er of female tvrannv hath found 
 The smart ; — but woe to him, who hapless knows 
 Its cruel wrongs, and base deceit, and care ! 
 
 Adieu, ye Nine ! O, how much woe I prove, 
 To quit your service, and your charms forsake ! 
 How deep the wound which distance far pan 
 
 make 
 In those together joined by so much love 
 Inspired by you, in gay and joyous strain, 
 
760 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 Of Love's delights I sang the pleasing lay; 
 But griefs, to which my soul is now a prey, 
 Usurp their place, and fill my breast with pain. 
 Thrice envied he whom your endearments bless, 
 Happy to live, nor feel the torments dire 
 Which now so close and cruel round me press ! 
 With such a host of ills have I to strive, 
 That, quitting you, I discontented live, 
 And give to sad repose my silent lyre. 
 
 ANTONIO DINIZ DA CRUZ. 
 
 Among the most distinguished of the Portu- 
 guese poets who flourished about the end of the 
 last century is Antonio Diniz da Cruz. He be- 
 longed to the Arcadian Society, in which he 
 was known by the name of Elpino Nonacriense. 
 He cultivated poetry in the midst of his duties 
 as a magistrate ; for he held the office of a des- 
 embargador or judge. His successful imitations 
 of the style of the Theban poet have gained for 
 him the name of the Portuguese Pindar. He 
 is chiefly known to foreigners by a heroi-comic 
 poem in eight cantos, entitled " O Hysope," the 
 Hyssop. Garrett affirms that " ' The Hyssop ' 
 is the most perfect heroi-comic poem, of its kind, 
 that has ever been written in any language; 
 if the ' Lutrin ' exceeds it in severe correct- 
 ness of diction, yet, in the design of the work, 
 in the regularity of the structure, the disciple 
 ofBoileau was much in advance of his master." 
 The occasion which gave rise to it is thus ex- 
 plained by a writer in the " Quarterly Review " 
 (Vol. I., p. 244) : — " Jose Carlos de Lara, dean 
 of Elvas, used, for the sake of ingratiating him- 
 self with his bishop, to attend him in person, 
 with the hyssop, at the door of the chapter-house, 
 whenever he officiated. After a while, some 
 quarrel arose between them, and he then dis- 
 continued this act of supererogatory respect; 
 but he had practised it so long, that the bishop, 
 and his party in the chapter, insisted upon it as 
 a right, and commanded him to continue it as a 
 service he was bound to perform. He appealed 
 to the metropolitan, and sentence was given 
 against him." This is the story of the poem. 
 "After his death, the dean's successor, who 
 happened to be his nephew, tried the cause 
 again, and obtained a reversal of the decree. A 
 prophetic hope of this eventual triumph is given 
 to the unsuccessful hero." 
 
 SONNETS. 
 One time, when Love, his beauteous mother 
 
 lost, 
 Wandered through fields where Tejo's soft 
 
 streams wind, 
 Sighing to each fair nymph whose path he 
 
 crossed, 
 Inquiring still where he might Venus find, — 
 Undone the hrace, his golden quiver fell : 
 He, who not now for bow or arrow cares, 
 Sobs out what thousand pleasures shall be theirs 
 
 Who may some tidings of the goddess tell. 
 It chanced her flock that Jonia tended there ; 
 His tears she dried, and with a cheerful air 
 Proffered to lead him to the wished-for sight: 
 When, rising on his wings, the urchin said, 
 While her sweet face he kissed, — "Ah, gentle 
 
 maid, 
 Who sees those eyes forgetteth Venus quite ! " 
 
 Here, lonely in this cool and verdant seat, 
 Gemmed with bright flowers the smiling mead- 
 ow yields, 
 While herds depasture in the neighbouring fields, 
 I long to see my torments all retreat. 
 How pure and fresh this eve ! how soft the wind 
 Now moving o'er the river's surface clear, 
 As in yon poplar high the turtle near 
 In soothing murmurs mourneth forth her mind ! 
 Joyous meanwhile, as if to banish grief, 
 The tuneful birds their sweetest carols sing, 
 And lovely flowers their choicest fragrance fling: 
 But to my sorrows they give no relief; 
 For cruel tortures all my thoughts employ, 
 Nor grant to hapless me but one short hour of 
 
 j°y- 
 
 FROM O HYSOPE. 
 
 [The Dean and the Padre Jubilado, in the garden, discourse 
 of the statues of Monsieur Paris and Madama Pena Lopez 
 (Penelope).] 
 
 " Who is this Monsieur Paris, as he 's called 
 In the inscription on his pedestal ? 
 If from appearances I judge, the name, 
 Countenance, and well dressed hair bespeak this 
 
 beau 
 A Frenchman, and perhaps a cavalier, 
 The great inventor of his own toupee." 
 
 The learned father cautiously replied, — 
 " Nor Frenchman, as you judge, nor cavalier, 
 Was he this statue represents. In Troy, 
 One of Troy's royal family, he lived." 
 
 "If Frenchman he was not," the dean re- 
 joined, 
 " Why called Monsieur? " And the ex-doctor 
 
 thus, 
 Smiling, made answer : — " Let not that surprise, 
 Since at each step recurring. Now-a-days, 
 At every corner, are we Portuguese 
 Shamelessly treated as Monsicurs. This, Sir, 
 Is now the fashion, and the fashion must 
 Be followed. Above all, is 't requisite 
 We should convince the world that we speak 
 French." 
 
 " O Padre Jubilado," asked the dean, 
 " Is 't, then, of such importance to speak French; 
 That your proficiency your reverences 
 Must thus display? Without this sacrament, 
 Were neither wisdom nor salvation yours? 
 For I must tell you here, under the rose, 
 The savage Boticudo's jargon 's not 
 More unintelligible to me than French." 
 
 " Do not confess it, Sir ; for in these times, — 
 O times ! O morals ! — French is all in all," 
 The father said. 
 
DINIZ DA CRUZ. — FRANCISCO MANOEL. 
 
 761 
 
 " Of this audacity, this impudence, 
 Raging unchecked amongst us, Sir, the effects 
 Most terrible, most noxious, those appear 
 That fall on our chaste mother-tongue; that 
 
 tongue, 
 Wasted upon translations meriting 
 Most richly to be burnt, is there defiled 
 With thousand Gallicisms of word and phrase. 
 
 As though our language, beautiful and rich, 
 The eldest born of Latin, stood in need 
 Of foreign ornament." 
 
 " And at the loom, all weavers of those days 
 Surpassing, on one web ten years she spent." 
 
 "What say you, father-master? Do you jest? " 
 The astonished dean exclaimed. " What ! ten 
 
 whole years, 
 Warping and weaving at one single web, 
 Did this Madama spend? And will you say 
 She was a famous weaver? Why, my nurse — 
 And she 's decrepid — spends not on one web 
 More than nine months." 
 
 "Even in this her great ability," 
 The father said, "consisted; since by night 
 She carefully unravelled each day's work." 
 
 " Still worse and worse," rejoined the dean ; 
 " why, this 
 Is going, crab-like, backwards. I would swear 
 Upon an hundred pair of Gospels, she, 
 Your famed Penelope, had lost her wits." 
 
 FRANCISCO MANOEL DO NASCI- 
 MENTO. 
 
 This poet belonged to a distinguished Portu- 
 guese family, and was born at Lisbon, in 1734. 
 His taste for poetry was early manifested, and a 
 youthful passion favored its further develop- 
 ment. He was one of the number of Portu- 
 guese scholars, who, about the middle of the 
 last century, contributed to reform the national 
 literature. The most remarkable incident in 
 the life of Francisco Manoel was his escape 
 in the great earthquake of 1755. " He found 
 himself," says his biographer, Sane, "at this 
 awful moment, in the patriarchal church, and 
 owed his safety entirely to his speed, and to the 
 fortunate rashness, with which, to gain the 
 country, he leaped over streets blocked up with 
 ruins, in the midst of a shower of stones, — 
 many times thrown down by the agitations, and 
 expecting to meet his death at every step." 
 
 After this disaster had been somewhat repaired 
 by the energy of Pombal, Manoel devoted him- 
 self anew to literature. Some of his works, 
 being published by friends who thought more 
 highly of them than he did himself, gave him 
 much reputation. He studied the best models 
 in the Latin, French, and English languages. 
 His reputation excited the envy of the inferior 
 writers; and the ridicule with which he treated 
 the ignorance of the monks exposed him to the 
 96 
 
 hatred of that powerful body. At length, a 
 translation of Moliere's " Tartufe " appeared, 
 and was attributed to him. This determined 
 the Inquisition to subject him to the punishment 
 of their dread tribunal; and a familiar of the 
 Holy Office was sent to arrest him, July 4, 1778. 
 Manoel suspected his errand, seized a dagger, 
 and, threatening to stab him if he uttered a word, 
 wrapped himself in his cloak, locked up his 
 enemy, and fled down the staircase. He re- 
 mained concealed in Lisbon eleven days, at 
 the house of a French merchant, and then 
 made his escape on board a French ship bound 
 for Havre de Grace. He took up his abode in 
 France, living by turns at Paris, Versailles, and 
 Choisy, actively engaged in literature. He pub- 
 lished several volumes of odes, satires, and 
 epistles, which show a high poetic talent. He 
 died at Paris, February 25, 1819. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENT. 
 
 Pause not with lingering foot, O pilgrim, here ! 
 Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side; 
 Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear; 
 To brighter worlds this thorn)' path will guide. 
 Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode, 
 So near the mansions of supreme delight: 
 Pause not, but tread this consecrated road; 
 'T is the dark basis of the heavenly height. 
 Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, 
 How many a fountain glitters down the hill ! 
 Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play, 
 Bright sunshine guides, — and wilt thou linger 
 
 still ? 
 O, enter there, where, freed from human strife, 
 Hope is reality, and time is life ! 
 
 Descend, O Joy! descend in brightest guise, 
 Thou cherished hope to pining lovers dear ! 
 More bright to me the sun, the day more clear, 
 For thy inspiring looks and radiant eyes. 
 When heard thy voice, — abashed, in anguish 
 
 sad, 
 Cruel Melancholy quails, — unhallowed Woe 
 And Grief with doubting step together go, 
 Their bosoms heaving at thy clarion glad. 
 Through my tired frame a soft emotion steals, 
 And in my veins a vital spirit springs, 
 Chasing the blood, which cold and languid 
 
 flowed ; 
 The meadows laugh, and light the air now feels : 
 For Marcia's smile, when graciously bestowed, 
 To me and all around contentment brings. 
 
 As yet unpractised in the ways of Love, 
 The vale I sought, — my sole intent to hear 
 The nightingale pour forth those love-notes clear 
 Which to his mate his fond affection prove. 
 A tender imp I chanced encounter there, 
 With golden hair, and eyes with cunning bright; 
 His naked feet with travel weary were, 
 And, cold and pale, he seemed in piteous plight 
 3t* 
 
762 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 I took him to my breast and soothed his grief, 
 Kissed his sad cheek, and proffered him relief. 
 Who would believe that 'neath his dealing fair 
 Was hid such craft? — the wily boy infused 
 His poison, and, my confidence abused, 
 Laughed in my face, and vanished in the air. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN ODE. 
 NEPTUNE TO THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 Wave-wandering armadas people now 
 
 The Antillean Ocean, 
 And strands for centuries that desert lay. 
 
 Lo ! here D'Estaing the fearless, 
 And there the prosperous Rodney, cuts the plains 
 
 Subject to Amphitrite. 
 Already, at each hostile banner's sight, 
 
 Enkindles every spirit; 
 The sails are slacked, the cannon's thunders roll ; 
 
 From numberless volcanoes 
 Death bursts, on scattering balls borne widely 
 round. 
 
 The rocks that tower sharp-pointed, 
 Bristling the shore of many a neighbouring isle, 
 
 Are with the din fear-shaken 
 Of the hoarse brass rebellowing that roars. 
 
 Tremulously the waters 
 Amidst the placid grottos crystalline 
 
 Proclaim the news of terror. 
 Their green dishevelled tresses streaming far, 
 
 The Nereids, affrighted, 
 Fly to the shuddering ocean's deepest abyss. 
 
 Neptune, exasperated, 
 Flings on his biped coursers' necks the reins, 
 
 And in his conch upstanding, 
 With straining eyes the liquid azure field 
 
 Explores, — seeking, but vainly, 
 The bold, the conquest-loving Lusian ships. 
 
 Lilies he sees, and Leopards, 
 Of yore on ocean's confines little known, 
 
 Triumphantly now waving 
 From frigid Thule to the ruddy East. 
 
 He sees the dull Batavian 
 In fragrant Ceylon, and Malacca rich, 
 
 His grasping laws promulgate. 
 " Offspring of Gam a and of Albuquerque ! " 
 
 Thus Neptune, deeply sighing, 
 Exclaims, "encriuison ye with deathless shame! 
 
 Where is the trident sceptre 
 I gave to that adventurous hero, first 
 
 Who ploughed with daring spirit 
 The unknown oceans of the rosy morn ? 
 
 No Lusitanian Argos, 
 With heroes filled, in Mauritanian schools 
 
 Created, trained, and hardened, 
 Now furrows with bold nimbleness my realm." 
 
 MANOEL MARIA DE BARBOSA DU 
 BOCAGE. 
 
 This famous improvvisatore and poet was 
 born at Setubal, in 1766. He showed in his 
 
 early years uncommon talent, and his parents 
 spared no pains with his education. Quitting 
 school, he received a commission in the infantry 
 of Setubal, and not long after entered the naval 
 service. He spent three years in Lisbon, and 
 acquired a high reputation as an improvvisatore. 
 At the age of twenty, he left Lisbon and em- 
 barked for the Portuguese possessions in India. 
 Arriving at Goa, he was appointed a lieutenant, 
 and was wrecked on a voyage from that city 
 to Macao, saving only the manuscript of the 
 first volume of his works. His talents soon 
 attracted the attention of persons in power; 
 but the indulgence of his satirical vein exposed 
 him to hatred, and even to the danger of losing 
 his life, and he returned to Portugal after an 
 absence of five years. He was well received 
 on his arrival in Lisbon, but soon injured his 
 reputation by associating with dissolute coin 
 pany, was thrown into jail, and imprisoned by 
 the Inquisition. During this confinement, he 
 translated the first book of Ovid's "Metamor- 
 phoses." He was released at the interposition 
 of the Marquesses of Ponte de Lima and of 
 Abrantes, but returned to his old habits and 
 associates. He died December 21, 1805. 
 
 The works of Bocage were collected and 
 published at Lisbon, in 1812. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Scarce was put off my infant swathing-band, 
 Till o'er my senses crept the sacred fire; 
 The gentle Nine the youthful embers fanned, 
 Moulding my timid heart to their desire. 
 Faces angelic and serene, ere long, 
 And beaming brightness of revolving eyes, 
 Bade in my mind a thousand transports rise, 
 Which I should breathe in soft and tender 
 
 song. 
 As time rolled on, the fervor greater was ; 
 The chains seemed harsh the infant god had 
 
 forged, — 
 Luckless the Muses' gift; — release I urged 
 From their sad dowry, and from Cupid's laws: 
 But finding destiny had fixed my state; 
 What could I do? — I yielded to my fate. 
 
 If it is sweet, in summer's gladsome day, 
 To see the morn in spangling flowerets dressed, 
 To see the sands and meadows gay caressed 
 By river murmuring as it winds its way, — 
 If sweet to hear, amidst the orchard grove, 
 The winged lovers to each other chant, 
 Warble the ardor of their fervent love, 
 And in their songs their joyous bliss descant, — 
 If it is sweet to view the sea serene, 
 The sky's cerulean brightness, and the charms 
 Which Nature gives to gild this mortal scene, 
 And fill each living thing with soft alarms: 
 More sweet to see thee, conquered by my sighs, 
 Deal out the sweetest death from thy soft yield- 
 ing eyes. 
 
BOCAGE. — CONDE DA BARCA. 
 
 763 
 
 THE FALL OF GOA. 
 
 Fali en is the emporium of the Orient, 
 That stern Alfonso's arms in dread array 
 Erst from the Tartar despot tore away, 
 Shaming in war the god armipotent. 
 Goa lies low ! that fortress eminent, 
 Dread of the haughty Nayre, the false Malay, 
 Of many a barbarous tribe. What faint dismay 
 In Lusian breasts the martial fire has spent? 
 O bygone age of heroes! days of glory ! 
 Exalted men ! ye, who, despite grim death, 
 Still in tradition live, still live in story, 
 Terrible Albuquerque, and Castro great, — 
 And you, their peers, your deeds in memory's 
 
 breath 
 Preserved, avenge the wrongs we bear from 
 
 fate ! 
 
 THE "WOLF AND THE EWE. 
 Once upon a time great friendship 
 
 'Twixt a wolf and ewe there reigned : 
 What saint's influence wrought such marvel 
 
 Has not rightly been explained. 
 
 She forgot the guardian shepherd, 
 Fold, flock, dog, she all forsook, 
 
 And her way with her new comrade 
 Through the tangled thicket took. 
 
 Whilst she with her fellows pastured, 
 
 Galless she as turtle-dove; 
 But her new friend quickly taught her 
 
 Cruel as himself to prove. 
 
 And when the ferocious tutor 
 
 Saw the poor perverted fool 
 Make so marvellous a progress 
 
 In his brutalizing school, 
 
 Vanity with pleasure mingled, 
 Till his heart within him danced; 
 
 And his fondness for his nupil 
 
 Every murderous feast enhanced. 
 
 But one day, that, almost famished, 
 
 Master wolf pursued the chase, 
 Of the victims he was seeking 
 
 He discovered not a trace. 
 
 Mountain, valley, plain, and forest, 
 
 Up and down, and through and through, 
 
 Vainly he explored ; then empty 
 To his den led back his ewe. 
 
 There, his weary limbs outstretching, 
 
 On the ground awhile he lies; 
 Then upon his weak companion 
 
 Ravenously turns his eyes. 
 
 Thus the traitor inly muses : 
 
 " Ne'er was known such agony ! 
 
 And must I endure these tortures? 
 Must I, out of friendship, die? 
 
 " Shall I not obey the mandate 
 Nature speaks within my breast? 
 
 And is not self-preservation 
 Nature's holiest behest? 
 
 "Virtue, thou belong'st to reason, — 
 Let proud man confess thy sway ! 
 
 I 'm by instinct merely governed, 
 And its dictates must obey." 
 
 Thus decided, swift as lightning, 
 Springs he on the hapless ewe ; 
 
 Fangs and claws, deep in her entrails 
 Plunging, stains a crimson hue. 
 
 With a trembling voice, the victim 
 Questions her disloyal friend: 
 
 "Why, ingrate, shouldst thou destroy me? 
 When or how could I offend? 
 
 " By what law art thou so cruel, 
 Since I never gave thee cause? " 
 
 Greedily he cried, " I 'm hungry : 
 Hunger is the first of laws." 
 
 Mortals, learn from an example 
 
 With such horrid sufferings fraught 
 
 What dire evils an alliance 
 
 With the false and cruel brought. 
 
 If the wicked are your comrades, 
 
 I engage you '11 imitate 
 Half their crimes, and will encounter 
 
 Wolves like ours, or soon or late. 
 
 ANTONIO DE ARUAJO DE AZEVEDO 
 PINTO PEREYRA, CONDE DA BARCA. 
 
 This nobleman was the contemporary, friend, 
 and benefactor of Manoel do Nascimento. He 
 was the ambassador of Portugal at several of 
 the European courts, and was a person of promi- 
 nent rank in his country. He united the study 
 of letters with the cares of state. Among the 
 services which he rendered to Portuguese lit- 
 erature, his translation of Dryden's " Alexan- 
 der's Feast," and some of Gray's odes and his 
 " Elegy," deserve to be specially mentioned. In 
 1807, he accompanied the Portuguese court to 
 Rio de Janeiro, where he died in 1816. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 You who, when maddened by the learned fire, 
 Disdain the strict poetic laws, and rise 
 Sublime beyond the ken of human eyes, 
 Striking with happiest art the Horatian lyre,— 
 Who streams of equal eloquence diffuse, 
 Whether new Gamas or the old you praise, 
 And with pure strain and loftiest language raise 
 Majestic more the Lusitanian Muse : 
 As the bold eagle in its towering flights 
 Instructs its young to brave the solar blaze, 
 Skim the blue sky, or balance on the wing, — 
 So teach you me to gain those sacred heights, 
 On famed Apollo's secrets let me gaze, 
 The waters let me quaff of Cabalinus' spring ! 
 
764 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 ANTONIO RIBEIRO DOS SANTOS. 
 
 Among the recent poets of Portugal, this au- 
 thor is distinguished for the spirit and purity of 
 his style. His " Ode to the Infante Dom Hen- 
 rique " is especially praised for its elegance. 
 He was a member of the Arcadian Society, 
 under the name of Elpino Duriense. His 
 works were published in three volumes. 
 
 SONNET. 
 Here cruel hands struck deep the deadly blow, 
 Nor aught fair Ignez' beauty might avail, — 
 The spot, lest memory of the deed should fail, 
 Graved on this rock the marks of blood still 
 
 show. 
 The mourning Nymphs, who viewed such hap- 
 less woe, 
 Did o'er her pallid corpse in sadness wail ; 
 And fell those tears, which, telling aye the tale, 
 Caused the pure waters of this fount to flow. 
 Ye dwellers to this languid fountain near, 
 Ye shepherds of Mondego, ah, beware, 
 As of the stream ye taste ! reflect in time ! 
 Fly, fly from Love, whose rigorous fate decreed 
 That innocence should here in Ignez bleed, 
 Whose peerless beauty was her only crime ! 
 
 DOMINGOS MAXIMIANO TORRES. 
 
 This poet was a contemporary of Francisco 
 Manoel do Nascimento. He was a member of 
 the Arcadian Society, in which he bore the 
 name of Alfeno Cynthio. His works, though 
 deficient in originality, are marked by purity 
 and elegance. He died wretchedly, in the hos- 
 pital of Trafaria, in 1S09. He wrote eclogues, 
 sonnets, and canzonets. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Marilia, dear, but, O, ungrateful fair! 
 
 Look on the sea serene and calmly bright, — 
 
 The sky's blue lustre and the sun's clear light 
 
 How on its bosom now reflected are ! 
 
 A sudden storm comes on, — in mountains high 
 
 By furious gusts the silvery billows driven, 
 
 Seem as they would, while raging up to heaven, 
 
 Blot the fair lamp of Phoebus from the sky. 
 
 Dear one, how copied to the life in thee 
 
 The same perfidious element I see, — 
 
 The smile, the look, which fondest hopes can 
 
 raise ! 
 But let a false suspicion once arise, 
 Thy face indignant sullen wrath betrays, 
 Love claps his wings and all the softness flies. 
 
 BELCHIOR MANOEL CURVO SEMEDO. 
 
 Curvo Sehedo is one of the authors included 
 in the " Parnaso Lusitano" of Fonseca. He is 
 specially noted for h's dithyrambics. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 " It is a fearful night ; a feeble glare 
 
 Streams from the sick moon in the o'erclouded 
 
 sky; 
 The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry, 
 Rush on the foamy beaches wild and bare ; 
 No bark the madness of the waves will dare ; 
 The sailors sleep; the winds are loud and high: 
 Ah, peerless Laura ! for whose love I die, 
 Who gazes on thy smiles while I despair? " 
 As thus, in bitterness of heart, I cried, 
 I turned, and saw my Laura, kind and bright, 
 A messenger of gladness, at my side: 
 To my poor bark she sprang with footstep light 
 And as we furrowed Tejo's heaving tide, 
 I never saw so beautiful a night. 
 
 JOAM BAPTISTA GOMEZ. 
 
 This poet, who died in the first quarter of the 
 present century, was a writer of much merit, and 
 his style is distinguished by elegance and har- 
 mony. He wrote a tragedy on the story of Ig- 
 nez de Castro, which retains a high reputation. 
 An analysis and criticism of this play may be 
 found in " Blackwood's Magazine," Vol. XXIII 
 
 FROM THE TRAGEDY OF IGNEZ DE CASTRO 
 IGNEZ AND KING ALFONSO. 
 
 IGNEZ. 
 
 Advance with me, my children, and embrace 
 Your royal grandsire's knees; upon his hand 
 Plant your first kisses. Mighty prince, behold 
 The offspring of thy son, who come with tears 
 To implore thy pity for their hapless mother' — 
 Weep, weep with me, my children, — intercede 
 For me with your soft tears, — tears more ex- 
 pressive 
 Than words, of which your helpless infancy 
 Is yet incapable ! Aid my laments, 
 My prayers, — obtain my pardon! — Clement 
 
 king, 
 Of thy descendants, lo ! the unhappy mother, 
 Embracing them, entreats that thou wouldst 
 
 spare 
 To them her wretched life. Too well I know 
 Thou art prepared to doom my present death. 
 I, envy's victim, of intrigue the mark, 
 Timid, unfortunate, and unprotected, 
 Behold my death impending, — death unjust, 
 That tyrannous, infuriate counsellors, 
 Deceiving the compassion of thy soul, 
 Thunder against me. What atrocity ! 
 For what enormous crimes am I condemned? 
 To love thy son, my liege, and be beloved, 
 Is that esteemed a crime worthy of death ? 
 I dare implore, I dare attest, thy justice. 
 Merciful prince, consult thy clemency, 
 Consult thy heart; 'twill tell thee that my death 
 Is undeserved. 
 
GOMEZ.— MACEDO. 
 
 765 
 
 KING. 
 
 Arise, unhappy woman ! — 
 
 O nature ! O stern duties of a king ! — 
 
 Arise, unhappy woman ! Fatal cause 
 
 Of all the cruel sorrows that surround me, 
 
 Thine aspect irritates, yet touches me. 
 
 The father would forgive, — the king may not. 
 
 Alas, my liege ! to pardon the distressed 
 Is of a monarch's power the sweetest act, 
 And highest. Follow thine heart's impulses; 
 Let nature, let compassion, reign supreme; 
 Of pity thou shalt ne'er repent. O, rather, 
 Shouldst thou pronounce my death-doom, shall 
 
 remorse 
 Torture thee evermore, — incessant anguish 
 Consume thee ! Portugal's renown and hopes 
 Would moulder on my tombstone. To the 
 
 grave 
 With me wouldst thou behold, in thy despite, 
 Thy son descend. My liege, destroying me, 
 See whom thou slaughterest ! Our wedded 
 
 hearts 
 Are so indissolubly joined, the blow 
 That pierces mine must needs transfix thy son's : 
 Neither without the other can exist. 
 For him, not for myself, life I implore; 
 Yes, once again I clasp thy royal feet, — 
 Have pity on the consort of thy son ! 
 O, were it not for these sweet ties that force me 
 To live, though miserable, and value life, 
 I would not sue for 't, — but, unmurmuring 
 And calm, would wait my death-blow ! But to 
 
 leave 
 For ever what I love ! I am a wife, 
 A mother! — Heavens! I faint! — My precious 
 
 babes, 
 Unhappy orphans ! thus deprived at once 
 Of a fond mother, of the fondest father, 
 What shall become of you? — O mighty king, 
 If, to my tears inexorable, my fate 
 Touch thee not, yet to nature's cry give ear ! 
 Of these most innocent and tender victims, 
 O, pity the impending desolation ! 
 They are not guilty of my crimes. My liege, 
 Forget that they 're my sons, remembering only 
 They are thy grandsons. But thou weep'st ! — 
 
 O sight! 
 Kind Heaven has heard my prayers ! Thy tears 
 
 proclaim 
 My pardon ! Let thine accents quell my fears ! 
 Speak, gracious monarch ! say thou pardonest ! 
 
 KING. 
 
 Vainly I struggle. O, were 't possible 
 Now to resign my sceptre ! 
 
 [Enter Coelho. 
 
 COELHO. 
 
 Gracious Sir, 
 
 The council waits, and prays thine instant pres- 
 ence ; 
 The populace already mutiny. 
 
 O, I am lost ! 
 
 JOSE AGOSTINHO DE MACEDO. 
 
 This author is known as a voluminous writei 
 in prose and verse. One of his principal poems 
 is an epic, entitled "O Oriente," on the same 
 subject as the " Lusiad." Another poem ol 
 his, called "A Medita<;ao," is praised by Gar- 
 rett for its sublimity and erudition, its copious 
 style and great ideas. 
 
 A MEDITATION. 
 
 Portentous Egypt! I in thee behold 
 And studiously examine human-kind, — 
 Learning to know me in mine origin, 
 In the primeval and the social state. 
 A cultivator first, man next obeyed 
 Wise Nature's voice internal, equal men 
 Uniting, and to empire raising law, 
 The expression of the universal will, 
 That gives to virtue recompense, to crime 
 Due punishment, and to the general good 
 Bids private interest be sacrificed. 
 In thee the exalted temple of the arts 
 Was founded, high in thee they rose, in thee 
 Long ages saw their proudest excellence. 
 The Persian worshipper of sun or fire 
 From thee derived his creed. The arts from 
 
 thee 
 Followed Sesostris' arms to the utmost plains 
 Of the scorched Orient, in caution where 
 Lurks the Chinese. Thou wondrous Egypt ! 
 
 through 
 Vast Hindostan thy worship and thy laws 
 I trace. In thee to the inquirer' * gaze 
 Nature uncovered first the ample breast 
 Of science, that contemplates, measuring, 
 Heaven's vault, and tracks the bright stars' 
 
 circling course. 
 
 From out the bosom of thine opulence 
 And glory vast imagination spreads 
 Her wings. In thine immortal works I find 
 Proofs how sublime that human spirit is, 
 Which the dull atheist, depreciating, 
 Calls but an instinct of more perfect kind, 
 More active, than the never-varying brute's. 
 More is my being, more. Flashes in me 
 A ray reflected from the eternal light. 
 All the philosophy my verses breathe, 
 The imagination in their cadences, 
 Result not from unconscious mechanism. 
 
 Thebes is in ruins, Memphis is but dust, 
 O'er polished Egypt savage Egypt lies. 
 'Midst deserts does the persevering hand 
 Of skilful antiquary disinter 
 Columns of splintered porphyry, remains 
 Of ancient porticos; each single one 
 Of greater worth, O thou immortal Rome, 
 Than all thou from the desolating Goth, 
 And those worse Vandals of the Seine, has 
 
 saved ! 
 Buried beneath light grains of arid sand, 
 
766 
 
 PORTUGUESE POETRY. 
 
 The golden palaces, the aspiring towers, 
 
 Of Mceris, Amasis, Sesostris lie; 
 
 And the immortal pyramids contend 
 
 In durability against the world : 
 
 Planted 'midst centuries' shade, Time 'gainst 
 
 their tops 
 Scarce grazes his ne'er-resting iron wing. 
 
 In Egypt to perfection did the arts 
 Attain ; in Egypt they declined, they died : 
 Of all that 's mortal such the unfailing lot; 
 Only the light of science 'gainst Death's law 
 Eternally endures. The basis firm 
 Of the fair temple of Geometry 
 Was in portentous Egypt laid. The doors 
 Of vasty Nature by Geometry 
 Are opened; to her fortress she conducts 
 The sage. With her, beneath the fervid sun, 
 The globe I measure ; only by her aid 
 Couldst thou, learned Kepler, the eternal laws 
 Of the fixed stars discover; and with her 
 Grasps the philosopher the ellipse immense, 
 Eccentric, of the sad, and erst unknown, 
 Far-wandering comet. Justly if I claim 
 The name geometrician, certainly 
 Matter inert is not what in me thinks. 
 
 JOAO EVANGELISTA DE MORAES 
 SARMENTO. 
 
 Sarmento, a poet of the present century, 
 wrote the following "Ode on War," during the 
 French invasion of Portugal. It is included in 
 Fonseca's " Painaso Lusitano." 
 
 ODE ON WAR. 
 
 Shaken, convulsed with fear intemperate, 
 Breaks my hoarse-sounding lyre ; 
 
 And sinking on the chords, in woful state, 
 See holy Peace expire ! 
 
 Whilst yet far offtumultuously rave 
 
 The progeny of Mars, cruel as brave. 
 
 Their hot, white foam is by the chargers proud 
 
 Scattered in fleece around; 
 Uprises from their nostrils a dense cloud; 
 
 And as they paw the ground, 
 A thick dust blackens the pure air like smoke, 
 Through which sparks glimmer at each eager 
 stroke. 
 
 The stalely cedar and the resinous pine 
 
 No more, on mountain's brow, 
 The feathered mother and her nest enshrine; 
 
 Felled by rude hatchets now, 
 The briny deep to people they repair, 
 4.nd for green leaves fling canvass on the air. 
 
 War, monster dire ! what baleful planet's force 
 Towards Lusia marks thy path ? 
 
 Away ! away ! quick measure back thy course ! 
 Glut upon those thy wrath 
 
 Who joy in burnished mail, whose ruthless mood 
 With blood bedews the earth, banquets on blood ' 
 
 But unavoidable if war's alarms, 
 
 Lusians, our cause is just ! 
 In battle will we crimson our bright arms; 
 
 To battle's lot intrust 
 All hope of future years in joy to run ; 
 Only in battle may sweet peace be won. 
 
 The Albuquerques and Castros from the tomb 
 
 Arise on Lusia's sight ; 
 Although for centuries they 've lain in gloom 
 
 Unvisited by light, 
 Portugal they forget not, of whose story 
 Their names and their achievements are the 
 glory. 
 
 J. B. LEITAO DE ALMEIDA GARRETT. 
 
 Almeida Garrett is known in literature by 
 a " Historical Sketch of Portuguese Literature," 
 prefixed to Fonseca's "Parnaso Lusitano," and 
 by a poetical romance, in four cantos, entitled 
 " Adozinda," published in London, in 1828. 
 An analysis of his "Adozinda," with extracts, 
 may be found in the " Foreign Quarterly Re- 
 view," Vol. X. 
 
 FROM ADOZINDA. 
 Lo ! what crowds seek Landim Palace, 
 Where it towers above the river ! 
 Sounds of war and sounds of mirth 
 Through its lofty walls are ringing ! 
 Shakes the drawbridge, groans the earth, 
 Under troops in armor bright; 
 Steeds, caparisoned for fight, 
 Onward tramp; o'eihead high flinging 
 Banners, where the red cross glows, 
 Standard-bearers hurry near; — 
 Don Sisnando's self is here ! 
 From his breastplate flashes light; 
 Plumes that seem of mountain snow 
 O'er his dazzling helmet wave ; 
 'T is Sisnando, great and brave ! 
 
 " Open, open, castle-portals ! 
 Pages, damsels, swiftly move ! 
 Lo '. from paynim lands returning 
 Comes my husband, lord, and love !" 
 Thus the fond Auzenda cries, 
 Towards the portal as she flies. 
 Gates are opened, shouts ring round ; 
 And the ancient castle's echo 
 Wakens to the festive sound: 
 " Welcome ! welcome ! Don Sisnando !" 
 
 Weeps her joy Auzenda meek, 
 Streams of rapture sweetly flow; 
 Down the never-changing cheek 
 Of the warrior stout and stern, 
 Steals a tear-drop all unheeded ; — 
 Stronger far is joy than woe. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 Page 238. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE GERMAN NIGHT-WATCHMAN'S SONG. 
 
 Hark, while I sing ! our village clock 
 The hour of Eight, good Sirs, has struck. 
 Eight souls alone from death were kept, 
 When God the earth with deluge swept : 
 Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 
 Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
 
 Lord ! through thine all-prevailing might, 
 Do thou vouchsafe us a good night ! 
 
 Hark, while I sing! our village clock 
 The hour of Nine, good Sirs, has struck. 
 Nine lepers cleansed returned not ; — 
 Be not thy blessings, man, forgot ! 
 Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 
 Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
 
 Lord ! through thine all-prevailing might, 
 Do thou vouchsafe us a good night 1 
 
 Hark, while I sing ! our village clock 
 The hour of Ten, good Sirs, has struck. 
 Ten precepts show God's holy will ; — 
 O, may we prove obedient still ! 
 Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 
 Man wakes ana watches all in vain. 
 
 Lord ! through thine all-prevailing might, 
 Do thou vouchsafe us a good night ! 
 
 Hark, while I sing ! our village clock 
 The hour Eleven, good Sirs, has struck. 
 Eleven apostles remained true ; — 
 May we be like that faithful few ! 
 Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 
 Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
 
 Lord ! through thine all-prevailing might, 
 Do thou vouchsafe us a good night ! 
 
 Hark, while I sing! our village clock 
 The hour of Twelve, good Sirs, has struck. 
 Twelve is of Time the boundary; — 
 Man, think upon Eternity ! 
 Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 
 Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
 
 Lord ! through thine all-prevailing might, 
 Do thou vouchsafe us a good night ! 
 
 Hark, while I sing ! our village clock 
 The hour of One, good Sirs, has struck. 
 
 One God alone reigns over all ; 
 Naught can without his will befall : 
 Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 
 Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
 
 Lord ! through thine all-prevailing might, 
 Do thou vouchsafe us a good night ! 
 
 Hark, while T sing! our village clock 
 The hour of Two, good Sirs, has struck. 
 Two ways to walk has man been given; 
 Teach me the right, — the path to heaven! 
 Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 
 Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
 
 Lord ! through thine all-prevailing might, 
 Do thou vouchsafe us a good night! 
 
 Hark, while I sing! our village clock 
 The hour of Three, good Sirs, has struck. 
 Three Gods in one, exalted most, 
 The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 
 Unless the Lord to guard us deign, 
 Man wakes and watches all in vain. 
 
 Lord ! through thine all-prevailing might, 
 Do thou vouchsafe us a good night ! 
 
 Hark, while I sing ! our village clock 
 The hour of Four, good Sirs, has struck. 
 Four seasons crown the farmer's care; — 
 Thy heart with equal toil prepare ! 
 Up, up ! awake, nor slumber on ! 
 The morn approaches, night is gone ! 
 
 Thank God, who by his power and might 
 Has watched and kept us through this night ! 
 
 Page 316. 
 
 SCHILLER. 
 
 FROM MARY STUART. 
 
 [Scene. — The Park at Fotheringay. Trees in the fore- 
 ground ; a distant prospect behind. Mary advances from 
 between Ihe trees at a quick pace ; Jean Kennedy slowly 
 following her.J 
 
 KENNEDY. 
 
 Stay, stay, dear lady! Tou are hurrying on 
 As though you 'd wings; — I cannot follow you. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Let me renew the dear days of my childhood ' 
 
 Come, rejoice with me in Liberty's ray ! 
 O'er the gay-pansied turf, through the sweet- 
 scented wildwood, 
 Let 'a pursue, lightly bounding, our fetterless 
 way ! 
 
763 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Have I emerged from the dungeon's deep sad- 
 ness ? 
 Have I escaped from the grave's yawning 
 night? 
 O, let me sweep on, in this flood-tide of glad- 
 ness, 
 Drinking full, thirsty draughts of fresh free- 
 dom and light ! 
 
 KENNEDY. 
 
 Your prison only is enlarged a little. 
 Yon thicket of deep trees alone prevents you 
 From seeing the dark walls that stretch around 
 us. 
 
 MART. 
 
 Thanks to those trees which thus in dim se- 
 clusion 
 Conceal my prison, I may dream 1 'm free. 
 Why wouldst thou wake me from the dear illu- 
 sion ? 
 Why call me back to thought and misery ? 
 Does not heaven hold me in its soft embrace ? 
 Do not these eyes, once more unfettered, 
 rove 
 Far through immeasurable realms of space, 
 
 To greet each object of their earlier love? 
 There, northwards, are my kingdom's bounds 
 appearing, — 
 There, — where yon hills their misty tops 
 advance ; 
 And these light clouds, with the mid-day ca- 
 reering, 
 Seek the far ocean of thine empire, France! 
 
 Hastening clouds, ships of the sky, 
 (Ah, could I sail in your ocean on high!) 
 Greet with a blessing my youth's cherished 
 land ! 
 An exile I weep, in fetters I languish, — 
 None nigh, but you, to bear note of my an- 
 guish. 
 Free is your course over billow and strand ; 
 You are not subject to this queen's command. 
 
 KENNEDY. 
 
 Alas ! dear lady, you 're beside yourself; 
 This long-withholden freedom makes you dream. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 A bark ! a bark is in the gale ! 
 
 She scuds down yonder bay ! 
 How swiftly might that slender sail 
 
 Transport us far away ! 
 The owner starves ; — what wealth he 'd get, 
 
 Were he to waft us o'er! 
 He 'd have a catch within his net 
 
 No fisher had before. 
 
 KENNEDY. 
 
 O, forlorn wishes ! See you not from far 
 The spies that dodge us ? A dark prohibition 
 Has scared each pitying creature from our 
 path. 
 
 No, Jean ! Believe me, it is not without 
 An object that my prison-doors are opened. 
 This little favor is the harbinger 
 Of greater happiness. I do not err. 
 It is Love's active hand I have to thank ; 
 I recognize Lord Leicester's influence in it. 
 Yes! by degrees they will enlarge my prison. 
 Through little boons accustom me to greater. 
 Until, at length, I see the face of him 
 Who '11 loosen with his hand these bonds fo. 
 ever. 
 
 KENNEDY. 
 
 I cannot reconcile these contradictions. 
 
 But yesterday condemned to death, — and now 
 
 To live, and in the enjoyment of such free- 
 dom ! 
 
 Even so, I 've heard, the chain is loosed from 
 those 
 
 Whom an eternal freedom is awaiting. 
 
 Heard'st thou the hunters? Through thicket 
 and mead, 
 
 Hark, how their bugles ring out ! 
 Ah, could I vault on my spirited steed ! 
 
 Ah, could I join the gay rout ! 
 Sounds of sweet, bitter-sweet recollection, — 
 
 How glad were ye once to my ear, 
 When the rocks of my native Scliihallion 
 
 Exultant sent back your loud cheer ! 
 
 FROM DON CARLOS. 
 
 [Scene. — The king's bed-chamber. Two lights are on a 
 table. In the background several pages asleep on their 
 knees. The king, half dressed, is standing before ihe 
 table, with one arm leaning over a chair, in an attitude 
 of thought. On a table lie a miniature and some papers.] 
 
 That she was ever an enthusiast, — that 
 Is certain. Never could I give her love : 
 Yet seemed she e'er to feel the want ? 'T is 
 
 clear, — 
 She 's false. 
 
 [He makes a movement that rouses him from his reverie, 
 and looks up with surprise. 
 
 Where am I ? Is the king alone 
 
 Awake here? — What! the lights burnt down 
 
 so low, 
 And not yet day? I have foregone my sleep. 
 Account it, nature, as received. A king 
 Has not time to repair lost slumber. Now 
 I am awake, — it must be day. 
 
 [He puts out the lights and opens a window-curtain. In 
 walking up and down, he observes the sleeping pages, and 
 stops for some time before them ; he then rings the bell. 
 
 Are all 
 
 In the antechamber, too, asleep perhaps ? 
 
 [Enter Count Lerma. 
 
 lerma (starting, aa he observes the king.) 
 Your Majesty 's not well ? 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 760 
 
 In the left wing 
 
 O' tli' palace there was fire. You heard the 
 alarm ? 
 
 LERMA. 
 
 No, Sire. 
 
 KING. 
 
 No ? How ? Have I, then, only dreamt ? 
 That cannot be mere chance. 'T is in that 
 
 wing 
 That sleeps the queen, — is 't not? 
 
 LERMA. 
 
 Yes, Sire. 
 
 KINO. 
 
 The dream 
 
 Affrights me. Let the guards be doubled there 
 
 Hereafter, — hear you ? — as soon a3 't is 
 
 night; — 
 But secretly, — quite secretly. — I will 
 Not have it that. — You search me with your 
 
 looks ? 
 
 LERMA. 
 
 I see an eye inflamed, that begs for rest. 
 May I be bold, and of a precious life 
 Remind your Majesty, — remind you of 
 Your subjects, who with pained surprise would 
 
 read 
 In such looks traces of a sleepless night. 
 But two short morning hours of sleep 
 
 KINO. 
 
 Sleep, sleep ! 
 
 I '11 find it in the Escurial. The while 
 
 He sleeps, the king has parted with his crown, — 
 
 The man with his wife's heart. — No, no! 'tis 
 
 slander. 
 Was 't not a woman whispered it to me ? 
 Woman, thy name is slander! Till a man 
 Vouches the crime, it is not certain. 
 
 [To the pases, who in the mean time have woke up. 
 Call 
 Duke Alba. — Count, come nearer. Is it true? 
 
 [He stands before the count, looking at him intently. 
 O, for one moment only of omniscience ! — 
 Swear, — is it true ? Am I betrayed ? Am I ? 
 Is 't true ? 
 
 LERMA. 
 
 My noble, gracious king 
 
 KINO 
 
 King! king! 
 
 Nothing but king! — No better answer than 
 
 An empty, hollow echo? On this rock 
 
 I strike, and ask for water, water for 
 
 My fever-thirst; — he gives me molten gold. 
 
 LERMA. 
 
 What 's true, my king? 
 
 KINO. 
 
 Naught, — naught. Now leave me. Go. 
 
 [The coun '9 going; the king calls him back. 
 lou 're married? Are a father? Yes? 
 97 
 
 Yes, Sire. 
 
 KING. 
 
 Married, — and dare you with your king to 
 
 watch 
 A night? Your hair is silvered, — yet you are 
 So bold, and trust the honor of your wife? 
 Go home, — go home. You will just catch 
 
 her in 
 The incestuous embraces of your son. 
 Believe your king. Go. — Startled are you ? Me 
 You look at with significance? Because 
 I, I, too, have gray hairs ? Bethink you, wretch ! 
 Queens stain their virtue not. You die, if you 
 But doubt 
 
 lerma (with warmth). 
 Who can do that? In all your realm, 
 Who is so bold with poisonous distrust 
 To breathe upon her angel purity ? 
 The best of queens 
 
 KING. 
 
 The best ? So, your best, too ? 
 
 She has warm friends around me, I perceive. 
 
 That must have cost her much, — more than I 
 
 knew 
 She had to give. — You may retire. And send 
 The duke. 
 
 LERMA 
 
 I hear him in the antechamber. 
 
 [Is about to go. 
 
 king (in a mild tone). 
 Count, what you first remarked is true. My 
 
 brain 
 Is heated from a sleepless night. Forget 
 What in my waking dream I spoke. You 
 
 hear ? 
 Forget it. I am still your gracious king. 
 
 [He reaches his hand to him to kiss. Lerma retires, and 
 opens the door to the duke of Alba. 
 
 FROM THE DEATH OF WALXENSTEIN. 
 
 [Scene. — A saloon, terminated by a gallery which extends 
 far into the background. — Wallenstein sitting at a table. 
 The Swedish captain standing before him.] 
 
 •WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Commend me to your lord. I sympathize 
 In his good fortune; and if you have seen me 
 Deficient in the expressions of that joy 
 Which such a victor)' might well demand, 
 Attribute it to no lack of good-will, 
 For henceforth are our fortunes one. Farewell, 
 And for your trouble take my thanks. To- 
 morrow 
 The citadel shall be surrendered to you, 
 On your arrival. 
 
 [The Swedish captain retires. Wallenstein sits lost in 
 thought, his eyes fixed vacantly, and his head sustained 
 by his hand. The Countess Tertsky enters, stands before 
 him awhile, unobserved by him; at length he starts, sees 
 her and recollects himself. 
 
 3m 
 
770 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Comest thou from her? Is she restored? How 
 is she ? 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 My sister tells me, she was more collected 
 After her conversation with the Swede. 
 She has now retired to rest. 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 The pang will soften. 
 She will shed tears. 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 I find thee altered too, 
 
 My brother! After such a victory, 
 
 I had expected to have found in thee 
 
 A cheerful spirit. O, remain thou firm ! 
 
 Sustain, uphold us ! For our light thou art, 
 
 Our sun. 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Be quiet. I ail nothing. Where 's 
 Thy husband? 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 At a banquet, — he and Illo. 
 
 wallenstein (rises and strides across the saloon). 
 The night 's far spent. Betake thee to thy 
 chamber. 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 Bid me not go; O, let me stay with thee ! 
 
 wallenstein (moves to the window). 
 There is a busy motion in the heaven : 
 The wind doth chase the flag upon the tOA'er; 
 Fast sweep the clouds; the sickle of the moon, 
 Struggling, darts snatches of uncertain light. 
 No form of star is visible ! That one 
 White stain of light, that single glimmering 
 
 yonder, 
 Is from Cassiopeia, and therein 
 Is Jupiter. [A pause.] But now 
 The blackness of the troubled element hides 
 
 him ! 
 [He sinks into profound melancholy, and looks vacantly 
 into the distance. 
 
 countess (looks on him mournfully, then grasps his hand). 
 What art thou brooding on ? 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Methinks, 
 
 If I but saw him, 't would be well with me. 
 
 He is the star of my nativity, 
 
 And often marvellously hath his aspect 
 
 Shot strength into my heart. 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 Thou 'It see him again. 
 
 wallenstein (remains for a while with absent mind, then 
 assume*! a livelier manner, and turns suddenly to the 
 countess.) 
 
 See him again ? O, never, never again ! 
 
 How? 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 He is gone, — is dust. 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 Whom meanest thou then ? 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 He, the more fortunate ! yea, he hath finished! 
 
 For him there is no longer any fi ture ! 
 
 His life is bright, — bright without spot it was, 
 
 And cannot cease to be. No ominous hour 
 
 Knocks at his door with tidings of mishap. 
 
 Far off is he, above desire and fear; 
 
 No more submitted to the change and chance 
 
 Of the unsteady planets. O, 't is well 
 
 With him ! but who knows what the coming 
 
 hour, 
 Veiled in thick darkness, brings for us? 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 Thou speakest 
 
 Of Piccolomini. What was his death? 
 
 The courier had just left thee as I came. 
 
 [Wallenstein by a motion of his hand makes signs to her to 
 
 be silent. 
 Turn not thine eyes upon the backward view ; 
 Let us look forward into sunny days. 
 Welcome with joyous heart the victory ; 
 Forget what it has cost thee. Not to-day, 
 For the first time, thy friend was to thee dead; 
 To thee he died, when first he parted from thee. 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 This anguish will be wearied down, I know : 
 What pang is permanent with man ? l From the 
 
 highest, 
 As from the vilest thing of every day, 
 He learns to wean himself: for the strong hours 
 Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost 
 In him. The bloom is vanished from my life. 
 For, O, he stood beside me, like my youth; 
 Transformed for me the real to a dream, 
 Clothing the palpable and the familiar 
 With golden exhalations of the dawn ! 
 Whatever fortunes wait my future toils, 
 The beautiful is vanished, — and returns not. 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 O, be not treacherous to thy own power ! 
 Thy heart is rich enough to vivify 
 Itself. Thou lovest and prizest virtues in him, 
 The which thyself didst plant, thyself unfold. 
 
 wallenstein (stepping to the door). 
 Who interrupts us now, at this late hour ? 
 
 i A very inadequate translation of the original. 
 
 Verschmerzen vverd' ich diesen Sthlag, das weiss ich. 
 
 Denn was verschmerzte nicht der Mensch ! 
 Literally, — 
 
 I shall grieve down this blow, of that I 'm conscious : 
 
 What does not man grieve down ? Tr. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 771 
 
 It is the governor. He brings the keys 
 Of the citadel. 'T is midnight. Leave me, 
 sister ! 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 O, 't is so hard to me this night to leave thee ! 
 A boding fear possesses me ! 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Fear ? Wherefore ? 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 Shouldst thou depart this night, and we at 
 
 waking 
 Never more find thee ! 
 
 Fancies ! 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 O, my soul 
 
 Has long been weighed down by these dark 
 
 forebodings ! 
 And if I combat and repel them waking, 
 They still rush down upon my heart in dreams. 
 I saw thee yesternight, with thy first wife, 
 , Sit at a banquet gorgeously attired. 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 This was a dream of favorable omen, 
 That marriage being the founder of my for- 
 tunes. 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 To-day I dreamt that I was seeking thee 
 In thy own chamber. As I entered, Io ! 
 It was no more a chamber : the Chartreuse 
 At Gitschin 't was, which thou thyself hadst 
 
 founded, 
 And where it is thy will that thou shouldst be 
 Interred. 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Thy soul is busy with these thoughts. 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 What ! dost thou not believe that oft in dreams 
 A voice of warning speaks prophetic to us? 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 There is no doubt that there exist such voices. 
 
 Yet I would not call them 
 
 Voices of warning, that announce to us 
 
 Only the inevitable. As the sun, 
 
 Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image 
 
 In the atmosphere, — so often do the spirits 
 
 Of great events stride on before the events, 
 
 And in to-day already walks to-morrow. 
 
 That which we read of the fourth Henry's 
 
 death 
 Did ever vex and haunt me like a tale 
 Of my own future destiny. The king 
 Felt in his breast the phantom of the knife, 
 Long ere Ravaillac armed himself therewith. 
 His quiet mind forsook him : the phantasma 
 Started him in his Louvre, chased him forth 
 Into the open air; like funeral knells 
 
 Sounded that coronation festival ; 
 And still with boding sense he heard the tread 
 Of those feet that even then were seeking him 
 Throughout the streets of Paris. 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 And to thee 
 
 The voice within thy soul bodes nothing.' 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 Be wholly tranquil. 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 And another time 
 
 I hastened after thee, and thou rann'st from me 
 
 Through a long suite, through many a spacious 
 
 hall; 
 There seemed no end of it: doors creaked and 
 
 clapped ; 
 I followed panting, but could not o'ertake thee ; 
 When on a sudden did I feel myself 
 Grasped from behind, — the hand was cold that 
 
 grasped me, — 
 'T was thou, and thou didst kiss me, and there 
 
 seemed 
 A crimson covering to envelope us. 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 That is the crimson tapestry of my chamber. 
 
 countess (gazing on him). 
 If it should come to that, — if I should see thee, 
 Who standest now before me in the fulness 
 Of life 
 
 [She falls on his breast and weeps. 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 The emperor's proclamation weighs upon th*e . 
 Alphabets wound not, — and he finds no hands 
 
 COUNTESS. 
 
 If he should find them, my resolve is taken : 
 I bear about me my support and refuge. 
 
 [Exit Countess. 
 
 FROM THE DUTCH. 
 
 Page 395. 
 
 JACOB BELLAMY. 
 
 Jacob Bellamy was born at Flushing, in 
 the year 1757. His boyhood was passed in 
 humble circumstances, and he worked at the 
 trade of a baker until he was fifteen years old. 
 At this early age he acquired considerable rep- 
 utation in his native city as a versifier. In 
 1772, at the celebration of the second centen- 
 nial festival in commemoration of the founda- 
 tion of the republic, his genius was inspired by 
 the patriotic enthusiasm that universally pre- 
 
772 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 vailed. His productions were so well received, 
 that he was enabled, by the generosity of a lib- 
 eral patron, to study at the University of Utrecht, 
 where he devoted part of his time to theology. 
 He acquired a knowledge of Latin, studied the 
 mother tongue with critical accuracy, and wrote 
 several pieces of such excellence, that the Soci- 
 ety of Arts at the Hague incorporated them into 
 their collections. Among his poems, those 
 most highly esteemed are the " Vaderlandse 
 Gezengen " (Patriotic Songs). His later pieces 
 are in a more melancholy tone. The death of 
 this distinguished poet occurred in 1796. The 
 works he left behind him entitle him to be 
 placed with Bilderdijk, Helmers, Loos, and 
 others, among the restorers of Dutch poetry. 
 
 ODE TO GOD. 
 
 For Thee, for Thee, my lyre I string, 
 Who, by ten thousand worlds attended, 
 Holdest thy course sublime and splendid 
 
 Through heaven's immeasurable ring ! 
 
 I tremble 'neath the blazing throne 
 
 Thy light eternal built upon, — 
 Thy throne, as thou, all-radiant, — bearing 
 
 Love's day-beams of benignity : 
 Yet, terrible is thine appearing 
 
 To them who fear not thee. 
 
 0, what is mortal man, that he 
 May hear thy heavenly temple ringing 
 
 With songs that heaven's own choirs are sing- 
 ing, 
 
 And echo back the melody? 
 
 My soul is wandering from its place ; 
 
 Mine eyes are lost amidst the space 
 Where thousand suns are rolled through heav- 
 en, — 
 
 Suns waked by thee from chaos' sleep : 
 But with the thought my soul is driven 
 
 Down to a trackless deep. 
 
 There was a moment ere thy plan 
 Poured out Time's stream of mortal glory, — 
 Ere thy high wisdom tracked the story 
 Of all the years since Time began : 
 Bringing sweet peace from sorrow's mine, 
 And making misery — discipline; 
 The bitter waters of affliction 
 
 Distilling into dews of peace, 
 And kindling heavenly benediction 
 From earth's severe distress. 
 
 Then did thine omnipresent eye, 
 Earth's million million wonders seeing, 
 Track through the misty maze of being 
 
 E'en my obscurest destiny : 
 
 1, in those marvellous plans, though yet 
 Unborn, had mine own portion set; 
 
 And thou hadst marked my path, though lowly : 
 E en to my meanness thou didst give 
 
 Thy spirit, — thou, so high, so holy; 
 And I, thy creature, live. 
 
 So, through this trembling ball of clay, 
 Thou to and fro dost kindly lead me; 
 'Midst life's vicissitudes I speed me, 
 
 And quiet peace attends my way. 
 
 And, O, what bliss it is to be — 
 
 Though but an atom — formed by thee, — 
 By thee, who in thy mercy pourest 
 
 Rivers of grace, — to whom, indeed, 
 The eternal oak-trees of the forest 
 
 Are as the mustard-seed ! 
 
 Up, then, my spirit ! soar above 
 This vale, where mists of darkness gather ! 
 Up to the high, eternal Father ! 
 
 For thou wert fashioned by his love. 
 
 Up to the heavens ! away ! away ! — 
 
 No, — bend thee down to dust and clay : 
 Heaven's dazzling light will blind and burn thee; 
 
 Thou canst not bear the awful blaze. 
 No, — wouldst thou find the Godhead, turn thee 
 
 On Nature's face to gaze. 
 
 There, in its every feature, thou 
 May'st read the Almighty; — every feature 
 That 's spread upon the face of Nature 
 
 Is brightened with his holy glow : 
 
 The rushing of the waterfall, 
 
 The deep green valley, — silent all, — 
 The waving grain, the roaring ocean, 
 
 The woodland's wandering melody, — 
 All, — all that wakes the soul's emotion, 
 
 Creator, speaks of thee ! 
 
 But, of thy works through sea and land 
 Or the wide fields of ether wending, 
 In man thy noblest thoughts are blending; 
 Man is the glory of thy hand ; — 
 Man, — modelled in a form of grace, 
 Where every beauty has its place; 
 A gentleness and glory sharing 
 
 His spirit, where we may behold 
 A higher aim, a nobler daring: 
 'T is thine immortal mould. 
 
 O wisdom ! O unbounded might! 
 I lose me in the light Elysian ; 
 Mine eye is dimmed, and dark my vision : 
 
 Who am I in this gloomy night? 
 
 Eternal Being ! let the ray 
 
 Of thy high wisdom bear away 
 My thoughts to thine abode sublimest ! 
 
 But how shall grovelling passions rise 
 To the proud temple where thou climbest 
 
 The threshold of the skies ? 
 
 Enough, if I a stammering hymn, 
 My God, to thee may sing, — unworthy 
 Of those sweet strains poured out before thee 
 By heavenly hosts of cherubim : 
 Despise me not, — one spark confer 
 Worthy of thine own worshipper; 
 And better songs and worthier praises 
 
 Shall hallow thee, when 'midst the strain 
 Of saints my voice its chorus raises, — 
 Never to sink again. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 773 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 Page 482. 
 
 CHATEAUBRIAND. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 How my heart is ever turning 
 
 To my distant birthplace fair ! 
 Sister, in our France, the morning 
 Smileth so rare ! 
 Home ! my love is on thy shore 
 For evermore ! 
 
 Dost remember how our mother 
 
 Oft, our cottage fire beside, 
 Blessed the maiden and her brother, 
 In her heart's pride, — 
 And they smoothed her silver hair 
 With tender prayer? 
 
 Dost remember, still, the palace 
 Hanging o'er the river Dore ? 
 And that giant of the valleys, 
 The Moorish tower, 
 Where the bell, at dawning gray, 
 Did waken day ? 
 
 And the lake, with trees that hide it, 
 
 Where the swallow skimmeth low? 
 And the slender reeds beside it, 
 That soft airs bow? 
 How the sunshine of the west 
 Loved its calm breast! 
 
 And Helene, that one beloved 
 
 Friend of all my early hours, 
 How through greenwood we two roved, 
 Playing with flowers? 
 Listening at the old oak's feet, 
 How two hearts beat ! 
 
 Give me back my oaks and meadows, 
 
 And my dearly loved Helene ; 
 One and all are now but shadows, 
 Bringing strange pain. 
 Home ! my love is on thy shore 
 For evermore ! 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN. 
 
 Page 5S2. 
 
 GIAMBATTISTA MARINI. 
 
 FADING BEAUTY. — SUPPLEMENTARY STANZAS. 
 
 The translation of Marini's " Fading Beau- 
 ty," by Daniel, on p. 582, embraces little more 
 than half of the ode. The following additional 
 stanzas have been furnished by a friend, who 
 has skilfully preserved the exact measure and 
 the double rhymes of the original. 
 
 A lamp's uncertain splendor 
 
 A wandering shadow hideth ; 
 In fire or sun, the tender 
 Snow into water glideth : 
 Yet not so long abideth 
 Youth's swiftly fading blossom, 
 Which doth at once more joy and frailty too 
 embosom. 
 
 Foolish who sets his hoping 
 
 On nature's proud displaying, 
 Which falls in merely coping 
 With a light breeze's playing : 
 Passeth, passeth without staying, 
 To-day's delight unsteady, 
 Which shows itself, and, while we look, is gone 
 already. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Flies, flies the pleasant bevy 
 
 Of amorous delighting; 
 And with weary foot and heavy 
 Follow sorrow and despiting : 
 To-day youth fears no blighting, 
 To-morrow the year rangeth, 
 And all the green of spring for winter's snow 
 exchangeth. 
 
 VII. 
 
 How swift thou disappearest, 
 O treasure born for dying ! 
 How rapidly thou outwearest, 
 O dowry, O glory lying ! 
 The arrow swiftest flying, 
 Which the blind archer wasteth, 
 From a fair countenance's bow not sooner 
 hasteth. 
 
 The sky's now bright sereneness 
 A sudden cloud-rack dashes; 
 
 The fire's high-blazing cleanness 
 Is now but dust and ashes; 
 The rude storm bursts, and crashes 
 
 The smooth glass of the Ocean, 
 Who only finds repose in his unresting motion. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Thus all its freshness loseth 
 
 The spring-time of man's living; 
 
 Morning its green unclooeth, 
 But night is unforgiving; 
 Flowers, whence the heart is hiving 
 
 Its honey, frost surpriseth ; 
 Each falls in turn, and, fallen, never riseth. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 How many kingdoms glorious, 
 
 How many cities over, 
 Ruin exults victorious, 
 
 And sand and herbage cover ! 
 What boots strength? or how discover 
 A buckler which protecteth 
 'Gainst what doth level all that earth or flesh 
 erecteth ? 
 
 ■ 3m* 
 
774 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Of Time, with which she vieth, 
 
 Beauty 's the trophy after; 
 Irrevocably flieth 
 
 The sport, the joy, the laughter; 
 The cup, from which she quaffed her 
 Short bliss, leaves naught that 's lasting, 
 But sorrow and regret for that poor moment': 
 tasting. 
 
 Page 610. 
 IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Night dew-lipped comes, and every gleaming 
 star 
 
 Its silent place assigns in yonder sky : 
 The moon walks forth, and fields and groves 
 afar, 
 
 Touched by her light, in silver beauty lie. 
 In solemn peace, that no sound comes to mar, 
 
 Hamlets and peopled cities slumber nigh; 
 While on this rock, in meditation's mien, 
 Lord of the unconscious world, I sit unseen. 
 
 How deep the quiet of this pensive hour! 
 
 Nature .bids labor cease, — and all obey. 
 How sweet this stillness, in its magic power 
 
 O'er hearts that know her voice and own her 
 sway ! 
 Stillness unbroken, save when from the flower 
 
 The whirring locust takes his upward way; 
 And murmuring o'er the verdant turf is heard 
 The passing brook, — or leaf by breezes stirred. 
 
 Borne on the pinions of Night's freshening air, 
 Unfettered thoughts with calm reflection come ; 
 
 And Fancy's train, that shuns the daylight glare, 
 To wake when midnight shrouds the heavens 
 in gloom. 
 
 New, tranquil joys, and hopes untouched by care, 
 Within my bosom throng to seek a home; 
 
 While far around the brooding darkness spreads, 
 
 And o'er the soul its pleasing sadness sheds. 
 
 Page 612. 
 
 NIGCOLO UGO FOSCOLO. 
 
 THE SEPULCHRES. 
 
 Beneath the cypress shade, or sculptured urn 
 By fond tears watered, is the sleep of death 
 Less heavy ? When for me the sun no more 
 Shall shine on earth, and bless with genial beams 
 This beauteous race of beings animate, — 
 When bright with flattering hues the future hour3 
 No longer dance before me, and I hear 
 No more the magic of thy dulcet verse, 
 Nor the sad, gentle harmony it breathes, — 
 When mute within my breast the inspiring voice 
 Of youthful Poesy, and Love, sole light 
 To this my wandering life, — what guerdon then 
 For vanished years will be the marble, reared 
 
 To mark my dust amid the countless throng 
 Wherewith Death widely strews the land and 
 sea? 
 
 And thus it is ! Hope, the last friend of man, 
 Flies from the tomb, and dim Forgetfulness 
 Wraps in its rayless night all mortal things. 
 Change after change, unfelt, unheeded, takes 
 Its tribute, — and o'er man, his sepulchres, 
 His being's lingering traces, and the relics 
 Of earth and heaven, Time in mockery treads. 
 
 Yet why hath man, from immemorial years, 
 Yearned for the illusive power which may retain 
 The parted spirit on life's threshold still? 
 Doth not the buried live, e'en though to him 
 The day's enchanted melody is mute, 
 If yet fond thoughts and tender memories 
 He wake in friendly breasts ? O, 't is from heaven 
 This sweet communion of abiding love ! 
 A boon celestial ! By its charm we hold 
 Full oft a solemn converse with the dead ; 
 If yet the pious earth, which nourished once 
 Their ripening youth, in her maternal breast 
 Yielding a last asylum, shall protect 
 Their sacred relics from insulting storms, 
 Or step profane, — if some secluded stone 
 Preserve their name, and flowery verdure wave 
 Its fragrant shade above their honored dust. 
 
 But he who leaves no heritage of love 
 
 Is heedless of an urn ; — and if he look 
 
 Beyond the grave, his spirit wanders lost 
 
 Among the wailings of infernal shores ; 
 
 Or hides its guilt beneath the sheltering wings 
 
 Of God's forgiving mercy; while his bones 
 
 Moulder unrecked-of on the desert sand, 
 
 Where never loving woman pours her prayer, 
 
 Nor solitary pilgrim hears the sigh 
 
 Which mourning Nature sends us from the tomb. 
 
 New laws now banish from our yearning gaze 
 The hallowed sepulchres, and envious strip 
 Their honors from the dead. Without a tomb 
 Thy votary sleeps, Thalia ! he who sung 
 To thee beneath his humble roof, and reared 
 His bays to weave a coronal for thee. 
 And thou didst wreath with gracious smiles his 
 
 lay, 
 Which stung the Sardanapalus of our land, 1 
 Whose grovelling soul loved but to hear the 
 
 lowing 
 Of cattle pasturing in Ticino's fields, 
 His source of boasted wealth. O Muse inspired! 
 Where art thou ? No ambrosial air I breathe, 
 Betokening thy blest presence, in these bowers 
 Where now I sigh for home. Here wert thou 
 
 wont 
 To smile on him beneath yon linden-tree, 
 That now with scattered foliage seems to weep, 
 Because it droops not o'er the old man's urn, 
 Who once sought peace beneath its cooling shade. 
 Perchance thou, Goddess, wandering among 
 
 graves 
 
 i The Prince Belgiojoso, severely satirized in Parini'f 
 poem of " The Day." 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 775 
 
 Unhonored, vainly seek'st the spot where rests 
 Parini's sacred head ! The city now 
 To him no space affords within her walls, 
 Nor monument, nor votive line. His bones, 
 Perchance, lie sullied with some felon's blood, 
 Fresh from the scaffold that his crimes deserved. 
 Seest thou the lone wild dog, among the tombs, 
 Howling with famine, roam, — raking the dust 
 From mouldering bones? while from the skull, 
 
 through which 
 The moonlight streams, the noisy lapwing flies, 
 And flaps his hateful wings above the field 
 Spread with funereal crosses, — screaming shrill, 
 As if to curse the light the holy stars 
 Shed on neglected burial-grounds? In vain 
 Dost thou invoke upon thy poet's dust 
 The sweet-distilling dews of silent night: 
 There spring no flowers on graves by human 
 
 praise 
 Or tears of love unhallowed ! 
 
 From the days 
 When first the nuptial feast and judgment-seat 
 And altar softened our untutored race, 
 And taught to man his own and others' good, 
 The living treasured from the bleaching storm 
 And savage brute those sad and poor remains, 
 By Nature destined for a lofty fate. 
 Then tombs became the witnesses ofpride, 
 And altars for the young: — thence gods invoked 
 Uttered their solemn answers; and the oath 
 Sworn on the father's dust was thrice revered. 
 Hence the devotion, which, with various rites, 
 The warmth of patriot virtue, kindred love, 
 Transmits us through the countless lapse of years. 
 
 Not in those times did stones sepulchral pave 
 The temple-floors, — nor fumes of shrouded 
 
 corpses, 
 Mixed with the altar's incense, smite with fear 
 The suppliant worshipper, — nor cities frown, 
 Ghastly with sculptured skeletons, — while 
 
 leaped 
 Young mothers from their sleep in wild affright, 
 Shielding their helpless babes with feeble arm, 
 And listening for the groans of wandering ghosts, 
 Imploring vainly from their impious heirs 
 Their gold-bought masses. But in living green, 
 Cypress and stately cedar spread their shade 
 O'er unforgotten graves, scattering in air 
 Their grateful odors; — vases rich received 
 The mourners' votive tears. There pious friends 
 Enticed the day's pure beam to gild the gloom 
 Of monuments ; — for man his dying eye 
 Turns ever to the sun, and every breast 
 Heaves its last sigh toward the departing light. 
 There fountains flung aloft their silvery spray, 
 Watering sweet amaranths and violets 
 Upon the funeral sod ; and he who came 
 To commune with the dead breathed fragrance 
 
 round, 
 Like bland airs wafted from Elysian fields. 
 Sublime and fond illusion ! this endears 
 The rural burial-place to British maids, 
 Who wander there to mourn a mother lost, — 
 Or supplicate the hero's safe return, 
 
 Who of its mast the hostile ship despoiled, 
 To scoop from thence his own triumphal bier. 2 
 
 Where slumbers the high thirst of glorious deeds, 
 And wealth and fear are ministers to life, 
 Unhallowed images of things unseen, 
 And idle pomp, usurp the place of groves 
 And mounds. The rich, the learned, the vulgar 
 
 great, 
 Italia's pride and ornament, may boast 
 Enduring tombs in costly palaces, 
 With their sole praise — ancestral names — in- 
 scribed. 
 For us, my friends, be quiet couch prepared, 
 Where Fate for once may weary of his storms, 
 And Friendship gather from our urn no treasure 
 Of sordid gold, but wealth of feeling warm, 
 And models of free song. 
 
 Yes, Pindemonte ! 
 The aspiring soul is fired to lofty deeds 
 By great men's monuments, — and they make fair 
 And holy to the pilgrim's eye the earth 
 That has received their trust. When I beheld 
 The spot where sleeps enshrined that noble 
 
 genius, 3 
 Who, humbling the proud sceptres of earth's 
 
 kings, 
 Stripped thence the illusive wreaths, and showed 
 
 the nations 
 What tears and blood defiled them, — when I 
 
 saw 
 His mausoleum, who upreared in Borne 4 
 A new Olympus to the Deity, — 
 And his, 5 who 'neath heaven's azure canopy 
 Saw worlds unnumbered roll, and suns unmoved 
 Irradiate countless systems, — treading first 
 For Albion's son, who soared on wings sublime, 
 The shining pathways of the firmament, — 
 " O, blest art thou, Etruria's Queen," I cried, 
 "For thy pure airs, so redolent of life, 
 And the fresh streams thy mountain summits 
 
 pour 
 In homage at thy feet ! In thy blue sky 
 The glad moon walks, — and robes with silver 
 
 light 
 Thy vintage-smiling hills; and valleys fair, 
 Studded with domes and olive-groves, send up 
 To heaven the incense of a thousand flowers. 
 Thou, Florence, first didst hear the song divine 
 That cheered the Ghibelline's 6 indignant flight. 
 And thou the kindred and sweet language gav'st 
 To him, the chosen of Calliope, 7 
 Who Love with purest veil adorning, — Love, 
 That went unrobed in elder Greece and Rome,— 
 Restored him to a heavenly Venus' lap. 
 Yet far more blest, that in thy fane repose 
 Italia's buried glories ! — all, perchance, 
 She e'er may boast ! Since o'er the barrier frail 
 Of Alpine rocks the overwhelming tide of Fate 
 
 2 Nelson carried with him, some time before his death, a 
 coffin made from the mainmast of the Orient, — that, when 
 he had finished his military career in this world, he might 
 be buried in one of his trophies. 
 
 3 Niccolo Machiavelli. * Galileo. I Petrarch. 
 
 4 Michel Angelo. 6 Dante. 
 
776 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Hath swept in mighty wreck her arras, her wealth, 
 Altars, and country, — and, save memory, — all ! " 
 
 Where from past fame springs hope of future deeds 
 In daring minds, for Italy enslaved, 
 Draw we our auspices. Around these tombs, 
 In thought entranced, Alfieri wandered oft, — 
 Indignant at his country, hither strayed 
 O'er Arno's desert plain, and looked abroad 
 With silent longing on the field and sky : 
 And when no living aspect soothed his grief, 
 Turned to the voiceless dead ; while on his brow 
 There sat the paleness, with the hope of death. 
 With them he dwells for ever; here his bones 
 Murmur a patriot's love. O, truly speaks 
 A god from his abode of pious rest! 
 The same which fired of old, in Grecian bosoms, 
 Hatred of Persian foes at Marathon, 
 Where Athens consecrates her heroes gone. 
 
 The mariner since, whose white sails woo the 
 
 winds 
 Before Eubcea's isle, at deep midnight, 
 Hath seen the lightning-flash of gleaming casques, 
 And swift-encountering brands; — seen blazing 
 
 pyres 
 Roll forth their volumed vapors, — phantom 
 
 warriors, 
 Begirt with steel, and marching to the fight : 
 While on Night's silent ear, o'er distant shores, 
 From those far airy phalanxes, was borne 
 The clang of arms, and trumpet's hoarse re- 
 sponse, — 
 The tramp of rushing steeds, with hurrying hoofs, 
 Above the helmed dead, — and, mingling wild, 
 Wails of the dying, hymns of victory, 
 And, high o'er all, the Fates' mysterious chant. 8 
 
 Happy, my friend, who in thine early years 
 
 Hast crossed the wide dominion of the winds! 
 
 If e'er the pilot steered thy wandering bark 
 
 Beyond the iEgean Isles, thou heard'st the shores 
 
 Of Hellespont resound with ancient deeds; 
 
 And the proud surge exult, that bore of old 
 
 Achilles' armor to Rhceteum's shore, 
 
 Where Ajax sleeps. To souls of generous mould 
 
 Death righteously awards the meed of fame : 
 
 Not subtle wit, nor kingly favor gave 
 
 The perilous spoils to Ithaca, — when waves, 
 
 Stirred to wild fury by infernal gods, 
 
 Rescued the treasures from the shipwrecked bark. 
 
 For me, whom years and love of high renown 
 Impel through far and various lands to roam, 
 The Muses, gently waking in my breast 
 Sad thoughts, bid me invoke the heroic dead. 
 They sit and guard the sepulchres; and when 
 Time with cold wing sweeps tombs and fanes to 
 
 ruin, 
 The gladdened desert echoes with their song, 
 And its loud harmony subdues the silence 
 Of noteless ages. 
 
 Yet on Ilium's plain, 
 Where now the harvest waves, to pilgrim eyes 
 
 8 In allusion to a prevalent superstition. 
 
 Devout gleams star-like an eternal shrine, — 
 Eternal for the Nymph espoused by Jove, 
 Who gave her royal lord the son whence sprung 
 Troy's ancient city, and Assaracus, 
 The fifty sons of Priam's regal line, 
 And the wide empire of the Latin race. 
 She, listening to the Fates' resistless call, 
 That summoned her from vital airs of earth 
 To choirs Elysian, of heaven's sire besought 
 One boon in dying: — "O, if e'er to thee," 
 She cried, "this fading form, these locks were 
 
 i dear, 
 And the soft cares of Love, — since Destiny 
 Denies me happier lot, guard thou at least 
 That thine Electra's fame in death survive ! " 
 She prayed, and died. Then shook the Thun 
 
 derer's throne, 
 And, bending in assent, the immortal head 
 Showered down ambrosia from celestial locks, 
 To sanctify her tomb. — Ericthon there 
 Reposes, — there the dust of Ilus lies. 
 There Trojan matrons, with dishevelled hair, 
 Sought vainly to avert impending fate 
 From their doomed lords. There, too, Cassan- 
 dra stood, 
 Inspired with deity, and told the ruin 
 That hung o'er Troy, — and poured her wailing 
 
 song 
 To solemn shades, — iT.d led the children forth, 
 And taught to youthful lips the fond lament : 
 Sighing, she said, "If e'er the Gods permit 
 Your safe return from Greece, where, exiled slaves 
 Your hands shall feed your haughty conqueror's 
 
 steeds, 
 Your country ye will seek in vain ! Yon walls, 
 By mighty Phoebus reared, shall cumber earth, 
 In smouldering ruins. Yet the Gods of Troy 
 Shall hold their dwelling in these tombs; — 
 
 Heaven grants 
 One proud, last gift, — in grief a deathless name. 
 Ye cypresses and palms, by princely hands 
 Of Priam's daughters planted ! ye shall grow, 
 Watered, alas ! by widows' tears. Guard ye 
 My slumbering fathers ! He who shall withhold 
 The impious axe from your devoted trunks 
 Shall feel less bitterly his stroke of grief, 
 And touch the shrine with not unworthy hand. 
 Guard ye my fathers ! One day shall ye mark 
 A sightless wanderer 'mid your ancient shades: 
 Groping among your mounds, he shall embrace 
 The hallowed urns, and question of their trust. 
 Then shall the deep and caverned cells reply 
 In hollow murmur, and give up the tale 
 Of Troy twice razed to earth and twice rebuilt; 
 Shining in grandeur on the desert plain, 
 To make more lofty the last monument 
 Raised for the sons of Peleus. There the bard, 
 Soothing their restless ghosts with magic song, 
 A glorious immortality shall give 
 Those Grecian princes, in all lands renowned, 
 Which ancient Ocean wraps in his embrace. 
 And thou, too, Hector, shalt the meed receive 
 Of pitying tears, where'er the patriot's blood 
 Is prized or mourned, — so long as yonder sun 
 Shall roll in heaven, and shine on human woes.' 
 

 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 ICELANDIC. 
 
 THE HAVA-MAI.. 
 
 Come to thy dwelling, 
 
 
 Least errs the cautious. 
 
 Good sense is needful 
 
 A paraphrase of this poem has already been 
 
 given on page 39. Its importance, however, in ' 
 
 To the far traveller ; 
 
 the literary history of the North is such as to 
 
 Least errs the cautious ; 
 
 warrant the insertion here of the following more 
 
 For a friend trustier 
 
 literal version from " The Literature and Eo- j 
 
 Than good understanding 
 
 mance of Northern Europe, by William and j 
 
 Findeth man never. 
 
 ilary Howitt." 
 
 
 
 
 A cautious guest 
 
 
 When be comes to his hostel 
 
 In every corner 
 
 Speaketh but little ; 
 With bis ears he listeneth ; 
 
 Carefully look thou 
 
 Ere forth thou goest; 
 
 With his eyes he looketb ; 
 
 For insecure 
 
 Thus the wise learneth. 
 
 Is the house when an enemy 
 
 
 Sitteth therein. 
 
 Happy is he 
 
 Hail him who giveth ! 
 
 Who for himself winneth 
 
 Enters a guest. 
 
 Honour and friends. 
 
 Where shall he be seated ? 
 
 All is uncertain, 
 
 Tet ill shall fare he 
 
 Which a man holdeth 
 
 "Who seeks his welfare 
 
 In the heart of another. 
 
 In other men's houses. 
 
 
 
 Happy is he 
 
 Fire will be needful 
 
 Who prudent guidance 
 
 For him who enters 
 
 From himself winneth ; 
 
 With his knees frozen. 
 
 For evil counsel 
 
 Of meat and clothing 
 
 Man oft receive tb 
 
 Stands he in need 
 
 From the breast of another. 
 
 Who journeys o'er mountains. 
 
 
 
 No better burden 
 
 Water is needful, 
 
 Bears a man on his journey 
 
 A towel and kindness 
 
 Than mickle wisdom. 
 
 For this guest's welcome ; 
 
 Better is she than gold 
 
 Kind inclinations 
 
 Where he is a stranger ; 
 
 Let him experience ; 
 
 In need she is a helper. 
 
 Answer his questions. 
 
 
 Good sense is needful 
 
 No better burden 
 
 To the far traveller ; 
 
 Bears a man on his journey 
 
 
 Than mickle wisdom. 
 
 Each place seems home to him. 
 
 
 He is a laughing-stock 
 
 No worse provision 
 
 Who, knowing nothing, 
 Sits 'mid the wise. 
 
 Takes a man on his journey 
 Than frequent drunkenness. 
 
 With the deep thinker 
 
 Ale is not so good 
 
 Speak thou but little ; 
 
 As people have boasted 
 
 But guard well thy temper; 
 
 For the children of men. 
 
 When the noble and silent 
 
 For less and still less, 
 
SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 As more he drinketh, 
 
 An evil man 
 
 Knows man himself. 
 
 And a carping temper 
 
 
 Jeer at all things. 
 
 The hern of forgetfulness 
 
 He knows not, 
 
 Sits on the drunkard, 
 
 He ought to know, 
 
 And steals the man's senses 
 
 That himself is not faultless. 
 
 By the bird's pinions, 
 
 
 Fettered I lay, 
 
 A foolish man 
 
 In Gunlada's dwelling. 
 
 Lies awake the night through 
 
 
 And resolves on many things. 
 
 Drunken I lay, 
 
 Thus is he weary 
 
 Lay thoroughly drunken, 
 
 When the day cometh ; 
 
 With Fjalar the wise. 
 
 The old care remaineth. 
 
 This is the best of drink, 
 
 
 That every one afterwards 
 
 A foolish man 
 
 Comes to his senses. 
 
 Thinks all are friendly 
 
 
 Who meet him with smiles. 
 
 Be silent and diligent, 
 
 But few he findeth 
 
 Son of a Prince, 
 
 Who will aid his cause 
 
 And daring in combat ; 
 
 When to the Ting he cometh. 
 
 Cheerful and generous 
 
 
 Let every man be, 
 
 A foolish man 
 
 Till death approaches. 
 
 Thinks all are friendly 
 
 
 Who meet him with smiles ; 
 
 A foolish man fancies 
 
 Nor knows he the difference 
 
 He shall live forever 
 
 Though they laugh him to scorn 
 
 If he shuns combat. 
 
 When he sits 'mong the knowing ones. 
 
 But old age will give 
 
 
 To him no quarter, 
 
 A foolish man 
 
 Although the spear may. 
 
 Thinks he knows everything 
 
 
 While he needs not the knowledge. 
 
 The fool stares about 
 
 But he knows not 
 
 When he goes on a visit, 
 
 How to make answer 
 
 Talks nonsense or slumbers. 
 
 When he is questioned. 
 
 All goes well 
 
 
 , When he can drink, 
 
 A foolish man 
 
 For then the man speaks his mind. 
 
 When he comes into company 
 
 He, he only 
 
 Had better keep silence. 
 No one remarketh 
 
 Who has far travelled, 
 
 How little he knows 
 
 Has far and wide travelled, 
 Knoweth every 
 
 Till he begins talking. 
 
 Temper of man, 
 
 He appears wise 
 
 If he himself is wise. 
 
 Who can ask questions 
 
 If cups thou lackest 
 
 Yet drink thou by measure : 
 
 Speak what is seemly or be still. 
 
 And give replies. 
 Ever conceal then 
 The failings of others, 
 The children of men. 
 
 No one will charge thee 
 
 
 With evil, if early 
 
 Who cannot keep silence 
 
 Thou goest to slumber. 
 
 Uttereth many 
 
 
 A word without purport. 
 
 The gluttonous man, 
 
 The tongue of the garrulous, 
 Which keepeth back nothing, 
 Talks its own mischief. 
 
 Though he may not know it, 
 Eats his life's sorrow ; 
 
 Lust of drink often 
 
 
 Makes the fool, foolish 
 
 Hold in derision 
 
 When he comes 'mid the prudent. 
 
 No one, although he 
 
 
 Come as a stranger. 
 
 The flocks they have knowledge 
 
 Many a one, when he has had 
 
 When to turn homeward 
 
 Rest and dry clothing, 
 Thou mayst find to be wise. 
 
 And leave the green pastures ; 
 
 But he who is foolish 
 
 Knoweth no measure, 
 
 He seemeth wise 
 
 No bounds to his craving. • 
 
 Who in speech triumphs 
 
ICELANDIC. 
 
 781 
 
 O'er mocking guests. 
 
 What was meant for prosperity, 
 
 
 The talkative man 
 
 For many things are contrary to expectation. 
 
 Knows not at the table 
 
 
 
 If he talks with his enemies. 
 
 With weapons and garments, 
 As best may be fitting 
 
 
 Many are friendly 
 
 Give thou thy friends pleasure. 
 
 
 One to another ; 
 
 By gifts interchanged 
 
 
 Yet storm ariseth. 
 
 Is friendship made surest, 
 
 
 Strife will arise 
 
 If the heart proffers them. 
 
 
 Forever, if one guest 
 
 
 
 Affronteth another. 
 
 Let a man towards his friend 
 Ever be friendly, 
 
 
 Thou mayst dine early 
 
 And with gifts make return for gifts. 
 
 
 Unless thou art going 
 
 With thy cheerful friend 
 
 
 Unto the banquet. 
 
 Be thou cheerful ; 
 
 
 Sits he and flatters ; 
 
 With thy guileful friend on thy guard. 
 
 
 Hungry he seemeth, 
 
 
 
 Yet few things, he learneth. 
 
 Let a man towards his friend 
 Ever be friendly ; 
 
 
 Long is the journey 
 
 Towards him and his friend. 
 
 
 To a deceitful friend, 
 
 But with an enemy's friend 
 
 
 Though he dwell near thee. 
 
 Can no man 
 
 
 But direct lies the path 
 
 Be friendly. 
 
 
 To a friend faithful, 
 
 
 
 Though he dwelleth afar off. 
 
 If thou hast a friend 
 
 
 j 
 
 Whom thou canst confide in, 
 
 
 Do not too frequently 
 
 And wouldst have joy of his friendship, 
 
 
 Unto the same place 
 
 Then mingle thy thoughts with his, 
 
 
 Go as a guest. 
 
 Give gifts freely, 
 
 
 Sweet becomes sour 
 
 And often be with him. 
 
 
 When a man often sits 
 
 
 
 At other men's tables. 
 
 If thou hast another 
 Whom thou hast no faith in, 
 
 
 One good house is there, 
 
 Yet wouldst have joy of his friendship, 
 
 
 Though it be humble : 
 
 Thou must speak smoothly ; 
 
 
 Each man is master at home. 
 
 Thou must think warily, 
 
 
 Though a man own but 
 
 And with cunning pay back his guile. 
 
 
 Two goats and a straw-rick, 
 
 
 
 'T is better than begging. 
 
 Yet one word 
 
 About him thou mistrusteth 
 
 
 One good house is there, 
 
 And in whom thou hast no reliance. 
 
 
 Though it be humble : 
 
 Thou must speak mildly, 
 
 
 Each man is master at home. 
 
 More so than thou meanest ; 
 
 
 The man's heart bleedeth 
 
 Paying back like with like. 
 
 
 At every meal-time 
 
 
 
 Who his food beggeth. 
 
 Young was I formerly ; 
 Then alone went I, 
 
 
 Without his weapon 
 
 Taking wrong ways. 
 
 
 Goes no man 
 
 Rich seemed I to myself 
 
 
 A-foot in the field. 
 
 When I found a companion ; 
 
 
 For it is unsafe 
 
 For man is man's pleasure. 
 
 
 Out on the by-paths 
 
 
 
 When weapons are needful. 
 
 The noble, the gentle 
 Live happiest, 
 
 
 Never found I so generous, 
 
 And seldom meet sorrow. 
 
 
 So hospitable a man 
 
 But the foolish man, 
 
 
 As to be above taking gifts. 
 
 He is suspicious, 
 
 
 Nor one of his money 
 
 And a niggard grieves to give. 
 
 
 So little regardful 
 
 
 
 But that it vexed him to lend. 
 
 I hung my garments 
 On the two wooden men 
 
 
 He who has laid up 
 
 Who stand on the wall. 
 
 
 Treasures of wealth 
 
 Heroes they seemed to be 
 
 
 Finds want hard to bear. 
 
 When they were clothed ! 
 
 
 Adversity often uses 
 
 The unclad are despised. 
 
 
782 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 The tree withereth 
 
 Who has but few workmen. 
 
 Which stands in the court-yard 
 
 Much he neglecteth 
 
 Without shelter of bark or of leaf. 
 
 Who sleeps in the morning. 
 
 So is a man 
 
 On the master's presence depends half the profit. 
 
 Destitute of friends. 
 
 
 Why should he still live on ? 
 
 Like to dried fagots, 
 
 
 And hoarded up birch-bark, 
 
 Even as fire, 
 
 Are the thoughts of a man. 
 
 Burns peace between enemies, 
 
 The substance of firewood 
 
 For the space of five days. 
 
 May last, it is true, 
 
 But on the seventh 
 
 A year and a day. 
 
 It is extinguished, 
 
 
 And the less is their friendship. 
 
 Cleanly and decent 
 
 
 Ride men to the Ting 
 
 Only a little 
 
 Although unadorned. 
 
 Will a man give ; 
 
 For his shoes and apparel 
 
 He often gets praise for a little. 
 
 Nobody blushes, 
 
 With half a loaf 
 
 Nor yet for his horse, though none of the best. 
 
 And a full bottle 
 
 
 I won a companion. 
 
 Question and answer 
 
 
 Is a clever thing, 
 
 Small are the sand-grains, 
 
 And so it is reckoned. 
 
 Small are the water-drops : 
 
 To one person trust thyself, 
 
 Small human thoughts : 
 
 Not to a second. 
 
 Yet are not these 
 
 The world knows what is known unto thee. 
 
 Each of them equal. 
 
 
 Every ceutury bears but one man. 
 
 Bewilderedly gazes 
 
 
 On the wild sea, the eagle, 
 
 Good understanding 
 
 When he reaches the strand. 
 
 Ought all to possess, — 
 
 So is it with the man 
 
 But not too much wisdom. 
 
 Who in a crowd standeth 
 
 Those human beings 
 
 When he has but few friends there. 
 
 Whose lives are the brightest 
 
 
 Know much and know it well. 
 
 Every wise man 
 
 
 And prudent, his power will use 
 
 Good understanding 
 
 With moderation. 
 
 Ought all to possess, 
 
 For he will find 
 
 But not too much knowledge. 
 
 When he comes 'mong the brave 
 
 For the heart of a wise man 
 
 That none can do all things. 
 
 Seldom is gladdened 
 
 
 By knowledge of all things. 
 
 Let every man 
 
 Good understanding 
 
 Be prudent and circumspect 
 
 Ourrht all to possess, 
 
 But not too much knowledge. 
 
 Let no one beforehand 
 
 And cautious in friendship. 
 
 Often that word 
 
 Which we trust to another 
 
 Inquire his own fortune. 
 
 Very dear costs us. 
 
 The gladdest heart knoweth it not. 
 
 
 
 Greatly too early 
 
 Brand with brand burnetii 
 
 Came I to some places ; 
 
 Till it is burned out : 
 
 Too late to others. 
 
 Fire is kindled by fire. 
 
 Here the feast was over ; 
 
 A man among men 
 
 There unprepared. 
 
 Is known by his speech ; 
 
 Seldom opportunely comes an unwelcome guest. 
 
 A fool by his arrogance. 
 
 
 
 Here and everywhere 
 
 Betimes must he rise 
 
 Have I been bidden 
 
 Who another man's life 
 
 If I fell short of a dinner. 
 
 And goods will obtain. 
 
 But the fragments are easily 
 
 The sleeping wolf 
 
 Left for his faithful friend 
 
 Seldom gets bones. 
 
 When a man has eaten. 
 
 No sluggard wins battles. 
 
 
 
 Fire is pleasant 
 
 Betimes must he rise 
 
 To the children of men, 
 
 And look after his people 
 
 And the light of the sun, 
 
ICELANDIC. 
 
 783 
 
 
 If they enjoy 
 Health uninterrupted, 
 And live without crime. 
 
 Perfectly wretched 
 
 Is no man, though he may he unhappy : 
 
 One is blessed in his sons ; 
 
 One in his friends ; 
 
 By competence one ; 
 
 By good works another. 
 
 Better are they 
 
 Who live than they who are dead. 
 
 The living man may gain a cow. 
 
 I saw the fire blazing 
 
 In the hall of the rich man, 
 
 But death stood at the threshold. 
 
 The lame may ride ; 
 
 The deaf fight bravely ; 
 
 The one-handed tend the flocks. 
 
 Better be blind 
 
 Than entombed : 
 
 The dead win nothing. 
 
 It is good to have a son 
 Although he be born 
 After his father's death. 
 Seldom are cairn-stones 
 Raised by the wayside 
 Save by the son to his father. 
 
 There are two adversaries ; 
 The heaviness of the brain, 
 And death by the bedside. 
 He who has gold for his journey 
 Rejoices at night 
 When he grows weary. 
 
 Short are the boat-oars ; 
 ***** 
 
 Unstable autumnal nights. 
 The weather changes 
 Much in five days ; 
 Still more in a month. 
 
 Little enough knows he 
 
 Who nothing knows : 
 
 Many a man is fooled by another. 
 
 One man is rich, 
 
 Another man is poor ; 
 
 But that proves not which has most wisdom. 
 
 Thy flocks may die ; 
 
 Thy friends may die ; 
 
 So also mayst thou thyself; 
 
 But never will die 
 
 The fame of him 
 
 Who wins for himself good renown. 
 
 Thy flocks may die ; 
 Thy friends may die ; 
 So also mayst thou thyself. 
 But one thing I know 
 
 Which never dies, 
 
 The doom which is passed on the dead. 
 
 I saw the well-filled barns 
 
 Of the child of wealth ; 
 
 Now leans he on the staff of the 
 
 Thus are riches, 
 
 As the glance of an eye, 
 
 They are an inconstant friend. 
 
 A foolish man 
 
 If he gain wealth 
 
 Or the favor of woman, 
 
 Grows in self-esteem, 
 
 Though he understands nothing : 
 
 Forth goes he in arrogance. 
 
 Know thou, that when 
 
 Thou inquirest of the runes, 
 
 Known to the world, 
 
 What the holy Gods did, 
 
 What the great Scalds have written, 
 
 It is best for thee to be still. 
 
 Praise the day at eventide ; 
 
 The wife when she is dead ; 
 
 The sword when thou hast proved it ; 
 
 The maid when she is married ; 
 
 Ice when thou hast crossed it ; 
 
 Ale when thou hast drunken it. 
 
 In wind cut thou fire-wood ; 
 In wind sail the ocean ; 
 In darkness woo a maiden, 
 For many eyes has daylight. 
 In a ship man voyages ; 
 The shield it defends him ; 
 The sword is for slaughter, 
 But the maid to be courted. 
 
 Drink ale by firelight ; 
 On the ice drive the sledge ; 
 Sell thou the lean horse 
 And the sword that is rusty ; 
 Feed the horse at home ; 
 Bed the dog in the court-yard. 
 
 The word of a maiden 
 
 No one can trust ; 
 
 Nor what a woman speaketh ; 
 
 For on a turning-wheel 
 
 Was the heart of woman formed 
 
 And guile was laid in her breast. 
 
 A breaking bow ; 
 A burning flame ; 
 A hungry wolf; 
 A chattering crow ; 
 The grunting swine; 
 The rootless tree ; 
 The heaving billows ; 
 The boiling kettle ; 
 
 The flying spear ; 
 Sinking waters ; 
 
784 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 One night's ice ; 
 The coiled-up snake ; 
 The bride's fond-talk ; 
 Or the broken sword; 
 A bear's play ; 
 Or a king's son ; 
 
 A sick calf ; 
 
 A freed bondsman ; 
 
 A false fortune-teller ; 
 
 The newly slain on the field; 
 
 A bright sky ; 
 
 A smiling master; 
 
 The cry of a dog ; 
 
 A harlot's sorrow; 
 
 An early-sown field 
 
 Let no one trust, 
 
 Neither his son too soon; 
 
 The field depends on the weather ; 
 
 The youth on his sense, 
 
 And both are uncertain. 
 
 A brother's death, 
 
 Though it be half-way here ; 
 
 A half-burned house ; 
 
 A steed very lively 
 
 (For a horse has no value, 
 
 If one foot stumble), 
 
 Are not so sure 
 
 That a man may trust to them. 
 
 Thus is peace among women ; 
 
 Like a fleeting thought; 
 
 Like a journey over slippery ice 
 
 On a two-years-old horse 
 
 With unroughed shoes, 
 
 And ill broken-in ; 
 
 Or in wild tempests 
 
 Tossing in a helmless ship ; 
 
 Or trying to capture 
 
 Deer 'mid the thawing snow of the hills. 
 
 Now speak I truly, 
 
 Eor I know what I speak of, 
 
 Deceitful to woman is the promise of love : 
 
 "When we speak fairest, 
 
 Then mean we foulest; 
 
 The purest heart may be beguiled. 
 
 He speaketh smoothly 
 
 Who would win the maiden ; 
 
 He offers property, 
 
 And praises the beauty 
 
 Of the fair maiden ; 
 
 He wins who is in earnest. 
 
 The love of another 
 
 Let no man 
 
 Find fault with. 
 
 Beautiful colors 
 
 Oft charm the wise, 
 
 While they snare not the fool. 
 
 For that failing 
 
 Which is common to many 
 
 No man is blamed. 
 From the wise man to the fool, 
 'Mong all children of men, 
 Goes he, Love, the mighty one. 
 
 Thought alone knoweth 
 What the heart cherisheth, 
 It alone knows the mind. 
 No disease is worse 
 For the wise man 
 Than joy in nothing. 
 
 This I experienced 
 
 When I sate 'mid the rushes 
 
 Awaiting my love. 
 
 The good maiden 
 
 Was to me life and heart; 
 
 Mine is she no longer. 
 
 The maid of Billing 
 White as snow found I, 
 In her bed sleeping. 
 Princely glory 
 Was to me nothing 
 If I lived not with her ! 
 
 " To the court, Odin, 
 (?ome towards the eventide 
 If thou wilt woo me ; 
 All will be ruined 
 If we do not in private 
 Know how to manage."- 
 
 Thither I sped again ; 
 Happy I thought myself, 
 More so than I knew of, 
 For I believed 
 I had half won her favor 
 And the whole of her thoughts. 
 
 So again came I, 
 
 When the quarrelsome people 
 
 All were awake. 
 
 With candles burning 
 
 And piled-up firewood 
 
 Beceived she my visit. 
 
 A few morrows after, 
 When again I went thither, 
 All the house-folk were sleeping. 
 There found I a dog 
 Of the fair maiden's, 
 Bound on the bed. 
 
 Few are so noble 
 But that their fancy 
 May undergo change. 
 Many a good girl 
 When she is well known 
 Is deceitful towards men. 
 
 That I experienced 
 
 When the quick-witted maiden 
 
 I decoyed into danger. 
 
ICELANDIC. 785 
 
 
 She heaped reproach on me, 
 
 FROM THE SOLAR-LIOD. 
 
 The merry maiden, 
 
 
 
 And I won her never. 
 
 Howitt, " Lit. and Romance of Northern Europe." 
 
 
 Gay at home 
 
 
 
 
 And liberal, must 
 
 By the Nornors' seat 
 
 
 Be the man of wisdom. 
 
 Nine days I sate, 
 
 
 Full of talk and pleasant memories 
 
 Then to horse was lifted. 
 
 
 Will he be ofttimes, 
 
 The sun of the giant race 
 
 
 With much cheerful converse. 
 
 Gleamed sadly 
 
 Out of heaven's weeping clouds. 
 
 
 He is called Fimbulfambi 
 
 
 
 Who but few things can utter; 
 
 Without and within 
 
 
 'T is the way of the simple. 
 
 Seemed I to journey 
 
 
 I was with the old giants, 
 
 Through the seven worlds 
 
 
 Now am I returned ; 
 
 Above and below. 
 
 
 There was I not silent, 
 
 Better path I sought 
 
 
 With affluence of speech 
 
 Than there was to find. 
 
 
 I strove to do my best 
 
 
 
 In the hall of Suttung. 
 
 And now to be told is 
 What first I beheld 
 
 
 Gunlod gave me, 
 
 In the home of torture. 
 
 
 On a golden chair seated, 
 
 Scorched birds were flying — 
 
 
 A draught of mead delicious ; 
 
 Wretched souls in myriads, 
 
 
 But the return was evil 
 
 Thick as mosquito legions. 
 
 
 Which she from me experienced, 
 
 
 
 With all her faithfulness, 
 
 Flying saw I 
 
 
 With all her deep love. 
 
 Hope's dragons 
 
 And fall in drear waste places. 
 
 
 I let words of anger 
 
 They shook their wings 
 
 
 By me be spoken, 
 
 Till to me seemed that 
 
 
 And gnawed the rock. 
 
 Heaven and earth were rent. 
 
 
 Above and below me 
 
 
 
 Went the paths of the giants ; 
 
 The stag of the sun 
 
 
 Thus ventured I life. 
 
 Southward saw I journey. 
 His feet stood 
 
 
 Dear-bought song 
 
 On earth, but his huge antlers 
 
 
 Have I much rejoiced in ; 
 
 Traversed the heavens above him. 
 
 
 All succeeds to the will ; 
 
 
 
 Because the Odrejrer 
 
 Northward saw I ride 
 
 
 Now have ascended 
 
 The sons of the races ; 
 
 
 To the old, holy earth. 
 
 Seven they were together. 
 From the full horn they drank 
 
 
 Uncertain seems it 
 
 The purest mead 
 
 
 If I had escaped 
 
 From wells of heavenly strength. 
 
 
 From the courts of the giants 
 
 
 
 Had I not been blessed by 
 
 The winds stood still, 
 
 
 The dear love of Gunlod, 
 
 The waters ceased to flow. 
 
 
 She whom I embraced. 
 
 Then heard I a dread cry. 
 There for their husbands 
 
 
 On the day following 
 
 False vengeful women 
 
 
 Went the Rimthursar 
 
 Ground earth for food. 
 
 
 To ask the gods council, 
 
 
 
 In the halls lofty ; 
 
 Bloody stones 
 
 
 Ask whether Bolverk were 
 
 Those women dark 
 
 
 Come 'mid the mighty gods, 
 
 Dragged sorrowfully, 
 
 
 Or if Suttung had slain him. 
 
 Their gory hearts 
 Hung from their breasts 
 
 * 
 
 A holy ring-oath 
 
 Weighed with heavy weights. 
 
 
 I mind me, gave Odin. 
 
 
 
 Now who can trust him. 
 
 Many men 
 
 
 Suttung is cheated ; 
 
 Along the burning ways 
 
 
 His mead has been stolen 
 
 Sore wounded saw I go. 
 
 
 And Gunlod is weeping. 
 
 Their visages 
 
 
786 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Seemed deeply dyed 
 
 Men did I see 
 
 With blood in murder shed. 
 
 Who the Lord's laws 
 
 
 Had followed stanchly. 
 
 Many men 
 
 Purest light 
 
 Saw I amongst the dead 
 
 Forever growing clearer 
 
 Without one hope of grace. 
 
 Passed brightly o'er their heads. 
 
 Pagan stars there stood 
 
 
 Over their heads 
 
 Men did I see 
 
 All scored with cruel runes. 
 
 Who with unwearied zeal 
 
 
 Did seek the good of others. 
 
 Men saw I too 
 
 Angels read 
 
 Who enviously had scowled 
 
 The holy books 
 
 Upon the good of others. 
 
 Upon their radiant heads. 
 
 Bloody runes 
 
 
 Were on their breasts 
 
 Men did I see 
 
 Ploughed out by hands of men. 
 
 Who with sharp fasts 
 
 
 Their bodies had subdued ; 
 
 Men saw I there 
 
 God's holy hosts 
 
 Before them all bowed down 
 
 All full of woe, 
 
 All mazed in wondering. 
 This do they win 
 
 And paid them highest homage. 
 
 Who to eternal loss 
 
 Men did I see 
 
 Love this world only. 
 
 Who had their mothers 
 
 Men saw I too 
 
 Who sought always to snatch 
 
 Piously cherished, 
 And their place of rest 
 Amid heaven's beams 
 
 From others their possessions. 
 In throngs they were, 
 
 Shone gloriously. 
 
 And to the misers' hell 
 Bore groaning loads of lead. 
 
 Holy maids there were 
 Who their pure souls 
 
 Men saw I next 
 
 Had kept unsoiled by sin, 
 
 Who many had bereaved 
 
 Of life and goods, 
 
 And through the hearts of these 
 
 And souls of those 
 Who their rebellious flesh 
 Did ever sternly quail. 
 
 Forever fiercely ran 
 Strong venom snakes. 
 
 Lofty chariots saw I 
 Travel through heaven 
 
 Men too I saw 
 
 Having access to God ; 
 
 Who never would observe 
 
 And they were filled with those 
 
 Sabbaths and holy days. 
 Their unblessed hands 
 
 Who causelessly 
 
 Had on the earth been slain. 
 
 Fast riveted together 
 
 
 With ever burning stones. 
 
 Father Almighty ! 
 
 
 Illustrious Son ! 
 
 Men too I saw 
 
 And Holy Spirit of Heaven ! 
 
 Who with huge brag and boast 
 
 Thee do I implore, 
 
 On earth did vaunt themselves. 
 
 Who didst make all things, 
 
 Here their clothes 
 
 To keep us from all sin ! 
 
 Were vilely squalid 
 And with fire enwrapt. 
 
 
 
 Men saw I too 
 
 EPIC'S DEATH SONG. 
 
 Who with their slanderous breath 
 
 
 Had blasted others. 
 
 
 Hel's ravens 
 
 Dasent, " Story of Burnt Njal," Appendix. 
 
 Remorselessly their eyes 
 
 ~^~~~ 
 
 Tore from their heads. 
 
 " What dreams ! " Odin spoke 
 
 
 " Methought ere day broke 
 
 But all the horrors 
 
 I garnished Valhalla 
 
 Thou canst not know 
 
 For glory-full folk, 
 
 Which Hel's condemned endure. 
 
 Fast up from the fray 
 
 Sweet sins 
 
 Flitted forms of the fey, 
 
 There bitterly are punished, 
 
 I wakened the warriors, Hah ! 
 
 False pleasures reap true pain. 
 
 I bade them rise up 
 
ICELANDIC. 
 
 787 
 
 Benches to furnish, 
 Beer stoups to burnish, 
 Valkyries bore wine-cup 
 As though came a king. 
 Hither from earth 
 This morning must part 
 Warriors of worth ; 
 Expect them ere evening, 
 Glad is my heart." 
 
 Odin asks. 
 
 " Bragi ! Why under 
 A thousand doth thunder 
 Our rainbow bridge ? Answer, 
 What bodeth this host." 
 
 Bragi answers. 
 
 "Lintel and rooftree, rafter and bar, 
 
 Settle in hall, eke piilar and post, 
 
 As these men march onward, tremble and jar, 
 
 Quiver and quake, shiver and crack ; 
 
 Hall-doors fly open, wall-weapons rattle : 
 
 In glory excelling, 
 
 From Hell's gloomy dwelling, 
 
 With whirlwind of battle 
 
 Our Balder comes back." 
 
 Odin answers. 
 "Unwisely now, Bragi, 
 Though wise, hast thou spoken; 
 Valhalla kens better — 
 Not Balder's this token — 
 For Eric it groaneth, 
 I tell thee his fall ; 
 Each champion so trusty, 
 His lord now bemoaneth, 
 With weapons war-rusty 
 He wends to our hall." 
 
 OdiN speaks. 
 
 " Sigmund and Sinfjotli, 
 Up with you lithely, 
 Out with you cheerily 
 Eric to greet, 
 Bid him in blithely — 
 See ! He steps wearily, 
 All up the rain-arch, 
 Long is the day's march — 
 
 Hasten the hero on threshold to meet; 
 
 Dreary the journey 
 
 'Neath buckler and byrnie, 
 
 Hasten to bear up our chosen one's feet." 
 
 Sigmund asks. 
 
 " Why Eric of all 
 
 Other kings must thou call'? " 
 
 Odin answers. 
 
 " Because his brand ruddy 
 Clove helm after helm, 
 Because his blade bloody 
 Smote realm after realm." 
 
 Sigmund asks. 
 
 " Why snatch him then, father, 
 From fortune and glory ? 
 Why not leave him rather 
 To fill up his story 
 Ou victory's road 1 " 
 
 Odin answers. 
 
 " Because no man knoweth 
 
 When gray wolf so gory 
 
 His grisly maw showeth 
 
 In Asgard's abode ; 
 
 Therefore Odin calleth, 
 
 And Eric fain falleth, 
 
 To follow his liege lord, and fight for his God." 
 
 Sigmund speaks. 
 
 " Hail to thee, Eric, now, 
 
 Heartily welcome thou ! 
 
 Enter thou haughty king, 
 
 Enter the hall; 
 
 I ask but this only, 
 
 What Princes from far 
 
 Come with thee ? not lonely 
 
 Thou surely hast hastened, 
 
 Leaving the battle where foemen fell chastened, 
 
 Hither to Heaven, from hurly of war 1 " 
 
 " Kings five," Eric said, 
 " Their names I will tell, 
 I the sixth, at their head, 
 In the gory fight fell." 
 
788 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 DANISH 
 
 ANDERS CHRISTENSEN ARREBOE. 
 
 Arreboe was born at Aero, and educated at 
 the University of Copenhagen. After serving 
 as parish priest at Oringborg he was made Bish- 
 op of Drontheim at the age of thirty, and died 
 at MalmS in 1637. His principal work is " The 
 Hexaemeron," as already noticed on page 61. 
 From this work the Howitts give the following 
 extracts 'in their "Lit. and Romance of North- 
 ern Europe." 
 
 FROM THE THIRD DAY. 
 
 thou Almighty God, thou Lord and King 
 eternal ! 
 
 Thou art a Lord indeed in thy great acts pater- 
 nal ! 
 
 Thy word is land and sea ; thy word is leaf and 
 blossom ; 
 
 Thy word is hill and dale, and the wealth with- 
 in earth's bosom. 
 
 Now let the Earth put off the mean dress which 
 she weareth, 
 
 For brave apparel now her God for her pre- 
 pareth. 
 
 Cast off thy mantle dark, thy sable robe of 
 mourning, 
 
 And clothe thee in the beautiful green silk of 
 thy adorning. 
 
 Let thy gay hunting-suit of all lands be be- 
 holden, 
 
 On hill and valley low while summer reigneth 
 golden. 
 
 Now will I weave a garland, with my own hand 
 will weave it, 
 
 And as a wreath of honor thy forehead must 
 receive it : 
 
 A rosy garland sweet, with many flowers en- 
 twining 
 
 Around thy verdant neck, where verdant fields 
 are shining. 
 
 And in sweet Danish verse thee will I sing so 
 truly, 
 
 That thy surpassing charms shall all acknowl- 
 edge duly. 
 
 Let down thy golden hair, anoint with precious 
 ointment, 
 
 And deck thy rosy cheeks with pomp of God's 
 appointment. 
 
 To thy full breast be not alone thy children 
 taken, 
 
 Clasp with maternal love those who have thee 
 forsaken. 
 
 Feed thou the fowls of air, the flood's unnum- 
 bered legions, 
 
 Open thy liberal hand with blessings for all 
 regions ; 
 
 If water, air, and fire accord not due thanks- 
 giving, 
 
 Regard it not in wrath, thou friend of all the 
 living. 
 
 FROM THE FOURTH DAT. 
 
 Through halls of air her way the joyful lark 
 
 is wending 
 Upward, forever up towards the world's eye as- 
 cending ; 
 Then down again she drops where meadows 
 
 green await her, 
 And if she soars or falls, sings hymns to her 
 
 Creator ! 
 thou, my sweet-voiced Muse, as doth beseem 
 
 thee rather, 
 So touch thy lute that here, from Helicon may 
 
 gather 
 The learned Virgin's nine with harps of tone 
 
 elysian, 
 And bid great Orpheus, that divine musician, 
 To touch his marvellous harp, that the green- 
 wood rejoices 
 Till rivers and small brooks lift up their liquid 
 
 voices ; 
 Till beasts of field and hill forego their savage 
 
 madness, 
 And the delighted fish swim to the land for 
 
 gladness. 
 For had I eagles' wings, and flew abroad through 
 
 heaven, 
 If all the starry hosts unto my eye were given ; 
 If to the mountain-peaks I went with bow and 
 
 arrow, 
 Or with my hawk and hound to valleys green 
 
 and narrow, 
 Strayed I through flowery woods, where violets 
 
 blue were blowing, 
 Or in a ship of tree o'er stormy seas was going; 
 Wherein I went or strayed, with space alone to 
 
 bound me, 
 Still, still should I behold God's mighty works 
 
 around me. 
 Shall I then hold aloof where all are incense 
 
 bringing ; 
 When their Creator's praise the wild-wood birds 
 
 are singing? 
 Be my song what it may, I sing, my God, to 
 
 praise thee, 
 In heaven or on the earth, where'er my thoughts 
 
 may raise me. 
 
DANISH. 
 
 789 
 
 THOMAS KIXGO. 
 
 See page 82. 
 
 The following version of Kingo's " Wateh- 
 man's Song," and the introductory remarks, are 
 taken from a newspaper, that does not indicate 
 their source. They are possibly from " The 
 Traveller's Handbook to Copenhagen, by An- 
 glicanus.'' London, 1S53. 
 
 "Daring the past year of 1849, it has been 
 my lot to reside at four of the most remarkable 
 capitals of Europe, and to successively experi- 
 ence what spring is in London, what summer 
 is in Paris, what autumn is in Edinburgh, and 
 what winter is in Copenhagen. Vividly, in- 
 deed, can I dwell on the marvellous contrast of 
 the night-aspect of each ; but one of the most 
 interesting peculiarities I have noticed in any of 
 them is that presented by the watchmen of the 
 last-named. When I first looked on these 
 guardians of the night, I involuntarily thought 
 of Shakespeare's Dogberry and Verges. The 
 sturdy watchers are muffled in uniform great- 
 coats, and also wear fur caps. In their hand 
 they carry- a staff of office, on which they screw, 
 when occasion requires, that rather fearful 
 weapon, the Northern Star. They also some- 
 times may be seen with a lantern at their belt; 
 the candle contained in said lantern they place 
 at the top of their staff to relight any street 
 lamps which require trimming. In case of fire, 
 the watchmen give signals from the church tow- 
 ers, by striking 'a number of strokes, varying 
 with the quarter of the city in which the fire 
 occurs, and they also put out from the tower 
 flags and lights pointed in the direction where 
 the destructive element is raging. From eight 
 o'clock in the evening until four o'clock in the 
 morning, all the year round, they chant a fresh 
 verse at the expiration of each hour, as they go 
 their rounds. The cadence is generally deep 
 and guttural, but with a peculiar emphasis and 
 tone ; and, from a distance, it floats on the still 
 night-air with a pleasing and impressive effect, 
 especially to the ear of a stranger. The verses 
 in question are of old antiquity, and were writ- 
 ten, I am told, by one of the Danish bishops. 
 They are printed on a large sheet of paper, 
 with an emblematical border rudely engraved in 
 the old style, and in the centre is a large en- 
 graving exactly representing one of the ancient 
 watchmen, in the now obsolete costume, with 
 his staff and Northern Star in hand, a lantern 
 at his belt, and his dog -at his feet. A copy of 
 the broadside has been procured me, and my 
 friend, Mr. Charles Beckwith (Andersen's trans- 
 lator), has expressly made for me a verbatim 
 translation of the verses, and his able version I 
 will now give at length. I am induced to do 
 this, because, not merely are the chants most 
 interesting in themselves, as a fine old relic of 
 Scandinavian customs, but there seems to me 
 a powerful poetical spirit pervading them. At 
 the top of the sheet are the lines : — 
 
 •Watch and pray, 
 For time goes ; 
 
 Think, and directly, 
 Ton know not when.' 
 
 " In large letters, over the engraving of the 
 watchman, are the words : — 
 
 ' Praised be God ! our Lord, to whom 
 Be love, praise, and honor.' 
 
 " I will now give the literal version, printed 
 exactly in the same arrangement of lines, let- 
 ters, and punctuation as the original." 
 
 COPENHAGEN WATCHMAN'S SOXG. 
 EIGHT O'CLOCK. 
 
 When darkness blinds the Earth, 
 
 And the day declines, 
 That time then us reminds 
 
 Of death's dark grave ; 
 Shine on us, Jesus sweet, 
 
 At every step 
 
 To the grave place, 
 And grant a blissful death. 
 
 xrxE o'clock. 
 Xow the day strides down, 
 
 And the night rolls forth, 
 Forgive, for Jesus' wounds, 
 
 Our sins, O mildest God! 
 Preserve the Boyal house, 
 
 And all men 
 
 In this land 
 From the violence of foes. 
 
 TEX O'CLOCK. 
 
 If you the time will know, 
 
 Husband, girl, and hoy ; 
 Then it 's about the time 
 
 That one prepares for bed. 
 Commend yourselves to God, 
 
 Be prudent and cautious, 
 
 Take care of lights and fire, 
 Our clock it has struck ten. 
 
 eleven o'clock. 
 God, our Father, us preserve, 
 
 The great with the small, 
 His holy angel-host 
 
 A fence around us place ! 
 He himself the town will watch; 
 
 Our house and home 
 
 God has in care, 
 Our entire life and soul. 
 
 twelve o'clock. 
 'T was at the midnight hour 
 
 Our Saviour he was born, 
 The wide world to console, 
 
 Which else would ruined be. 
 Our clock it has struck twelve, 
 
 With tongue and mouth, 
 
 From the heart's depths 
 Commend vourselves to God's care. 
 
790 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 ONE O CLOCK. 
 
 Help us, Jesus dear ! 
 
 Our cross here in this world 
 Patiently to bear ; 
 
 There is no Saviour more. 
 Our clock it has struck one, 
 
 Extend to us thy hand, 
 
 O consoling man; 
 Then the burden becomes light. 
 
 two o'clock. 
 Thou mild Jesu child, 
 
 To whom we were so dear, 
 Was born in darkness wild, 
 
 To Thee be honor, love and praise. 
 Thou worthy Holy Ghost 
 
 Enlighten us 
 
 Eternally, 
 That we may thee behold. 
 
 THREE O'CLOCK. 
 
 Now the black night strides on, 
 
 And the day approaches ; 
 God, let those stay away 
 
 Who us will distress ! 
 Our clock it has struck three, 
 
 O pious Eather, 
 
 Come to our help, 
 Grant us Thy grace. 
 
 FOUR O'CLOCK. 
 
 Thou, eternal God, have honor 
 
 In thy Heavenly choir, 
 Who watchman wilt be 
 
 Eor us who dwell on earth. 
 Now it rings off watch, 
 
 For a good night 
 
 Say thanks to God ; 
 Take good care of Time. 
 
 five o'clock. 
 O Jesu ! morning star ! 
 
 Our King unto thy care 
 We so willingly commend, 
 
 Be thou his Sun and Shield ! 
 Our clock it has struck five. 
 
 Come, nrld Sun, 
 
 From mercy's pale, 
 Light up our house and home. 
 
 SORROW AND GLADNESS. 
 Howitt, " Lit. and Romance of Northern Europe." 
 
 Sorrow and gladness together go wending ; 
 Evil and good come in quick interchange ; 
 Fair and foul fortune forever are blending ; 
 Sunshine and cloud have the skies for their 
 range. 
 Gold of earth's day 
 Is but splendid clay, 
 Alone heaven's happiness lasteth for aye. 
 
 Sceptres and crowns shine with diamonds re- 
 splendent, 
 Yet 't is no pastime the garb of a King ; 
 Sorrows a thousand on crowns are attendant ; 
 Sceptres a thousand anxieties bring. 
 Palaces fair 
 Are but gilded care ; 
 Only in heaven is joy not a snare. 
 
 Everything here has the germ of decay in it ; 
 Every one findeth some grief in his breast ; 
 And soon is the bosom though jewels blaze on it, 
 Filled full of sorrow and secret unrest; 
 Each has his own, 
 Known or unknown ; 
 Heaven from woe is exempted alone. 
 
 Honor external, and wisdom and station ; 
 Youth's strength and beaut}', the pride of life's 
 May, 
 Oft fill the spirit with boastful elation, 
 
 Yet there all must perish as time wears away. 
 Everything must 
 Pass into dust, 
 In the sure bliss of heaven alone can we trust. 
 
 Sharp thorns guard the rose in which most thou 
 delightest ; 
 And the deadlier the poison, the fairer the 
 flower ; 
 The heart may be crushed while the cheek is the 
 brightest, 
 For fortune oft changes her tide in an hour. 
 'Mid many woes 
 The stream of time flows ; 
 Heaven alone steadfast happiness knows. 
 
 Go to then ! Henceforth it no longer shall vex me, 
 Because as I wish the world goes not ahvay; 
 The turmoils of life shall no longer perplex me, 
 Nor my heart be worn out with the grief of 
 to-day. 
 Woe is time's blight ; 
 The seed of delight 
 Shall spring up and bloom in heaven's islands 
 of light. 
 
 Then pain shall inherit a rich overpayment ; 
 Then tears shall be wiped from all son-owing 
 eyes; 
 The poor be clothed then in the fairest of raiment, 
 And the sick with the vigor of health shall 
 arise. 
 Hatred shall cease ; 
 All shall be peace ; 
 For in heaven alone doth good ever increase. 
 
 O, let then my lot and my life be appointed, 
 Just as my God and my Lord seeth meet ; 
 Let the wicked go on still for evil anointed, 
 And the world have its way till the end is 
 complete ; 
 Time's tree will cast 
 Its leaves on the blast, 
 And heaven make everything right at the last. 
 
DANISH. 
 
 791 
 
 HENRIK HERTZ. 
 
 Henrik Hertz, the most popular of the 
 poets of Denmark since Oehlenschlager, was 
 horn in Copenhagen in 1798, and is the author 
 of numerous dramatic works, poems, and novels. 
 He is best known, out of his own country, by 
 his " King Rene''s Daughter," which has been 
 translated into English by Miss Jane Francis 
 Chapman, and again by Mr. Theodore Martin. 
 
 In his " Introductory Sketches," Mr. Martin 
 says : " His works, collected in fifteen vol- 
 umes (1853-1865), comprise over forty titles 
 in nearly all departments of imaginative litera- 
 ture. His signal successes have undoubtedly 
 been his dramas. Although the one that gave 
 him widest fame was neither brilliant comedy 
 nor profound tragedy, he has been more than 
 successful in both ; his novels have had a favor- 
 able reception ; and his lyric and didactic poems 
 are permanently fixed in the literature of his 
 native land." Hertz died in 1870. 
 
 FROM KING RENE'S DAUGHTER. 
 Translated by Theodore Martin 
 
 SIXTH SCENE. 
 
 King Rene. Almerik. Tristan in complete armor, with 
 
 his train^ Afterwards Geoffrey, with his train. 
 {During the progress of this scene, the evening red spreads 
 
 over the valley and the distant hills, and remains so till 
 
 the close of the piece.) 
 
 Tristan. 
 Give back ! The force, that sought to keep the 
 
 pass, 
 Has yielded to our arms. Do you surrender ? 
 
 Rene. 
 How now ! What man art thou, whose ruffian 
 
 hands 
 With shock of arms doth desecrate this ground ? 
 Stand, or my wrath shall strike thee to the dust ! 
 
 Tristan. 
 Husband thy words, old man. I haye no fears. 
 I do believe, this place is in the thrall 
 Of some unholy and malignant power, 
 Which keeps thee trembling, but gives nerve to 
 
 me. 
 If that thou be'st a sorcerer, and dost hope 
 For aid from magic spells, despair thy charm. 
 For know, the pope did consecrate this sword ; 
 This scarf was woven, too, by holy hands 
 Within the Mary Convent at Avignon, 
 And, 'neath this mail of proof, abides the will 
 To quell thee, as Saint George the dragon quelled. 
 
 Rene. 
 Deluded man! what motive brings thee here? 
 
 Tristan. 
 Reply to me! Art thou this valley's lord? 
 
 Rene. 
 Truly I am this valley's lord, I own; 
 Nor ends my title there. But who art thou ? 
 
 (Enter Geoffrey with his train.) 
 
 Geoffrey 
 What do I see ? King Rene ! — (kneels) — noble 
 king! 
 
 Tristan. 
 What 's here ? King Rene ! 
 
 Rene 
 
 Geoffrey, thou in league 
 With one that is thy monarch's foe 1 
 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 Your pardon 1 
 He posted on before. I came too late. 
 
 Rene (to Tristan) 
 Yet tell me, who art thou ? 
 
 Tristan. 
 
 My name is Tristan 
 Of Vaudemont ; a name you well do know. 
 
 Rene. 
 How'? Tristan! (To Geoffrey.) Is this true? 
 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 'T is as he says 
 
 Rene (musing). 
 And so 't was you, belike, as I conclude, 
 Were here to-day already ? 
 
 Tristan. 
 
 Yes, my liege ; 
 Chance, not presumption, led me to this place. 
 I did not dream that you were ruler here. 
 
 Rene. 
 But say, what motive brings you back again ? 
 
 Tristan. 
 
 You know it. 
 
 Rene. 
 Nay, I know it not. Explain. 
 
 Tristan. 
 Can this be so ? — Within this blooming vale, 
 Where all is marvellous, there lives conceal'd, 
 And its most foremost wonder, a fair girl, 
 Whose praise not all Provence's troubadours 
 Could chant in measures equal to her worth. 
 
 Renf.. 
 And this fair girl, you say — Continue, sir ! 
 
 Tristan. 
 Upon my soul such impress deep hath wrought 
 That I am bound her slave forevermore. 
 
 Rene. 
 And know you who she is ? 
 
792 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Tristan. 
 
 No. Yet there 's proof 
 Upon her countenance, and in her words, 
 Of high degree, and inborn nobleness. 
 
 Rene. 
 And have you noted not, that Nature, who 
 In all things else hath been so bountiful, 
 Left her one flaw 1 
 
 Tristan. 
 
 Ah, yes, alas ! she 's blind ! 
 Yet there doth flow within her soul a light 
 That makes all luminous which else were dark ! 
 
 Ren6. 
 And though you are aware that she is blind — 
 
 Tristan. 
 Yet, at her feet with rapture would I lay 
 The golden circle of my earldom down. 
 
 RENJE. 
 
 Now, by the holy image in Clairvaux, 
 
 You are the rarest marvel of our vale ! 
 
 You press in here with weapons in your hand, 
 
 To bear off that which hath for years been yours, 
 
 Yet which you now insultingly contemn. 
 
 Tristan. 
 How so, my liege ? 
 
 Rene. 
 Know, then, that this fair girl, 
 Who took your heart a prisoner, is my daughter. 
 
 Tristan. 
 Your daughter, she? 
 
 Ren£. 
 My daughter, my young count : 
 The same whom you, as this your letter bears, 
 Can in no wise consent to take for bride ; 
 The same who raised in you dislike so strong, 
 That, but to 'scape from her, you were content 
 To quit your claims forever to Lorraine ! 
 The same, moreover, whom }'ou so have charmed, 
 That I might almost doubt, if the poor girl 
 So lightly would abandon you. 
 
 Tristan. 
 
 My liege, 
 Thou wilt not mock me with so wild a joy ! 
 
 Rene. 
 'T is e'en as I have said. 
 
 Tristan. 
 
 Rene. 
 
 But why was she — 
 
 Shut up within this vale? Of that anon. 
 
 You little deem, my lord, that you are come 
 
 At a momentous crisis. Iolanthe, 
 
 My darling child, perchance, e'en while we talk, 
 
 Sinks into darkest night forevermore, 
 
 Or wakes to taste the glorious light of day. 
 
 Tristan. 
 What sayest thou, my liege ? 
 
 Rene. 
 
 This very hour 
 Has the physician, Ebn Jahia, chosen 
 To see, if possibly — (Approaches the house.) 
 But hush ! methinks 
 There is a stir within. Keep silence, all ! 
 She speaks ! O Tristan, hear ! Iolanthe speaks ! 
 Ah, are these sounds of pleasure, or of wail, 
 That murmur o'er my darling angel's lips ? 
 — But some one comes. 
 
 SEVENTH SCENE. 
 
 To the others enter Bertrand, afterwards Martha, Io- 
 lanthe, and Ebn Jahia. 
 
 Rene (to Bertrand, who enters from the house.) 
 
 Quick, Bertrand ! quick, and tell me, 
 How goes on all within ? 
 
 Bertrand. 
 
 Alas ! I know not. 
 She has awaked, and it is nearly over; 
 But I ran forth in terror. 
 
 (Enter Martha hastily.) 
 
 Martha. 
 
 She can see ! 
 
 Ren£. 
 
 How, Martha — see ? 
 
 Tristan. 
 O, grant it, Heaven ! 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Hush! hush! 
 
 She 's coming forth. 
 
 (Enter Ebn Jahia, leading Iolanthe by the hand. He 
 beckons to the others to retire.) 
 
 Iolanthe. 
 
 Where art thou leading me 1 
 
 God! where am I? Support me — O, sup- 
 
 port me ! 
 
 Ebn Jahia. 
 Calm thee, my child ! 
 
 Iolanthe. 
 Support me — O, stand still ! 
 
 1 ne'er was here before — what shall I do 
 
 In this strange place f O, what is that ? Sup- 
 port me ! 
 It comes so close on me, it gives me pain. 
 
 Ebn Jahia. 
 Iolanthe, calm thee ! Look upon the earth ! 
 That still hath been to thee thy truest friend, 
 And now, too, greets thee with a cordial smile. 
 — This is the garden thou hast ever tended. 
 
DANISH. 
 
 793 
 
 lOLANTHE. 
 
 My garden — mine ? Alas ! I know it not. 
 The plants are terrible to see — take care ! 
 They 're falling on us ! 
 
 Ebn Jahia. 
 Cease your fears, my child. 
 These stately trees are the date-palms, whose 
 
 leaves 
 And fruit to thee have been long known. 
 
 IOIANTHE. 
 
 Ah, no ! 
 Indeed, I know them not ! 
 
 (Raises her eyes towards the shy.) 
 
 This radiance, too, 
 That everywhere surrounds me — yon great 
 
 vault, 
 That arches there above us — O, how high! — 
 What is it* Is it God 1 Is it His spirit, 
 Which, as you said, pervades the universe 1 ? 
 
 Ebn Jahia. 
 Yon radiance is the radiance of the light. 
 God is in it, like as He is in all. 
 Yon blue profound, that fills yon airy vault, 
 It is the heaven, where, as we do believe, 
 God hath set up his glorious dwelling-place. 
 Kneel down, my child ! and raise your hands on 
 
 high, 
 To heaven's o'erarching vault — to God — and 
 
 pray! 
 
 IOLANTHE. 
 
 Ah, teach me, then, to pray to Him as I ought. 
 No one hath ever told me how I should 
 Pray to this Deity who rules the world ! 
 
 Ebn Jahia. 
 Then kneel thee down, my darling child, and say, 
 " Mysterious Being, who to me hast spoken 
 When darkness veil'd mine eyes, teach me to 
 
 seek Thee 
 In Thy light's beams, that do illume this world ; 
 Still, in the world, teach me to cling to Thee ! " 
 
 Iolanthe (kneels). 
 Mysterious Being, who to me hast spoken 
 When darkness veil'd mine eyes, teach me to 
 
 seek Thee 
 In Thy light's beams, that do illume this world ; 
 Still, in the world, teach me to cling to Thee' 
 — Yes, He hath heard me. I can feel He hath, 
 And on me pours the comfort of His peace. 
 He is the only one that speaks to me, 
 Invisible and kindly, as before. 
 
 Ebn Jahia. 
 Arise ! arise, my child, and look around. 
 
 lOLANTHE. 
 
 Say, what are these, that bear such noble forms % 
 
 Ebn Jahia. 
 Thou know'st them all. 
 
 lOLANTHE. 
 
 Ah, no ; I can know nothing. 
 
 Rene (approaching Iolanthe). 
 Look on me, Iolanthe, — me, thy father ! 
 
 Iolanthe (embracing him). 
 My father ! my God ! Thou art my father ! 
 I know thee now — thy voice, thy clasping hand. 
 Stay here ! Be my protector, be my guide ! 
 I am so strange here in this world of light. 
 They 've taken all that I possess'd away, — 
 All that in old time was thy daughter's joy. 
 
 Rene. 
 I have cull'd out a guide for thee, my child. 
 
 Iolanthe. 
 Whom mean'st thou 1 
 
 Rene (pointing to Tristan). 
 
 See, he stands expecting thee. 
 
 Iolanthe. 
 The stranger yonder ? Is he one of those 
 Bright cherubim thou once didst tell me of? 
 Is he the angel of the light come down ? 
 
 Rene. 
 Thou knowest him — hast spoken with him. 
 Think ! 
 
 Iolanthe. 
 
 With him ? with him ? 
 
 (Holds her hands before her eyes.) 
 
 Father, I understand. 
 In yonder glorious form must surely dwell 
 The voice that late I heard — gentle, yet strong ; 
 The one sole voice that lives in Nature's round. 
 
 ( To Tristan, who advances towards her.) 
 0, but one word of what thou said'st before ! 
 
 Tristan. 
 O sweet and gracious lady ! 
 
 Iolanthe. 
 
 " List! 0, list! 
 With these dear words the light's benignant rays 
 Found out a way to me ; and these sweet words 
 With my heart's warmth are intimately blent. 
 
 Tristan (embraces her). 
 Iolanthe ! Dearest ! 
 
 Rene. 
 
 Blessings on you both 
 From God, whose wondrous works we all revere ! 
 
794 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 SWEDISH. 
 
 THE BATTLE-SONG OF GUSTAVUS 
 DOLPHUS. 
 
 Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, was 
 born at Stockholm in 1594, and was killed at 
 the battle of Liitzen in 1632. The anonymous 
 author of " The Voice of Christian Life in 
 Song," from which this hymn is taken, gives 
 the following account of its origin. 
 
 " If ever a man subordinated self to the cause 
 he contended for, it was surely the Great Gus- 
 tavus. And he had his reward in kind. The 
 life he so unflinchingly offered to stem the re- 
 turning flood of Romanism was accepted, and 
 the flood was stayed. The hero died at Liitzen, 
 and the faith he had contended for held its 
 ground in Germany. From that noble heart, 
 in which northern strength and northern ten- 
 derness, the lofty heroism of an old Viking, and 
 the lowly heroism of a Christian martyr, were 
 so wonderfully blended, one psalm has come 
 down to us. Its composition was characteris- 
 tic. The brave king was no man of letters. 
 The fire of faith which burned in his heart was 
 more wont to fuse the iron of heroic deeds than 
 the gold of beautiful words. But the thoughts 
 were in his heart ; had they not inspired him in 
 march and battle-field ? So he told his chap- 
 lain, Dr. Jacob Fabricius, what his thoughts 
 were, and the chaplain moulded them into three 
 verses of a hymn, and the simple-hearted hero 
 took them ever afterwards as his battle-song. On 
 the morning of his last battle, when the armies of 
 Gustavus and Wallenstein were drawn up, wait- 
 ing till the morning mist dispersed to commence 
 the attack, the king commanded Luther's grand 
 psalm, ' Eine feste Burg ist unser Gott,' to be 
 sung, and then that hymn of his own, accom- 
 panied by the drums and trumpets of the whole 
 army. Immediately afterwards the mist broke, 
 and the sunshine burst on the two armies. For 
 a moment Gustavus Adolphus knelt beside his 
 horse, in face of his soldiers, and repeated his 
 usual battle-prayer, ' O Lord Jesus Christ ! bless 
 our arms, and this day's battle, for the glory of 
 Thy holy name ! ' Then passing along the 
 lines, with a few brief words of encouragement, 
 he gave the battle-cry, < God with us ! ' the same 
 with which he had conquered at Leipzig. Thus 
 be^an the day which laid him low amidst the 
 thickest of the fight, with those three sentences 
 on his dying lips, noble and Christian as any 
 that ever fell from the lips of dying man since 
 the days of the first martyr : ' I seal with my 
 blood the liberty and religion of the German 
 
 nation ! ' — ' My God, my God ! ' — and the last 
 that were heard, ' Alas ! my poor queen ! ' 
 
 " A hymn so consecrated has a value beyond 
 that of any mere words. Whether the Swedish 
 (from which the following translation is made) 
 or the German was the original, the translator 
 does not know. Probably both were original ; 
 but that in the mother-tongue of the hero him- 
 self has its peculiar interest." 
 
 BATTLE-SONG OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. 
 
 Be not dismay'd, thou little flock, 
 Although the foe's fierce battle shock, 
 
 Loud on all sides, assail thee. 
 Though o'er thy fall they laugh secure, 
 Their triumph cannot long endure; 
 
 Let not thy courage fail thee. 
 
 Thy cause is God's — go at His call, 
 And to His hand commit thy all; 
 
 Fear thou no ill impending: 
 His Gideon shall arise for thee, 
 God's Word and people manfully, 
 
 In God's own time, defending. 
 
 Our hope is sure in Jesus' might ; 
 Against themselves the godless fight, 
 
 Themselves, not us, distressing; 
 Shame and contempt their lot shall be ; 
 God is with us, with Him are we : 
 
 To us belongs His blessing. 
 
 A version of this Battle-Song, from the Ger- 
 man, may be found in the "Lyra Germanica" 
 of Catherine Winkworth. 
 
 FRANZ MICHAEL FRANZEN. 
 
 Franzen was born at Uleaborg, in Finland, 
 in 1772, and was educated at the University of 
 Abo, where he afterward became Librarian and 
 Professor of Literary History. Later he re- 
 ceived the living of Kumla in the district of 
 Orebro in Sweden. In 1835 he became incum- 
 bent of Santa Clara, in Stockholm ; and in 1841, 
 Bishop of Hornosand, where he died in 1847. 
 See also page 131. 
 
 William and Mary Howitt, in their "Lit. 
 and Romance of the North," speaking of his 
 lyric poems, say : " Here we find simplicity 
 which is often enchanting, though sometimes, 
 like Wordsworth's in ' Betty Foy,' ' The Wag- 
 oner,' and ' Peter Bell/ almost approaching to 
 
SWEDISH. 
 
 795 
 
 poetry intended for children and not for grown 
 men. The Swedes themselves notice the re- 
 semblance of the poetry of Franze'n to that of the 
 Lake school, — to the delineation of the natural, 
 the domestic, the idyllic, and the beauty of child- 
 hood. ' They represent,' says Leopold, ' now 
 a picture out of the Sa;_ra times, in all the truth 
 of its antique painting ; now a romantic sorrow ; 
 and now again a simple trait of the heart and of 
 life ; a smile of innocence, a tear of pity, an out- 
 break of childlike joy, as if they were struck off 
 in haste but prevented from again escaping.' 
 It is in the idyllic and the lyric that he is entirely 
 at home. Nature smiles and blooms under his 
 eye, and night, in its simplest and loveliest 
 scenes, displays its pleasures and affections. 
 There is pleasant humor but no satire in his 
 verse. ' How could there be any satire,' asks 
 one of his countrymen, ' in such childlike, pleas- 
 ant eyes, with such a pious, mild countenance, 
 with that evangelic hair, combed a la Jean-Bap- 
 tiste ? ' ,: From their work the following spe- 
 cimen is taken. 
 
 THE HORIZON. 
 
 A CONVERSATION BETWEEN A CHILD AND ITS 
 MOTHER. 
 
 " See ! where to earth bends down the sky ! 
 
 See how the morning clouds up-rolled 
 
 Tinge the far forest with their gold. 
 And we delay — both thou and I, 
 
 To go to Heaven, my mother dear, 
 
 When every day it is so near." 
 
 " Come," said the mother, "no delaying — 
 Come, let us go then " ; and they went, 
 On heavenly objects both intent, — 
 
 And onwards through the woodlands straying, 
 'Mid shadows soft and purple light 
 Seemed Paradise itself in sight. 
 
 " How beautiful ! This sure must be 
 Eden itself ; what fruit! what flowers; 
 And yet — Heaven is not in these bowers, 
 
 O'er church and moor it seems to flee. 
 Far off, I see the golden cloud 
 With splendor all the village shroud." 
 
 "My child, while thou on earth sojournest 
 Will Heaven elude thy eager quest ; 
 Where'er thy steps may be addressed ; 
 
 Whether to North or South thou turnest. 
 Where the sun rises, or descends 
 Still to Heaven's gate thy travel tends. 
 
 " Hear'st thou that voice in midair pealing 1 
 
 Us doth it to God's house invite. 
 
 This is his day ; on this his light, 
 Comfort and peace he is revealing. 
 
 There stands his church in clay's clear flame ; 
 
 Thy heart within it glow the same. 
 
 " Come, child, the world thou must explore, 
 From Paradise thou too must go • 
 And as we thus roam onward, so 
 
 Thy whole life's region travel o'er. 
 And when thy pilgrimage is done 
 Heaven will not fly thee, but be — won." 
 
 JOHAN OLOF WALLIN. 
 
 Walli'n, the most renowned of the sacred 
 poets of Sweden, was born in Dalecarlia in 
 1779, and was educated at the University of 
 Upsala. He took orders in 1806, was created 
 Archbishop of Upsala in 1833, and died in 1839. 
 See also page 131. The following specimen is 
 from the work of the Howitts, who say of 
 him : — 
 
 " There are certainly in Walh'n a strength and 
 majesty, a solemn splendor and harmony of in- 
 tonation, that mark the great master in sacred 
 poetry. We are told, moreover, by his country- 
 men, that many of the characteristics of his lyr- 
 ics were found in his preaching and his speeches. 
 He had a style, and even a peculiar accentua- 
 tion, often at variance with the prosody of the 
 language, which, when he declaimed from the 
 pulpit or the tribune, produced through its 
 strange originality a wonderful and overpower- 
 ing effect. When he stood, the dark-glancing 
 man, with his deep voice, which seemed to issue 
 from the depth of an oracular cave, with this 
 novel rhythm, and its measured but always 
 piquant accentuation, and poured forth his lofty 
 speech, full of sinewy words and antitheses ; or 
 his solemn sermon, which, like his Psalms and 
 Hymns, have no parallel in the Swedish lan- 
 guage; you seemed to hear an inspired prophet 
 from the ancient times, or a Nestor, with his 
 head full of the wisdom of ages, and his breast 
 of that universal music of which Shakespeare 
 
 SE 
 
 THE ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTH PSALM. 
 
 Sing, my soul, 
 
 The Eternal's praise ! 
 
 Infinite ! 
 
 Omnipotent ! 
 
 God of all worlds ! 
 In glorious light, all star-bestrewed 
 Thou dost thy Majesty invest ; 
 The heaven of heavens is thine abode, 
 And worlds revolve at thy behest, 
 
 Infinite ! 
 
 Omnipotent ! 
 
 God of all worlds ! 
 Thy chariot on the winds doth go ; 
 The thunder follows thy career ; 
 Flowers are thy ministers below, 
 And storms thy messengers of fear. 
 
796 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Infinite ! 
 Omnipotent ! 
 thou, our God ! 
 The Earth sang not thy peerless might 
 Amid the heavenly hosts of old; 
 
 Thou spakest — and from empty night 
 She issued forth, and on her flight 
 Of countless ages proudly rolled. 
 Darkness wrapped her, and the ocean 
 Wildly weltering on her lay ; 
 
 Thou spakest — and with glad devotion, 
 Up she rose with queenly motion, 
 And pursued her radiant way. 
 
 High soared the mountains 
 
 Glittering and steep ; 
 Forth burst the fountains, 
 And through the air flashing, 
 From rock to rock dashing, 
 'Mid the wild tempest's crashing, 
 Took their dread leap. 
 
 Then .opened out the quiet dale, 
 
 With all its grass and flowers, 
 Then gushed the spring so clear and pale 
 
 Beneath the forest bowers. 
 Then ran the brooks from moorlands brown 
 
 Along the verdant lea.; 
 And the fleet fowls of heaven shot down 
 
 Into a leafy sea. 
 'Mid the wild herd's rejoicing throng, 
 
 The nightingale's accord ; 
 All Nature raised its matin song 
 
 And praised Thee — Nature's Lord : 
 * * # * * 
 
 O Thou who wast, and art, and e'er shalt be ! 
 Eternal One ! all earth adoring stands, 
 And through the works of thy Almighty hands 
 Feels grace and wisdom infinite in Thee ! 
 
 And answer gives the sea — 
 The fathomless ocean — 
 The waste without end, 
 Where in ceaseless commotion 
 Winds and billows contend. 
 Where myriads that live, without count, without 
 
 name, 
 Crawling or swimming in strange meander, 
 Fill the deep, as it were, with a quivering flame, 
 Where the heavy whale doth wander 
 Through dumb night's hidden reign. 
 And man, unwearied with earth's wide strife 
 Still hunts around death's grim domain 
 The over-flood of life. 
 
 To Thee ! to Thee ! Thou Sire of all, 
 
 Our prayers in faith ascend. 
 All things that breathe, both great and small, 
 
 On Thee alone depend. 
 Thy bounteous hand thou dost enclose, 
 And happiness unstinted flows 
 
 In streams that know no end. 
 
 ERIC JOHAN STAGNELIUS. 
 
 [See page 173.] 
 
 The following additional specimens of Stag- 
 nelius are taken from the Howitts' "Lit. and 
 Romance of the North." 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF SIGHS. 
 
 Sighs, sad sighs, they are the element 
 In whose bosom breathes the Demiurgus. 
 Look around thee, what makes glad thy spirit? 
 Does thy heart throb with a stronger impulse ? 
 Does the rosy tint of joy empurple 
 Thy cheeks' pallor only for a moment ? 
 Say what was it? — But a sigh of sadness, 
 Which forth flowing from the fount of being 
 Was bewildered in time's endless mazes. 
 
 Twofold laws direct the life of mortals ; 
 Twofold powers divide whate'er existeth 
 'Neath the moon's forever-changing empire. 
 Hear, O mortal ! Ever seeking, yearning, — 
 Is the first law. Forceful separation 
 Is the second. Diverse though in heaven, 
 These two laws are ever undivided 
 In the land where ruleth Achamot,* 
 And in fixed duality and oneness 
 Appear they in the mystery of sighs. 
 'Twixt of life and death the sigh of sorrow 
 Is the human heart forever wavering, 
 And each breath it draws announces only 
 Its destination in the world of thought. 
 
 Lo the sea ! Its waves are flowing inland, 
 And will clasp with arms of earnest longing, 
 'Neath the bridal torches of the heavens, 
 To its breast the earth enwreathed with lilies, 
 See it cometh ! How its heart is throbbing 
 With fierce yearning ! How its arms are stretched 
 
 . forth 
 All in vain ! No wishes arc accomplished 
 'Neath the moon ; even the fair moon's waxing 
 Hastens its waning. Disappointed longings 
 Depress the sea, and all its mighty billows 
 Leave the shore with endless, endless sighing. 
 
 List the wind ! how softly sweet it floateth, 
 
 'Mong the lofty poplars of the woodlands. 
 
 Hark ! it sighs, and ever, ever sigheth 
 
 Like a fainting lover and desireth 
 
 Spousal with the Flora of the summer. 
 
 Yet already die away the voices. 
 
 On the leaves' Eolian harp are sounded 
 
 Swan-like songs which fade away and perish. 
 
 What is spring? sighs from the green earth's 
 
 bosom 
 Rising upward, and from Heaven demanding 
 When again begins the May of Eden ? 
 What the butterfly in all his splendor ? 
 What the lark that greets the light of morning? 
 
 * Materiality ; — original sin | — the mother of Demi- 
 urgus. 
 
SWEDISH. 
 
 797 
 
 What the nightingale beloved of shadows ? 
 Only sighs in different forms of beauty. 
 
 Mortal ! wilt thou learn of life the wisdom, 
 0, then listen ! Twofold laws have guidance 
 Of this our life ! Seeking, yearning ever 
 Is the first law. Forceful separation 
 Is the second. Consecrate to freedom 
 This compulsion, and thus reconciled, 
 Dedicated thus, beyond the spheres, 
 The gates of honor will to thee be opened ! 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 Come nearer the grating, nun full of sorrow, 
 That I may give to thee the trembling narcissus, 
 The tearful white lilies, the peonies crimson, 
 Which Christ sendeth to thee, the King of the 
 
 Aons,* 
 From the fair fields of heaven. 
 
 THE SOUL. 
 
 How blissful thy seeming, youth full of beauty ! 
 Thy eye brightly beameth with radiance Olym- 
 pian ; 
 Thy countenance gloweth with health and with 
 
 goodness, 
 And gracefully circle thy snowy white forehead 
 The rich curling tresses. Methinks I aforetime 
 Have heard of thy voice the low musical cadence ; 
 Methinks I aforetime with rapture have gazed on 
 Thy countenance beaming ; yet know I not 
 where ! 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 Thou hast seen me full oft in the All-father's 
 
 kingdom ; 
 In the region of beauty, of spring-time eternal, 
 The land of Elysium ; by the eye of the god- 
 head 
 With love all eradiate, on golden clouds borne 
 
 up 
 In the halls of perfection thou builded thy throne. 
 'Mid murmuring forests of palm-trees and laurel, 
 Engirdled with azure of crystalline waters 
 Thy kingdom, all nature, in the light of the 
 
 May sun 
 Lay under thy feet. From the gates of the 
 
 morning 
 To shadowy sunset, when slumbers the evening 
 'Mid fragrance of violets ; from the home of the 
 
 North star 
 To the Cloud j which engarlands with tremulous 
 
 star-sheen 
 The Pole of the South, thy yearning eye turned'st 
 
 thou, 
 
 * The great intelligent powers placed by God, accord- 
 ing to Gnostic philosophy, over the different regions of 
 the universe. Christ, the divine Aon Logos, was over 
 them all. 
 
 t The Great and Little Cloud ; two constellations in the 
 Southern hemisphere near the Pole. 
 
 Thy eye brightly beaming, celestially filled with 
 
 The All-father's love, with the Unity's worship, 
 
 That infinite vastness of life universal. 
 
 Then came I with flowers from heaven descend- 
 ing 
 
 To the soul in its prison. Then came I with 
 flowers 
 
 From the low banks of Jordan, an angel of sac- 
 rifice 
 
 Unto the soul. 
 
 THE SOUL. 
 
 How live the blessed, the hosts of immortals 
 Up yonder in ether ? Ah ! heavy my brain is 
 With vapors of earth. Scarce casteth one mem- 
 ory 
 Of days quickly vanished, its pale moonlight 
 
 glimmer 
 Through thought's dreary night. Doth Maria* 
 
 encircle 
 With solemn star-splendor her bright golden 
 
 tresses % 
 Say, is not Christ throned the King of the Aons, 
 'Mid spirits beatified, suns flashing lightning, 
 In the purple of love, the tiara of power 1 
 Does the Great One remember the kiss of the 
 
 soul ? 
 Say, has He forgotten his sad, yearning bride ? 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 Forever, Maria with stars brightly gleaming 
 Encircles her shining ambrosial tresses. 
 He is throne'd forever, the King of the Aons, 
 In the purple of love, the tiara of power. 
 Thousands unnumbered, the spirits of women, 
 Are crowned in His presence with roses of spring- 
 time, 
 Are clothed in the beautiful garments of purity, 
 Dazzlingly snow-white. Yet doth He forget not 
 His first, early loved one, and ever He hopeth 
 The soul is returning in splendor of sunlight, 
 More glorious and reconciled to Him again. 
 
 THE SOUL. 
 
 Come nearer the grating, thou youth full of 
 beauty ! 
 
 That I may endeavor between the bars chilly, 
 
 Between the thick bars of the damp brazen grat- 
 ing- 
 
 To give thee a kiss ! 
 
 THE ANGEL. 
 
 Ah, snowy-pale maiden ! alone lips of crimson 
 
 And cheeks heaven-blooming may kiss an im- 
 mortal. 
 
 Once bright were th} r charms, like the rose 
 breathing perfume 
 
 In the garden of heaven, all dewy with tear- 
 drops 
 
 Of feeling celestial. Now art thou, poor one, 
 
 Like the spring valley-lily, so wasted and pale. 
 
 But what greeting sendest thou back unto 
 Christ ? 
 
 Ah, answer ! I like not these shadows below. 
 
 * The Intellectual World 
 
798 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 THE SOUL. 
 
 Ah me ! this thick grating — these cold, brazen 
 barriers 
 
 Exclude me from spring-time's Hesperian val- 
 leys, 
 
 Where flowers I might gather to give to the 
 bridegroom. 
 
 Here I have nothing to send in return for 
 
 The gift of the bridegroom, except his own gift. 
 
 Take back this narcissus. Convey it, O angel ! 
 
 Back unto Christ ; say that the pearl-drops 
 
 Which tremblingly gleam in its silvery chalice 
 
 Are the tears of the soul. Say that forever 
 
 Her choice she repenteth ; deploreth with weep- 
 ing 
 
 The hour when seduced by the harp-tones of 
 Achamot 
 
 Downward she wandered, down unto matter, 
 
 O, long enough now, 'mid the Aons of time and 
 space, 
 
 And with tears hotly falling, the maiden, the 
 freeborn, 
 
 Has paid the high penance ! O, long enough 
 surely, 
 
 Driven from life's tree by the angel of vengeance 
 
 With sword fiercely flaming, hath she wandered, 
 sighing 
 
 Among gloomy figures of animal being ! 
 
 Is Psyche then never with Love to be reconciled ? 
 
 Will the Phoenix not rise from its bale-fire more 
 glorious 1 
 
 Will the lofty blue shell of the world's egg break 
 never 1 
 
 JOHAN LUDVIG EUNEBERG. 
 
 Runeberg, the most distinguished of the liv- 
 ing Swedish poets, was born at Jacobstad, Fin- 
 land, in 1804. In 1827 he completed his stud- 
 ies at the University of Abo; in 1830 became 
 teacher of iEsthetics, and in 1844 Professor of 
 Greek in the Gymnasium. The Howitts speak 
 of him thus : — 
 
 " From such a race, like the poet Franze'n, 
 arises Euneberg, and with all the wild and mel- 
 ancholy character of his country, he has min- 
 gled a deep feeling of its sufferings and its 
 wrongs. In his poetry, therefore, we bid adieu 
 to all the play-work of Zephyrs, Muses, Apollos, 
 Floras, Alexises, Naiads, Thirsises and Amaryl- 
 lises, with the rest of the old tinsel and Rag-fair 
 finery of a worn-out Olympus. We come to 
 living souls and living affairs of a real world — 
 that in which we exist and rejoice over, with no 
 feigned joys or sufferings — real, human, unmis- 
 takable sufferings. We come to genuine flesh 
 and blood, genuine muscle and hone. Rune- 
 berg finds a country abounding with bold fea- 
 tures, solemn and impressive, and a people full 
 of strong passions and deep-seated injuries ready 
 to his hands. He wants no imaginary Cory- 
 don, no lackadaisical lamentations over his own 
 
 morbid feelings ; he has the discernment to see 
 that a great poetic world lies at his feet, and he 
 is baptized with the spirit of his country and 
 his countrymen by the reflection, over those 
 brute but overwhelming forces, which have torn 
 his native land as a prey from all its old and 
 cherished associations, and made it an appa- 
 nage of a vast, dominant, but unamalgamated 
 empire. 
 
 " In Sweden, Runeberg has had to encounter 
 much carping comment, as everyone who strikes 
 out into a new field has, — as Wordsworth for a 
 long time had here ; but he is unquestionably 
 one of the truest, and the greatest poets of the 
 North. His verse is solemn and strong, like the 
 spirit of its subject. He brings before you the 
 wild wastes and the dark woods of his native 
 land, and the brave, simple, enduring people 
 who inhabit it. You feel the wind blow fresh 
 from the vast dark moorlands ; you follow the 
 elk-hunters through the pine-forests, and along 
 the shores of remote lakes. You lie in desert 
 huts, and hear the narratives of the struggles of 
 the inhabitants with the ungenial elements, or 
 their contentions with more ungenial men. 
 Runeberg seizes on life, wherever it presents 
 itself, in strong and touching forms ; in the beg- 
 gar, the gypsy, the malefactor. It is enough for 
 him that it is human nature doing or suffering ; 
 and in this respect he stands pre-eminently above 
 all the. poets of Sweden. Bellman, it is true, 
 has portrayed the life of the people, but it is 
 only the tavern-frequenting people of Stockholm, 
 and in the midst of their orgies and their jollity. 
 Nowhere else do you find the poets of Sweden 
 coming down and walking their native earth 
 with bare feet, and grasping humanity in all its 
 forms, with honest, ungloved hands." 
 
 His principal poems are, " The Stories of En- 
 sign Stal " ; " The Elk-Hunters," in nine can- 
 tos ; "Idyl and Epigram"; "The Gypsy"; 
 " Servian Folk-Songs " ; and " Hanna," an idyl- 
 lic poem in hexameters. 
 
 The following specimens are from the work 
 of the Howitts. 
 
 ENSIGN STAL. 
 
 I took such book as first I found, 
 Merely to wile the time along ; 
 
 Which written by no name renowned, 
 Treated of Finland's war and wrong. 
 
 'T was simply stitched, and as by grace, 
 
 Had 'mid bound volumes found a place. 
 
 And in my room, with little heed, 
 The pages carelessly surveyed, 
 
 And all by chance began to read 
 Of noble Savolak's brigade. 
 
 I read a page, then word by word. 
 
 My heart unto its depths was stirred. 
 
 I saw a people who could hold 
 The loss of all, save honor, light, 
 
SWEDISH. 
 
 799 
 
 A troop, 'mid hunger-pangs and cold, 
 
 Yet still victorious in the fight. 
 On, on from page to page I sped, 
 1 I could have kissed the words I read. 
 
 In danger's hour, in battle's scathe, 
 What courage showed this little band ; 
 
 What patriot love, what matchless faith 
 Didst thou inspire, poor native land ; 
 
 What generous, steadfast love was born 
 
 In those thou fed'st on bark and corn ! 
 
 Into new realms my fancy broke 
 Where all a magic influence bore, 
 
 And in my heart a life awoke, 
 
 Whose rapture was unknown before. 
 
 As if on wings the day careered, 
 
 But oh ! how short the book appeared ! 
 
 With close of day the book was done ; 
 
 Yet was my spirit all aglow, 
 Much yet remained to ponder on, 
 
 Much to inquire about and know, 
 Much yet of darkness wrapped the whole ; 
 I went to seek old Cornet Stal. 
 
 He sat, as oft he sat before, 
 
 Busily bending o'er his net, 
 And at the opening of the door, 
 
 A glance displeased my coming met ; 
 It seemed as though his thought might say, 
 " Is there no peace by night or day ! " 
 
 But mischief from my mind was far, 
 I came in very different mood ; 
 
 " I 've read of Finland's latest war, — 
 And in my veins runs Finnish blood ! 
 
 To hear yet more I am on fire ; 
 
 Pray can you tell what I desire ? " 
 
 Thus spoke I, and the aged man 
 Amazed his netting laid aside, 
 
 A flush passed o'er his features wan 
 As if of ancient martial pride, 
 
 " Yes," said he, " I can witness bear, 
 
 If so you will, for I was there ! " 
 
 His bed of straw my seat became, 
 And he began with joy to tell 
 
 Of Malm and Duncker's soul of flame, 
 And even deeds which theirs excel. 
 
 Bright was his eye and clear his brow, 
 
 His noble look is with me now. 
 
 Full many a bloody day he 'd seen ; 
 
 Had shared much peril and much woe ; 
 In conquest, in defeat had been, 
 
 Defeat whose wounds no cure can know. 
 Much which the world doth quite forget, 
 Lay in his faithful memory yet. 
 
 I listening sat, but naught I said, 
 And every word fell on my heart ; 
 
 And half the night away had fled, 
 Before I rose from him to part. 
 
 The threshold reached, he made a stand, 
 And pressed with joy my willing hand. 
 
 Since then, no better joy he had, 
 Than when he saw me by his side ; 
 
 Together mourned we or were glad, 
 Together smoked as friends long tried. 
 
 He was in years, I in life's spring ; 
 
 A student I, he more than king ! 
 
 The tales which now I tell in song, 
 
 Through many a long and silent night, 
 
 Fell from the old man's faltering tongue 
 Beside the peat-fire's feeble light. 
 
 They speak what all may understand ; 
 
 Receive them, thou dear native land. 
 
 PEASANT PAVO. 
 
 'Mid the high, bleak moors of Saarijarvis, 
 On a sterile farm, lived Peasant Pavo, 
 And its poor soil tilled with care untiring, 
 Trusting to the Lord to send the increase. 
 Here he lived with wife and little children, 
 With them of his sweat-earned bread partaking. 
 Dikes he dug, and ploughed his land and sowed 
 
 it. 
 Spring-time came, and now the melting snow- 
 drifts 
 Drenched the fields, and half the young crop 
 
 perished : 
 Summer came, and the descending hail-storms 
 Dashed the early ears down, half destroying : 
 Autumn came, and frost the remnant blasted. 
 
 Pavo's wife she tore her hair, and spake thus : 
 "Pavo, Pavo! man, the most unhappy, 
 Take thy staff; by God we are forsaken ; 
 Hard it is to beg ; to starve is harder ! " 
 Pavo took her hand, and thus he answered : 
 " God doth try his servant, not forsake him. 
 Bread made half of bark must now suffice us ! 
 I will dig the dikes of twofold deepness, 
 But from God will I await the increase ! " 
 She made bread of corn and bark together ; 
 He dug lower dikes, with double labor, 
 Sold his sheep, and purchased rye and sowed it. 
 Spring-time came, again the melting snow-drifts 
 Drenched the fields, and half the young crop 
 
 perished : 
 Summer came, and the descending hail-storms 
 Dashed the early ears down, half destroying : 
 Autumn came, and frosts the remnant blasted. 
 
 Pavo's wife, she smote her breast, exclaiming : 
 "Pavo, Pavo! man, the most unhappy, 
 Let us die, for God hath us forsaken ! 
 Hard it is to die, to live is harder ! " 
 Pavo took her hand, and thus he answered : 
 " God doth try his servant, not forsake him ; 
 Bread made half of bark must still suffice us 5 
 I will dig the dikes of double deepness ; 
 But from Heaven I will expect the increase ! " 
 She made bread of corn and bark together ; 
 
800 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 He dug lower dikes with double labor ; 
 Sold his cattle, purchased rye and sowed it. 
 Spring-time came, but now the melting snow- 
 drifts 
 Left the young crops in the field uninjured : 
 Summer came, but the descending hail-storms 
 Dashed not down the rich ears, naught destroy- 
 ing : 
 Autumn came, and saw, by frost unblighted, 
 Wave the golden harvest for the reaper. 
 
 Then fell Pavo on his knees, thus speaking : 
 " God hath only tried us, not forsaken ! " 
 On her knees his wife fell, and thus said she : 
 " God hath only tried us, not forsaken ! " 
 And then gladly spake she to her husband : 
 " Pavo, Pavo ! take with joy the sickle ; 
 We may now make glad our hearts with plenty. 
 Now may throw away the bark unsavory, 
 And bake rich, sweet bread of ryemeal only ! " 
 
 Pavo took her hand in his and answered : 
 " Woman, woman ! 't is but sent to try us, 
 If we will have pity on the sufferer, 
 Mix thou bark with corn even as aforetime, 
 Erosts have killed the harvest of our neighbor ! " 
 
 OJAN PAYO'S CHALLENGE. 
 
 Came from Tavastland tall Ojan Pavo, 
 Tall and mighty 'mong the sons of Finland, 
 Steadfast as a mountain clothed in pinewood, 
 Bold and fleet, and powerful as a tempest. 
 He could from the earth uproot the fir-tree; 
 Could the bear encounter single-handed, 
 Lift the horse above the loftiest fences, 
 And, as straw, compel strong men to bow down. 
 
 Now he stood, the steadfast Ojan Pavo, 
 Proud and vigorous at the nation's council ; 
 In the Court he stood among the people, 
 Like a lofty fir-tree amid brushwood; 
 And he raised his voice, and thus addressed 
 
 them : 
 " If there be a man here born of woman 
 Who can, from the spot whereon I plant me, 
 Move me only for a single moment, 
 To him will I yield my farm so wealthy ; 
 He shall win from me my silver treasure ; 
 Of my numerous flocks he shall be master, 
 And his I will become both soul and body ! " 
 
 To the people thus spake Ojan Pavo. 
 But the country youth shrunk back in terror, 
 To the proud one, answering but by silence. 
 No man was there to accept his challenge. 
 
 But with love and admiration gazed they, 
 All the maidens, on that youthful champion 
 As he stood — the powerful Ojan Pavo — 
 Like a lofty fir-tree among brushwood, 
 His eyes flashing like the stars of heaven, 
 And his open forehead clear as daylight, 
 And his rich locks flowing to his shoulder 
 Like a streamlet falling down in sunshine. 
 
 From the throng of women forth stepped 
 Anna, 
 She the fairest of that country's maidens, 
 Lovely as the morning at its rising. 
 Forth she stepped in haste to Ojan Pavo, 
 Round his neck she flung her arms so tender, 
 Laid her throbbing heart against his bosom, 
 Pressed against his cheek her cheek so rosy. 
 Then she bade him break the bonds that held 
 
 him. 
 But the youth stood moveless, and was van- 
 quished ; 
 Yielding thus, he spake unto the maiden : 
 " Anna, Anna, I have lost my wager : 
 Thou must take from me my farm so wealthy; 
 Thou hast won from me my silver treasure; 
 Thou of all my flocks art now possessor ; 
 And I am thine, — thine both soul and body ! " 
 
 BY THE BROOK. 
 Lockwood, " Axel, and other Poems.'' 
 
 Brook ! I sat by thy strand, 
 
 And watched the moon's quivering beams, 
 
 As, led by an unseen hand, 
 They changed in thy silvery streams. 
 
 Came a cloud with roseate smile, 
 Like rosebuds, bright blushes it wore; 
 
 Alas ! it stayed but a while, 
 And returned to that spot no more. 
 
 There sailed another, more bright 
 And gleaming, above me again ; 
 
 But ah ! with wings of the light, 
 Soon its onward flight it had ta'en. 
 
 One still, — but this would not fly, 
 With slow steps pursuing its way ; 
 
 Brook ! yon dark veil of the sky 
 O'ershadowed thy blue bed with gray. 
 
 1 thought, when I saw that shroud, 
 Of my soul in its earthly spell, 
 
 How many a fair golden cloud 
 Has bid it forever farewell! 
 
 How many a dark storm has spread 
 The blackness of night on my soul, 
 
 Come with like swiftness, but fled 
 With slow step once more to its goal. 
 
 The cloud's changing courses on high 
 I knew, for I marked them roll ; 
 
 Thin vapors they were in the sky, 
 Glassed on the depths of my soul. 
 
 Yes ! that mirror's darkness and light 
 Are ruled, Brook, by clouds on its breast; 
 
 When wilt thou forever be bright, 
 0, when will thy wave be at rest 1 
 
GERMAN. 
 
 801 
 
 GERMAN 
 
 THE WEISSEXBRUNN HYMN. 
 
 This hymn and the " Song of Hildebrand," 
 given on page 189, are the oldest poems extant 
 in the German language. They are published 
 together in a volume by the brothers Grimm, 
 entitled Die beiden aliesten deutschen Gediclte 
 aus dem achten Jahrhundert ; Das Lied von 
 Hildebrand und Hadubrand, und Das Weissen- 
 brunner Gebet. Cassel, 1812. The hymn, or 
 Praver as it is called in the original, takes its 
 name from the convent in Franconia, where the 
 manuscript was found. The following transla- 
 tion is from the " British Magazine." A more 
 literal prose version may be found in Conybeare, 
 "Illustrations of Anglo-Saxon Poetry," p. li. 
 
 This I 've heard from ancient sages, 
 Men the chief of elder ages, 
 That in time of old gone by, 
 There was not the heaven on high — 
 Heaven on high, nor earth below ; 
 Then nor star was seen to glow ; 
 
 Nor the sun was shining bright ; 
 
 Nor the moon gave forth her light ; 
 
 Nor was mountain then, nor tree ; 
 
 Nor the interminable sea ; 
 
 Of this universal round 
 
 Not a whit from bound to bound. 
 
 But though lower world was none, 
 Yet there wanted not the one 
 Almighty God in being then, 
 He, most merciful to men ! 
 And with him there were of old 
 Godlike spirits manifold. 
 
 Holy God Almighty, Thon 
 Heaven and earth hast fashioned now, 
 And Thy creature man dost bless 
 With provisions numberless : 
 Me Thy way in mercy show, 
 And on me Thy grace bestow. 
 
 Faith, to Thy pure truth resigned ; 
 Prompt to serve a willing mind ; 
 Prudent heart, and active hand, 
 Craft of Satan to withstand ; 
 Evil ever to eschew, 
 And Thy will, O God, to do. 
 101 
 
 WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE. 
 
 See page 192. 
 
 The following translation by A. E. Kroeger, 
 is from the "Missouri Republican." 
 
 LAMJENT. 
 
 Ah me ! whither have vanished the years of age 
 
 and youth ? 
 Has life been but a dream, then, or was it all a 
 
 truth ? 
 And was that really somewhat which I have 
 
 lived and thought? 
 Surely I must have slumbered, although I knew 
 it not. 
 And now that I 'm awakened, I not a whit 
 
 recall 
 That once I was acquainted amongst these 
 
 people all ; 
 The country and the people 'mongst whom 
 
 my life passed by 
 Have grown to be estranged, as if 't were all 
 a lie. 
 
 They who were once my playmates are weary 
 now and cold ; 
 
 The prairies have been broken, the woods cut 
 down and sold. 
 
 If yonder river flowed not e'en as it once did flow, 
 
 I do believe my sorrow would, growing, lay me 
 low. 
 
 Me greet with hesitation many who knew me 
 ■well — 
 
 This wretched world is everywhere a dark, un- 
 grateful hell; 
 
 And then I think of many days of ecstasy and 
 
 j°y. 
 
 That now e'en as a stroke on the sea have gone 
 
 forever by — 
 Forever, forevermore, ah me! 
 
 Ah me ! how sad and careworn our young men 
 
 now appear — 
 The men who never sorrow in their fresh minds 
 
 did wear 
 Do nothing now but weary — Ah me! how can 
 
 it be? 
 Wherever in the world I turn no one seems glad 
 
 to me. 
 Dancing, laughing, singing, grief has driven 
 
 away; 
 
802 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Christian man saw never a world so sombre 
 
 aye; 
 Look how now our women walk with strange 
 
 head-gear, 
 And how our knights and nobles in clownish 
 
 dress appear. 
 Letters sharp reproving from Rome have come 
 
 our way, 
 To mourn we have permission ; we must no 
 
 more be gay. 
 It grieves me to my heart's core — we once did 
 
 live so grand — 
 That now from cheerful laughter to weeping I 
 
 must bend. 
 The wild birds of the forest sadden at our com- 
 plaint, 
 Is 't wonder if I also despair and grow more 
 
 faint ? 
 But what 1 wretched me ! have I been led to 
 
 scoff? 
 Who follows earthly happiness from heaven's 
 
 bliss turncth off 
 Forevermore, ah me ! 
 
 Ah me ! how we are poisoned with the sweetness 
 of the world ! 
 
 I see the bitter gall amidst the sweetest honey 
 curled. 
 
 The world is outward beautiful, white, and green 
 and red, 
 
 But inward, oh ! a sombre black, gloomy, aye, 
 and dead. 
 Yet now to who have listened a comfort I 
 
 will show, 
 Even a gentle penance forgiveness shall bestow. 
 Remember this, O knightly lords, 'tis yours 
 
 to do and seal, 
 You bear the glittering helmets and breast- 
 plates of strong steel. 
 
 Moreo'er the shields so steady and the conse- 
 crated swords, 
 
 •0 God, that I were worthy to join the victor 
 lords ! 
 
 Then should I like the others achieve a prize 
 untold. 
 
 Not lands that have been promised, nor king's, 
 or nobles' gold, 
 
 But 0, a wondrous crown, and forevermore to 
 wear, 
 
 A crown, which poorest soldier can win with axe 
 or spear. 
 
 Yea, if the noble crusade I might follow o'er 
 the sea, 
 
 I evermore should sing : All 's well I and nev- 
 ermore, ah me ! 
 
 Nevermore : Ah me ! 
 
 GOTTFRIED VON STRASSBURG. 
 
 This distinguished Minnesinger belongs to 
 the first half of the thirteenth century, and 
 ranks among the foremost of his class. "If 
 
 Wolfram is the escutcheon and spotless mirror 
 of the Songs of Love and Knighthood," says 
 Von der Hagen in his " Minnesinger," III. 
 559, " so is Gottfried their blossom and flower, 
 in all the splendor of color and magic aroma ; 
 in both these poets the highest attainments of 
 this art and science are seen." 
 
 The following extract from his metrical ro- 
 mance of " Tristan and Isolde," and his 
 "Hymn to the Virgin," are both by A. E. 
 Kroeger, whose translations give a better idea 
 of the poetry of the Minnesingers than any that 
 have hitherto been made. 
 
 BLANCHEFLEUR AT THE TOURNAMENT. 
 
 At Tintajoel 't was, on the plain 
 
 Where the guests met again ; 
 
 In the loveliest glen 
 
 Ever beheld by eyes of men 
 
 In the first freshness of that clime. 
 
 The gentle, gracious summer-time 
 
 Had by the sweet Creator's hand 
 
 With sweet care been poured on the land. 
 
 Of little wood birdlets bright, 
 
 That to ears should ever give delight, 
 
 Of grass, flowers, leaves and blossoms high, 
 
 Of all that happy makes the eye 
 
 Or noble heart delight may gain, 
 
 Was full the glorious summer-plain. 
 
 Whatever there you wished to find, 
 
 Spring had kindly borne in mind, — 
 
 The sunshine by the shadow, 
 
 The linden on the meadow. 
 
 The gentle, pleasant breezes, 
 
 With cunning, sweet caresses, 
 
 O'er all the guests did lightly sweep. 
 
 The brilliant flowers did brightly peep 
 
 From dewy grass and shadow. 
 
 May's friend, the fresh, green meadow, 
 
 Had from the flowers, that he had reared, 
 
 A summer robe so bright prepared, 
 
 Each guest its glow detected, 
 
 From eye and mien reflected. 
 
 The sweet tree-blossom looked at you 
 
 With a smile so sweet and true, 
 
 That all your heart and all your mind 
 
 Again to the laughing bloom inclined ; 
 
 With eyes playfully burning, 
 
 Its loving laugh returning. 
 
 The gentle bird-ditty, 
 
 So lovely, so pretty, 
 
 That stirs every feeling, 
 
 O'er ears and minds stealing, 
 
 Rang from each bush of the summer vale. 
 
 The blessed nightingale, 
 
 The dearest, sweetest bird on tree, 
 
 That ever blessed ought to be, 
 
 It sang in the coolness, 
 
 With such heartfulness, 
 
 That to every noble heart 
 
 The sound did joy and glow impart. 
 
 And now the whole company, 
 
 Full of mirth and in high glee, 
 
GERMAN. 803 
 
 Had settled down upon the lawn. 
 
 Now began the great tourney 
 
 There did every one, 
 
 Of the servants and of the guests. 
 
 As his notion or pleasure bent, 
 
 The boldest and the best 
 
 And put up or arranged his tent. 
 
 Up and down the track now paced. 
 
 The wealthy were quartered wealthily, 
 
 Noble mark ahead e'er raced 
 
 The courtly incomparably ; 
 
 With his fellow Riwalin, 
 
 Some under silk did rest, 
 
 Whose knights following close and keen 
 
 Others on the heath gay-drest ; 
 
 Their play to guide ever 
 
 To many the linden gave shadow, 
 
 Did nobly endeavor 
 
 Others housed on the meadow, 
 
 In their master's glory : 
 
 Under leavegreen twigs demurely. 
 
 For future song and story. 
 
 Nor guests nor servants, surely, 
 
 Many a horse, in overdress 
 
 Rarely were pleasanter 
 
 Of cloth or half silk, in the race 
 
 Quartered than they were quartered here. 
 
 Was seen on the meadow clover, 
 
 Plenty was gathered of the best 
 
 Many a snow-white cover 
 
 Which needful is for mirthful feast 
 
 There shone, or red, brown, green or blue, 
 
 In way of clothing and eating, 
 
 Others again, for show, wore, too, 
 
 Each his own wants meeting, 
 
 Robes with noble silk worked nice, 
 
 Eroin home had brought provender. 
 
 Or scalloped in many a quaint device, 
 
 King Mark, with regal splendor, 
 
 Parted, striped or braided, 
 
 Moreover had provided for them. 
 
 Or with trimmings shaded. 
 
 Thus they enjoyed in bliss supreme 
 
 Gayly, too, appeared there 
 
 The gracious time of early spring ; 
 
 Knights of handsome form and fair, 
 
 Thus joy the feast to all did bring. 
 
 Their armor slit, as if cut to pieces. 
 
 All that ever a curious man 
 
 Even Spring, with its balmy breezes, 
 
 To behold had longed ; he then 
 
 King Mark its high favor showed. 
 
 There could have seen certainly. 
 
 For many people in the crowd 
 
 One saw there what one liked to see. 
 
 Were crowned with wreaths of flowers wrought, 
 
 Those eyed the pretty women, 
 
 Which, as his offering, Spring had brought. 
 
 These watched the peddling showmen ; 
 
 
 Those looked at the dancing, 
 
 In such glorious, blessed May, 
 
 These at the jousting and lancing. 
 
 Began the blessed tourney. 
 
 All that ever heart longed for 
 
 Oft intermixed, the double troop 
 
 Was found there in sufficient store ; 
 
 Rode up this grade, rode down that slope. 
 
 And all, who were present, 
 
 This carried they on so long that day, 
 
 Of joy-ripe years, pleasant 
 
 Till downward swept the glorious play 
 
 Effort made each to exceed 
 
 To where Blanchefleur sat the sweet, 
 
 At every feast in mirthful deed, 
 
 Whom I as wonder greet, 
 
 And King Mark the good, 
 
 With pretty women at her side, 
 
 The courteous and high of mood, 
 
 To watch the show and the gallant ride; 
 
 Not only on this festivity 
 
 And how they rode, so nobly all, 
 
 Had spent his wealth lavishly, 
 
 With carriage imperial, 
 
 But here did he show men 
 
 That many an eye with pleasure lit. 
 
 A wonder of all women, 
 
 But whatsoever others did, 
 
 His sister Blanchefleur, — 
 
 Still 't was the courtly Riwalin, — 
 
 A maid more beautiful than e'er 
 
 As 't was, indeed, meet to have been, — 
 
 A woman upon earth was seen. 
 
 Who, before all the knighthood rare, 
 
 Of her beauty one must say, e'en, 
 
 Best show his knightly power there. 
 
 That no living man could gaze 
 
 The women, too, him notice showed, 
 
 Intently on her glorious face, 
 
 And whispered that, in all the crowd, 
 
 But he would higher rank and find 
 
 No one on horse appearing 
 
 Women and virtue in his mind. 
 
 Rode with such gallant bearing. 
 
 
 They praised that which in him was shown. 
 
 The blessed eye-pleasure 
 
 " See," said they, " see, this youth, fine-grown, 
 
 O'er that wide enclosure, 
 
 This man is truly glorious ! 
 
 Gladdened all of young, fresh blood, 
 
 How gloriously sits all he does, 
 
 All noble hearts of courteous mood 
 
 Sit all movements on his bearing ! 
 
 And on the lawn could have been seen 
 
 How his body is fair-appearing! 
 
 Many pretty women then, 
 
 How joins with equal grace on him 
 
 Of whom each by her beauty 
 
 Each imperial limb ! 
 
 Should have been Queen in duty. 
 
 How evenly his shield is moved ! 
 
 Whoe'er had seen them surely would 
 
 As if fast-glued, it floats aloft ! 
 
 Have drawn from such sight fresh bold mood. 
 
 How doth the shaft his hand befit ! 
 
 Many hearts grew rich with joy. 
 
 How well his robes upon him sit ! 
 
804 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 How stands his head ! how glows his hair ! 
 
 From countless hearts sweet thanks have sprung 
 
 Sweet his behavior he doth wear; 
 
 And in sweet songs their love have sung 
 
 Glorified is his body all ! 
 
 All men among : 
 
 Ah, happy is the woman who shall 
 
 'T is thus thou hast them daunted. 
 
 Her bliss owe his sweet body." 
 
 
 
 Thou gleam of flowers through clover-space, 
 
 Well pondered this in study 
 
 Thou blowing lignum-aloe-place, 
 
 Blauchefleur, the blessed maid ; 
 
 Thou sea of grace 
 
 In her secret heart she had, 
 
 Where men seek blessed landing. 
 
 Above all knights, addressed to him 
 
 Thou roof to rapture high and blest, 
 
 Her pleasant thoughts, her wond'rings dim. 
 
 Through which no rain has ever passed ; 
 
 She had him in her heart enshrined, 
 
 Thou goodly rest, 
 
 He had around her soul him twined; 
 
 Whose end is without ending. 
 
 He borne upon high throne, 
 
 Thou to all helpful strength a tower 
 
 The sceptre and the crown 
 
 Against all hostile evils, 
 
 In the kingdom of her heart, 
 
 Thou parriest many a stormy shower, 
 
 Although the secret she did guard, 
 
 Which o'er us casts in our dark hour 
 
 And from the world keep, as was fit, 
 
 The hell worm's power, 
 
 That no one e'er suspected it. 
 
 And other ruthless devils. 
 
 
 Thou of all sweetness sweetest shine, 
 
 
 Thou sweeter than the noblest wine, 
 
 HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 
 
 The sweetness thine 
 
 
 Doth bloom for me forever. 
 
 Thou bloom of rose ! Thou lily grace ! 
 
 Thou art the sweet love-drink of heaven 
 
 Thou ruling queen of that high place, 
 
 That sweetness e'en to God has given, 
 
 Where never face 
 
 Siren's chant even 
 
 Of woman shone before thee ! 
 
 Such sweetness echoed never. 
 
 Thou sweet hearts-love for all distress! 
 
 Thou goest through ear, thou goest through eye, 
 
 Thou gladness in great bitterness ! 
 
 Our heart and soul awaking, 
 
 Thou whom all bless ! 
 
 There rousest thou transporting joy, 
 
 Our souls for aye adore thee, 
 
 All sadness goes when thou art by. 
 
 Thy womb, the living God's recess, 
 
 Thou art the high 
 
 Now blessed is in story. 
 
 Delight of love unshaking. 
 
 Quick as the sunlight through the glass, 
 
 
 Better and sweeter and no less 
 
 Thou o'er all virtues virtue fair, 
 
 With love did pass 
 
 Thou endless youth in youth's spring year, 
 
 To thee the Christ of glory. 
 
 Thy glory's glare 
 
 
 Youth sings in song forever, — 
 
 Thou hearts' deep, joy-diffusing trance, 
 
 The Heavens and the Heaven-begot, 
 
 Thou violet-field, thou rose expanse, 
 
 All saints that near the great God float, 
 
 Thou hero-glance, 
 
 Are blind, I wot, 
 
 Thou godlike joy to low man ; 
 
 In heart and good endeavor, 
 
 Thou light-diffusing morning-red, 
 
 If to that glorious worthiness 
 
 Thou faithful friend in every dread; 
 
 They bring not homage lowly, 
 
 The living bread, 
 
 Which God unto thee given has 
 
 Thou bor'st, queenly woman ! 
 
 With many another blessedness, 
 
 Who manv a gloomy heart and cold 
 
 That thou might'st bless 
 
 Lit'st up and set'st a-glowing 
 
 And render our hearts holy. 
 
 With love most sweet and manifold ; 
 
 
 The strongest power it doth unfold, 
 
 Maria ! purest worth and grace, 
 
 Thy praise is told, 
 
 What has been chanted in thy praise 
 
 The universe o'erflowing. 
 
 Is sweet always 
 
 
 Beyond all other singing. 
 
 Thou lovely golden flower-glow, 
 
 Thou pour'st in soul and body joy, 
 
 Thou glow'st on every maiden's brow, 
 
 Thou movest heart and senses high, 
 
 And glory's flow 
 
 Or far or nigh 
 
 E'en like a robe floats on thee. 
 
 Thy sweetness to us bringing, 
 
 Thou art the blooming heaven-flower, 
 
 Thou bloomest fair in flower-wise, 
 
 Thou bloom'st in many a guise and hour : 
 
 In soul thy grace transplanting, 
 
 Eor God's own power 
 
 Thou art so true a paradise, 
 
 Hath been outpoured upon thee. 
 
 A blowing rose-tree of great joys 
 
 Hence noble praises e'er have run 
 
 Of bliss a price, 
 
 And in thy name been chanted. 
 
 Of grace a power enchanting. 
 
GERMAN. 
 
 805 
 
 REYNARD THE EOX. 
 
 This famous apologue and most popular 
 poem of the Middle Ages is of uncertain date 
 and origin. In some form or other it existed 
 as early as the beginning of the thirteenth cen- 
 tury; but in its most perfect form it belongs to 
 the fifteenth. Two centuries at least went to 
 the making of it. Carlyle in his " Critical and 
 Miscellaneous Essays," II. 433, gives this ac- 
 count of it: — 
 
 " The story of Reinecke Fuclis, or, to give it 
 the original Low-German name, Reineke de Fos, 
 is, more than any other, a truly European per- 
 formance : for some centuries, a universal house- 
 hold possession and secular Bible, read every- 
 where, in the palace and the hut ; it still inter- 
 ests us, moreover, by its intrinsic worth, being 
 on the whole the most poetical and meritorious 
 production of our Western world in that kind ; 
 or perhaps of the whole world, though, in such 
 matters, the West has generally yielded to, and 
 learned from, the East. 
 
 " Touching the origin of this book, as often 
 happens in like cases, there is a controversy, per- 
 plexed not only by inevitable ignorance, but 
 also by anger and false patriotism. Into this 
 vexed sea we have happily no call to venture ; 
 and shall merely glance for a moment, from the 
 firm land, where all that can specially concern 
 us in the matter stands rescued and safe. The 
 oldest printed edition of our actual Reynard is 
 that of Liibeck, in 1498 ; of which there is a 
 copy, understood to be the only one, still extant 
 in the Wolfenbiittel Library. This oldest edi- 
 tion is in the Low-German or Saxon tongue, 
 and appears to have been produced by Hinrek 
 van Alkmer, who in the Preface calls himself 
 ' Schoolmaster and Tutor of that noble, virtu- 
 ous Prince and Lord, the Duke of Lorraine ' ; 
 and says further, that by order of this same 
 worthy sovereign, he 'sought out and rendered 
 the present book from Walloon and Erench 
 tongue into German, to the praise and honor of 
 God, and wholesome edification of whoso read- 
 eth therein.' Which candid and business-like 
 statement would doubtless have continued to 
 yield entire satisfaction, had it not been that, 
 in modern days, and while this first Liibeck edi- 
 tion was still lying in its dusty recess unknown 
 to Bibliomaniacs, another account, dated some 
 hundred years later, and supported by a little 
 subsequent hearsay, had been raked up : how 
 the real author was Nicholas Baumann, Profes- 
 sor at Rostock ; how he had been Secretary to 
 the Duke of Juliers, but was driven from his 
 service by wicked cabals ; and so in revenge 
 composed this satirical adumbration of the Juli- 
 ers' Court ; putting on the title-page, to avoid 
 consequences, the feigned tale of its being ren- 
 dered from the French and Walloon tongue, and 
 the feigned name of Hinrek van Alkmer, who, 
 for the rest, was never Schoolmaster and Tutor 
 
 at Lorraine, or anywhere else, but a mere man 
 of straw, created for the nonce, out of so many 
 letters of the Alphabet. Hereupon excessive 
 debate, and a learned sharp-shooting, with vic- 
 tory-shouts on both sides ; into which we nowise 
 enter. Some touch of human sympathy does 
 draw us towards Hinrek, whom, if he was once 
 a real man, with bones and sinews, stomach and 
 provender-scrip, it is mournful to see evaporated 
 away into mere vowels and consonants : how- 
 ever, beyond a kind wish, we can give him no 
 help. In Literary History, except on this one 
 occasion, as seems indisputable enough, he is 
 nowhere mentioned or hinted at 
 
 " From all which, so much at least would 
 appear : That the Fable of Reynard the Fox, 
 which in the German version we behold com- 
 pleted, nowise derived its completeness from the 
 individual there named, Hinrek van Alkmer, or 
 from any other individual or people ; but rather, 
 that being in old times universally current, it 
 was taken up by poets and satirists of all coun- 
 tries ; from each received some accession or im- 
 provement ; and properly, has no single author. 
 We must observe, however, that as yet it had 
 attained no fixation or consistency ; no version 
 was decidedly preferred to every other. Cax- 
 ton's and the Dutch appear, at best, but as the 
 skeleton of what afterwards became a body ; of 
 the old Walloon version, said to have been dis- 
 covered lately, we are taught to entertain a sim- 
 ilar opinion;* in the existing French versions, 
 which are all older, either in Giele'e's, or in the 
 others, there is even less analogy. Loosely con- 
 joined, therefore, and only in the state of dry 
 bones, was it that Hinrek, or Nicolaus, or some 
 Lower-Saxon whoever he might be, found the 
 story; and, blowing on it with the breath of 
 genius, raised it up into a consistent Fable. 
 Many additions and some exclusions he must 
 have made ; was probably enough assisted by 
 personal experience of a Court, whether that of 
 Juliers or some other; perhaps also he admitted 
 personal allusions, and doubtless many an 
 oblique glance at existing things : and thus was 
 produced the Low-German Reineke de Fos, which 
 version, shortly after its appearance, had extin- 
 guished all the rest, and come to be, what it 
 still is, the sole veritable representative of Rey- 
 nard, inasmuch as all subsequent translations and 
 editions have derived themselves from it 
 
 " Thus has our old Fable, rising like some 
 river in the remote distance, from obscure rivu- 
 lets, gathered strength out of every valley, out 
 of every country, as it rolled on. It is Euro- 
 pean in two senses ; for as all Europe contrib- 
 uted to it, so all Europe has enjoyed it. Among 
 the Germans, Reinecke Fuchs was long a house- 
 book and universal best-companion : it has been 
 lectured on in Universities, quoted in Imperial 
 Council-halls ; it lay on the toilet of Prin- 
 cesses, and was thumbed to pieces on the bench 
 
 * See Scheller; (Reineke de Fos, To Brunswyk, 1825 ;) 
 Torrede. 
 
806 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 of the artisan ; we hear of grave men ranking it 
 only next to the Bible. Neither, as we said, 
 was its popularity confined to home ; transla- 
 tions erelong appeared in French, Italian, Dan- 
 ish, Swedish, Dutch, English : nor was that 
 same stall-honor, which has heen reckoned the 
 truest literary celebrity, refused it here ; per- 
 haps many a reader of these pages may, like the 
 writer of them, recollect the hours, when, hid- 
 den from unfeeling gaze of pedagogue, he swal- 
 lowed The most pleasant and delightful History of 
 Reynard the Fox, like stolen waters, with a tim- 
 orous joy." 
 
 The following specimens are from the trans- 
 lation of S. Naylor. 
 
 REYNARD AND BRUIN. 
 
 When Bruin crossed the castle yard, 
 
 And saw the gate was locked and barred; 
 
 Eeeling a little bit perplext, 
 
 He paused and pondered well — " What next ? " 
 
 " Good Reynard ! uncle mine ! what ho ! " 
 
 At length his phlegm found overflow — 
 
 " Behold the royal message ! odds 
 
 My life ; the King hath sworn, by Gods! 
 
 That come ye not to court, to hear 
 
 The plaints against ye, and to clear 
 
 Yourself from stain, — will not with me 
 
 Return in friendly custody, 
 
 To give and take the law its due, — 
 
 Your obstinacy you shall rue. 
 
 Absent yourself, the forfeit 's fixed : 
 
 The cord and wheel, with torture mixed ; 
 
 I rede ye lose no time, but come ! " 
 
 Goodsooth, to this, albeit dumb, 
 
 Was Reynard no whit deaf as well, 
 
 But listened every syllable, 
 
 As close within ensconced he lay. 
 
 Thinks he, " Could I the Bear repay 
 
 For all his growl about the law, 
 
 'T would not so vastly choke my maw. 
 
 I '11 con the matter through and through — " 
 
 This said, deep in his den withdrew. 
 
 Crammed full was Malepartus' sides 
 
 Of crevice-chinks, and panel-slides ; 
 
 With rpany a sharp and narrow winding, 
 
 And passages for exit finding, 
 
 Which he, when he would lie secure, • 
 
 With locks and bolts made doubly sure. 
 
 Whene'er with booty he returned, 
 
 Or, when some lurking foeman burned 
 
 A recent injury to repay, 
 
 Here found he safe retreat alway. 
 
 Here many an unsuspecting beast 
 
 Walked in, and served his bloody feast. 
 
 When Reynard Bruin's message heard, 
 
 And weighed its import, word by word, 
 
 He felt in no particular haste 
 
 To take for granted all that past ; 
 
 Suspected treachery behind, 
 
 And listened long, some clew to find, 
 
 If Bruin came alone ? which when 
 
 He ascertained, he left his den, 
 
 And with the Bear held converse then. 
 
 " 'T is Bruin sure ! welcome at once ! 
 
 I crave your pardon for the nonce. 
 
 At vespers was I, when ye knocked, 
 
 And must apologize — I'm shocked — 
 
 Welcome ! thrice welcome to my tent ! 
 
 Small thanks to him, I ween, who sent 
 
 A gentleman of your degree 
 
 To take so long a journey — see ! 
 
 Dear coz ! you're tired, and panting hot: 
 
 Our lord the King hath he (God wot!) 
 
 No one in all his territory 
 
 But 't is yourself must take such very 
 
 Long errands ? — 'pon my life ! small thank ! 
 
 One, too, of your exalted rank ! 
 
 The first in consequence at Court, 
 
 As foremost in the public thought ! 
 
 Whose weight and influence with the King 
 
 I 'd count on as a priceless thing ! — 
 
 In sooth, had you not come, I meant 
 
 At Court my poor self to present 
 
 This morrow, which I 'm quite denied — 
 
 My wish, perforce, must lay aside — 
 
 In short, my stomach 's out of sorts, 
 
 My diet 's meagre, nor comports 
 
 With my accustomed ways. — The question 
 
 Is ref 'rable to indigestion." 
 
 Then Bruin, with commiserate look: 
 
 " Of what the food which you partook ? " 
 
 Quoth Reynard, " 'T is a dish, my dear, 
 
 Which you will heed not, when you hear. 
 
 Indifferent has been my fare 
 
 Of late — in truth, the poor man's share. 
 
 Often my Dame and I, at home 
 
 Eat rav'nously of honeycomb : 
 
 For lack of more substantial food, 
 
 We bolt down this, and call it good. 
 
 Forced thus against my will to swallow, 
 
 Sans appetite, what else should follow, 
 
 But colic, bile, dyspepsia? — Why, 
 
 I 'd never budge a foot, not I, 
 
 For all the honey in an apiary ! " 
 
 Then thus the Bear, with ears erect, 
 
 (" What 's this? His stomach doth. reject 
 
 The honeycomb divine! Gadzooks! 
 
 I smell it in his savory looks ! 
 
 I 'd walk the world, o'er dale and hill, 
 
 Could I of honey get my fill !) 
 
 Beseech you, help me to the treasure ! 
 
 Thenceforward I 'm at your good pleasure." 
 
 "Ye jest, friend Bruin ! " Reynard cried. 
 
 " By heaven ! I jest not ! " he replied ; 
 
 •' I never jest ! " (that was not needed — 
 
 The Fox, the cunning rogue, proceeded) 
 
 " In earnest, quotha? You shall see 
 
 If I spake aught but verity. 
 
 From hence above scarce half a mile 
 
 There lives a peasant — Rustyfile — 
 
 He 's got the honey ! hive on hive ! 
 
 Enough for all the Bears alive ! " 
 
GERMAN. 
 
 807 
 
 Bruin was out of bounds at this ; 
 
 For honey was his God, I wis ! 
 
 Relaxing his sagacious snout, 
 
 He begged to know the whereabout 
 
 Of Rustyfile and his rich store ? 
 
 Said he, " I '11 serve you evermore." 
 
 And then began to think, did he, 
 
 If one could find satiety 
 
 In honey, or get half enough — 
 
 (He 'd yet to learn the quantum suff.) 
 
 Quoth Reynard, " Come ! an ye were twenty, 
 
 Of honey shall ye sup, and plenty ! 
 
 What though for walking I 'm but queasy, 
 
 No pains I '11 spare, no toil, to please ye. 
 
 For trust me, Cousin, when I say 
 
 I 've held you next my heart alway. 
 
 An influential man art thou : 
 
 And, squares it with your mood, canst now 
 
 Important services confer 
 
 Whene'er your friend shall ask ye, Sir. 
 
 This day ye surfeit on such honey 
 
 As never Bear, for love or money, 
 
 Did elsewhere get ! " 
 
 Now Reynard wight, 
 Although this wise he spake, thought quite 
 In other fashion, — for, in sooth, 
 He knew the art to lie like truth. 
 The Bear, poor dupe ! did not once question 
 The treat in store, nor good digestion. 
 Thought Reynard, " What a chance is here 
 To trounce the churl ! " When lo ! appear 
 The cotter's hut and snug enclosure ! 
 Bruin, with ill-portrayed composure, 
 Awaits the feast, — nor dreamt mishaps, 
 (The way with fools !) nor afterclaps. 
 'T was night when Reynard Bruin led : 
 The clodpole slumbered sound abed : 
 A wheelwright was the man by trade, 
 And (Reynard knew it well) had laid 
 An oak stump in the yard which he 
 Was shaping for an axletree. 
 The stump a good half-way was riven, 
 And in the cleft a wedge deep driven 
 Six inches clown : quoth Reynard, " See ! 
 More honey, coz ! lies in this tree 
 Than you may think — just pop your snout in 
 The chink, there, and you '11 not be doubting — 
 But do not spill the luscious comb ! 
 Shouldst feed like a true gastronome, 
 With all deliberation due — 
 Now, with good appetite, fall to ! " 
 " Reynard ! " said Bruin, 'never fear ! 
 I ever held one anxious clear : 
 ' All things in moderation,' dear ! " 
 
 Poor Bruin thus was sheer betwattled, 
 
 And in his hurry wellnigh throttled. 
 
 At length his snout well in he squeezed — 
 
 Reynard, alert, the moment seized — 
 
 Slap ! went the wedge from out the cleft ! 
 
 And in the instant Bruin left 
 
 In pillory transfixed to swing ! 
 
 No help his cries and curses bring — 
 
 Not twenty Elephants could free 
 His nose and paws from chancery. 
 With piteous howl he tore the ground, 
 And filled with fright the country round : 
 E'en Rustyfile's tromboning nose 
 Its music ceased, whilst he arose, 
 And sallied out with half his clothes : 
 Much marvelling what the noise could be ! 
 
 reynard's confession. 
 
 Good people all ! be not amazed 
 
 To hear a penitent's last words, 
 
 As on the gallows, bound with cords, 
 
 He stands : you '11 grant my prayer, I know ■ 
 
 Ere from the midst of ye I go ! 
 
 One boon I beg, by all that 's dear ! 
 
 One little trifling boon — 'tis here: 
 
 That you will move the King's good grace 
 
 For my reprieve one instant's space, 
 
 Whilst I before ye all confess me, 
 
 And shrive my soul of sins that press me ; 
 
 Whereby the world may learn to shun 
 
 The thorns through which my feet have run, 
 
 And 'ware the courses that, you see, 
 
 Have brought me to the fatal tree. 
 
 I would not one man's curse ; but rather 
 
 By all be mourned as their own father." 
 
 The words were scarcely uttered, ere 
 The mass were touched by Reynard's prayer. 
 Said they : " It is a trifling thing ; 
 To grant it him we '11 urge the King." 
 No sooner was 't accorded, than 
 Reynard once more to breathe began, 
 And fervently ejaculated 
 
 " Thank God ! I 'm safe ! " With mien pros- 
 trated, 
 Deep hollow voice, and upcast eye, 
 He groaned, " Spiritus Domini! 
 Now help me ! as I live, I see 
 None here whom I 've not wronged : ah me ! 
 All sorts of wickedness were sweet 
 To me, before I left the teat ! 
 From early infancy inured 
 To waywardness — in vice matured! 
 The flesh of lambs was my delight ! 
 Stray kids I chased from morn to night ! 
 Their lamentable cries for me 
 Made most enchanting melody ! 
 My lickerous tooth was never sated, 
 After its taste was titillated 
 With their warm blood, so sweet and tender: 
 Four kidlings and a lambkin slender 
 Made my first meal ; but as I grew 
 In size, my gluttony waxed too : 
 Both cocks and hens I made my prey, 
 And geese and ducks I did waylay ; 
 And after feasting, what was over 
 I hoarded up in secret cover 
 Of bush, or hid in sand the treasure, 
 To feast my appetite at leisure. 
 
 One dreary winter, pinched for food, 
 The Wolf upon my threshold stood •■ 
 
808 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Spake of our blood relationship, 
 
 And strove to hide his empty scrip ; 
 
 Whilst, with much eloquence, he shewed 
 
 What great advantages accrued 
 
 From partnerships ; and then displayed 
 
 How mutual profit might be made 
 
 By clubbing, each, his several ration, 
 
 To make joint-stock association 
 
 Of all our booty. — Well-a-way ! 
 
 I rued the bargain from that day ! 
 
 Full sorely was my patience tried ; 
 
 For when the spoil we did divide 
 
 I never got my share by half: 
 
 And were it sheep, or ox, or calf, 
 
 Or pig, or goat, or what beside, 
 
 Right o'er the carcass he would stride 
 
 And gobble all — his share and mine! 
 
 Then ask me ' where I meant to dine 1 ' 
 
 Nor was this all : for did we hap 
 
 On something savory to snap, 
 
 His wife and seven children straight 
 
 Came up, and all my portion ate ; 
 
 Nothing but bones for me were left, 
 
 And these were of the flesh clean reft. 
 
 Though (God be praised, he knew it not!) 
 
 Great store of wealth and means I 'd got 
 
 In secret place — pearls, stones, and gold, 
 
 The which ten wagons would not hold " — 
 
 Thereat the King, with ears erect : 
 
 " Whence did you all these goods collect ? " 
 
 Reynard continued : " Why should I 
 
 Of this make any mystery 7 
 
 I '11 tell you — they were stolen, all, 
 
 From those who once conspired your fall, 
 
 By me, who, now about to shed 
 
 My blood, whilome did save your head ! 
 
 The theft was mine ; the goods belonged 
 
 To my own father, who had wronged 
 
 Your Highness ; but your servant scented 
 
 The damned plot, and so prevented. 
 
 I saved my Sov'reign's life that time, 
 
 Certes ! — if that be any crime." 
 
 No sooner had the Fox made mention 
 Of plot, and murder, and prevention, 
 Than at the words the Queen, alarmed, 
 Nigh swooned before her fears were calmed 
 For her dear lord and master's life : 
 And when her speech returned, the wife, 
 Triumphing o'er the Queen, prevailed 
 'Gainst etiquette, and loud she railed : 
 Exhibited her teeth and claws, 
 And, opening her majestic jaws, 
 Forthwith she bade them ease the rope; 
 Conjured the Fox, by his last hope 
 Of mercy, and of happiness 
 Hereafter, he would straight confess 
 The whole of what he knew concerning 
 The treason ; for her soul was burning 
 With thirst for vengeance ! 
 
 Said the King : 
 " Let all the multitude form ring ! 
 
 And from the gallows Reynard lift, 
 Whilst we this bloody treason sift. 
 The matter is of moment clearly ! 
 Our person it concerneth nearly ! " 
 
 GERMAN" HYMNS OF THE XVI. AND 
 XVII. CENTURIES. 
 
 MARTIN LUTHER. 
 See page 239. 
 This hymn is from the German of Luther, 
 who translated it from the Latin of Notker. It is 
 taken from the " Lyra Germanica " of Catherine 
 Winkworth, who gives the following account of 
 it. " The hymn, ' In the midst of life,' is one 
 of those founded on a more ancient hymn, the 
 ' Media in vita ' of Notker, a learned Benedic- 
 tine of St. Gall, who died in 912. He is said 
 to have composed it while watching some work- 
 men, who were building the bridge of Martins- 
 bruck at the peril of their lives. It was soon 
 set to music, and became universally known ; 
 indeed, it was used as a battle-song, until the 
 custom was forbidden on account of its being 
 supposed to exercise magical influences. In a 
 German version it formed part of the service 
 for the burial of the dead, as early as the thir- 
 teenth century, and is still preserved in an 
 unmetrical form in the Burial Service of our 
 own Church." 
 
 IN THE MIDST OF LIFE. 
 
 In the midst of life, behold 
 
 Death has girt us round. 
 Whom for help then shall we pray, 
 
 Where shall grace be found ? 
 In thee, O Lord, alone ! 
 
 We rue the evil we have done, 
 That thy wrath on us hath drawn. 
 
 Holy Lord and God ! 
 
 Strong and holy God ! 
 Merciful and holy Saviour ! 
 
 Eternal God ! 
 Sink us not beneath 
 Bitter pains of endless death, 
 
 Kyrie eleison. 
 
 In the midst of death the jaws 
 
 Of hell against us gape. 
 Who from peril dire as this 
 
 Openeth us escape ? 
 'T is thou, Lord, alone ! 
 
 Our bitter suffering and our sin 
 Pity from thy mercy win, 
 
 Holy Lord and God ! 
 
 Strong and holy God ! 
 Merciful and holy Saviour ! 
 
 Eternal God ! 
 Let us not despair 
 For the fire that burneth there, 
 
 Kyrie eleison ! 
 
GERMAN. 
 
 809 
 
 In the midst of hell our sins 
 
 Drive us to despair ; 
 Whither shall we flee from them 1 
 
 Where is refuge, where ? 
 In thee, Lord Christ, alone ! 
 
 Eor thou hast shed thy precious blood, 
 All our sins thou makest good, 
 
 Holy Lord and God ! 
 
 Strong and holy God ! 
 Merciful and holy Saviour ! 
 
 Eternal God ! 
 Let us never fall 
 Erom the true faith's hope for all, 
 
 Kyrie eleison ! 
 
 HYMN OF THE REFORMATION. 
 
 Cox, " Sacred Hymns from the German." 
 
 Look down, O Lord, from heaven behold, 
 
 And let thy pity waken ! 
 
 How few the flock within thy fold, 
 
 Neglected and forsaken ! 
 
 Almost thou 'It seek for faith in vain, 
 
 And those who should thy truth maintain, 
 
 Thy word from us have taken. 
 
 With frauds which they themselves invent 
 
 Thy truth they have confounded : 
 
 Their hearts are not with one consent 
 
 On thy pure doctrine grounded ; 
 
 And, whilst they gleam with outward show, 
 
 They lead thy people to and fro, 
 
 In error's maze astounded. 
 
 God surely will uproot all those 
 With vain deceits who store us, 
 With haughty tongue who God oppose, 
 And say, " Who '11 stand before us ? 
 By right or might we will prevail ; 
 What we determine cannot fail, 
 Eor who can lord it o'er us % " 
 
 For this, saith God, I will arise, 
 These wolves my flock are rending; 
 I 've heard my people's bitter sighs 
 To heaven my throne ascending : 
 Now will I up, and set at rest 
 Each weary soul by fraud opprest, 
 The poor with might defending. 
 
 The silver seven times tried is pure 
 
 Erom all adulteration ; 
 
 So, through God's word, shall men endure 
 
 Each trial and temptation : 
 
 Its worth gleams brighter through the cross, 
 
 And, purified from human dross, 
 
 It shines through every nation. 
 
 Thy truth thou wilt preserve, O Lord, 
 Pure from their artful glozing ; 
 Oh ! make us lean upon thy word, 
 With hearts unmoved reposing, 
 Though bad men triumph and their crew 
 Are gathered round, the faithful few 
 With crafty toils enclosing. 
 
 OUT OF THE DEPTHS. 
 Winkworth, " Lyra Germanica." 
 
 Out of the depths I cry to thee, 
 Lord God ! O, hear my prayer ! 
 
 Incline a gracious ear to me, 
 And bid me not despair : 
 
 If thou rememberest each misdeed, 
 
 If each should have its rightful meed, 
 Lord, who shall stand before thee ? 
 
 Lord, through thy love alone we gain 
 
 The pardon of our sin ; 
 The strictest life is but in vain, 
 
 Our works can nothing win, 
 That none should boast himself of aught, 
 But own in fear thy grace hath wrought 
 What in him seemeth righteous. 
 
 Wherefore my hope is in the Lord, 
 
 My works I count but dust, 
 I build not there, but on his word, 
 
 And in his goodness trust. 
 Up to his care myself I yield, 
 He is my tower, my rock, my shield, 
 And for his help I tarry. 
 
 And though it tarry till the night, 
 
 And round again to morn, 
 My heart shall ne'er mistrust thy might, 
 
 Nor count itself forlorn. 
 Do thus, O ye of Israel's seed, 
 Ye of the Spirit born indeed, 
 
 Wait for your God's appearing. 
 
 Though great our sins and sore our wounds, 
 
 And deep and dark our fall, 
 His helping mercy hath no bounds, 
 
 His love surpasseth all. 
 Our trusty, loving Shepherd he, 
 Who shall at last set Israel free 
 From all their sin and sorrow. 
 
 PAUL GERHARDT. 
 1606-1676. 
 
 In her Preface to the " Lyra Germanica," 
 Catherine Winkworth says of Gerhardt : " He 
 is without doubt the greatest of the German 
 hymn-writers, possessing loftier poetical genius, 
 and a richer variety of thought and feeling than 
 any other. His beautiful hymn, ' Commit thou 
 all thy ways,' is already well known to us 
 through Wesley's translation, and many others 
 of his are not inferior to it. He was a zealous 
 preacher for several years at the Nicolai-Kirche 
 in Berlin ; whence he retired because he had 
 not sufficient freedom in preaching the truth, 
 and became Archdeacon of Lubbcn. With 
 him culminated the elder school of German 
 sacred poetry, — a school distinguished by its 
 depth and simplicity. 
 
810 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 TRUST IN PROVIDENCE 
 
 From " Hymns and Sacred Poems, by John and Charles 
 Wesley." 
 
 Commit thou all thy griefs 
 And ways into his hands ; 
 To his sure truth and tender care, 
 
 Who earth and heaven commands, 
 
 Who points the clouds their course, 
 Whom winds and seas obey ; 
 He shall direct thy wand'ring feet, 
 He shall prepare thy way. 
 
 Thou on the Lord rely, 
 So safe shalt thou go on ; 
 Eix on his work thy steadfast eye, 
 So shall thy work be done. 
 
 No profit canst thou gain 
 By self-consuming care ; 
 To him commend thy cause, his ear 
 Attends the softest prayer. 
 
 Thy everlasting truth, 
 Father, thy ceaseless love 
 Sees all thy children's wants, and knows 
 What best for each will prove : 
 
 And whatsoe'er thou will'st 
 Thou dost, O king of kings ; 
 What thy unerring wisdom chose, 
 Thy power to being brings. 
 
 Thou everywhere hast way, 
 And all things serve thy might ; 
 Thy every act pure blessing is, 
 Thy path unsullied light. 
 
 When thou arisest, Lord, 
 What shall thy work withstand ? 
 When all thy children want thou giv'st, 
 Who, who shall stay thine hand ? 
 
 Give to the winds thy fears ; 
 Hope, and be undismayed ; 
 God hears thy si^hs, and counts thy tears, 
 God shall lift up thy head. 
 
 Through waves, and clouds, and storms 
 He gently clears thy way ; 
 Wait thou his time, so shall this night 
 Soon end in joyous day. 
 
 Still heavy is thy heart? 
 Still sink thy spirits down ? 
 Cast off the weight, let fear depart, 
 And every care be gone. 
 
 What though thou rulest not ? 
 Yet heaven, and earth, and hell 
 Proclaim, God sitteth on the throne, 
 And ruleth all things well. 
 
 Leave to his sovereign sway 
 To choose, and to co mma nd ; 
 
 So shalt thou wond'ring own his way 
 How wise, how strong his hand. 
 
 Far, far above thy thought 
 His counsel shall appear, 
 When fully he the work hath wrought, 
 That caused thy needless fear. 
 
 Thou seest our weakness, Lord, 
 Our hearts are known to thee ; 
 0, lift thou up the sinking hand, 
 Confirm the feeble knee ! 
 
 Let us in life, in death, 
 Thy steadfast truth declare, 
 And publish with our latest breath 
 Thy love and guardian care. 
 
 GO FORTH, MY HEART. 
 
 ■Winkworth, " Lyra Germanica." 
 
 Go forth, my heart, and seek delight 
 In all the gifts of God's great might, 
 
 These pleasant summer hours : 
 Look how the plains for thee and me 
 Have decked themselves most fair to see, 
 
 All bright and sweet with flowers. 
 
 The trees stand thick and dark with leaves, 
 And earth o'er all her dust now weaves, 
 
 A robe of living green ; 
 Nor silks of Solomon compare 
 With glories that the tulips wear, 
 
 Or lilies' spotless sheen. 
 
 The lark soars singing into space, 
 The dove forsakes her hiding-place, 
 
 And cooes the woods among ; 
 The richly gifted nightingale 
 Pours forth her voice o'er hill and dale, 
 
 And floods the fields with song. 
 
 Here with her brood the hen doth walk, 
 There builds and guards his nest the stork, 
 
 The fleet-winged swallows pass ; 
 The swift stag leaves his rocky home, 
 And down the light deer bounding come 
 
 To taste the long rich grass. 
 
 The brooks rush gurgling through the sand, 
 And from the trees on either hand, 
 
 Cool shadows o'er them fall ; 
 The meadows at their side are glad 
 With herds ; and hark ! the shepherd lad 
 
 Sends forth his mirthful call. 
 
 And humming, hovering to and fro, 
 The never-wearied swarms forth go 
 
 To seek their honeyed food ; 
 And through the vine's yet feeble shoots 
 Stream daily upwards from her roots 
 
 New strength and juices good. 
 
GERMAN. 
 
 811 
 
 The corn springs up, a wealth untold, 
 
 Thou who wast crowned on high 
 
 A sight to gladden young and old, 
 
 With light and majesty, 
 
 Who now their voices lift 
 
 In deep dishonor here must die, 
 
 To him who gives such plenteous store, 
 
 Yet here I welcome thee ! 
 
 And makes the cup of life run o'er 
 
 
 With many a noble gift. 
 
 Thou noble countenance ! 
 
 
 All earthly lights are pale 
 
 Thy mighty working, mighty God, 
 
 Before the brightness of that glance, 
 
 Wakes all my powers ; I look abroad 
 
 At which a world shall quail. 
 
 And can no longer rest : 
 
 How is it quenched and gone ! 
 
 I too must sing when all things sing, 
 
 Those gracious eyes how dim! 
 
 And from my heart the praises ring 
 
 Whence grew that cheek so pale and wan ? 
 
 The Highest loveth best. 
 
 Who dared to scoff at him ? 
 
 .1 think, Art thou so good to us, 
 
 All lovely hues of life, 
 
 And scatterest joy and beauty thus 
 
 O'er this poor earth of ours ; 
 What nobler glories shall be given 
 Hereafter in thy shining heaven, 
 
 Set round with golden towers ! 
 
 That glowed on lip and cheek, 
 Have vanished in that awful strife; 
 The Mighty One is weak. 
 Pale Death has won the day, 
 
 He triumphs in this hour 
 
 
 When Strength and Beauty fade away, 
 
 What thrilling joy when on our sight 
 
 And yield them to his power. 
 
 Christ's garden beams in cloudless light, 
 
 Ah Lord, thy woes belong, 
 
 Where all the air is sweet. 
 
 Thy cruel pains, to me, 
 
 Still laden with the unwearied hymn 
 
 The burden of my sin and wrong 
 
 From all the thousand seraphim 
 
 Hath all been laid on thee. 
 
 Who God's high praise repeat ! 
 
 Look on me where I kneel, 
 
 
 Wrath were my rightful lot, 
 
 0, were I there ! that I now, 
 
 One glance of love, 0, let me feel ! 
 
 Dear God, before thy throne could bow, 
 
 Redeemer, spurn me not ! 
 
 And bear my heavenly palm ! 
 
 
 Then like the angels would I raise 
 
 My Guardian, own me thine ; 
 
 My voice, and sing thy endless praise 
 
 Thy lamb, Shepherd, lead ! 
 
 In many a sweet-toned psalm. 
 
 What richest blessings, Source Divine, 
 
 
 Daily from thee proceed ! 
 
 Nor can I now, God, forbear, 
 
 How oft thy mouth has fed 
 
 Though still this mortal yoke I wear, 
 
 My soul with angels' food, 
 
 To utter oft thy name • 
 
 How oft thy Spirit o'er me shed 
 
 But still my heart is bent to speak 
 
 His stores of heavenly good ! 
 
 Thy praises ; still, though poor and weak, 
 
 
 Would I set forth thy fame. 
 
 Ah, would that I could share 
 
 
 Thy cross, thy bitter woes ! 
 
 But help me ; let thy heavenly showers 
 
 All true delight lies hidden there, 
 
 Revive and bless my fainting powers, 
 
 Thence all true comfort flows. 
 
 And let me thrive and grow 
 
 Ah, well were it for me 
 
 Beneath the summer of thy grace, 
 
 Could I here end my strife, 
 
 And fruits of faith bud forth apace 
 
 And die upon the cross with thee, 
 
 While yet I dwell below. 
 
 Who art my Life of life ! 
 
 And set me, Lord, in Paradise 
 
 Jesus, dearest Eriend, 
 
 When I have bloomed beneath these skies 
 
 My soul is all o'erfraught 
 
 Till my last leaf is flown ; 
 
 With thanks, when pondering to what end 
 
 Thus let me serve thee here in time, 
 
 Thou hast the battle fought. 
 
 And after, in that happier clime, 
 
 0, let me faithful keep, 
 
 And thee, my God, alone ! 
 
 As thou art true to me, 
 
 
 So shall my last cold deathly sleep 
 
 
 Be but a rest in thee. 
 
 GOOD FRIDAY. 
 
 
 Winkworth, " Lyra Germanica." 
 
 Yes, when I hence must go, 
 
 
 Go not thou, Christ, from me ; 
 
 Ah, wounded head ! Must thou 
 
 When Death has struck the mortal blow, 
 
 Endure such shame and scorn ! 
 
 Bear thou mine agony. 
 
 The blood is trickling from thy brow 
 
 When heart and spirit sink, 
 
 Pierced by the crown of thorn. 
 
 O'erwhelmed with dark dismay, 
 
812 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Come thou who ne'er from pain didst shrink, 
 
 Though long his promised aid delay, 
 
 And chase my fears away. 
 
 At last it will be surely sent ; 
 
 
 Though thy heart sink in sore dismay, 
 
 Come to me ere I die, 
 
 The trial for thy good is meant. 
 
 My comfort and my shield ; 
 
 What we have won with pains we hold more 
 
 And gazing on thy cross can I 
 
 fast, 
 
 Calmly my spirit yield. 
 
 What tarrieth long is sweeter at the last. 
 
 When life is wellnigh past, 
 
 Be thou content. 
 
 My darkening eyes shall dwell 
 
 
 On thee, my heart shall hold thee fast; 
 
 Lay not to heart whate'er of ill 
 
 Who dieth thus, dies well. 
 
 Thy foes may falsely speak of thee, 
 
 
 Let man defame thee as he will, 
 
 
 God hears, and judges righteously. 
 
 BE THOU CONTENT. 
 
 Why shouldst thou fear, if God be on thy side, 
 
 Winkworth, " Lyra Germanica." 
 
 Man's cruel anger, or malicious pride ? 
 
 
 Be thou content. 
 
 Be thou content ; be still before 
 
 
 His face, at whose right hand doth reign 
 
 We know for us a rest remains, 
 
 Eulness of joy forevermore, 
 
 When God will give us sweet release 
 
 Without whom all thy toil is vain. 
 
 From earth and all our mortal chains, 
 
 He is thy living spring, thy sun, whose rays 
 
 And turn our sufferings into peace. 
 
 Make glad with life and light thy dreary days. 
 
 Sooner or later death will surely come 
 
 Be thou content. 
 
 To end our sorrows, and to take us home. 
 
 
 Be thou content. 
 
 Art thou all friendless and alone, 
 
 
 Hast none in whom thou canst confide ? 
 
 Home to the chosen ones, who here 
 
 God careth for thee, lonely one, 
 
 Served their Lord faithfully and well. 
 
 Comfort and help will he provide. 
 
 Who died in peace, without a fear, 
 
 He sees thy sorrows and thy hidden grief, 
 
 And there in peace forever dwell. 
 
 He knoweth when to send thee quick relief; 
 
 The Everlasting is their joy and stay, 
 
 Be thou content. 
 
 The Eternal Word himself to them doth say, 
 
 
 Be thou content. 
 
 Thy heart's unspoken pain he knows, 
 
 
 Thy secret sighs he hears full well, 
 
 
 What to none else thou dar'st disclose, 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 To him thou mayst with boldness tell. 
 
 Winkworth, "Lyra Germanica." 
 
 He is not far away, but ever nigh, 
 
 
 And answereth willingly the poor man's cry. 
 
 Now rest the woods again, 
 
 Be thou content. 
 
 Man, cattle, town and plain, 
 
 
 The world all sleeping lies. 
 
 Why art thou full of anxious fear 
 
 But sleep not yet, my soul, 
 
 How thou shalt be sustained and fed ? 
 
 For he who made this Whole, 
 
 He who hath made and placed thee here, 
 
 Loves that thy prayers to him arise. 
 
 Will give thee needful daily bread. 
 
 
 Canst thou not trust his rich and bounteous 
 
 Sun, where is thy glow 1 
 
 hand, 
 
 Thou 'rt fled before thy foe, 
 
 Who feeds all living things on sea and land ? 
 
 Thou yieldest to the night. 
 
 Be thou content. 
 
 Farewell, a better Sun, 
 
 
 . My Jesus, hath begun 
 
 He who doth teach the little birds 
 
 To fill my heart with joy and light. 
 
 To find their meat in field and wood, 
 
 
 Who gives the countless flocks and herds, 
 
 The long bright day is past, 
 
 Each day their needful drink and food, 
 
 The golden stars at last 
 
 Thy hunger too will surely satisfy, 
 
 Bestud the dark-blue heaven ; 
 
 And all thy wants in his good time supply. 
 
 And like a star shall I 
 
 Be thou content. 
 
 Forever shine on high, 
 
 
 When my release from earth is given. 
 
 Say'st thou, I know not how or where, 
 
 
 No help I see where'er I turn ; 
 
 My body hastes to rest, 
 
 When of all else we most despair, 
 
 My weary limbs undrest, 
 
 The riches of God's love we learn ; 
 
 I put away these signs 
 
 When thou and I his hand no longer trace, 
 
 Of our mortality ; 
 
 He leads us forth into a pleasant place. 
 
 Once Christ shall give to me 
 
 Be thou content. 
 
 That spotless robe that ever shines. 
 
GEE MAN. 
 
 813 
 
 My head and hands and feet 
 Their rest with gladness greet, 
 
 And know their work is o'er; 
 My heart, thou too shalt be 
 From sinful works set free, 
 
 Nor pine in weary sorrow more. 
 
 Ye limbs with toil oppressed, 
 Go now and take your rest, 
 
 For quiet sleep ye crave. 
 Ere many a day is fled, 
 Ye '11 find a narrower bed 
 
 And longer slumber in the grave. 
 
 My heavy eyes must close, 
 Sealed up in deep repose, 
 
 Where is my safety then ? 
 Do thou thy mercy send, 
 My helpless hours defend, 
 
 Thou sleepless Eye, that watchest over men. 
 
 Jesus, my joy, now spread 
 Thy wings above my head, 
 
 To shield thy little one. 
 Would Satan work me wrong, 
 Oh ! be thy angels' song, 
 
 " To him no evil shall be done." 
 
 My loved ones all, good night ! 
 No grief or danger light 
 
 On your defenceless heads. 
 God send you happy sleep, 
 And let his angels keep 
 
 Watch golden-armed around yonr beds ! 
 
 DAXIELE WULFFEE. 
 
 1617- 1685. 
 
 The first seven stanzas of this striking poem 
 are fi lm the old Catholic Hymn-Book, of Co- 
 logne, 1625. The remainder was added by 
 Wultfer, a clergyman of Niirenberg. 
 
 ETERNITY. 
 
 "Winkworth, "Lyra Gennanica." 
 
 Eternitt ! Eternity ! 
 How long art thou, Eternity ! 
 And yet to thee Time hastes away, 
 Like as the war-horse to the fray, 
 Or swift as couriers homeward go, 
 Or ship to port, or shaft from bow. 
 Ponder, Man, Eternity ! 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! 
 How long art thou, Eternity ! 
 For even as on a perfect sphere 
 End nor beginning can appear, 
 Even so, Eternity, in thee 
 Entrance nor Exit can there be. 
 Ponder, Man, Eternity ! 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! 
 
 How long art thou, Eternity ! 
 
 A circle infinite art thou, 
 
 Thy centre an Eternal Now, 
 
 Never, we name thy outward bound, 
 
 For never end therein is found. 
 
 Ponder, Man, Eternity ! 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! 
 
 How long art thou, Eternity ! 
 
 A little bird with fretting beak 
 
 Might wear to naught the loftiest peak, 
 
 Though but each thousand years it came, 
 
 Yet thou wert then, as now, the same. 
 
 Ponder, Man, Eternity ! 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! 
 How long art thou, Eternity ! 
 As long as God is God, so long 
 Endure the pains of hell and wrong, 
 So long the joys of heaven remain ; 
 lasting joy, O lasting pain ! 
 Ponder, O Man, Eternity ! 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! 
 
 How long art thou, Eternity ! 
 
 Man, full oft thy thoughts should dwell 
 
 Upon the pains of sin and hell, 
 
 And on the glories of the pure, 
 
 That both beyond all time endure. 
 
 Ponder, Man, Eternity ! 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! 
 
 How long art thou, Eternity ! 
 
 How terrible art thou in woe, 
 
 How fair where joys forever glow ! 
 
 God's goodness sheddeth gladness here, 
 
 His justice there wakes bitter fear. 
 
 Ponder, Man, Eternity ! 
 
 Eternity! Eternity! 
 How long art thou, Eternity ! 
 They who lived poor and naked rest 
 With God forever rich and blest, 
 And love and praise the highest good, 
 In perfect bliss and gladsome mood. 
 Ponder, man, Eternity ! 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! 
 How long art thou, Eternity ! 
 A moment lasts all joy below, 
 Whereby man sinks to endless woe, 
 A moment lasts all earthly pain, 
 Whereby an endless joy we gain. 
 Ponder, Man, Eternity ! 
 
 Eternity! Eternity! 
 
 How long art thou, Eternity ! 
 
 Who ponders oft on thee is wise, 
 
 All fleshly lusts shall he despise, 
 
 The world finds place with him no more ; 
 
 The love of vain delights is o'er. 
 
 Ponder, O'Man, Eternity! 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! 
 
 How long art thou, Eternity ! 
 
814 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Who marks thee well would say to God, 
 Here, .judge, burn, smite me with thy rod, 
 Here let me all thy justice bear, 
 When time of grace is past, then spare ! 
 Ponder, O Man, Eternity! 
 
 Eternity ! Eternity ! 
 
 How long art thou, Eternity ! 
 
 Lo, I, Eternity, warn thee, 
 
 O Man, that oft thou think on me, 
 
 The sinner's punishment and pain, 
 
 To them who love their God, rich gain ! 
 
 Ponder, Man, Eternity ! 
 
 FRIEDRICH RUDOLPH VON CANITZ. 
 
 1654-1698. 
 
 MORNING HYMN. 
 Winkworth, " Lyra Germanica." 
 
 Come, my soul, awake, 't is morning, 
 
 Day is dawning 
 O'er the earth, arise and pray ; 
 Come, to Him who made this splendor, 
 
 Thou must render 
 All thy feeble powers can pay. 
 
 From the stars now learn thy duty, 
 
 See their beauty 
 Paling in the golden air; 
 So God's light thy mists should banish, 
 
 Thus should vanish 
 What to darkened sense seemed fair. 
 
 See how everything that liveth, 
 
 Gladly striveth 
 On the pleasant light to gaze ; 
 Stirs with joy each thing that groweth, 
 
 As it knoweth 
 Darkness smitten by its rays. 
 
 Soul, thy incense also proffer; 
 
 Thou shouldst offer 
 Praise to him, who from thy head 
 Kept afar the storms of sorrow, 
 
 That the morrow 
 Einds the night in peace hath fled. 
 
 Bid him bless what thou art doing, 
 
 If pursuing 
 Some good aim ; but if there lurks 
 111 intent in thine endeavor, 
 
 May he ever 
 Thwart and turn thee from thy works. 
 
 Think that he, the All-discerning, 
 
 Knows each turning 
 Of thy path, each sinful stain ; 
 Nay, what shame would fain gloss over, 
 
 Can discover; 
 All thou dost to him is plain. 
 
 Bound unto the flying hours 
 
 Are our powers ; 
 Earth's vaift good floats down their wave, 
 That thy ship, my soul, is hasting, 
 
 Never resting, 
 To its haven in the grave. 
 
 Pray that when thy life is closing, 
 
 Calm reposing, 
 Thou mayst die, and not in pain ; 
 That the night of death departed, 
 
 Thou glad-hearted, 
 Mayst behold the Sun again. 
 
 From God's glances shrink thou never, 
 
 Meet them ever ; 
 Who submits him to His grace, 
 Finds that earth no sunshine knoweth 
 
 Such as gloweth 
 O'er his pathway all his days. 
 
 Wakenest thou again to sorrow, 
 
 Oh ! then borrow 
 Strength from him, whose sun-like might 
 On the mountain-summit tarries, 
 
 And yet carries 
 To the vales their mirth and light. 
 
 Round the gifts he on thee showers, 
 
 Fiery towers 
 Will he set, be not afraid, 
 Thou shalt dwell 'mid angel legions, 
 
 In the regions 
 Satan's self dares not invade. 
 
 FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU. 
 
 The Baron Von Logau was born in Silesia 
 in 1604, and after completing his studies entered 
 the service of Ludwig IV. of Liegnitz ; be- 
 came Kanzleirath, or counsellor of chancery, 
 and died in 1655. He is known in literature 
 by his Sinngedichte, or Epigrams, in which de- 
 partment he has no superior among the Ger- 
 mans. 
 
 EPIGRAMS. 
 MONET. 
 
 Whereunto is money good 1 
 Who has it not wants hardihood, 
 Who has it has much trouble and care, 
 Who once has had it has despair. 
 
 THE BEST MEDICINES. 
 
 Joy and Temperance and Repose 
 Slam the door on the doctor's nose. 
 
 SIN. 
 
 Man-like is it to fall into sin, 
 Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, 
 Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
 God-like is it all sin to leave. 
 
GERMAN. 
 
 815 
 
 POVERTY AND BLINDNESS. 
 
 A blind man is a poor man, and blind a poor 
 
 man is ; 
 For the former seeth no man, and the latter no 
 
 man sees. 
 
 LAW OF LIFE. 
 
 Live I, so live I, 
 To my Lord heartily, 
 To my Prince faithfully, 
 To my Neighbor honestly. 
 Die I, so die I. 
 
 CREEDS. 
 
 Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds 
 and doctrines three 
 
 Extant are ; but still the doubt is, where Chris- 
 tianity may be. 
 
 THE RESTLESS HEART. 
 
 A millstone and the human heart are driven 
 
 ever round ; 
 If they have nothing else to grind, they must 
 
 themselves be ground. 
 
 CHRISTIAN LOVE. 
 
 Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and 
 
 comfort it bespoke ; 
 But, alas ! it now is quenched, and only bites 
 
 us, like the smoke. 
 
 ART AND TACT. 
 
 Intelligence and courtesy not always are com- 
 bined ; 
 Often in a wooden house a golden room we find. 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they 
 
 grind exceeding small ; 
 Though with patience he stands waiting, with 
 
 exactness grinds he all. 
 
 "When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle 
 
 but a torch's fire, 
 Ha ! how soon they all are silent ! Thus Truth 
 
 silences the liar. 
 
 RHYMES. 
 
 If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound 
 not well in strangers' ears, 
 
 They have only to bethink them that it happens 
 so with theirs ; 
 
 For so long as words, like mortals, call a father- 
 land their own, 
 
 They will be most highly valued where they are 
 best and longest known. 
 
 ANGELUS SILESIUS. 
 
 Johannes Scheffler, the Mystic poet of 
 the seventeenth century, better known by his 
 
 assumed name of Angelus Silesius, was born 
 at Breslau in 1624; studied medicine, and be- 
 came physician in ordinary to the Emperor Fer- 
 dinand III. and to the Duke Sylvius of Oels. 
 
 Strongly attracted by the writings of Tauler, 
 Boehme, and other Mystics, from Lutheran he 
 became Catholic, and took priest's orders. He 
 died in the Jesuit convent of St. Mathew at 
 Breslau in 1677. He is the author of three vol- 
 umes of poems, — " Spiritual Eclogues," " The 
 Sorrowing Psyche," and, most famous of all, 
 " The Cherubic Pilgrim." The following ex- 
 tracts are taken from an article in the Mas- 
 sachusetts Quarterly Review, Vol. II., written 
 by E. Vitalis Scherb, who says of the work : 
 " We venture to say that there are but few vol- 
 umes in any language, particularly in rhyme, 
 which contain within so short a compass such 
 a number of thoughts, the deepest, wisest, and 
 holiest, expressed in a form so concise, so trans- 
 parent, and unavoidable." 
 
 FROM THE CHERUBIC PILGRIM 
 WHAT I AM AND WHAT 1 SHALL BE. 
 
 I am a stream of Time, running to God my sea, 
 But once I shall myself the eternal ocean be. 
 
 THE DEW AND THE ROSE. 
 
 God's Spirit falls on me as dew drops on a rose, 
 If I but like a rose to him my heart unclose. 
 
 THE HIGHEST GOOD. 
 
 Rest is the highest good ; and if God was not 
 
 Rest 
 Then Heaven would not be Heaven, and Angels 
 
 not be blest. 
 
 THE TABERNACLE. 
 
 The soul wherein God dwells — what church 
 
 can holier be 1 — 
 Becomes a walking tent of heavenly majesty. 
 
 THE HOLY NIGHT. 
 
 Lo ! in the silent night a child to God is born, 
 And all is brought again that e'er was lost or 
 
 lorn. 
 Could but thy soul, O man, become a silent 
 
 night, 
 God would be born in thee and set all things 
 
 aright. 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE. 
 
 Ye know God but as lord, hence Lord his name 
 
 with ye, 
 I feel him but as love, and Love, his name 
 
 with me. 
 
 THE SEASONS OF THE SOUL. 
 
 Sin is Soul's Winterfrost ; Repentance is the 
 
 Spring ; 
 Summer the mercy state, Autumn good works 
 
 will bring. 
 
816 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 HOW FAR FROM HERE TO HEAVEN? 
 
 How far from here to Heaven ? Not very far, 
 
 my friend, 
 A single hearty step will all thy journey end. 
 
 CHRIST MUST BE BORN IN THEE. 
 
 Though Christ a thousand times in Bethlehem 
 
 be born, 
 If he 's not born in Thee, thy soul is still forlorn. 
 
 THE OUTWARD PROFITETH NOT. 
 
 The cross on Golgotha will never save thy soul, 
 The cross in thine own heart alone can make 
 thee whole. 
 
 RISE THYSELF FROM THE DEAD ! 
 
 Christ rose not from the dead, Christ still is in 
 
 the grave, 
 If Thou, for whom he died, art still of sin the 
 
 slave. 
 
 HEAVEN WITHIN THEE. 
 
 Hold there ! where runnest thou ? Know Heav- 
 en is in thee. 
 
 Seek'st thou for God elsewhere, his face thou 'It 
 never see. 
 
 THE ONLY WANT 's IN THEE. 
 
 Ah, would thy heart but be a manger for the 
 
 birth, 
 God would once more become a child upon this 
 
 earth. 
 
 SEE GOD IN THYSELF. 
 
 Pray thee, how looks my God ? Go and thy- 
 self behold ; 
 
 Who sees himself in God, sees God's own very 
 mould. 
 
 THE SOUL GOD'S IMAGE. 
 
 God's very image lies upon the soul imprest, 
 Happy who wears such coin, in purest linen drest. 
 
 THE HEART ENCLOSES GOD. 
 
 Immeasurable is the Highest — who but knows 
 
 if? 
 And yet a human heart can perfectly enclose it. 
 
 THE EYES OF THE SOUL. 
 
 Two eyes hath every soul ; one into Time shall 
 
 see, 
 The other bends its gaze into Eternity. 
 
 THE SEASONS OF THE DAY. 
 
 In Heaven is the day, in Hell below the night ; 
 'T is twilight here on Earth : consider this aright ! 
 
 THE LOVELIEST TONE. 
 
 In all Eternity, no tone can be so sweet 
 As where man's heart with God in unison doth 
 beat. 
 
 MAGNET AND STEEL. 
 
 God is a magnet strong, my heart, it is the steel, 
 'T will always turn to him, if once his touch it 
 feel. 
 
 THE SWIFTEST. 
 
 Love is the swiftest thing ; it of itself can fly 
 Up to the highest Heaven, in the twinkling of 
 an eye. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 The beauteous rose which here thine outward 
 
 eye doth see, 
 Hath blossomed thus in God, from all Eternity. 
 
 GOD IN ME AND AROUND ME. 
 
 To Deity am I the cask which it doth fill, 
 And it is my deep sea that doth surround me 
 still. 
 
 love's TRANSUBSTANTIATION. 
 
 Whate'er thou lovest, man, that too become thou 
 must : 
 
 God — if thou lovest God ; Dust — if thou lov- 
 est dust. 
 
 TIME IMMEMORIAL. 
 
 You ask how long it is since God himself begot * 
 Ah me ! so very long, himself remembers not. 
 
 THE GREATEST RIDDLE. 
 
 I know not what I am, I am not what I know, 
 A thing and not a thing, a point, and circle too. 
 
 THERE IS NO DEATH. 
 
 I don't believe in Death. If hour by hour I die, 
 'T is hour by hour to gain a better life thereby. 
 
 HOW TO BECOME IMMORTAL. 
 
 Become substantial, man, for when the world 
 
 shall die, 
 All accident shall pass, but substance will abie. 
 
 "the well is deep." — John iv. 11. 
 
 Why shouldst thou cry for drink ? The foun- 
 tain is in thee 
 
 Which, so thou stopp'st it not, will flow eter- 
 nally. 
 
 ALAS ! WHY CAN WE NOT ? 
 
 Why can we not, we men, as birds do in the 
 
 wood, 
 Mingle our voices too, — a happy brotherhood q 
 
 LOVE IS NOT TO BE DEFINED. 
 
 One only thing I love, yet know not what it is, 
 And that I know it not, makes it the greater 
 bliss. 
 
 THE HOLY OF HOLIES. 
 
 No holier sanctuary on earth has ever been 
 Than in body chaste, a soul that 's void of sin. 
 
GERMAN. 
 
 817 
 
 
 QUIET LOVE IS STRONGEST LOVE. 
 
 Love is like wine. When young, 't will boil 
 
 and overflow ; 
 The older it will grow, the milder will it grow. 
 
 THE BEST PREACHERS. 
 
 What is a sinless state 1 No priest can ever 
 
 teach thee 
 What, eloquently dumb, the pious flowers will 
 
 preach thee. 
 
 HUMBLE AND FREE. 
 
 From lowly daisies learn, men ! how ye may be 
 Both good and beautiful, humble in heart and 
 free. 
 
 THE RICH POOR. 
 
 The old man swims in gold, yet talks of poverty. 
 He speaks but what is true, no poorer wretch 
 than he. 
 
 THE MOST EFFECTUAL PRATER. 
 
 The sleep of his Beloved much more with God 
 
 will do, 
 Than when the wicked wake and pray the whole 
 
 night through. 
 
 THERE LIVES NO SINNER. 
 
 There lives no sinner. " How 1 Is not this 
 
 man a sinner ? " 
 A sinner he may be, but he lives not, as sinner. 
 
 TO THEOLOGIANS. 
 
 Within this span of time, God's name ye will 
 
 unfold, 
 Which in Eternities can never quite be told. 
 
 DIVINE PASSIVENESS. 
 
 Go out — God will go in ; die thou and let him 
 
 live, 
 Be not, and he will be ; wait, and he '11 all 
 
 things give. 
 
 SELF-WILL THE FALL OF MAN. 
 
 If Christ had self-will left, though he be blest 
 
 of all, 
 Believe me, Christ himself would fall in Adam's 
 
 fall. 
 
 BLESSEDNESS. 
 
 The soul that 's truly blest knows not of selfish- 
 ness . 
 
 She is one light with God, with God one Bless- 
 edness. 
 
 WITHOUT A WHY. 
 
 The rose knows of no why. It bfows because 
 
 it bloweth, 
 And careless of itself, to all its beauties showeth. 
 
 " THE BEST PART." 
 
 To work is good enough, still better is to pray, 
 The best — to love thy God, and not a word to 
 say. 
 
 103 
 
 GOD IS A BLESSED STILLNESS. 
 
 We pray " On earth, in heaven, O Lord, be done 
 
 thy will," 
 And yet God has no will, but is forever still. 
 
 MAN TRANSFORMED TO GOD. 
 
 Before I was a Me, in God then was I God, 
 As soon as I shall die I shall again be God. 
 
 HELL IS WHERE GOD IS NOT. 
 
 If thou diest without God — though Christ 
 
 gained Heaven for thee, 
 Thy life will be a Hell, wherever thou mayst 
 
 be. 
 
 GOD ALONE IS GREAT. 
 
 Nothing is great but God ; even Heaven's 
 
 boundless hall 
 Is for a God-full soul much, how much ! too 
 
 small. 
 
 THE FINEST SIGHT. 
 
 Fair is Aurora, fair, but still a soul 's more fair, 
 When after a long night the sun, God, riseth 
 there. 
 
 IGNIS FATUUS. 
 
 Who runneth not with Love, will always run 
 
 astray, 
 And ignis fatuus like, to Heaven not find the 
 
 way. 
 
 THE NOBLEST IS THE COMMONEST. 
 
 The nobler is a thing, the commoner it will be. 
 The sun, the heavens, and God, what commoner 
 than these three ? 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHICAL JANUS. 
 
 Alternately I must, when at this world I peep, 
 Laugh with Democritus, with Heraclitus weep. 
 
 THE OLD ONES LIKE THE YOUNG ONES. 
 
 Thou smilest at the child that crieth for his 
 
 toys, 
 Are they less toys, old man, which cause thy 
 
 griefs and joys 1 
 
 SIGH FOR GOD. 
 
 God is a mighty sea, unfathomed and unbound. 
 0, in this blessed deep may all my soul be 
 drowned. 
 
 THE SHORTEST WAY TO GOD. 
 
 To bring thee to thy God, Love takes the short- 
 est route ; 
 
 The way which Knowledge leads is but a round- 
 about. 
 
 it is HERE ! 
 
 Why travel over seas to find what is so near 1 
 
 Love is the only good ; love and be blessed here. 
 
 GOD IS NO TALKER. 
 
 No one talks less than God, the all-creating 
 
 Lord. 
 From all eternity he speaketh but one word. 
 
818 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 DESCENT TO HELL. 
 
 Once, Christian, once like Christ, thou, must to 
 
 Hell descend. 
 Wilt thou, like victor Christ, again to Heaven 
 
 ascend. 
 
 NEITHER WITHOUT THE OTHER. 
 
 It must be done by both, God never without me, 
 I never without God, myself from Death can 
 free. 
 
 DRIVE OUT THE WORLD ! 
 
 Drive out from thee the world, and then like 
 
 God thou 'It be, 
 A heaven within thyself in calm eternity. 
 
 SPIRITUAL SUN AND MOON. 
 
 Be Jesus thou my sun, and let me be thy moon, 
 Then will my darkest night be changed to bright- 
 est noon. 
 
 THE SWEETEST MEETING. 
 
 Whene'er in Spirits Deep my soul with God is 
 
 meeting, 
 It seems as if one Love his second love was 
 
 greeting. 
 
 THE SPIRITUAL MOUNT. 
 
 I am a mount in God, and must myself ascend. 
 Shall God to speak to me upon my top descend. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 We need the solitude ; and yet in every place 
 A man may be alone, if he 's no commonplace. 
 
 LIFE IN DEATH. 
 
 In God alone is Life, without God is but Death. 
 An endless Godless life were but a life in Death. 
 
 LIKE THE DOVES, BUT LIKE THE SERPENTS 
 ALSO. 
 
 That simpleness I prize that seasoned is with 
 
 wit. 
 A witless simpleness I value not a whit. 
 
 WISDOM A CHILD. 
 
 Ye ask how wisdom can thus play in children's 
 
 guise ? 
 Why, wisdom is a child, so 's every man that 's 
 
 wise. 
 
 NO BEAUTY WITHOUT LOVE. 
 
 All Beauty comes of Love, God's very counte- 
 nance, 
 
 If lighted not with Love, could never yield a 
 glance. 
 
 THE CREATURE A ZERO. 
 
 Creature preceding God to nothing doth amount, 
 But place it after God and 't will begin to count. 
 
 FAITH WITHOUT LOVE. 
 
 Faith without Love aye makes the greatest roar 
 
 and din : 
 The cask sounds loudest then when there is 
 
 naught within. 
 
 THE SECOND BLISS IN HEAVEN. 
 
 The greatest bliss in Heaven is, next to God's 
 
 blest sight, 
 That into every heart we straight can see aright. 
 
 NO LAW FOR LOVE. 
 
 The Lover needs no law : he 'd love God quite 
 
 as well 
 Were there no Heaven's reward, no punishment 
 
 of Hell. 
 
 THE VALLEY AND THE RAIN. 
 
 Let but thy heart, Man ! become a valley low, 
 And God will rain on it till it will overflow. 
 
 DIVINE MUSIC. 
 
 A quiet patient heart that meekly serves his 
 
 Lord, 
 God's finger joys to touch ; it is his harpsichord. 
 
 BEWARE OF THE SMOKE ! 
 
 The world is but a smoke. Therefore, if thou 
 
 be wise, 
 Keep off, or, surely it will blind thy spirit's eyes. 
 
 LEARN FROM THE SILKWORM ! 
 
 O Shame ! A silkworm works and spins till it 
 can fly, 
 
 And thou, my soul, wilt still on thine old earth- 
 clod lie. 
 
 THE DROPS IN THE SEA. 
 
 Drops mingling with the sea will all become the 
 
 Sea: 
 So souls when blent with God themselves will 
 
 God then be. 
 
 OVERBOARD ! 
 
 Throw overboard, soul, the world with all its 
 
 goods, 
 Lest near the heavenly port thou perish in the 
 
 flood. 
 
 GOD IS A WONDROUS THING. 
 
 God is a wondrous thing-: he wills whate'er he 
 
 is, 
 And is whate'er he wills — the same in whirling 
 
 bliss. 
 
 HOW WE CAN SEE GOD. 
 
 God dwelleth in a light far out of human ken. 
 Become thyself that light, and thou wilt see him 
 then. 
 
 GOD'S WORK AND REST. 
 
 God never yet has worked, nor did he ever rest, 
 His rest is aye his work, his work is aye his rest. 
 
GERMAN. 
 
 819 
 
 "THE FEAR Or THE LORD IS THE BEGINNING 
 OF WISDOM." PS. Cxi. 10. 
 
 With " Fear " we must begin, then next to 
 
 Knowledge tend ; 
 But only Love of God is Wisdom's perfect end. 
 
 GREAT GIFTS AND SMALL RECEIVERS. 
 
 Our great God always would the greatest gifts 
 
 impart, 
 If but his greatest gifts found not so small a heart. 
 
 THE WORKINGS OF LOVE. 
 
 Love works the same as Death ; it kills what 
 
 kill it may, 
 But through the bursting heart the Spirit wings 
 
 its way. 
 
 TRUE PHILANTHROPY. 
 
 I love, but love not Men. Ye ask, " What lov- 
 
 est then 1 " 
 It is Humanity alone I love in men. 
 
 KILLING TIME. 
 
 Man, if the time on Earth should seem too long 
 
 to thee, 
 Turn thee to God and live time-free eternally. 
 
 THE CROWN OF THE BLESSED. 
 
 What is the blessed prize ? What crowns the 
 
 victory ? 
 It is the lily white of pure Divinity. 
 
 BEGINNING AND END. 
 
 Where can I my last end and first beginning find ? 
 There wnere God's heart and mine themselves 
 together bind. 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 Let, Reader, this suffice. But shouldst thou 
 
 wish for more, 
 Then read in thine own heart a page of mystic 
 
 lore. 
 
 JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 
 
 See page 281. 
 
 FROM THE SECOND PART OF FAUST. 
 
 Bayard Taylor, "Faust, a Tragedy." 
 
 the death of fatjst. 
 
 Faust. 
 (On the balcony.) 
 The stars conceal their glance and glow, 
 The fire sinks down, and flickers low ; 
 A damp wind fans it with its wings, 
 And smoke and vapor hither brings. 
 Quick bidden, and too quick obeyed ! — 
 What hovers hither like a shade 1 
 
 V. 
 
 MlDNIGBT. 
 
 (Four Gray Women enter.) 
 
 First. 
 My name, it is Want. 
 
 Second. 
 
 And mine, it is Guilt. 
 
 Third. 
 And mine, it is Care. 
 
 Fourth. 
 
 Necessity, mine. 
 
 Three Together. 
 The portal is bolted, we cannot get in : 
 'T is the House of the Rich, we 're not wanted 
 within. 
 
 Want. 
 I shrink to a shadow. 
 
 Guilt. 
 
 I shrink into naught. 
 
 Necessity. 
 The pampered from me turn the face and the 
 thought. 
 
 Care. 
 Ye sisters, to enter ye cannot, nor dare ; 
 But the keyhole is free to the entrance of Care. 
 (Care disappears.) 
 Want. 
 Ye grisly old Sisters, be banished from here ! 
 
 Guilt. 
 Beside thee, and bound to thee, I shall appear ! 
 
 Necessity. 
 At your heels goes Necessity, blight in her 
 
 breath. 
 
 The Three. 
 The clouds are in motion, and cover each star ! 
 Behind there, behind ! from afar, from afar, 
 He cometh, our Brother ! he comes, he is — 
 
 Death ! 
 
 Faust (in the palace). 
 Four I saw come, but those that went were 
 
 Three ; 
 The sense of what they said was hid from me. 
 But something like " Necessity " I heard ; 
 Thereafter "Death," a gloomy, dismal word! 
 It sounded hollow, spectrally subdued : 
 Not yet have I my liberty made good ; 
 If I could banish Magic's fell creations, 
 And totally unlearn the incantations, — 
 Stood I, Nature ! Man alone in thee, 
 Then were it worth one's while a man to be ! 
 Such was I erst, ere in the Obscure I wrought, 
 And on the world and me but curses brought. 
 Now fills the air so many a haunting shape, 
 That no one knows how best he may escape. 
 What though one day be clear with Reason's 
 
 light, 
 A web of dreams around us spins the Night. 
 From our fresh fields, returning, soon or late, 
 There croaks a bird : what croaks he ? Evil 
 
 fate! 
 By Superstition constantly ensnared, 
 It grows to us, and warns, and is declared. 
 
820 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Intimidated thus, we stand alone. — 
 
 The portal jars, yet entered here hath none. 
 
 {Agitated. ) 
 
 Is any one here ? 
 
 Care. 
 Yes ! must be my reply. 
 
 Faust. 
 And thou, who art thou, then ? 
 
 Avaunt ! 
 
 Cake. 
 
 Faust. 
 
 Well — here am I. 
 
 Cabe. 
 I am where I should be. 
 
 Faust. 
 (First angry, then composed, speaking to himself.) 
 Be firm, and use no word of sorcery ! 
 
 Care. 
 Though no ear should choose to hear me, 
 Yet the shrinking heart must fear me ; 
 Though transformed to mortal eyes, 
 Grimmest power I exercise. 
 On the land, or ocean yonder, 
 I, a dread companion, wander, 
 Always found, yet never sought, 
 Praised or cursed, as I have wrought ! 
 Hast thou not Care already known 1 
 
 Faust. 
 I only through the world have flown : 
 Each lust I seized as by the hair ; 
 What not sufficed me, forth I let it fare, 
 And what escaped me, I let go. 
 I 've only craved, exhausted my delight, 
 Then wished a second time, and thus with 
 
 might 
 Stormed through my life : at first 't was grand, 
 
 completely, 
 But now it moves most wisely and discreetly. 
 The sphere of Earth is known enough to me ; 
 The view beyond obstructed still must be : 
 A fool, who there his blinking eyes directeth, 
 And o'er his clouds of peers a place expecteth ! 
 Let him stand firm, and look around him well ! 
 This world means something to the Capable. 
 Why through Eternity should he go sweeping"? 
 All he can know is given into his keeping. 
 Thus let him walk, while lasts his earthly day ; 
 When spirits haunt, go quietly his way, — 
 In pressing onwards, bliss and torment find, 
 Though, every moment, with unsated mind ! 
 
 Care. 
 Whom I once possess, shall never 
 Find the world worth his endeavor : 
 Endless gloom around him folding, 
 Else nor set of sun beholding, 
 Perfect in external senses, 
 Inwardly his darkness dense is : 
 Wealth may come, and he may choose it, 
 
 But he knows not how to use it. 
 Luck and 111 become caprices, 
 Still he starves in all increases : 
 Be it happiness or sorrow, 
 He postpones it to the morrow, — 
 To the Future only cleaveth, — 
 Nothing, therefore, he achieveth. 
 
 Faust. 
 Desist ! so shalt thou not get hold of me ! 
 I have no mind to hear such drivel. 
 Depart ! Thine evil litany 
 Might even the wisest man befool to evil. 
 
 Care. 
 Shall he go, or come 1 — how guide him ? 
 Prompt decision is denied him ; 
 Midway on the trodden highway 
 Halting, he attempts a by-way; 
 Ever deeper lost, Demisted, 
 Everything beholding twisted, 
 Burthening himself and others, 
 Taking breath, he chokes and smothers ; — * 
 If not choked, of Life uncaring, 
 Not resigned, and not despairing ! 
 Such incessant rolling, spinning, — 
 Painful quitting, hard beginning, — 
 Now constraint, now liberation, — 
 Semi-sleep, poor recreation, — 
 Firmly in his place ensnare him, 
 And at last for Hell prepare him. 
 
 Faust. 
 Ill-omened spectres ! by your treatment strays 
 A thousand times the human race to error ; 
 Ye even transform the dull, indifferent days 
 To vile confusion of entangling terror. 
 'T is hard, I know, from Demons to escape ; 
 The spirit-link not breaks, howe'er one tries it : 
 And yet, Care, thy Power, thy creeping 
 
 shape, 
 Think not that I shall recognize it ! 
 
 Care. 
 So feel it now : my curse thou 'It find 
 When forth from thee I 've swiftly passed ! 
 Throughout their whole existence men are 
 
 blind ; 
 So, Faust, be thou like them at last 
 
 ( She breathes in his face.) 
 
 Faust (blinded). 
 The Night seems deeper now to press around me, 
 But in my inmost spirit all is bright ; 
 I rest not till the finished work hath crowned me • 
 God's Word alone confers on me the might. 
 Up from your couches, vassals, man by man ! 
 Make grandly visible my daring plan ! 
 Seize now your tools, with spade and shovel 
 
 press ! 
 The work traced out must be a swift success. 
 Quick diligence, severest ordering 
 The most superb reward shall bring : 
 And, that the mighty work completed stands, 
 One mind suffices for a thousand hands. 
 
GERMAN. 
 
 821 
 
 VI. 
 
 GREAT OUTER COURT OE THE PALACE. 
 
 Torches. 
 Mephistopheles (in advance, as Overseer). 
 Come here, come here ! Come on, come on ! 
 Ye Lemures, loose-hung creatures ! 
 Of sinew, ligament and bone 
 Your knitted semi-natures ! 
 
 Lemures (in Chorus). 
 Without delay are we at hand, 
 And half 't is our impression 
 That this concerns a spacious land, 
 Whereof we '11 have possession. 
 The pointed stakes, we bring them all, 
 The measuring-chain, for distance; 
 But we 've forgotten why the call 
 Was made for our assistance. 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Here is no need of your artistic zeal : 
 Let your accustomed way be proven ! 
 Your tallest lay full length, from head to heel, 
 And round about him lift the herbage woven ! 
 As for our fathers made, prepare 
 To excavate a lengthened square ! 
 From palace to the narrow house transferred, 
 Such is, at last, the issue most absurd ! 
 
 Lemures ( digging with mocking gestures). 
 In youth when I did love, did love, 
 Methought it was very sweet ; 
 When 't was jolly and merry every way, 
 And I blithely moved my feet. 
 
 But now old age, with his stealing steps, 
 Hath clawed me with his crutch : 
 I stumbled over the door of a grave ; 
 Why leave they open such 1 
 
 Faust (comes forth from the Palace, groping his way 
 
 along the door-posts). 
 How I rejoice to hear the clattering spade ! 
 It is the crowd, for me in service moiling, 
 Till Earth be reconciled to toiling, — 
 Till the proud waves be stayed, 
 And with securest bar the Ocean spurned. 
 
 Mephistopheles (aside). 
 And yet, for us alone art thou concerned, 
 With all thy dikes and bulwarks daring; 
 Since thou for Neptune art preparing — 
 The Ocean-Devil — carousal great ; 
 In every way the work is stranded : 
 The elements with us are banded, 
 And ruin is its certain fate. 
 
 Overseer ! 
 
 Faust. 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Here ! 
 
 Faust. 
 
 However possible, 
 A crowd of men collect with vigor, 
 
 Spur with indulgence, praise and rigor, — 
 Reward, allure, conscript, compel ! 
 Each day report me, and correctly note . 
 How grows in length the undertaken moat. 
 
 Mephistopheles (half aloud). 
 When they to me the information gave, 
 They spake not of a moat, but of — a grave. 
 
 Faust. 
 Below the hills a marshy plain 
 Infects what I so long have been retrieving ; 
 This stagnant pool likewise to drain 
 Were now my latest and my best achieving. 
 To many millions let me open spaces 
 Where, free and active, all may find their 
 
 places, — 
 Green, fertile fields, where men and herds go forth 
 At once, with comfort, on the newest earth, 
 Here, colonized upon the hill's firm base, 
 Created by the bold, industrious race. 
 A land like Paradise here, round about ; 
 Up to the brink the flood may roar without, 
 And though it gnaw, to burst with force the 
 
 limit, 
 By common impulse all unite to hem it. 
 Yes ! to this thought I hold with firm persistence ; 
 The last result of wisdom stamps it true : 
 He only earns his freedom and existence, 
 Who daily conquers them anew. 
 Thus here, by dangers girt, will glide away 
 Of childhood, manhood, age, the active day. 
 And such a throng I fain would see, — 
 Stand on free soil among a people free. 
 Then dared I hail tbe Moment fleeing : 
 Ah, still delay ! thou art so fair 1 
 The traces cannot, of mine earthly being, 
 In aeons perish, — they are there ! 
 In proud fore-feeling of such lofty bliss 
 I now enjoy the Highest Moment, — this ! 
 (Faust sinks back: the Lemures lake him and lay him 
 upon the ground.) 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 No joy him sated, and sufficed no bliss ! 
 To catch but shifting shapes was his endeavor : 
 The latest, poorest, emptiest Moment — this — 
 He wished to hold it fast forever. 
 Me he resisted in such vigorous wise, 
 But time is lord, on earth the old man lies. 
 The clock stands still — 
 
 Chorus. 
 Stands still ! 't is dead as midnight hour ! 
 The hour-hand falls. 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 
 It falls : 't is finished now I 
 
 Chokus. 
 'T is past ! 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Past ! a stupid word. 
 If past, then why 1 
 Past and pure Naught, complete monotony ! 
 
822 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Why then this endlessly creating ! — 
 
 What is created then annihilating ! 
 
 " And now it 's past ! " Why read a page so 
 
 twisted ? 
 'T is just the same as if it ne'er existed, 
 Yet goes in circles round as if it had, however. 
 I 'd rather choose, instead, the "Void forever. 
 
 WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONGS. 
 Tr. by Henry W. Longfellow. 
 I. 
 Thou that from the heavens art, 
 Every pain and sorrow stillest, 
 And the doubly wretched heart 
 Doubly with refreshment fillest, 
 I am weary with contending ! 
 Why this rapture and unrest 1 
 Peace descending 
 Come, ah, come into my breast ! 
 
 O'er all the hill-tops 
 
 Is quiet now, 
 
 In all the tree-tops 
 
 Hearest thou 
 
 Hardly a breath ; 
 
 The birds are asleep in the trees : 
 
 Wait ; soon like these 
 
 Thou too shalt rest. 
 
 CHRISTIAN AUGUST GOTTLOB EBER- 
 HARD. 
 
 This poet was born in Belzig in 1769, and 
 was educated at Halle. He is the author of nu- 
 merous tales and poems, among which. the best- 
 known and most highly esteemed is " Hannah 
 and her Chickens," an Idyl in hexameters, after 
 the model of Voss's "Louisa," and Goethe's 
 " Hermann and Dorothea." The following ex- 
 tract is from the translation of Mr. Cochrane. 
 
 HANNAH IN THE GARDEN. 
 
 " Well, as you know, on my father's beloved 
 
 grave flowers I had planted, 
 Where all fragrant they flourished, and garden 
 
 besides I may truly 
 Say I had none, and to me 't was the holiest 
 
 spot in the wide world. 
 Thinking alone of the dead, there, far from the 
 
 noise of the village, 
 Used I to water the flowers with affection, and 
 
 linger beside them, 
 Grieving and praying by turns, — none seeing 
 
 me, fondly believing. 
 Keeping my eyes on the ground, and without 
 
 ever thinking of looking 
 Over the hedge, by the well-known wide-spread 
 
 elders I sauntered, 
 
 Now much grown, which the minister's garden 
 
 divides from the churchyard. 
 Once, however, enticed by the fragrant odors 
 
 they breathed forth, 
 Towards the hedge, half dreaming, I went to 
 
 the gap at the corner, 
 Where as a child full often I skipped light- 
 hearted and merry : 
 Joyously warbled the larks, and the dawn shone 
 
 brilliant and rosy ; 
 Lovely the garden appeared in its spring-dress 
 
 smiling so sweetly. 
 Like to the wayworn man who refreshes himself 
 
 at the fountain, 
 Gazing I stood 'mong the flowers, and never 
 
 was weary of gazing ; 
 Something enchanting there was which lured 
 
 me on in the garden, 
 And I, entranced with delight, skipped happy 
 
 and gay as in childhood, 
 Bushes saluting, and trees, as acquaintances old 
 
 and remembered : 
 But the delightfulest far of the whole was the 
 
 shadowy arbor, 
 Planted around long since by myself with ad- 
 mired honeysuckles. -, 
 Gladly, methought, the familiar, beloved arch 
 
 kindly embraced me ; 
 That the unoccupied seats, where oft I had sat 
 
 in my childhood, 
 Asked me to sit; and the whispering leaves 
 
 there seemed to my fancy 
 Voices of father, and mother, and brother, that 
 
 went to my bosom, 
 Telling of bygone days no more to return in 
 
 their freshness : 
 Thus, forgetting alike whence coming and 
 
 whitherward going, 
 Longer and longer I mused, deep, deep in a rev- 
 
 ery sinking. 
 
 " Soon I was roused from my vision by foot- 
 steps plainly approaching : 
 Flying was out of the question, so, hoping the 
 
 steps would perhaps turn 
 Sidewards up the ascent, thus haply avoiding 
 
 the arbor, 
 Breathless I stood still, hiding myself in the 
 
 shadiest corner : 
 But I was wrong in my hopes, — erelong, with 
 
 a book in his hand, there, 
 Looking me straight in the face, stood, fixed in 
 
 astonishment, Gotthold. 
 Scarcely a word could I utter on finding myself 
 
 thus taken ; 
 Soon to my rescue, however, he came with a 
 
 kindly expression, 
 So that I quickly again felt easy, composure 
 
 regaining. 
 Every word was delightful he spoke, but I could 
 
 not but sometimes 
 Blush when I thought what might, after all, be 
 
 the meaning intended. 
 
GERMAN. 823 
 
 Afterwards, further lie led me to show how 
 
 I greet each old acquaintance, 
 
 everything yonder, 
 
 As in through the arch I go. 
 
 Which we ourselves had arranged, stood still 
 
 
 there just as we left them : 
 
 There lies the Sphinx at the fountain ; 
 
 Even the violets which I had planted myself on 
 
 There darkly the fig-tree gleams ; 
 
 the border, 
 
 'T was yonder, behind those windows, 
 
 Every one he minutely could tell, and the circle 
 
 I was rapt in my earliest dreams. 
 
 had fenced round, 
 
 
 Just, as he said, that if ever I came to revisit 
 
 I enter the chapel, and look for 
 
 the garden, — 
 
 My ancestor's hallowed grave ; 
 
 "Which he had long wished, — all my select ones 
 
 'T is here, and on yonder pillar 
 
 still might attract me. 
 
 Is hanging his antique glaive. 
 
 While I was giving him thanks for his trouble, 
 
 
 ■he quickly my hand seized, 
 
 I try to decipher the legend, 
 
 Lifted it silently up to his closed lips, pressing it 
 
 But a mist is upon my eyes, 
 
 gently. 
 
 Though the light from the painted window 
 
 Not long silent he stood, but with eloquence 
 
 Eull on the marble lies. 
 
 greater than ever 
 
 
 Warmly he spoke, the industrious hand that 
 
 Home of my fathers, how plainly 
 
 supported the mother 
 
 Thou standest before me now ! 
 
 Praising, and praising the pious remembrance I 
 
 Yet thou from the'earth art vanished, 
 
 showed for my father, 
 
 And over thee goes the plough. 
 
 By my affectionate care of the flowers which 
 
 
 grew on his lone grave. 
 
 Fruitful, dear earth, be thou ever; 
 
 Also he praicsd me as good, and of every hap- 
 
 My fondest blessings on tine ! 
 
 piness worthy ; 
 
 And a double blessing go with him 
 
 Said, that from this day forth still dearer than 
 
 That ploughs thee, whoe'er he he. 
 
 ever the garden 
 
 
 Would be . to him, as already the churchyard 
 
 For me, to my destiny yielding, 
 
 was from my visits ; 
 
 I will go with my harp in my hand, 
 
 Said — I forget what further he said, forget it 
 
 And wander the wide world over, 
 
 entirely ; 
 
 Singing from land to land. 
 
 One thing only I know, that it pleased me at 
 
 
 once, and bewildered, 
 
 
 And though wishing to fly, like one chained fast 
 
 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 I entranced stood. 
 
 Home Journal. 
 
 Easy it was not to stir, but with heart all beat- 
 
 Here 's a fresh adventure, 
 
 ing I hastened 
 
 Promising not ill : 
 
 Over the churchyard, never, for once, of the 
 
 Seest thou the giants 
 
 dear grave thinking ; 
 
 Yonder on the hill — 
 
 Here to my chamber I flew, and in tears gave 
 
 Monstrous, high as steeples, 
 Bullying the sky, 
 
 vent to my feelings." 
 
 
 Very much like windmills 
 
 
 Seeming to the eye ? 
 
 
 
 By your leave, Herr Ritter, 
 
 LTJDOLF ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO. 
 
 I see only there 
 
 
 Mills, with sails a-turning 
 
 See page 334. 
 
 Slowly in the air. 
 
 CHATEAU BONCOURT. 
 
 Chicken-hearted blockhead ! 
 
 
 Yonder monsters may 
 Seem to you like windmills 
 
 For. Quart. Rev., Vol. XXXVI. 
 
 A dream wafts me back to childhood, 
 
 Till the judgment-day : 
 
 And I shake ray hoary head. 
 
 Let the wretches wierdly 
 
 How ye crowd on my soul, ye visions, 
 
 Skulk in their disguise, 
 
 I thought were forever fled. 
 
 They are only giants 
 
 
 To the Ritter's eyes. 
 
 There glistens o'er dusky foliage 
 
 'Pon my word, Herr Ritter, 
 
 A lordly pile elate ; 
 
 Just believe me once, 
 
 I know those towers and turrets, 
 
 They are downright windmills 
 
 The bridges, the massive gate. 
 
 Sure as I'm a dunce. 
 
 Welcoming, kindly faces 
 
 If you 've pluck to venture, 
 
 The armorial lions show ; 
 
 Then await me there, 
 
824 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Brush with such as you, is 
 But a child's affair : 
 One to all, I dare ye, 
 False and hellish brood — 
 Soon, not one escaping, 
 Earth shall drink your blood. 
 
 Good Herr Bitter, hear me, 
 
 Eor I do declare 
 
 They are only windmills — 
 
 Only mills, I swear. 
 
 sweet Dulcinea, 
 
 Now thy presence deign ! 
 
 Thus the valiant Bitter 
 
 Gave his nag the rein : 
 
 Drove against the nearest, 
 
 Waiting stiff and tall — 
 
 And demolished quickly, 
 
 Caught a thumping fall. 
 Art alive, good Bitter, 
 Or, alack, art dead ? 
 What the need of breaking 
 'Gainst the mill thy head? 
 
 Now should any ask me — 
 Shockingly ill-bred — 
 Whether they were giants 
 As the Bitter said, 
 Or but common windmills 
 As the squire opined ; 
 
 1 'm, without a scruple, 
 Of the Bitter's mind. 
 
 Still 't is best to tally 
 With the upper set ; 
 What about such matters 
 Know the masses yet ? 
 
 ANDBEAS JUSTINUS KEBNEB. 
 
 Keener was born at Ludwigsburg in Wiir- 
 temberg in 1786, and studied medicine at the 
 University of Tubingen. He practised his pro- 
 fession in several. parts of Germany, and finally 
 settled in Weinsberg. He has been widely 
 known as a Spiritualist, and as the author of 
 Die Seherinn von Prevorst, which contains many 
 wonderful experiences in the realm of shadows. 
 
 THE TWO COFFINS. 
 Dulcken, " Book of German Songs." 
 
 Aw at in the old cathedral 
 Two coffins stand alone ; 
 
 In one of them sleeps King Ottmar, 
 And the singer rests in one. 
 
 The king sat once in power, 
 
 High throned in his father's land ; 
 
 The crown still graces his temples, 
 The falchion his kingly hand. 
 
 But near the proud king the singer 
 Is peacefully sleeping on, 
 
 In his lifeless hand still clasping 
 The harp of the pious tone. 
 
 The castles around are falling, 
 
 The war-cry rings through the land, 
 
 The sword, it stirreth never 
 There in the dead king's hand. 
 
 Blossoms and vernal breezes 
 Are floating the vale along, 
 
 And the singer's harp is sounding 
 In never-ending song. 
 
 THE SAW-MILL. 
 
 W. C. Bryant, in Graham's Magazine. 
 In yonder mill I rested, 
 
 And sat me down to look 
 Upon the wheel's quick glimmer, 
 
 And on the flowing brook. 
 
 As in a dream before me, 
 The saw, with restless play, 
 
 Was cleaving through a fir-tree 
 Its long and steady way. 
 
 The tree through all its fibres 
 With living motion stirred, 
 
 And, in a dirge-like murmur, 
 These solemn words I heard — 
 
 thou who wanderest hither, 
 
 A timely guest thou art ! 
 For thee this cruel engine 
 
 Is passing through my heart. 
 
 When soon, in earth's still bosom, 
 
 Thy hours of rest begin, 
 This wood shall form the chamber 
 
 Whose walls shall close thee in. 
 
 Four planks — I saw and shuddered ■ 
 Dropped in that busy mill ; 
 
 Then, as I tried to answer, 
 At once the wheel was still. 
 
 FBANZ GBILLPABZEE. 
 
 Grillparzer was born at Vienna in 1790. 
 In 1819 he became private secretary to the Em- 
 press of Austria, and in 1832 Director of the 
 Archives. His writings are chiefly dramatic. 
 Among them the most celebrated arc Die Alin- 
 frau (the Ancestress), Sappho, Das goldne Vlic-ss 
 (the Golden Fleece), and Konig Otlokar's Gluck 
 unci Ende (King Ottocar's Fortune and End). 
 
 The Ahnfrau is a singularly wild and roman- 
 tic drama, written in octosyllabic trochaic verse, 
 like the Spanish dramas, with an occasional 
 rhyme thrown in to relieve the monotony. Car- 
 lyle, in his " Critical and Miscellaneous Essays," 
 
GERMAN. 
 
 825 
 
 
 calls it " a deep tragedy of the Castle Spectre 
 sort; the whole mechanism of which was dis- 
 cernible and condemnable at a single glance. 
 It is nothing but the old story of Fate ; an in- 
 visible Nemesis visiting the sins of the fathers 
 upon the children to the third and fourth gener- 
 ation." He goes on to say : " This Ancestress 
 is a lady, or rather the ghost of a lady, for she 
 has been defunct some centuries, who in life had 
 committed what .we call an ' indiscretion ' ; 
 which indiscretion the unpolite husband pun- 
 ished, one would have thought sufficiently, by 
 running her through the body. However, the 
 Schicksal of Grillparzer does not think it suffi- 
 cient ; but further dooms the fair penitent to 
 walk as goblin, till the last branch of her family 
 be extinct. Accordingly she is heard, from 
 time to time, slamming doors and the like, and 
 now and then seen with dreadful goggle-eyes 
 and other ghost appurtenances, to the terror not 
 only of servant people, but of old Count Boro- 
 tin, her now sole male descendant, whose after- 
 noon nap she, on one occasion, cruelly disturbs. 
 This Count Borotin is really a worthy, pros- 
 ing old gentleman ; only he had a son long 
 ago drowned in a fish-pond (body not found) ; 
 and has still a highly accomplished daughter, 
 whom there is none offering to wed, except one 
 Jaromir, a person of unknown extraction, and 
 to all appearance of the lightest purse ; nay, as 
 it turns out afterwards, actually the head of 
 a Banditti establishment, which had long in- 
 fested the neighboring forests. However, a 
 Captain of foot arrives, at this juncture, utterly 
 to root out these Robbers ; and now the stran- 
 gest things come to light. For who should this 
 Jaromir prove to be but poor old Borotin's 
 drowned son, not drowned, but stolen and bred 
 up by these Outlaws; the brother, therefore, of 
 his intended ; a most truculent fellow, who fight- 
 ing for his life unwittingly kills his own father, 
 and drives his bride to poison herself; in which 
 wise, as was also Giles Scroggins's case, he ' can- 
 not get married.' The reader sees all this is 
 not to be accomplished without some jarring 
 and tumult. In fact, there is a frightful uproar 
 everywhere throughout that night ; robbers dy- 
 ing, musketry discharging, women shrieking, 
 men swearing, and the Ahnfrau herself emer- 
 ging at intervals, as the genius of the whole dis- 
 cord. But time and hours bring relief, as they 
 always do. Jaromir in the long run, likewise, 
 succeeds in dying ; whereupon the whole Boro- 
 tin lineage having gone to the Devil, the Ances- 
 tress also retires thither, — at least makes the 
 upper world rid of her presence, — and the piece 
 ends in deep stillness. Of this poor Ancestress 
 we shall only say further : Wherever she be, 
 requiescat ! requiescat I " 
 
 Lord Byron in his journal, under date of 
 January 12, 1821, writes of the Sappho as fol- 
 lows : " The tragedy of Sappho is superb and 
 sublime ! ■ There is no denying it. The man 
 has done a great thing in writing that play. 
 
 And who is he 1 I know him not ; but ages 
 
 will. 'T is a high intellect Grillparzer 
 
 is grand, antique, — not so simple as the an- 
 cients, but very simple for a modern, — too 
 Madame de Staelish now and then, but alto- 
 gether a great and goodly writer." 
 
 TOOM SAPPHO. 
 
 E. Middletou, " Sappho." 
 SAPPHO ANB PHAON. 
 Phaon lies slumbering on tfie grassy bank* 
 Sappho {entering from grotto). 
 'T is all in vain ! Rebellious to my will, 
 Thought wanders and returns, void of all sense : 
 Whilst ever and anon, wbate'er I do, 
 Before me stands that horrid, hated sight 
 I fain would flee from, e'en beyond this earth. 
 How he upheld her ! — How she clasped his arm ! 
 Till gently yielding to its soft embrace, 
 She on his lips — Away ! away ! the thought ! 
 For in that thought are deaths innumerable. 
 
 But why torment myself, and thus complain 
 Of what perhaps is after all a dream ? 
 Who knows what transient feeling, soon forgot, 
 What momentary impulse, led him on, 
 Which quickly passed, e'en as it quickly came, 
 Unheeded, — undeserving of reproach ? 
 Who bade me seek the measure of his love 
 Within my own impassioned, aching breast 1 
 
 Ye who have studied life with earnest care 
 By man's affection judge not woman's heart. 
 A restless thing is his impetuous soul — 
 The slave of change — and changing with each 
 change. 
 
 Boldly man enters on the path of life, 
 
 Illumined by the morning ray of hope : 
 
 Begirt with sword and shield, courage and faith, 
 
 Impatient to commence a glorious strife. 
 
 Too narrow seems to him domestic joy. 
 
 His wild ambition overleaps repose, 
 
 And hurries madly on through endless space : 
 
 And if upon his wayward path, he meets 
 
 The humble beauteous flower called love, 
 
 And should he stoop to raise it from the earth, 
 
 He coldly places it upon his helm. 
 
 He knoweth not what holy ardent flame 
 
 It doth awaken in a woman's heart. 
 
 How all her being — every thought — each wish— • 
 
 Revolve forever on this single point. 
 
 Like to the young bird, round its mother's nest 
 
 While fluttering, doth her anxious boding care 
 
 Watch o'er her love, — her cradle and her grave 
 
 Her whole of life — a jewel of rich price — 
 
 She hangs upon the bosom of her faith. 
 
 Man loves, 't is true; but his capacious heart 
 Finds room for other feelings than his love, 
 And much that woman's purity condemns 
 He deems amusement or an idle jest. 
 
826 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 A kiss from other lips he takes at will. 
 Alas ! that this is so ; yet so it is. 
 
 ( Turns and sees Phaon sleeping.) 
 
 Ha ! see ! Beneath the shadow of yon rose 
 The faithless dear one slumbers. Aye ! He 
 
 sleeps, 
 And quiet rest hath settled on his brow. 
 Thus only slumbers gentle innocence. 
 Alone thus gently breathes th' unburdened breast. 
 
 Yes, dearest ! I will trust thy peaceful sleep, 
 Whate'er thy waking painful may disclose. 
 Forgive me then, if I have injured thee 
 By unjust doubt; or if I dared to think 
 That falsehood could approach a shrine so pure. 
 
 A smile plays o'er his mouth ! His lips divide ! 
 A name is hovering in his burning breath ! 
 Awake ! and call thy Sappho ! She is near ! 
 Her arms are clasped about thee! 
 ( Slie kisses his brow. Phaon aivalces and with half-opened 
 eyes exclaims.) 
 
 Phaon. 
 
 Sappho (starting back). 
 
 Melitta ! 
 
 Ha! 
 
 Phaon. 
 Who hath disturbed me ? What envious 
 hand 
 Hath driven from my soul the happy dream 1 
 
 (Recollecting himself.) 
 
 Thou ! Sappho ! welcome. Well I knew in- 
 deed, 
 That something beauteous must be near my side, 
 To lend such glowing colors to my dream. 
 But why so sad ? I am quite happy now. 
 The anxious care that lay upon my breast 
 Hath disappeared, and I am glad again. 
 Like to some wretch who hath been headlong 
 
 plunged 
 Into some deep abyss, where all was dark, 
 When lifted upward by a friendly arm, 
 So that once more he breathes the air of heav'n, 
 And in the golden sunlight bathes again, 
 He heareth happy voices sounding near. 
 Thus in the wild excitement of my heart, 
 I feel it overflow with happiness, 
 And with half-sinking 'neath the weight of joy, 
 For keener senses, or for less of bliss. 
 
 Sappho (lost in thought). 
 Melitta ! 
 
 Phaon. 
 Be gay and happy, dear one. 
 All round us here is beautiful and fair. 
 On weary wings the summer evening sinks 
 In placid rest upon the quiet earth. 
 The sea heaves timidly her billowy breast, 
 The bride expectant of the Lord of Day, 
 Whose fiery steeds have almost reached the 
 
 West. 
 The gentle breeze sighs through the poplar 
 boughs, 
 
 And far and near all nature whispers love. 
 Is there no echo in our hearts, — we love % 
 
 Sappho (aside). 
 Oh ! I could trust again this faithless one. 
 But no ! too deeply have I read his heart. 
 
 Phaon. 
 The feverish spell that pressed upon my brain 
 Hath vanished quite, and ah ! believe me, dear 
 Sappho ! I ne'er have loved thee till this hour. 
 Let us be happy — 
 
 But tell me, loved one, 
 What faith hast thou in dreams 1 
 
 Sappho. 
 
 And I hate liars. 
 
 They always lie. 
 
 Phaon. 
 
 For as I slept just now, 
 I had a heavenly dream. I thought myself 
 Again — again — upon Olympia's height, 
 As when I saw thee first, the queen of song. 
 Amid the voices of the noisy crowd, 
 The clang of chariot wheels, and warrior shouts, 
 A strain of music stole upon mine ear. 
 'T was thou ! again thou sweeth' sang of love, 
 And deep within my soul I felt its power. 
 I rushed impetuous towards thee, when behold ! 
 It seemed at once as though I knew thee not ! 
 And yet the Tyrian mantle clasped thy form ; 
 The lyre still lay upon thy snow-white arm. 
 Thy face alone was changed. Like as a cloud 
 Obscures the brightness of a summer sky, 
 The laurel wreath had vanished from thy brow. 
 Upon thy lips, from which immortal sounds 
 Had scarcely died away, sat naught but smiles ; 
 And in the profile of proud Pallas' face 
 I traced the features of a lovely child. 
 It was thyself — and yet 't was not — 
 
 It was — 
 Sappho (almost shrieking). 
 Melitta ! 
 
 Phaon (starting). 
 Thou wellnigh hadst frightened me. 
 Who said that it was she ? I knew it not ! 
 O Sappho ! I have grieved thee — • 
 (Sappho motions him to leave.) 
 
 Ah ! what now ? 
 Thou wish'st me to be gone? Let me first 
 say — 
 
 (She again motions him to leave.) 
 
 Must I indeed then go ? Then fare thee well. 
 
 (Exit Phaon.) 
 
 Sappho alone. 
 
 Sappho (after a pause). 
 The bow hath sprung — 
 
 (Pressing her hands to her breast.) 
 
 The arrow rankles here. 
 'T were vain to doubt ! It is — it must be so. 
 'Tis she, that dwells within his perjured heart. 
 
GERMAN. 
 
 827 
 
 Her image ever floats before his eyes : 
 
 His very dreams enshrine that one loved form. 
 
 THE DEATH OF SAPPHO. 
 
 Sappho enters richly dressed as in the first act, the Tyrian 
 ?nantle on her shoulders, the Laurel crown upon her 
 head, and the Golden Lyre in her hand. Surrounded 
 by her people, she slowly and solemnly descends the 
 steps. A long pause. 
 
 Meixtta. 
 
 Sappho ! my mistress ! 
 
 Sappho (calmly and gravely). 
 
 What wouldst thou ? 
 
 Melitta. 
 Now is the darkness fallen from mine eyes. 
 Oh ! let me be to thee again a slave ; 
 Again what once I was, and — oh! forgive ! 
 
 Sappho {in the same tone). 
 Think'st thou that Sappho hath become so poor, 
 As to have need of gifts from one like thee ? 
 That which is mine I shall erelong possess. 
 
 Phao>'. 
 Hear me but once, O Sappho ! 
 
 Sappho. 
 
 Touch me not ! 
 
 1 am henceforth devoted to the Gods. 
 
 Phaox. 
 If e'er with loving eyes thou didst behold — 
 
 Sappho 
 Thou speak'st of things forever past and gone. 
 I sought for thee, and I have found — myself. 
 Thou couldst not understand my heart. Fare- 
 well. 
 On firmer ground than thee my hopes must rest. 
 
 Phaox. 
 And dost thou hate me now 1 
 
 Sappho. 
 
 To love — to hate ! 
 Is there no other feeling ? Thou wert dear, 
 And art so still — and so shalt ever be. 
 Like to some pleasant fellow-traveller, 
 Whom accident hath brought a little way 
 In the same bark, until the goal be reached, 
 When, parting, each pursues a different road : 
 Yet often in some strange and distant land, 
 Remembrance will recall that traveller still. 
 
 {Her voice falters.) 
 
 Phaon {moved). 
 Sappho ! 
 
 Sappho. 
 Be still and let us part in peace. 
 
 (Tc her people.) 
 
 Ye who have seen your Sappho weak, forgive. 
 For Sappho's weakness well will I atone. 
 
 Alone when bent, the bow's full power is shown. 
 
 {Pointing to the altar in the background.) 
 
 Kindle the flames at Aphrodite's shrine, 
 Till up to Heaven they mount, like morning 
 beams ! 
 
 (They obey her.) 
 
 And now retire, and leave me here alone. 
 I would seek counsel only from the Gods. 
 
 Rhajcjis. ( To the people.) 
 It is her wish. Let us obey. Come all. 
 (They retire.) 
 
 Sappho (advancing). 
 Gracious, immortal Gods ! list to my prayer. 
 Ye have adorned my life with blessings rich. 
 Within my hand ye placed the bow of Song; 
 The quiver of the Poet gave to me ; 
 A heart to feel, a mind to quickly think; 
 A power to reveal my inmost thoughts. 
 Yes ! ye have crowned my life with blessings 
 
 rich. 
 For this all thanks. 
 
 Upon this lowly head 
 Ye placed a wreath, and sowed in distant lands 
 The poet's peaceful fame, — immortal seed ; 
 My songs are sung in strange and foreign 
 
 climes ; 
 My name shall perish only with the earth. 
 For this all thanks. 
 
 Yet it hath been your will, 
 That I should drink not deep of life's sweet cup, 
 But only taste the overflowing draught. 
 Behold ! obedient to your high behest, 
 I set it down untouched. 
 
 For this all thanks. 
 All that ye have decreed I have obe_yed ; 
 Therefore deny me not a last reward. 
 They who belong to Heaven no weakness show ; 
 The coils of sickness cannot round them twine ; 
 In their full strength, in all their being's bloom, 
 Ye take them to yourselves. Such be my lot. 
 Forbid that e'er your Priestess should become 
 The scorn of those who dare despise your power; 
 The sport of fools, in their own folly wise. 
 Ye broke the blossom, now then break the bough. 
 Let my life close e'en as it once began. 
 From this soul-struggle quickly, set me free. 
 I am too weak to bear a further strife. 
 Give me the triumph, but the conflict spare. 
 
 (As if inspired.) 
 
 The flames are kindled, and the sun ascends ! 
 I feel that I am heard ! I thank ye, Gods ! 
 Phaon ! Melitta ! hither come to me ! ■ 
 
 (She kisses the brow <t/"Phao>".) 
 
 A friend from other worlds doth greet thee thus. 
 
 ( She embraces Melitta. ) 
 'T is thy dead mother sends this kiss to thee. 
 
 Upon yon altar consecrate to Love, 
 Be love's mysterious destiny fulfilled. 
 
 (She hurries to the altar*) 
 
828 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Rhajixzs. 
 What is her purpose ? Glorified her form ! 
 The radiance of the Gods doth round her shine ! 
 
 Sappho {ascending a high rock, and stretching her hands 
 
 over Phaon and Melitta). 
 Give love to mortals — Reverence to the Gods. 
 Enjoy what blooms for ye, and — think of me. 
 Thus do I pay the last great debt of life. 
 Bless them, ye Gods ! and hear me hence to 
 Heaven ! 
 ( Throws herself from, the rock into the sea.) 
 
 WILHELM MULLER. 
 
 See page 348. 
 
 WANDERING. 
 Baskerville, " Poetry of Germany." 
 
 To wander is the miller's joy, 
 
 To wander ! 
 
 What kind of miller must he be 
 
 Who ne'er hath yearned to wander free, 
 
 To wander ! 
 
 Erom water we have learned it, yes, 
 From water ! 
 
 It knows no rest by night or day, 
 But wanders ever on its way, 
 Does water. 
 
 We see it by the mill-wheels, too, 
 The mill-wheels ! 
 
 They ne'er repose, nor brook delay, 
 They weary not the livelong day, 
 The mill-wheels. 
 
 The stones, too, heavy though they be, 
 The stones, too, 
 
 Round in the giddy circle dance, 
 E'en fain more quickly would advance, 
 The stones would. 
 
 • 
 To wander, wander, my delight, 
 To wander ! 
 
 O master, mistress, on my way 
 Let me in peace depart to-day, 
 And wander ! 
 
 AUGUST GRAF VON PLATEN. 
 
 See page 349. 
 
 REMORSE. 
 Tr. by Henry W. Longfellow. 
 How I started up in the night, in the night, 
 
 Drawn on without rest or reprieval ! 
 The streets, with their watchmen, were lost to 
 my sight, 
 As I wandered so light 
 In the night, in the night, 
 Through the gate with the arch mediaeval. 
 
 The mill-brook rushed through the roCky height, 
 I leaned o'er the bridge in my yearning ; 
 
 Deep under me watched I the waves in their flight, 
 As they glided so light 
 In the night, in the night, 
 
 Yet backward not one was returning. 
 
 O'erhead were revolving, so countless and bright, 
 The stars in melodious existence ; 
 
 And with them the moon, more serenely be- 
 dight ; — 
 They sparkled so light 
 In the night, in the night, 
 
 Through the magical, measureless distance. 
 
 And upward I gazed in the night, in the night, 
 And again on the waves in their fleeting ; 
 
 Ah woe ! thou hast wasted thy days in delight, 
 Now silence thou light, 
 In the night, in the night, 
 
 The Remorse in thy heart that is beating. 
 
 gEFORE THE CONTENT OF ST. JCST, 1556. 
 
 Trench, " The Story of Justin Martyr and Other Poems." 
 
 'T is night, and storms continually roar, 
 Ye monks of Spain, now open me the door. 
 
 Here in unbroken quiet let me fare, 
 
 Save when the loud bell startles you to prayer. 
 
 Make ready for me what your house has meet, 
 A friar's habit and a winding-sheet. 
 
 A little cell unto my use assign : 
 
 More than the half of all this world was mine. 
 
 The head that stoops unto the scissors now, 
 Under the weight of many crowns did bow. 
 
 The shoulders on which now the cowl is flung, — 
 On them the ermine of the Caasars hung. 
 
 I living now as dead myself behold, 
 And fall in ruins like this kingdom old. 
 
 HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
 See page 349. 
 
 Duleken, " Book of German Songs." 
 
 The sickle moon of autumn 
 
 Peers white through clouds around; 
 The parsonage by the churchyard 
 
 Lies hushed in rest profound. 
 
 The mother reads in the Bible, 
 The son at the candle stares, 
 
 Sits yawning the elder daughter, 
 While the younger thus declares : — 
 
GERMAN. 829 
 
 " Alas ! for the days we live here ! 
 
 Young maidens are bleaching the linen, 
 
 How creep they so wearily ; 
 
 They leap as they go and come ; 
 
 Save when one to the grave is carried, 
 
 And the mill-wheel is dripping with diamonds, 
 
 What have we here to see ? " 
 
 I list to its far-away hum. 
 
 The mother says, 'mid her reading, 
 
 And high on yon old gray castle 
 
 " Thou 'rt wrong ; but four have died 
 
 A sentry-box peeps o'er ; 
 
 Since that thy father was carried 
 
 While a young red-coated soldier 
 
 To rest by the church-door side." 
 
 Is pacing beside the door. 
 
 Then yawneth the elder daughter : 
 
 He handles his shining musket, 
 
 " I '11 not starve here with ye ; 
 
 Which gleams in the sunlight red ; 
 
 I will to the Count to-morrow, — 
 
 He halts, he presents, and shoulders : — 
 
 He 's rich, and he loveth me." 
 
 I wish that he 'd shoot me dead ! 
 
 The son breaks forth in laughter : 
 
 
 
 " There drink at the Star below 
 
 THALATTA. 
 
 Three who make gold, and who '11 teach me 
 
 From " Thalatta: a Book for the Seaside." 
 
 Their secret gladly, I know." 
 
 Thalatta ! Thalatta ! 
 
 The mother flings the Bible 
 
 I greet thee, thou Ocean eternal ! 
 
 Right in his face so wan : 
 
 I give thee ten thousand times greeting, 
 
 " And would'st thou, God-accursed, 
 
 With heart all exulting, 
 
 Become a highwayman ? " 
 
 As, ages since, hailed thee 
 
 
 Those ten thousand Greek hearts, 
 
 They hear a knock at the window, 
 
 Fate-conquering, home-yearning, 
 
 They see a beckoning hand ; 
 
 World-renowned Greek hearts. 
 
 Without, in his black-priest garment, 
 Doth their dead father stand. 
 
 The billows were rolling, 
 
 
 Were rolling and roaring, 
 
 
 
 The sun poured downward incessant, 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The flickering rose-lights ; 
 
 Affrighted, the flocks of the sea-mews 
 
 Leland, " Heine's Book of Songs." 
 
 Fluttered away loud-screaming ; 
 
 In my life too dark and dreary 
 
 The steeds were stamping, the shields were 
 
 Once gleamed an image bright : 
 
 clanging, 
 
 That lovely form is faded, 
 
 And far, like a shout of victory, echoed 
 
 And I am wrapped in night. 
 
 Thalatta! Thalatta! 
 
 When children stray in darkness, 
 
 Thou Ocean eternal, I greet thee ! 
 
 And fears around them throng, 
 
 Like the tongue of my home is the dash of thy 
 
 To drive away their terror 
 
 waters ! 
 
 They sing aloud a song. 
 
 Like dreams of my childhood now sparkle be- 
 fore me 
 All the wide curving waves of thy rolling do- 
 
 Thus like a child I 'm singing 
 
 As life's dark shades draw near ; 
 
 minions. 
 
 And though my lay lack music, 
 
 I hear, as told newly, the old recollections 
 
 It drives awayjny fear. 
 
 Of the trifles I loved in the days of my boy- 
 
 
 
 hood. 
 
 MY WEARY HEART. 
 
 Of the bright gifts that glittered at Christ- 
 mas ; — 
 
 Leland, " Heine's Book of Songs." 
 
 Of the scarlet branches of coral, 
 
 My heart, my heart is weary, 
 
 Of the gold fish, the pearls and gay sea-shells, 
 
 Yet merrily beams the May ; 
 
 Of all that thou guardest in secret 
 
 And I lean against the linden, 
 
 Below in thy houses of crystal ! 
 
 High up on the terrace gray. 
 
 Oh ! how have I languished, 
 
 The town-moat far below me 
 
 Aweary in exile ! 
 
 Runs silent, and sad, and blue ; 
 
 Like a poor faded flower shut up in an herbal 
 
 A boy in a boat floats o'er it, 
 
 Lay my heart in my bosom ; 
 
 Still fishing and whistling too. 
 
 'T is as if I had sat through the winter 
 
 
 A sick man shut up in my chamber, 
 
 And a beautiful varied picture 
 
 And now I had suddenly left it, — 
 
 Spreads out beyond the flood, — 
 
 And dazzlingly glitters upon me 
 
 Fair houses, and gardens, and people, 
 
 The emerald Spring, sun-awakened ! 
 
 And cattle, and meadow, and wood. 
 
 On the trees are the white blossoms rustling, 
 
 — , • — 
 
And the young flowers look up unto me, 
 
 With moist loving eyes full of beauty. 
 
 All is fragrance and murmurs and soft airs and 
 
 laughter, 
 And in the blue heavens the birds are a-smging 
 Thalatta ! Thalatta ! 
 
 NICOLAUS LENAU. 
 
 This poet, whose name in full is Nicolaus 
 Niembsch von Strehlenan, was born in Hun- 
 gary in 1802. He studied at Vienna philoso- 
 phy, law, and medicine, and may have said 
 with Faust : — 
 
 " Habe nun, ach! Philosopbie 
 Juristerey und Medicin, 
 Durchans studirt." 
 In 1832 he travelled in the United States, 
 and afterwards lived either in Stuttgard, Ischl, 
 or Vienna. His writings are lyric and dra- 
 matic, and chief among them are " Faust " and 
 " Savonarola." He died in an insane asylum 
 at Doblin near Vienna, in 1850. 
 
 THE POSTILION. 
 Brooks, "German Lyrics." 
 Lovely was the night of May, 
 
 Clouds of silvery whiteness 
 O'er the blooming Spring away 
 Sailed in fleecy lightness. 
 
 Meadow, grove, and mountain's brow 
 
 Silent rest were taking : 
 No one but the moonshine, now, 
 
 On the roads was waking. 
 
 Glare and din of day had fled — 
 Ceased each warbler's numbers — 
 
 Spring her fairy children led 
 Through the realm of slumbers. 
 
 Whispering breeze and brooklet crept 
 
 Slow with silent paces, 
 Fragrant dreams of flowers that slept 
 
 Filled the shadowy spaces. 
 
 But my rough postilion now 
 Cracked his whip, and, flying, 
 
 Left the vale and mountain's brow 
 To his horn replying. 
 
 O'er the hill — across the plain — 
 
 Loud the hoofs resounded, 
 As, through all the bright domain, 
 
 On the good steeds bounded. 
 
 Wood and mead, as on we sped, 
 Flew with scarce a greeting ; 
 
 Town and country by us fled, 
 Like a still dream fleeting. 
 
 In the lovely May-moon light 
 
 Lay a churchyard nested, 
 And the traveller's roaming sight 
 
 Solemnly arrested. 
 
 On the mountain-side the wall 
 
 Seemed with age reclining, 
 And, above, a sad and tall 
 
 Crucifix was shining. 
 
 Driver, at a slower pace, 
 
 Up the road advances, 
 Stops, and toward the burial-place 
 
 Reverently glances. 
 
 " Horse and wheel must tarry here — 
 
 Sir, 't is not for danger — 
 But there lies one sleeping near, 
 
 Was to me no stranger ! 
 
 " 'T was a lad most rare and true — 
 
 Ah, the sorrow ponder ! 
 None so clear the post-horn blew 
 
 As my comrade yonder ! 
 
 " Always must I linger here, 
 And, with mournful pleasure, 
 
 To the dead one's waiting ear 
 Blow his favorite measure ! " 
 
 Toward the churchyard now he blew 
 
 Such entrancing numbers, 
 Well might pierce the dull ground through, 
 
 Stir the dead man's slumbers. 
 
 And a blast, upon the air, 
 
 From the heights came flyings 
 
 Was the dead postilion there 
 To his songs replying 1 
 
 On again, and faster still, 
 
 On the good steeds bounded, — -• 
 
 Long that echo from the hill 
 In my ear resounded. 
 
 THE THREE GYPSIES. 
 Baskerville, " Poetry of Germany." 
 Once three gypsies did I behold, 
 In a meadow they lay, 
 As my chariot heavily rolled 
 Over the sandy way. 
 
 In his hands as he sat alone 
 Fiddle and bow held one, 
 Playing an air with fiery tone, 
 In the glow of the evening sun. 
 
 And the second, a pipe in his mouth, 
 Watched the smoke as it curled, 
 Happy as if neither north nor south 
 Were a more blissful world. 
 
 And the third at his ease he slept, 
 Near him his lute on a tree, 
 Over the strings the breezes swept, 
 Dreaming he seemed to be. 
 
 What though the garb of all of them be 
 Patched and tattered and torn, 
 Seemed earth's destinies to all three 
 Only a subject of scorn. 
 

 GERMAN. 831 
 
 
 Three times showed they how we may, 
 
 Covered with a purple mantle, 
 
 
 When life's sunbeam is cold, 
 
 And in armor glancing bright, 
 
 
 Fiddle and sleep and smoke it away, 
 
 Still upon his moveless eyelids 
 
 
 And despise it threefold. 
 
 Lieth slumber's heavy night. 
 
 
 Still at the gypsies turned my looks, 
 
 On his features, calm yet earnest, 
 
 
 ■ As I drove o'er the down, 
 
 Love and sternness each is shown, 
 
 
 At their bushy and raven locks, 
 
 And his beard, so long and golden, 
 
 
 And at their faces so brown. 
 
 Through the marble stone hath grown. 
 
 Here, like brazen statues standing, 
 All his knights their lord surround, 
 
 
 
 
 
 Sword begirt, in armor gleaming, 
 
 
 EMANUEL GEIBEL. 
 
 But like him in slumber bound. 
 
 
 The following specimens of Geibel are from 
 
 Henry, he of Ofterdingen, 
 
 
 "Poems, Original and Translated," by William 
 
 'Mid the silent ranks is there, 
 
 
 W. Caldwell. 
 
 With his lips so skilled in singing, 
 And his yellow curling hair. 
 
 
 A RHINE LEGEND. 
 
 
 By the Rhine, the broad green river, 
 
 By his side his harp reclineth, 
 
 
 How softly glows the night ! 
 
 Like its master, voiceless now, 
 
 
 The vine-clad lulls are sleeping, 
 
 But a coming song is sleeping 
 
 
 In the moonbeam's golden light. 
 
 Yet upon his noble brow. 
 
 
 And on the hillside walketh. 
 
 All is silent, save the moisture, 
 
 
 A kingly shadow down, 
 
 Dropping slowly from the wall, — 
 
 
 With sword and purple mantle, 
 
 Silent, till the appointed morning 
 
 
 And heavy golden crown. 
 
 Breaks in glory over all. 
 
 
 'T is Charlemagne, the Emperor, 
 
 Who, with a powerful hand, 
 For many a hundred years, 
 
 Till the eagle's mighty pinions, 
 
 ■ 
 
 Round the mountain-summit play, 
 
 
 Hath ruled in German-land. 
 
 At whose rush the swarming ravens, . 
 Quick affrighted, flee away. 
 
 
 The royal tomb forsaking, 
 
 
 
 From Aix he cometh there, 
 
 Comes a sound like far-off thunder, 
 
 
 To bless once more his vineyards, 
 
 Rolling through the mountain then, 
 
 
 And breathe their fragrant air. 
 
 And the Emperor grasps his sword-hilt, 
 
 
 
 And the knights awake again. 
 
 
 By Rudesheim, on the water, 
 
 
 
 The nioon doth brightly shine, 
 
 Loud upon its hinges sounding, 
 
 
 And buildeth a bridge of gold, 
 
 Open springs the brazen door, 
 
 
 Across the broad green Rhine. 
 
 Barbarossa and his followers 
 
 Walk in bright array once more. 
 
 
 The Emperor walketh over, 
 
 
 
 And, all along the tide, 
 
 On his helm the crown he beareth, 
 
 
 Bestows his benediction, 
 
 And the sceptre in his hand, 
 
 
 On the vineyards far and wide. 
 
 Swords are glancing, harps are ringing. 
 Where he moveth through the land. 
 
 
 Then to his grave returneth, 
 
 
 
 In slumber to remain, 
 
 All before the monarch bending, 
 
 
 Till the new year's fragrant clusters 
 
 Render him the homage due, 
 
 
 Shall lure him forth again. 
 
 And the holy German Empire 
 Foundeth he at Aix anew. 
 
 
 But let us fill our glasses, 
 
 
 
 And drink, with the golden wine, 
 
 
 
 The German hero-spirit, 
 
 
 
 And its hero-strength divine. 
 
 
 
 
 
 NICOLAUS BECKER. 
 
 
 FRIEDRICH ROTHBART. 
 
 The following patriotic song, addressed to 
 
 
 Far within the lone Kyffhauser, 
 
 A. De Lamartine, first appeared in the " Rhein- 
 
 
 With a lamp red glimmering by 
 
 isches Jahrbuch " for 1841. It produced a 
 
 
 Sits the aged Emperor Frederick, 
 
 great excitement at a time when a French inva- 
 
 
 At a marble table nigh. 
 
 sion of the Rhenish provinces was apprehended. 
 
832 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 In the same year Alfred de Musset wrote a bit- 
 ter and sarcastic reply, beginning : — 
 
 " Nous l'avons en, votre Rtfii atlemand, 
 
 H a tenu dans notre verre. 
 
 Un couplet qu ? on s'en va chantant 
 
 Efface-t-il la trace altiere 
 Du pied de nos chevaux marque' dans votre sang ? " 
 
 THE GERMAN RHINE. 
 Dulcken, " Book of German Songs." 
 No, no, they shall not have him, 
 
 Our free-born German Rhine, 
 Though, like the famished raven, 
 
 They, croaking, for it pine ! 
 So long in verdant vesture 
 
 He peacefully doth glide, — 
 So long a plashing boat-oar 
 
 Shall cleave his rippling tide ! 
 
 No, no, they shall not have him, 
 
 Our free-born German Rhine, 
 So long there still refresheth 
 
 Our heart his fiery wine ; — 
 So long the mountains firmly 
 
 Shall stand from out his stream ; 
 So long a lofty steeple 
 
 Shall from his mirror beam ! 
 
 No, no, they shall not have him, 
 Our free-born German Rhine, 
 
 While free men and fair maidens 
 „ Shall seek the marriage shrine ; 
 
 So long beneath his waters 
 A single fish there dives ; 
 
 So long among his singers 
 A single lay there lives. 
 
 No, no, they shall not have him, 
 Our free-born German Rhine, 
 
 Till, buried 'neath his waters, 
 The latest man hath lien ! 
 
 AUGUST SCHNEZLER. 
 
 THE DESERTED MILL. 
 Mangan, " German Anthology." 
 It stands in the lonely Winterthal, 
 
 At the base of Ilsberg hill ; 
 It stands as though it fain would fall, 
 
 The dark deserted mill. 
 Its engines, coated with moSs and mould, 
 
 Bide silent all the day ; 
 Its mildewed walls and windows old 
 
 Are crumbling into decay. 
 
 So through the daylight's lingering hours 
 
 It mourns in weary rest ; 
 But, soon as the sunset's gorgeous bowers 
 
 Begin to fade in the west, 
 The long-dead millers leave their lairs, 
 
 And open its creaking doors, 
 And their feet glide up and down its stairs, 
 
 And over its dusty floors. 
 
 And the millers' men, they too awake, 
 
 And the night's weird work begins : 
 The wheels turn round, the hoppers shake, 
 
 The flour falls into the bins. 
 The mill-bell tolls agen and agen, 
 
 And the cry is, " Grist here, ho ! " 
 And the dead old millers and their men 
 
 Move busily to and fro. 
 
 And ever as the night wears more and more 
 
 New groups throng into the mill, 
 And the clangor, deafening enough before, 
 
 Grows louder and wilder still. 
 Huge sacks are barrowed from floor to floor; 
 
 The wheels redouble their din ; 
 The hoppers clatter, the engines roar; 
 
 And the flour o'erflows the bin. 
 
 But with the morning's pearly sheen 
 
 This ghastly hubbub wanes ; 
 And the moon-dim face of a woman is seen 
 
 Through the meal-dulled window-panes. 
 She opens the sash, and her words resound 
 
 In tones of unearthly power, — 
 " Come hither, good folks, the corn is ground ; 
 
 Come hither, and take your flour ! " 
 
 Thereon strange hazy lights appear 
 
 A-flitting all through the pile, 
 And a deep, melodious, choral cheer 
 
 Ascends through the roof the while. 
 But, a moment more, and you gaze and hark 
 
 And wonder and wait in vain ; 
 For suddenly all again is dark, 
 
 And all is hushed again. 
 
 It stands in the desolate Winterthal, 
 
 At the base of Ilsberg hill ; 
 It stands as though it would rather fall, 
 
 The long-deserted mill. 
 Its engines, coated with moss and. mould, 
 
 Bide silent all the day ; 
 And its mildewed walls and windows old 
 
 Are crumbling fast away. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 TO DEATH. 
 
 Methinks it were no pain to die 
 On such an eve, when such a sky 
 
 O'er canopies the west ; 
 To gaze my fill on yon calm deep, 
 And, like an infant, fall asleep 
 
 On earth, my mother's breast. 
 
 There 's peace and welcome in yon sea 
 Of endless blue tranquillity ; 
 
 The clouds are living things ; 
 I trace their veins of liquid gold, 
 I see them solemnly unfold 
 
 Their soft and fleecy wings. 
 
DUTCH. 833 
 
 These be the angels that convey 
 
 Are the interminable plains; — 
 
 Us weary children of a day, — 
 
 One fixed, eternal sunset reigns 
 
 Life's tedious nothing o'er, — 
 
 O'er the wide, silent scene. 
 
 Where neither passions come, nor woes, 
 
 
 To vex the genius of repose 
 
 I cannot doff all human fear; 
 
 On Death's majestic shore. 
 
 I know thy greeting is severe 
 
 
 To this poor shell of clay ; 
 
 No darkness there divides the sway 
 
 Yet come, Death ! thy freezing kiss 
 
 With startling dawn and dazzling day ; 
 
 Emancipates ! thy rest is bliss ! 
 
 But gloriously serene 
 
 I would I were away. 
 
 DUTCH. 
 
 HENDRIK COKNELISZOON TOLLENS. 
 
 See page 396. 
 
 NATIONAL SONG. 
 
 Chambers's Miscellany, No. 171. 
 
 Who Ne'erland's blood feel nobly flow, 
 
 Protect, God ! watch o'er his throne, 
 
 From foreign tainture free, 
 
 On which we breathe so free ; 
 
 Whose hearts for king and country glow, 
 
 Where yet our children's cradles stand, 
 
 Come, raise the song as we : 
 
 And where their graves shall be. 
 
 With breasts serene, and spirits gay, 
 
 With hearts deep moved we humbly pray, 
 
 In holy union sing 
 
 From thy paternal hand, 
 
 The soul-inspiring festal lay, 
 
 Our countiw's weal, — thy power display 
 
 For fatherland and king. 
 
 For king and fatherland. 
 
 The Godhead, on bis heavenly throne, 
 
 Protect, God! preserve his throne, |P 
 
 Revered and praised in song, 
 
 That truth and right uphold; 
 
 With favor hears the grateful tone 
 
 Be aye its splendor brighter shown 
 
 We raise with heart and tongue ; 
 
 In virtue than in gold ! 
 
 And next the sacred seraph choir, 
 
 The sceptre that he wields sustain, 
 
 Who holier accents sing, 
 
 And guide it in his hand ; 
 
 Prefers the patriot's tuneful lyre, 
 
 Inspire, God ! our king maintain, — 
 
 For fatherland and king. 
 
 Our king and fatherland. 
 
 Raise, brothers, raise in union true, 
 
 Away, away ! who wish can form 
 
 The wide-resounding cry ; 
 
 For one, for two alone ; 
 
 They tell, by Heaven, but virtues few 
 
 To loyal hearts, in calm and storm, 
 
 Who land and king deny ! 
 
 Are king and country one. 
 
 For man nor friend the heart can glow, 
 
 Reject, God ! the caitiff's prayer, 
 
 Congealed its feelings spring, 
 
 Who 'twixt them strife would bring, 
 
 That 's cold when prayer aDd music flow 
 
 And hear a people's sacred air 
 
 For fatherland and king. 
 
 For fatherland and king. 
 
 The heart beats quick, the blood swells high, 
 
 Let this fond strain to Heaven ascend 
 
 When thrills this cherished air ; 
 
 From out the festive ball ; 
 
 No tones with these in beauty vie, 
 
 Our sovereign spare, — his house defend, 
 
 None strike the heart so fair. 
 
 And us his children all. 
 
 These sacred strains to all belong, 
 
 Let this our first, last, dearest song, 
 
 All hopes and wishes bring 
 
 All hearts with joy expand : 
 
 In one accord, one sacred song 
 
 God save our king, his days prolong, — 
 
 For fatherland and king. 
 
 Protect our fatherland. 
 
834 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 FEENCH 
 
 OLIVIER BASSELIN. 
 
 Olivier Basselin, " le pere joyeux du Vaude- 
 ville," was born at Vire in Normandy. He 
 flourished in the fifteenth century, but the date 
 of his birth and that of his death are equally 
 unknown. He was proprietor of a fulling- 
 mill in the neighboring valleys, the Vaux de 
 Vire ; and gave this name to his convivial 
 songs. The mill in which he worked is still 
 stauding, and bears upon its front a little sign- 
 board with his name. Mr. Musgrave, in his 
 " Ramble through Normandy," gives this de- 
 scription of the scene : — 
 
 " The valleys that surround Vire (the Vaux 
 de Vire, as they are called) constitute its great- 
 est charms, and, like most other scenery com- 
 posed of a long-continuing ravine between abrupt 
 and rocky crags and thickly planted declivities 
 descending into a river stream, afford hour after 
 hour of enjoyment to those who, 
 
 1 Hid in the hollow of two neighboring hills,' 
 delight in wood and water, rills and rocks 
 
 " In the course of my evening stroll, I 
 reached the old house with a water-mill at- 
 tached to it, on a branch of the river (which is 
 little else than a sinuous brook hereabouts), 
 once occupied by Olivier Basselin, the originator 
 of that peculiar species of ballad or song which 
 eventually gave a name to the little musical 
 pieces played to this day on the French stage, 
 under the well-known denomination of Vaude- 
 villes. 
 
 " Basselin, a native of Vire, was a cleaner of 
 cloth, or scourer, in the middle of the fifteenth 
 century, and occupied this very mill at the 
 period of the final expulsion of the English 
 from France. He not only was a calender of 
 credit and renown, but 
 
 ' A train-band captain eke was he,' 
 of the town of Vire, and served under the 
 Count de Clermont, at Formigny, in the battle 
 which recovered Normandy from our country- 
 men. The blended duties of the fulling-mill 
 and garrison did not, however, interfere with 
 his musical taste, which exercised itself princi- 
 pally in the composition of certain rural ballads 
 and drinking choruses, lauding the hill and 
 valley, wine and cider, by turns ; and infusing 
 a relish of vocal harmony among the inhabi- 
 tants of the valleys which filled those pleasant 
 places with song, and, in the course of a very 
 brief period of time, created a celebrity for 
 those merry strains from the Vaux de Vire, 
 the Valleys of the Vire, (corrupted, eventually, 
 and with great absurdity, into Ville,) which led 
 
 to their more extensive use throughout entire 
 France. Nearly two centuries had elapsed since 
 Basselin's day of fame, before the musical dram- 
 atic writers of his country began to appro- 
 priate the light cheerful measure of the ballads 
 of Vire to the come'diettes in one or two acts, 
 whose business (to use a stage phrase) is car- 
 ried on from the rise to the fall of the curtain, 
 through frequently recurring little songs, thrown 
 off in a manner peculiar, in its pleasing spright- 
 liness, to the French ; and serving, on many an 
 occasion, to reconcile the most critical of audi- 
 ences to a large amount of flimsy and frivolous 
 matters." 
 
 This theory that the modern word Vaudeville 
 is a corruption of Vaux de Vire, is combated by 
 M. La Renaudiere in the Biographie Universelle. 
 A handsome edition of Basselin's songs was pub- 
 lished at Vire, 1811. The following is a speci- 
 men of his broad and rollicking humor. 
 
 TO MY NOSE. 
 
 Faie Nose ! whose rubies red have cost me 
 many a barrel 
 Of claret wine and white, 
 Who wearest in thy rich and sumptuous ap- 
 parel 
 Such red and purple light ! 
 
 Great Nose ! who looks at thee through some 
 huge glass at revel, 
 More of thy beauty thinks : 
 For thou resemblest not the nose of some poor 
 devil 
 Who only water drinks. 
 
 The turkey-cock doth wear, resembling thee, 
 his wattles ; 
 How many rich rnen now 
 Have not so rich a nose ! To paint thee, many 
 bottles 
 And much time I allow. 
 
 The glass my pencil is for thine illumination ; 
 
 My color is the- wine, 
 With which I 've painted thee more red than 
 the carnation, 
 
 By drinking of the fine. 
 
 'T is said it hurts the eyes ; but shall they be 
 the masters ? 
 Wine is the cure for all ; 
 Better the windows both should suffer some 
 disasters, 
 Than have the whole house fall. 
 
FRENCH. 
 
 835 
 
 APOLOGY FOR CIDER. 
 
 Osenford, " Book of French Songs." 
 
 Though Frenchmen at our drink may laugh, 
 And think their taste is wondrous fine, 
 
 The Norman cider, which we quaff, 
 Is quite the equal of his wine, — 
 
 When down, down, down it freely goes, 
 
 And charms the palate as it flows. 
 
 Whene'er a potent draught I take, 
 How dost thou bid me drink again ? 
 
 Yet, pray, for my affection's sake, 
 Dear Cider, do not turn my brain. 
 
 O, down, down, down it freely goes, 
 
 And charms the palate as it flows. 
 
 I find I never lose my wits, 
 
 However freely I carouse, 
 And never try in angry fits 
 
 To raise a tempest in the house; 
 Though down, down, down the cider goes, 
 And charms the palate as it flows. 
 
 To strive for riches is all stuff, 
 
 Just take the good the gods have sent ; 
 
 A man is sure to have enough 
 If with his own he is content; 
 
 As down, down, down the cider goes, 
 
 And charms the palate as it flows. 
 
 In truth that was a hearty bout ; 
 
 Why, not a drop is left, — not one ; 
 I feel I 've put my thirst to rout ; 
 
 The stubborn foe at last is gone. 
 So down, down, down the cider goes, 
 And charms the palate as it flows. 
 
 FEANCOIS VILLON. 
 
 j 
 
 See page 442 
 
 Another version of the following song is given 
 on page 442. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES. 
 B-. G. Rossetti, " Poems," 1870. 
 
 Tell me now in what hidden way is 
 
 Lady Flora the lovely Roman 1 
 Where 's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, 
 
 Neither of them the fairer woman ? 
 
 Where is Echo, beheld of no man, 
 Only heard on river and mere, — 
 
 She whose beauty was more than human ? . . . . 
 But where are the snows of yester-year ? 
 
 Where 's Heloise, the learned nun, 
 For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, 
 
 Lost manhood and put priesthood on 1 
 (From Love he won such dule and teen !) 
 And where, I pray you, is the Queen 
 
 Who willed that Buridan should steer 
 
 Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine ■?.... 
 
 But where are the snows of yester-year ? 
 
 White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, 
 With a voice like any mermaiden, — 
 
 Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, 
 
 And Ermengarde the lady of Maine, — 
 And that good Joan whom Englishmen 
 
 At Rouen doomed and burned her there, — 
 Mother of God, where are they then ? . . 
 
 But where are the snows of yester-year ? 
 
 Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, 
 
 Where they are gone, nor yet this year, 
 
 Except with this for an overword, — 
 But where are the snows of yester-year ? 
 
 REMI BELLATJ. 
 
 See page 450. 
 
 Another version of the following poem is given 
 on page 450. 
 
 APRIL 
 
 Cary, " Early French Poets." 
 
 April, sweet month, the daintiest of all, 
 
 Fair thee befall : 
 April, fond hope of fruits that lie 
 In buds of swathing cotton wrapt, 
 
 There closely lapt, 
 Nursing their tender infancy. 
 
 April, that dost thy yellow, green, and blue, 
 
 All round thee strew, 
 When, as thou go'st, the grassy floor 
 Is with a million flowers depeint, 
 
 Whose colors quaint 
 Have diapered the meadows o'er. 
 
 April, at whose glad coming Zephyrs rise, 
 
 With whispered sighs, 
 Then on their light wing brush away, 
 And hang amid the woodlands fresh 
 
 Their aery mesh 
 To tangle Flora on her way. 
 
 April, it is thy hand that doth unlock, 
 
 From plain and rock, 
 Odors and hues, a balmy store, 
 That breathing lie on Nature's breast, 
 
 So richly blest, 
 That earth or heaven can ask no more. 
 
 April, thy blooms amid the tresses laid 
 
 Of my sweet maid, 
 Adown her neck and bosom flow ; 
 And in a wild profusion there, 
 
 Her shining hair 
 With them hath blent a golden glow. 
 
 April, the dimpled smiles, the playful grace, 
 That in the face 
 Of Cytherea haunt, are thine ; 
 And thine the breath, that from their skies 
 
 The deities 
 Inhale, an offering at thy shrine. 
 
836 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 'T is thou that dost with summons blithe and 
 soft, 
 High up aloft, 
 From, banishment these heralds bring, 
 These swallows that along the air 
 
 Scud swift, and bear 
 Glad tidings of the merry spring. 
 
 April, the hawthorn and the eglantine, 
 
 Purple woodbine, 
 Streaked pink, and lily-cup, and rose, 
 And thyme, and marjoram, are spreading, 
 
 Where thou art treading, 
 And their sweet eyes for thee unclose. 
 
 The little nightingale sits singing aye 
 
 Orf leafy spray, 
 And in her fitful strain doth run 
 A thousand and a thousand changes, 
 
 "With voice that ranges 
 Through every sweet division. 
 
 April, it is when thou dost come again 
 
 That love is fain 
 With gentlest breath the fires to wake, 
 That covered up and slumbering lay, 
 
 Through many a day, 
 When winter's chill our veins did slake. 
 
 Sweet month, thou seest at this jocund prime 
 
 Of the spring-time, 
 The hives pour out their lusty young, 
 And hear'st the yellow bees that ply, 
 
 With laden thigh, 
 Murmuring the flowery wilds among. 
 
 May shall with pomp his wavy wealth unfold, 
 
 His fruits of gold, 
 His fertilizing dews, that swell 
 In manna on each spike and stem, 
 
 And, like a gem, 
 Red honey in the waxen cell. 
 
 Who will may praise him , but my voice shall 
 be, 
 Sweet month, for thee ; 
 Thou that to her dost owe thy name, 
 Who saw the sea-wave's foamy tide 
 
 Swell and divide, 
 Whence forth to life and light she came. 
 
 FRANCOIS DE MALHERBE. 
 
 See page 411. 
 
 Francois de Malherbe, of the illustrious 
 house of Malherbe-Saint-Aignan, and himself 
 still more illustrious as the father of French po- 
 etry, was born at Caen, in Normandy, in 1555. 
 When nineteen years old he lost his father, and, 
 entering the service of the Grand-Prior, Henri 
 d'Angouleme, followed him to Aix in Pro- 
 
 vence. Here he married Madeline de Coriolis, 
 widow of a counsellor of the Parliament of 
 Aix, and had several children, all of whom he 
 survived. Later in life he held a place in the 
 household of the Grand Ecuyer Bellegrade of 
 the Court of Henri IV., at Paris ; and used to 
 write love poems for the King, under the name 
 of Alcandre, which reminds one of the old song 
 of " King Dagobert " : ■ — 
 
 " Le Roi faisait des vers, 
 Mais il les faisait de travers ; 
 Le grand Saint Eloi 
 Lui dit, ' mon Roi, 
 
 Laissez aux oisons 
 
 Faire des chansons ! : 
 ' Eh bien,' lui dit le Roi, 
 C'est toi qui les feras pour moi.'' 
 
 In 1627 his son was- killed in a duel by a 
 gentleman of Provence, and though now seven- 
 ty-two years of age, he resolved to avenge this 
 death by fighting with his son's antagonist, 
 who was only twenty-five. His friends dis- 
 suaded him, on account of the disparity of age. 
 " That is the very reason," he replied, " why I 
 wish to fight ; I risk only a penny against a 
 pound." The matter was compromised by the 
 offer of six thousand crowns ; which Malherbe 
 accepted only in order to build a monument to 
 his son. Death prevented him. He died the 
 year following, 1628, at Paris, aged seventy- 
 three. 
 
 The fame of Malherbe rests mainly on his 
 odes, and on the Elegy to his friend Du Perrier, 
 which in part is given below. In his day and 
 generation he was called " The Poet of Princes, 
 and the Prince of Poets." Of course, in that 
 classic age, when " the French Muse spoke 
 Greek and Latin," he was also called Apollo. 
 Gombaud called him so in an epitaph : — 
 
 " The Apollo of our day, Malherbe, doth here repose; 
 Long did he live although his wants were ill sup- 
 plied ; 
 And in what age was this ? Passer, my lips I close ; 
 He died in poverty, and I live as he died." 
 
 His contemporaries reproached him with the 
 sterility of his muse ; but he rather gloried in 
 it, and said that " after having written a poem 
 of three hundred lines, or a discourse of three 
 sheets, an author ought to rest for three whole 
 years." He also held another eccentric opin- 
 ion, namely, that a good poet was not much 
 more useful to the state than a good skittle- 
 player. His touchstone of good poetry was 
 the ease with which it fixed itself in the mem- 
 ory. He was fond of reciting his own verses ; 
 but he not only stammered, but could not get 
 through a stanza of four lines without spitting 
 half a dozen times, so that the cavalier Marini, 
 the Italian poet, whom Tiraboschi denounces as 
 " the most pestilent corrupter of good taste in 
 Italy," and who passed some years at Paris 
 in Malherbe's time, used to say of him : " I 
 have never seen a moister man, nor a drier 
 poet." 
 
FRENCH. 
 
 837 
 
 Laharpe thus sums up the merits of Mal- 
 herbe : " His name marks the second epoch of 
 our language. Marot had succeeded only in 
 light and gallant verses. Malherbe was the 
 first model of the noble style, and the creator of 
 lyric poetry. He has its enthusiasm, its move- 
 ments, its forms. Born with an ear and with 
 taste, he knew the effects of rhythm, and created 
 a multitude of poetic constructions, adapted to 
 the genius of our language. He settled the 
 kind of imitative harmony which is proper to 
 it, and taught us how to use inversion with art 
 and with reserve. All he taught us, he owed 
 only to himself; and after two hundred years, a 
 number of his pieces are still cited whose beauty 
 is almost irreproachable." 
 
 Boileau says of him : — 
 
 " Enfin Malherbe vint, et le premier en France 
 Fit sentir dans les vers une juste cadence." 
 
 Malherbe's estimate of his own powers is ex- 
 pressed in the last lines of a " Sonnet to the 
 King": — 
 
 " Les ouvrages communs vivent quelques annees ; 
 Ce que Malherbe ecrit dure eternellenient." 
 
 And finally Sainte-Beuve, in his Causeries du 
 Lundi says, in his epigrammatic way : " One 
 could read in half an hour all of Malherbe that 
 is worth remembering. One would begin with 
 his famous stanzas to Du Perrier, which are 
 twice too long ; but it would require a second 
 Malherbe to abridge them In fine, Mal- 
 herbe in his meagreness and little substance is 
 always dignified, and has moments of perfect 
 and charming elegance. He is a lyric gentle- 
 man, who understands admirably how to wear 
 his short cloak, and who shows even in his pov- 
 erty great natural distinction and nobility." 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 To M. Du Perrier, gentleman of Aix in Provence, on the 
 death of his daughter. 
 
 Will then, Du Perrier, thy sorrow be eternal 1 
 
 And shall the sad discourse 
 Whispered within thy heart, by tenderness 
 paternal, 
 
 Only augment its force ? 
 
 Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the tomb 
 descending 
 
 By death's frequented ways, 
 Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending, 
 
 Where thy lost reason strays 1 
 
 I know the charms that made her youth a bene- 
 diction : 
 
 Nor should 1 be content, 
 As a censorious friend, to solace thine affliction, 
 
 By her disparagement. 
 
 But she was of the world, which fairest things 
 exposes 
 To fates the most forlorn ; 
 
 A rose, she too hath lived as long as live the 
 roses, 
 The space of one brief morn. 
 
 Death has his rigorous laws, unparalleled, un- 
 feeling ; 
 All prayers to him are vain ; 
 Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our appeal- 
 ing, 
 He leaves us to complain. 
 
 The poor man in his hut, with only thatch for 
 cover, 
 Unto these laws must bend ; 
 The sentinel that guards the barriers of the 
 Louvre 
 Cannot our Kings defend. 
 
 To murmur against death, in petulant defiance, 
 
 Is never for the best ; 
 To will what God doth will, that is the only 
 science, 
 
 That gives us any rest. 
 
 TO CARDINAL EICHELIEU. 
 
 Thou mighty Prince of Church and State, 
 Richelieu ! until the hour of death, 
 Whatever road man chooses, Pate 
 Still holds him subject to its breath. 
 Spun of all silks, our daj's and nights 
 Have sorrows woven with delights ; 
 And of this intermingled shade 
 Our various destiny appears, 
 Even as one sees the course of years 
 Of summers and of winters made. 
 
 Sometimes the soft deceitful hours 
 Let us enjoy the halcyon wave ; 
 Sometimes impending peril lowers 
 Beyond the mariner's skill to save. 
 The Wisdom, infinitely wise, 
 That gives to human destinies 
 Their foreordained necessity, 
 Has made no law more fixed below, 
 Than the alternate ebb and flow 
 Of Fortune and Adversity. 
 
 DU BARTAS. 
 
 In the latter half of the sixteenth century, 
 when Ronsard and the rest of the French Plei- 
 ades were singing their madrigals and rounde- 
 lays to the ladies of the court, far away in his 
 chateau in Gascony, the Sieur du Bartas, cal- 
 vinist, and captain in the army of Henry of 
 Navarre, and predestined some years later to be 
 wounded at the battle of Ivry, and soon after- 
 wards to die of his wounds, was diligently and 
 laboriously writing that " strange and vast Epic 
 called La Sepmaine, ou la Creation du Monde," 
 — a kind of "Paradise Lost," written half a 
 
838 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 century before Milton's, and bearing about the 
 same relation to it, that the " Vision of Frate 
 Alberico" does to the Divina Commedia. 
 
 Guillaume de Salluste, Sieur du Bartas was 
 born near Auch in Gascony in 1544 ; received a 
 military education, entered the service of the 
 King of Navarre as captain of cavalry ; and dis- 
 tinguished himself both as a soldier and as a 
 statesman, being sent on various embassies to 
 Denmark, Scotland, and England. When not 
 engaged in active duty, he withdrew to his cha- 
 teau of Du Bartas, and gave himself up to the 
 writing of heroic and didactic poems, of which 
 he produced a great number. Mistrustful of his 
 own fame he says in one of these : — 
 
 " And though, alas ! my now new-rising name 
 Can hope hereafter none, or little fame, 
 The time that most part of our better wits 
 Misspend in flattery, or in fancy-fits, 
 In courting Ladies, or in clawing Lords, 
 "Without affection, in affected words, 
 I mean to spend in publishing the story 
 Of God's great works, to his immortal glory." 
 
 He died in the midst of his labors in 1590, four 
 months after the renowned battle of Ivry, from 
 wounds received there, but living long enough 
 to write a poem on the battle, in which he gives 
 this picture of Henri Quatre and his famous 
 white plume : — 
 
 "Yet, void of mark, he doth not hide him quite 
 Amid the throng ; a plume dread-dancing light 
 Beclouds his casque, and like a willow shows, 
 "Which, pruned below, close by a river grows, 
 And hath no sooner heuv'ns calm favor lost 
 But instantly his top's green tuft is tossed, 
 Now up, now down, and waves as please the wind, 
 Now to, now fro, now forward, now behind." 
 
 The chief work of Du Bartas is La Sep- 
 maine, the Week, or as his English translator, 
 Sylvester, styles it, " Du Bartas his First Weeke, 
 or Birth of the World, wherein, in Seven Dayes, 
 the glorious Worke of the Creation is divinely 
 handled." This is followed by "Du Bartas his 
 Second Weeke, disposed after the proportion of 
 his First, into Seven Dayes ; . . . . but of the 
 three last, Death, preventing our Noble Poet, 
 hath deprived us." This " Second Week" con- 
 tains the Old Testament histories of Adam, 
 Noah, Abraham, and David, and was to have 
 contained the Messias and the Eternal Sab- 
 bath, and so to have been the " Paradise Re- 
 gained." 
 
 The "First Week" was published in 1579, 
 and its success was prodigious. In six years it 
 went through more than thirty editions, and 
 was translated into Latin, Italian, Spanish, Ger- 
 man, and English ; and later into Danish and 
 Swedish ; and moreover, Simon Goulard, a min- 
 ister of the Gospel, published a commentary 
 upon it, which, according to a French critic, 
 " was twice as ponderous, and not half so clear 
 as the text." And now all has passed into obliv- 
 ion, and the name of Du Bartas in France has 
 become a byword and a mockery, and a syn- 
 onyme for barbarism and bad taste. 
 
 Pasquier in the seventh book of his Recherch.es 
 says : " I will content myself with saying, that 
 nothing was ever more useful and agreeable to 
 the people, than the ' Quatrains ' of the Seig- 
 neur de Pibrac, and the two ' Weeks ' of the 
 Seigneur du Bartas. The first we teach to our 
 children to serve them as their primary instruc- 
 tion, and nevertheless they are worthy to be en- 
 shrined in the hearts of the greatest ; and as to 
 Du Bartas, although some have condemned his 
 style as too inflated, nevertheless his work has 
 met with a very favorable reception, not only on 
 account of the worthy subject he has chosen, in 
 praising not his mistress but his God, but also 
 on account of the doctrine, the brave discourses, 
 the bold words, the pithy traits, and the felici- 
 tous narrative that accompany it." 
 
 Among moderns Du Bartas has found a 
 friendly critic in Goethe, who in his notes to 
 "Rameau's Nephew," speaks of his "innumer- 
 able alexandrines " ; and then adds : " We Ger- 
 mans, who look upon the French from a differ- 
 ent point of view, feel inclined to smile, when 
 we find in his works, whose title-page lauds him 
 as the Prince of French poets, all the elements 
 of French poetry, although, it must be confessed, 
 in strange confusion. He treated of weighty, 
 important, and broad subjects, as, for instance, 
 the seven Days of Creation, and in doing so 
 found an opportunity to bring forward in a 
 dramatic, narrative, descriptive, and didactic 
 manner, the naive views of the world, and the 
 manifold knowledge, which he had acquired in 
 a busy life. On this account these very serious 
 poems resemble altogether good-natured paro- 
 dies, and on account of their motley aspect, 
 are hated by the French at the present height 
 of their imagined culture ; whereas, like the 
 Elector of Mayence,* who had a wheel em- 
 blazoned on his escutcheon, every French au- 
 thor should have symbolically expressed upon 
 his arms the Seven-days-work of Du Bartas." 
 
 An even more eulogistic modern critic ap- 
 pears in " Fraser's Magazine," for September, 
 1842, who after giving an analysis of the 
 "Weeks," speaks thus of the author: "But 
 with all his faults Du Bartas mingles a great 
 deal of beautiful poetry. His imagination is 
 singularly strong and lively, like that of our 
 own illustrious writers of the same period, whom 
 he resembles in many points ; and his learning 
 and ingenuity perpetually furnish him with new 
 and exquisite illustrations. His images are al- 
 ways drawn from nature and the country ; from 
 the ocean, the trees, the skies, and the starry 
 flowers. We venture to say that there are more 
 new and natural pictures in Du Bartas than in 
 all the French tragic poets put together. If two 
 warriors combat, their plumes are tossed in the 
 
 * This is the legend of Bishop Willegis, who was the 
 son of a wheelwright, and took a wheel for his coat-of- 
 arms : — 
 
 " And all the bishops that after him came 
 Quartered the wheel with their arms of fame." 
 
FRENCH. 
 
 839 
 
 wind like the leafy locks of two green trees 
 which mingle together on a mountain-top ; and 
 the tide of battle surges and rolls back like a 
 yellow cornfield, which the breeze waves from 
 side to side as it courses over it. His versifica- 
 tion is in general magnificent and harmonious, 
 and his crowded images float upon it most ma- 
 jestically." 
 
 Nevertheless to most readers Du Bartas is 
 and will remain a ponderous and wearisome 
 poet. It cannot be denied, that there are many 
 waste places in his writings ; but as we traverse 
 them, suddenly some bird sings in the air, some 
 flower springs up at our feet, some sunbeam 
 strikes across the neighboring field, and we take 
 heart and go on, and find unexpected delights 
 in the landscape. There are many better poets, 
 who are not so good company. He is as simple 
 and unsuspecting as a child ; has no sense of 
 the ridiculous ; says the strangest things in the 
 best faith possible, and has a beautiful sympathy 
 with nature and all living creatures. You may 
 laugh at him if you will, but if you have time 
 and patience to go on with so slow a walker, you 
 learn to respect and like him before you leave 
 him. 
 
 In language he is fantastic and quaint, — as 
 quaint as Quarles ; though a good deal of this 
 is owing to his translator, Joshua Sylvester, gen- 
 tleman of Kent, and a contemporary of Quarles, 
 who introduced Du Bartas to the English pub- 
 lic in a folio volume, with a Corona Dedicatoria 
 of poems printed in the shape of goblets or hour- 
 glasses, it is not easy to distinguish which, and 
 was himself introduced by the printer, who does 
 it handsomely by saying at the outset, that " the 
 name of Joshua Sylvester is garland enough to 
 hang before this door." From this translation 
 the following extracts are made, the orthography 
 being a little modernized. 
 
 EROM THE FIRST WEEK. 
 GOD. 
 
 Before all time, all matter, form, and place, 
 God all in all, and all in God it was : 
 Immutable, immortal, infinite, 
 Incomprehensible, all spirit, all light, 
 All majesty, all self-omnipotent, 
 Invisible, impassive, excellent, 
 Pure, wise, just, good, God reigned alone (at 
 
 rest) 
 Himself alone, self's palace, host, and guest. 
 
 THE LAST DAT. 
 
 'T is he, that keeps th' eternal clock of time, 
 And holds the weights of that appointed chime : 
 He in his hand the sacred book doth bear 
 Of that close-clasped final calendar, 
 Where, in red letters (now with us frequented) 
 The certain date of that great day is printed ; 
 That dreadful day, which doth so swiftly post, 
 That 't will be seen, before foreseen of most. 
 
 The night is she that all our travails easeth, 
 Buries our cares, and all our griefs appeaseth. 
 The night is she, that (with her sable wing, 
 In gloomy darkness hushing everything) 
 Through all the world dumb silence doth distil, 
 And wearied bones with quiet sleep doth fill. 
 
 Sweet night, without thee, without thee (alas !) 
 Our life were loathsome ; even a hell to pass : 
 For, outward pains and inward passions still, 
 With thousand deaths, would soul and body 
 
 thrill. 
 O night, thou pullest the proud mask away 
 Wherewith vain actors in this world's great play, 
 By day disguise them. For no difference 
 Night makes between the peasant and the prince. 
 The poor and rich, the prisoner and the judge, 
 The foul and fair, the master and the drudge, 
 The fool and wise, Barbarian and the Greek : 
 For night's black mantle covers all alike. 
 
 THE CREATION OP EVE. 
 
 Even as a surgeon, minding off to cut 
 Some cureless limb, before in use he put 
 His violent engines on the vicious member, 
 Bringeth his patient in a senseless slumber, 
 And, griefless then, guided by use and art, 
 To save the whole, saws off the infested part ; 
 So God empaled our grandsire's lively look, 
 Through all his bones a deadly dullness strook, 
 Sealed up his sparkling eyes with iron bands, 
 Led down his feet almost to Lethe's sands, — 
 In brief, so numbed his soul's and body's sense, 
 That, without pain, opening his side, from thence 
 He took a rib, which rarely he refined, 
 And thereof made the mother of mankind. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S SWORD. 
 
 Now 'gan they fly ; but all too slow to shun 
 A flying sword that followed every one. 
 A sword they saw ; but could not see the arm 
 That in one night had done so dismal harm : 
 As we perceive a windmill's sails to go ; 
 But not the wind, that doth transport them so. 
 
 Shall I omit a hundred prodigies 
 Oft seen in forehead of the frowning skies ? 
 Sometimes a fiery circle doth appear, 
 Proceeding from the beauteous beams and clear 
 Of sun and moon, and other stars aspect, 
 Down-looking on a thick, round cloud direct ; 
 When, not of force to thrust their rays through- 
 out it, 
 In a round crown they cast them round about it : 
 Like as (almost) a burning candle, put 
 Into a closet with the door close shut ; 
 Not able through the boards to send his light, 
 Out at the edges round about shines bright. 
 
 THE ARK. 
 
 Safely the while the sacred ship did float 
 On the proud shoulders of that boundless moat, 
 
840 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Though mastless, oarless, and from harbor far ; 
 For God was both her steersman and her star. 
 
 FLOWERS AND STARS. 
 
 I '11 ne'er believe that the Arch-Architect 
 "With all these fires the heav'nly arches deckt 
 Only for show, and with these glistering shields 
 T' amaze poor shepherds watching in the fields. 
 I '11 ne'er believe that the least flower that pranks 
 Our garden borders or the common banks, 
 And the least stone that in her warming lap 
 Our kind nurse Earth doth covetously wrap, 
 Hath some peculiar virtue of its own ; 
 And that the glorious stars of heav'n have none : 
 But shine in vain, and have no charge precise, 
 But to be walking in heav'n's galleries. 
 
 THE SWALLOW. 
 
 The scent-strong swallow sweepeth to and fro, 
 As swift as shafts fly from a Turkish bow, 
 When (use and art, and strength confedered) 
 The skilful archer draws them to the head : 
 Flying she sings, and singing seeketh where 
 She more with cunning than with cost may rear 
 Her round-front palace in a place secure, 
 Whose plot may serve in rarest arch'tecture : 
 Her little beak she loads with brittle straws, 
 Her wings with water, and with earth her claws, 
 Whereof she mortar makes, and therewithal 
 Aptly she builds her semicircle wall. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 But these are nothing to the nightingale, 
 Breathing so sweetly from a breast so small 
 So many tunes, whose harmony excels 
 Our voice, our viols, and all music else. 
 Good Lord ! how oft in a green oaken grove, 
 In the cool shadow have I stood and strove 
 To marry mine immortal lays to theirs, 
 Rapt with delight of their delicious airs ! 
 And (yet) methinks, in a thick thorn I hear 
 A nightingale to warble sweetly clear. 
 One while she bears the base, anon the tenor, 
 Anon the treble, then the counter-tenor : 
 Then all at once ; (as it were) challenging 
 The rarest voices with herself to sing. 
 Thence thirty steps, amid the leafy sprays, 
 Another nightingale repeats her lays, 
 Just note for note, and adds some strain at 
 
 last, 
 That she hath conned all the winter past; 
 The first replies, and descants thereupon ; 
 With divine warbles of division, 
 Redoubling quavers ; and so (turn by turn) 
 Alternately they sing away the morn : 
 So that the conquest in this curious strife 
 Doth often cost the one her voice and life : 
 Then the glad victor all the rest admire, 
 And after count her mistress of the quire. 
 
 THE CRANE. 
 
 I hear the crane (if I mistake not) cry; 
 Who in the clouds forming the forked Y, 
 
 By the brave orders practised under her, 
 Instructeth soldiers in the art of war. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE SEVENTH DAT. 
 
 The cunning painter, that with curious care, 
 Limning a landscape, various, rich, and rare, 
 Hath set a-work, in all and every part, 
 Invention, judgment, nature, use, and art ; 
 And hath at length (t' immortalize his name) 
 With weary pencil perfected the same ; 
 Forgets his pains ; and, inly filled with glee, 
 Still on his picture gazeth greedily. 
 
 First, in a mead he marks a frisking lamb, 
 Which seems, though dumb, to bleat unto the 
 
 dam ; 
 Then he observes a wood, seeming to wave : 
 Then th' hollow bosom of some hideous cave : 
 Here a highway, and there a narrow path : 
 Here pines, there oaks torn by tempestuous 
 
 wrath : 
 Here from a craggy rock's steep-hanging boss 
 (Thrummed half with ivy, half with crispe'd 
 
 moss) 
 A silver brook in broken streams doth gush, 
 And headlong down the horne'd cliff doth rush ; 
 Then, winding thence above and under ground, 
 A goodly garden it bemoateth round : 
 There on his knee (behind a box-tree shrinking) 
 A skilful gunner with his left eye winking, 
 Levels directly at an oak hard by, 
 Whereon a hundred groaning culvers cry; 
 Down falls the cock, up from the touchpan flies 
 A ruddy flash that in a moment dies. 
 Off goes the gun, and through the forest rings 
 The thund'ring bullet, borne on fiery wings. 
 Here, on a green, two striplings, stripped light 
 Run for a prize with laborsome delight ; 
 A dusty cloud about their feet doth flow 
 (Their feet, and head, and hands, and all do go), 
 They swelt in sweat ; and yet the following rout 
 Hastens their haste with many a cheerful shout. 
 Here, six pyed oxen, under painful yoke, 
 Rip up the folds of Ceres' winter cloak. 
 Here in the shade, a pretty shepherdess 
 Drives softly home her bleating happiness : 
 Still as she goes, she spins ; and as she spins, 
 A man would think some sonnet she begins. 
 Here runs a river, there springs forth a fountain, 
 Here vales a valley, there ascends a mountain, 
 Here smokes a castle, there a city fumes, 
 And here a ship upon the ocean looms. 
 In brief, so lively art hath nature shapt, 
 That in his work the workman's self is rapt, 
 Unable to look off; for, looking still, 
 The more he looks the more he finds his skill : 
 So th' Architect (whose' glorious workman- 
 ships 
 My cloudy muse doth but too much eclipse) 
 Having with painless pain, and careless care, 
 In these six days, finished the table fair 
 And infinite of th' universal ball, 
 Resteth this day, t' admire himself in all : 
 And for a season eying nothing else, 
 Joys in his work, sith all his work excels. 
 
FRENCH. 
 
 841 
 
 VOLTAIRE. 
 
 See page 472. 
 
 TO MADAME DU CHATELET. 
 
 If you would have me still a lover, 
 To me the age of love restore, 
 And let these twilight shades once more 
 The sunrise, if they can, recover. 
 
 From spots where shares the God of wine 
 With Love the sceptre of unreason, 
 Time, laying his chill hand on mine, 
 Warns me to steal away in season. 
 
 'Gainst his inflexible decree 
 Let us, at least, seek some assuaging ; 
 He who hath not the wit of aging 
 The victim of his years must be. 
 
 Leave to fair Youth the hours unreckoned 
 Of rapture wild, of dance and song ; 
 Since life is but two minutes long, 
 Let us on wisdom spend the second. 
 
 What, then, forever do ye leave me, 
 Illusion, folly, heedless waste, 
 Gifts of the gods, that could deceive me 
 To think life left no bitter taste ! 
 
 Yes, one dies twice, I see it plain ; 
 Ceasing to love or love to kindle 
 Is the worst death on Clotho's spindle ; 
 Ceasing to live is little pain. 
 
 Thus with wet eyes did I require 
 The follies of my earlier days ; 
 My soul bewailed the dancing fire 
 That led astray from beaten ways. 
 
 Then gentle Friendship deigned to bend her 
 Steps to my succor from above ; 
 She was, it may be, quite as tender, 
 But not so full of life as Love. 
 
 Her beauty set my heart astir, 
 And, guided by her milder lustre, 
 I followed : but the tears would muster 
 That I must follow only her. 
 
 JEAN REBOUL. 
 
 Jean Reboul was the son of a locksmith of 
 Nismes, and was born in that ancient town in 
 1796. From his childhood up he has lived 
 there, carrying on his business as a baker. Not 
 till the age of thirty-two did he gain any repute 
 as a poet. In 1828 one of his lyrics, L'Ange 
 et ['Enfant, of which a translation is here given, 
 was published in the Quotidienne of Paris, and 
 found universal favor and applause. M. de 
 Lamartine, in a moment of what Reboul calls 
 106 
 
 in his response " a generous delirium," seized 
 his lyre and sang a " Harmony " in honor of 
 " Genius in Obscurity." Chateaubriand also 
 praised him, and visited him at Nismes in 1838, 
 as M. Alexandre Dumas had already done in 
 1835. The following extract is .from Dumas's 
 description of his visit. 
 
 "There was one thing at Nismes I was even 
 more anxious to see than its monuments, this 
 was its poet. I had a letter from Baron Taylor 
 to him, with this singular address : ' M. Reboul, 
 Poet and Baker.' Some of his verses which I 
 had read appeared to be very good. On arriv- 
 ing in the chief town of the Gard, on my first 
 visit to Reboul, a young man whom I met as I 
 left the hotel, and of whom I inquired the way, 
 not only pointed it out, but, pleased at the curi- 
 osity of a stranger, offered to show me the 
 house. 
 
 " Before reaching our journey's end we passed 
 the Arena. I turned my head the other way so 
 that the Roman Colosseum, which was to have 
 its turn, should not attract either my eyes or my 
 thoughts. 
 
 " ' We are passing the Arena,' said my guide. 
 
 " ' Thank you, I do not see it,' I replied. 
 
 " Fifty steps farther he stopped at the corner 
 of a little street. 
 
 •" ' That is where Reboul lives.' 
 
 " ' A thousand thanks. Do you know if I am 
 likely to find him at home at this time 1 ' 
 
 "My guide inclined his head so as to get a 
 side look through the half-open door. 
 
 "'He is in the shop,' replied he, and went 
 away. 
 
 "I remained a moment thinking, with my let- 
 ter in my hand. In my reception by this man, 
 which would be most clearly shown? — his nat- 
 ural disposition, or his social position % Would 
 he talk to me of poetry or flour, the academy or 
 agriculture, publishing or the harvest ? I knew 
 that I should find him a great man, but would 
 his manner be unaffected ? I entered. 
 
 " ' It is M. Reboul I have the honor of ad- 
 dressing ■? J 
 
 " ' Himself.' 
 
 " ' A letter from Taylor.' 
 
 " ' What is he doing 1 ' 
 
 " 'He pursues the artistic mission he has un- 
 dertaken. You know he is one of those who, 
 devoted to a search for the beautiful, pass their 
 lives in acquiring greater giory for their coun- 
 try and their friends, without finding that they 
 wear out their health and fortune in the service 
 of others.' 
 
 "'You are quite right.' And he began to 
 read the letter I had presented to him. 
 
 " I examined him during this time ; he was a 
 man of from thirty-three to thirty-five years of 
 age, above the middle size, with an almost Ara- 
 bian complexion, glossy, thick hair, and teeth 
 of ivory. 
 
 " On coming to my name he looked from the 
 letter to me, and I then perceived he had mag- 
 
842 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 nificent eyes, as powerful and soft as those of an 
 Indian, made to express love and passion. 
 
 " ' Sir,' said he, ' I am under great obliga- 
 tions to Baron Taylor, and do not know how I 
 shall be able to thank him sufficiently.' I 
 bowed in my turn. ' But,' continued he, 
 ' will you permit me to be candid with you ? ' 
 
 " 'I hope you will be so.' 
 
 " ' You come to see the poet, and not the ba- 
 ker, I suppose ? I am a baker from five o'clock 
 in the morning till four in the afternoon ; from 
 four till midnight I am a poet. Do you want 
 any rolls ? I can give you some very good 
 ones. Do you want verses ? Come back at 
 five and I will give you some very bad ones.' 
 
 " ' I will come back at five !'.... 
 
 " I came back at the time appointed. Beboul 
 was waiting for me at a little side-door. His 
 shop, which was still open, was left to the care 
 of the woman who had taken his place in the 
 morning, and he came forward to meet me. 
 He had changed his dress ; the one he wore was 
 extremely simple but very neat, something be- 
 tween that of the people and the middle class. 
 
 " We ascended a little winding staircase, and 
 came to the entrance of a loft, on the floor of 
 which were piled up in separate heaps different 
 sorts of grain. We turned down one of the lit- 
 tle valleys which these mountains of food left 
 between them, and ten steps brought us to the 
 door of the room. 
 
 " ' Here,' said Reboul, closing it behind us, 
 ' we are separate from the world of realities ; 
 now for the world of illusions. This is the 
 sanctuary ; prayer, inspiration, and poetry alone 
 have the right to enter it. In this room, plain 
 as you see it, I have passed the most pleasant 
 hours of my life, those in which I write and 
 reflect.' 
 
 " The room had an almost monastic simplicity : 
 the curtains of the bed and windows were white, 
 while some rush-bottomed chairs and a walnut- 
 wood burean composed the whole of the furni- 
 ture. The library consisted of two volumes, the 
 Bible and Corneille. ' I begin,' said I, • to un- 
 derstand your two lives, which till now ap- 
 peared incomprehensible.' 
 
 " ' There is nothing more simple,' replied Re- 
 boul, 'and the one assists the other ; while the 
 arms work the head is at rest, and while the 
 head works the arms are at rest.' 
 
 " ' Excuse what I am going to ask.' 
 
 " ' Go on.' 
 
 " ' Are you of a good family ? ' 
 
 " ' I am the son of a workman.' 
 
 " ' At least, you have received some educa- 
 tion ? ' 
 
 " ' None ! ' 
 
 " ' What made you a poet ? 
 
 " ' Misfortune ! ' 
 
 "I looked around me; everything seemed so 
 calm, so quiet, so happy in this little room, that 
 the word ' misfortune ' seemed to have no echo 
 there. 
 
 " ' You are trying to find some explanation of 
 what I have just said, are you not? ' continued 
 Reboul. 
 
 " ' And I acknowledge I can find none.' 
 
 " ' Have you never passed over a tomb with- 
 out knowing it ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, indeed ! But the grass was greener 
 and the flower sweeter there.' 
 
 "'It was so with me. I married a woman 
 that I loved ; my wife is dead.' 
 
 " I stretched out my hand. He continued : — 
 
 " ' I was in great grief, for which I vainly 
 sought some alleviation. I had mixed hitherto 
 only with men of my own class ; gentle and 
 compassionate, but vulgar-minded. Instead of 
 saying to me, " Weep, and we will weep with 
 you," they tried to console me; the tears which 
 I longed to shed flowed back to my heart and 
 deluged it. I sought solitude, and, finding no 
 one who could understand me, poured forth my 
 grief to the Almighty. My lonely and religious 
 lamentations took a poetical and elevated char- 
 acter, which I had never remarked in my words. 
 My thoughts were expressed in an idiom new 
 even to myself; and as they turned to heaven, 
 finding no sympathy on earth, the Lord gave 
 them wings and they ascended towards him.' 
 
 " ' Yes : it is so,' said I, as if he had been ex- 
 plaining the simplest things in the world, ' and 
 I understand it now. It is thus that true poets 
 become so. How many men of talent only want 
 a great misfortune to become men of genius ! 
 You have told me in one word the secret of your 
 whole life ; I know it now as well as you do.' 
 
 " ' To my private sorrows public grief was 
 added. Think of the poet who sees falling 
 around him, like October leaves, all religious 
 faith, all political conviction ; and who is left 
 like a tree stripped of its foliage to wait for a 
 spring which may perhaps never come. You 
 are not a Royalist, I know ; therefore I will not 
 speak to you of your old monarchy, turned off 
 like a discharged servant. But you are relig- 
 ious. Imagine, then, what it must be to see the 
 holy images before which, as a child, your 
 mother led you to pray, cast down, trampled 
 under the hoofs of horses, drawn through the 
 mud, imagine what it must be to see such things 
 in Nismes, in this old city, full of civil discord; 
 where everything speaks of hatred ; where blood 
 flows so quickly and so long. O, had I not had 
 poetry to complain in, and religion to console me, 
 my God ! what would have become of me ? ' 
 
 " ' Believe me, we have all seen similar things ; 
 and in consequence, at the hour of need every 
 poet will be the friend of order. The domain of 
 poetry has been increased by the field of politics; 
 revolutions have ploughed it with the sword, — 
 our fathers 'have fertilized it with blood ; let us 
 sow the seed, and faith will grow again.' 
 
 '" You have an entire kingdom in the stage; 
 for me, I have but a garden. But never mind, 
 I will cultivate flowers and wreathe them into a 
 crown which shall be thrown to you.' 
 
FRENCH. 
 
 843 
 
 " ' Tou did not come here to make me compli- 
 ments, but to give me some verses.' 
 
 " ' Do you really wish it ? or do you only ask 
 from curiosity and politeness ? ' 
 
 " ' I thought we knew each other too well for 
 such questions to be necessary to either.' 
 
 " ' You are right ! I am ready. When I tire 
 you, you have only to bid me stop.' 
 
 " He commenced. I remarked in his voice, 
 from the very first, the intonation which belongs 
 peculiarly to the modern school, — the same style 
 which so often struck me in Dc Vigny, in La- 
 martine, and in Hugo ; and yet, at this period, 
 Keboul knew none of them. This proved to me 
 a thing I had long suspected, there is a melody 
 which is quite absent from the poetry of the old 
 school. AVhile he was speaking I watched him ; 
 his countenance had assumed a new expression, 
 that of faith. An earnest internal conviction 
 was displayed on the exterior as he read on, and 
 according to what he read. 
 
 " We passed four hours in this way ; he poured 
 out a flood of poetry, and I constantly asking 
 for more. I did not spare a single drawer of 
 his bureau ; everything was brought out, manu- 
 scripts, papers, loose leaves, and at last I pointed 
 to a rough copy of something. 
 
 " ' That,' said he, ' you shall read yourself 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 " ' Why so ? ' 
 
 " ' Because it is some verses addressed to you. 
 I scrawled them whilst I was waiting for you. 
 Now let us go and see the Arena ; in doing so 
 we shall but change the style of poetry, only I 
 reserved the best to the last.' " 
 
 Besides his lyric poems, Reboul has written 
 three tragedies, and an epic in ten books, en- 
 titled Le Dernier Jour. He died in 1S64. 
 
 THE AXGEL AND THE CHILD. 
 
 A>" angel with a radiant face, 
 
 Above a cradle bent to look, 
 Seemed his own image there to trace, 
 
 As in the waters of a brook. 
 
 " Dear child ! who me resemblest so," 
 It whispered, " come, 0, come with me ! 
 
 Happy together let u^ go, 
 
 The earth unworthy is of thee ! 
 
 " Here none to perfect bliss attain ; 
 
 The soul in pleasure suffering lies : 
 Joy hath an undertone of pain, 
 
 And even the happiest hours their sighs. 
 
 "Fear doth at every portal knock; 
 
 Never a day serene and pure 
 From the o'ershadowing tempest's shock 
 
 Hath made the morrow's dawn secure. 
 
 " What, then, shall sorrows and shall fears 
 Come to disturb so pure a brow ? 
 
 And with the bitterness of tears 
 
 These eyes of azure troubled grow ? 
 
 " Ah no ! into the fields of space, 
 Away shalt thou escape with me ; 
 
 And Providence will grant thee grace 
 Of all the days that were to be. 
 
 " Let no one in thy dwelling cower 
 
 In sombre vestments draped and veiled ; 
 
 But let them welcome thy last hour, 
 As thy first moments once they hailed. 
 
 " Without a cloud be there each brow ; 
 
 There let the grave no shadow cast ; 
 When one is pure as thou art now, 
 
 The fairest day is still the last." 
 
 And waving wide his wings of white, 
 The angel, at these words, had sped 
 
 Towards the eternal realms of light ! — 
 Poor mother ! see, thy son is dead ! 
 
 JAQUES JASMIN. 
 
 Jasmin, the poet and barber of Agen, on the 
 banks of the Garonne, was born there in 1798; 
 or as he has himself expressed it in his poeti- 
 cal autobiography, Mous Soubenis (My Souve- 
 nirs), "Old and decrepit, the last century had 
 but two more years to pass upon the earth, when 
 at the corner of an old street, in a house inhab- 
 ited by more than one rat, on Shrove Thursday, 
 behind the door, at the hour when pancakes 
 were frying in the pan, of a humpbacked father 
 and a lame mother, was born a droll fellow, and 
 that droll fellow was myself." And there in 
 Agen he lived in the practice of his twofold 
 vocation ; and died there in 1864. 
 
 His poems, written in the Gascon dialect, are 
 perhaps as popular in the South- of France as 
 those of Burns in Scotland. They have been 
 published in three volumes, bearing the title of 
 Las PapiUotos (the Curl-papers). The most cele- 
 brated is L'Abuglo de Cast'el-Cuille ; of which a 
 translation is given below. 
 
 A sketch of Jasmin may be found in Miss 
 Costello's " Be'arn and the Pyrenees." The fol- 
 lowing description is from a London newspaper : 
 
 " I paused before the liutel of the modest shop 
 inscribed, Jasmin, Pemuprier, Coiffeur de jeunes 
 Gens. A little brass basin dangled above the 
 threshold ; and, looking through the glass, I 
 saw the master of the establishment shaving a 
 fat-faced neighbor. Xow I had come to see 
 and pay my compliments to the poet, and there 
 did appear to me to be something strangelr 
 awkward and irresistibly ludicrous in having tc 
 address, to some extent, in a literary and com- 
 plimentary vein an individual actually engaged 
 in so excessively prosaic and unelevated a spe- 
 cies of performance. I retreated, uncertain what 
 to do, and waited outside until the shop was 
 clear. Three words explained the nature of my 
 visit, and Jasmin received me with a species of 
 
844 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 warm courtesy which was very charming : dash- 
 ing at once, with the most clattering volubility 
 and fiery speed of tongue, into a sort of rhap- 
 sodical discourse upon poetry in general, and 
 the patois of it, spoken in Languedoc, Provence, 
 and Gascony in particular. Jasmin is a well- 
 built and strong-limbed man of about fifty, with 
 a large massive head and a broad pile of fore- 
 head, overhanging two piercingly bright black 
 eyes, and features which would be heavy were 
 they allowed a moment's repose from the con- 
 tinual play of the facial muscles, sending a nev- 
 er-ending series of varying expressions across 
 the dark swarthy visage. Two sentences of his 
 conversation were quite sufficient to stamp his 
 individuality. 
 
 " The first thing which struck me was the utter 
 absence of all mock modesty, and the pretended 
 self-underrating conventionally assumed by per- 
 sons expecting to be complimented upon their 
 sayings and doings. Jasmin seemed thoroughly 
 to despise all such flimsy hypocrisy. ' God only 
 made four Frenchmen poets,' he out with, ' and 
 their names are, Corneille, Lafontaine. Be'ran- 
 ger, and Jasmin ! ' Talking with the most im- 
 passioned vehemence and the most redundant 
 energy of gesture, he went on to declaim against 
 the influences of civilization upon language and 
 manners as being fatal to all real poetry. If 
 the true inspiration yet existed upon earth, it 
 burned in the hearts and brains of men far re- 
 moved from cities, salons, and the clash and din 
 of social influences. Your only true poets were 
 the unlettered peasants, who poured forth their 
 hearts in song, not because they wished to 
 make poetry, but because they were joyous and 
 true. Colleges, academies, and schools of learn- 
 ing, schools of literature, and all such institu- 
 tions, Jasmin denounced as the curse and the 
 bane of true poetry. They had spoiled, he said, 
 the very French language. You could no more 
 write poetry in French now than you could in 
 arithmetical figures. The language had been 
 licked and kneaded, and tricked out, and plumed, 
 and dandified, and scented, and minced, and 
 ruled square, and chipped (I am trying to 
 give an idea of the strange flood of epithets 
 he used), and pranked out, and polished, and 
 muscadined, — until, for all honest purposes of 
 true high poetry, it was mere unavailable and 
 contemptible jargon. It might do for cheating 
 agents de change on the Bourse, — for squabbling 
 politicians in the Chambers, — for mincing dan- 
 dies in the salons, — for the sarcasm of Scribeish 
 comedies, or the coarse drolleries of Palais Koyal 
 farces, but for poetry the French language was 
 extinct. All modern poets who used it were 
 mere fakeurs de phrase, — thinking about words 
 and not feeling. 
 
 " ' No, no,' my Troubadour continued, ' to 
 write poetry you must get the language of a ru- 
 ral people, — a language talked among fields, 
 and trees, and by rivers and mountains, — a lan- 
 guage never minced or disfigured by academies 
 
 and dictionary-makers and journalists, — you 
 must have a language like that which your own 
 Burns — whom I read of in Chateaubriand — 
 used; or like the brave old mellow tongue — 
 unchanged for centuries — stutt'ed with the 
 strangest, quaintest, richest, raciest idioms and 
 odd solemn words, full of shifting meanings 
 and associations, at once pathetic and familiar, 
 homely and graceful, — the language which I 
 write in, and which has never yet been defiled 
 by calculating men of science or jack-a-dandy 
 litterateurs' The above sentences may be taken 
 as a specimen of the ideas with which Jasmin 
 seemed to be actually overflowing from every 
 pore in his body, so rapid, vehement, and loud 
 were his enunciations of them." 
 
 Of Jasmin's recitation of his poems in public, 
 the same writer says : "At a late recitation at 
 Auch, the ladies present actually tore the flow- 
 ers and feathers out of their bonnets, wove them 
 into extempore garlands, and flung them in 
 showers upon the panting minstrel ; while the 
 editors of the local papers next morning assured 
 him, in floods of flattering epigrams, that hum- 
 ble as he was now, future ages would acknowl- 
 edge the 'divinity' of Jasmin! .... 
 
 " There is a feature about these recitations 
 which is still more extraordinary than the un- 
 controllable fits of popular enthusiasm which 
 they produce. The last entertainment of the 
 kind given by Jasmin, in one of the Pyrenean 
 cities — I forget which — produced 2000 francs. 
 Every sou of this went to the public charities. 
 Jasmin will not accept a stiver of money so 
 earned. With a species of perhaps unrestrained, 
 hut certainly exalted chivalric feeling, he de- 
 clines to appear before an audience to exhibit 
 for money the gifts with which nature has en- 
 dowed him. After, perhaps, a brilliant tour 
 through the South of France, delighting vast 
 audiences in every city, and flinging many thou- 
 sands of francs into every poor-box which he 
 passes, the poet contentedly returns to his hum- 
 ble occupation, and to the little shop where he 
 earns his bread by his daily toil, as a barber and 
 hair-dresser. It will be generally admitted that 
 the man capable of self-denial of so truly heroic 
 a nature as this is no ordinary poetaster. One 
 would be puzzled to find a similar instance of 
 perfect and absolute disinterestedness in the roll 
 of minstrels, from Homer downwards , and, to 
 tell the truth, there does seem to be a spice of 
 Quixotism mingled with and tingeing the pure 
 fervor of the enthusiast. Certain it is. that the 
 Troubadours of yore, upon whose model Jasmin 
 professes to found his poetry, were by no means 
 so scrupulous. 'Largess' was a very promi- 
 nent word in the vocabulary." 
 
 THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 
 I. 
 At the foot of the mountain height 
 Where is perched Castel-Cuille, 
 
FEENCH. 
 
 845 
 
 
 When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree 
 In the plain below were growing white, 
 This is the song one might perceive 
 
 On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve : 
 
 " The roads should blossom, the roads should 
 
 bloom, 
 So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
 Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
 So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 
 
 This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, 
 Seemed from the clouds descending ; 
 When lo ! a merry company 
 Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye, 
 
 Each one with her attendant swain, 
 Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain ; 
 Resembling there, so near unto the sky, 
 Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent 
 For their delight and our encouragement. 
 
 Together blending, 
 
 And soon descending 
 
 The narrow sweep 
 
 Of the hillside steep, 
 
 They wind aslant 
 
 Towards Saint Amant, 
 
 Through leafy alleys 
 
 Of verdurous valleys 
 
 With merry sallies 
 
 Singing their chant : 
 
 " The roads should blossom, the roads should 
 
 bloom, 
 So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
 Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
 So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 
 
 It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, 
 With garlands for the bridal laden ! 
 
 The sky was blue ; without one cloud of gloom, 
 The sun of March was shining brightly, 
 
 And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly 
 Its breathings of perfume. 
 
 When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom, 
 A rustic bridal, ah ! how sweet it is ! 
 
 To sounds of joyous melodies, 
 That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom 
 A band of maidens 
 Gayly frolicking, 
 A band of youngsters 
 Wildly rollicking ! 
 Kissing, 
 Caressing, 
 With fingers pressing, 
 
 Till in the veriest 
 Madness of mirth, as they dance, 
 They retreat and advance, 
 
 Trying whose laugh shall be loudest 
 and merriest; 
 While the bride, with roguish eyes, 
 Sporting with them, now escapes and cries : 
 " Those who catch me 
 Married verily 
 This year shall be ! " 
 
 And all pursue with eager haste, 
 And all attain what they pursue, 
 And touch her pretty apron fresh and new, 
 And the linen kirtle round her waist. 
 
 Meanwhile, whence comes it that among 
 These youthful maidens fresh and fair, 
 So joyous, with such laughing air, 
 Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue? 
 And yet the bride is fair and young ! 
 
 Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, 
 
 That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall ? 
 O no ! for a maiden frail, I trow, 
 Never bore so lofty a brow ! 
 
 What lovers ! they give not a single caress ! 
 
 To see them so careless and cold to-day, 
 
 These are grand people, one would say. 
 
 What ails Baptiste 1 what grief doth him oppress? 
 
 It is, that, half-way up the hill, 
 In yon cottage, by whose walls 
 Stand the cart-house and the stalls, 
 Dwelleth the blind orphan still, 
 Daughter of a veteran old ; 
 And you must know, one year ago, 
 That Margaret, the young and tender, 
 Was the village pride and splendor, 
 And Baptiste her lover bold. 
 Love, the deceiver, them ensnared ; 
 For them the altar was prepared ; 
 But alas ! the summer's blight, 
 The dread disease that none can stay, 
 The pestilence that walks by night, 
 Took the young bride's sight away. 
 
 All at the father's stern command was changed ; 
 
 Their peace was gone, but not their love es- 
 tranged. 
 
 Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled ; 
 Returned but three short days ago, 
 The golden chain they round him throw, 
 He is enticed, and onward led 
 To marry Angela, and yet 
 Is thinking ever of Margaret. 
 
 Then suddenly a maiden cried, 
 " Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate ! 
 Here comes the cripple Jane ! " And by a foun- 
 tain's side 
 A woman, bent and gray with years, 
 Under the mulberry-trees appears, 
 And all towards her run, as fleet 
 As had they wings upon their feet. 
 
 It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, 
 Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. 
 She telleth fortunes, and none complain. 
 She promises one a village swain, 
 Another a happy wedding-day, 
 And the bride a lovely boy straightway. 
 All comes to pass as she avers ; 
 She never deceives, she never errs. 
 
 But for this once the village seer 
 Wears a countenance severe, 
 
846 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white 
 Her two eyes flash like cannons bright 
 Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue, 
 Who, like a statue, stands in view; 
 Changing color, as well he might, 
 When the beldame wrinkled and gray 
 Takes the young bride by the hand, 
 And, with the tip of her reedy wand 
 Making the sign of the cross, doth say : — 
 " Thoughtless Angela, beware ! 
 Lest when thou weddest this false bride- 
 groom, 
 Thou diggest for thyself a tomb ! " 
 And she was silent ; and the maidens fair 
 Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear; 
 But on a little streamlet silver-clear, 
 
 What are two drops of turbid rain ? 
 Saddened a moment, the bridal train 
 Resumed the dance and song again; 
 The bridegroom only was pale with fear ; — 
 And down green alleys 
 Of verdurous valleys, 
 With merry sallies, 
 They sang the refrain : — 
 
 " The roads should blossom, the roads should 
 
 bloom, 
 So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
 Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
 So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 
 
 And by suffering worn and weary, 
 But beautiful as some fair angel yet, 
 Thus lamented Margaret, 
 In her cottage lone and dreary : — 
 
 " He has arrived ! arrived at last ! 
 Yet Jane has named him not these three days 
 past! 
 
 Arrived ! yet keeps aloof so far ! 
 And knows that of my night he is the star ! 
 Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted, 
 And count the moments since he went awav ! 
 Come ! keep the promise of that happier day, 
 That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted ! 
 What joy have I without thee? what delight? 
 Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery; 
 Day for the others ever, but for me 
 
 Forever night ! forever night ! 
 When he is gone 't is dark ! my soul is sad ! 
 I suffer ! O my God ! come, make me glad. 
 When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude ; 
 Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue 
 
 eyes ! 
 Within them shines for me a heaven of love, 
 A heaven all happiness, like that above, 
 
 No more of grief! no more of lassitude ! 
 Earth I forget, — and heaven, and all distresses, 
 When seated by my side my hand he presses ; 
 
 But when alone, remember all ! 
 Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I call ! 
 A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, 
 
 I need some bough to twine around ! 
 
 In pity come ! be to my suffering kind ! 
 True love, they say, in grief doth more abound ! 
 What then — when one is blind? 
 
 " Who knows ? perhaps I am forsaken ! 
 Ah ! woe is me ! then bear me to my grave ! 
 
 God ! what thoughts within me waken ! 
 Away ! he will return ! I do but rave ! 
 
 He will return ! I need not fear ! 
 
 He swore it by our Saviour dear ; 
 
 He could not come at his own will ; 
 
 Is weary, or perhaps is ill ! 
 
 Perhaps his heart, in this disguise, 
 
 Prepares for me some sweet surprise ! 
 But some one comes ! Though blind, my heart 
 
 can see! 
 And that deceives me not ! 't is he ! 't is he ! 
 
 And the door ajar is set, 
 
 And poor, confiding Margaret 
 Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes ; 
 'T is only Paul, her brother, who thus cries : — 
 
 " Angela the bride has passed ! 
 
 1 saw the wedding guests go by ; 
 
 Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked ? 
 For all are there but you and I ! " 
 " Angela married ! and not send 
 To tell her secret unto me ! 
 O, speak ! who may the bridegroom be ? " 
 " My sister, 't is Baptiste, thy friend ! " 
 
 A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said; 
 
 A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks ; 
 An icy hand, as heavy as lead, 
 Descending, as her brother speaks, 
 Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat, 
 Suspends a while its life and heat. 
 
 She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed, 
 
 A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. 
 
 At length the bridal song again 
 Brings her back to her sorrow and pain. 
 
 " Hark ! the joyous airs are ringing ! 
 Sister, dost thou hear them singing ? 
 How merrily they laugh and jest ! 
 Would we were bidden with the rest ! 
 I would don my hose of homespun gray, 
 And my doublet of linen striped and gay ; 
 Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed 
 Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said ! " 
 " I know it ! " answered Margaret ; 
 
 Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet, 
 Mastered again ; and its hand of ice 
 
 Held her heart crushed, as in a vice ! 
 
 " Paul, be not sad ! 'T is a holiday ; 
 To-morrow put on thy doublet gay ! 
 But leave me now for a while alone." 
 Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul, 
 And, as he whistled along the hall, 
 Entered Jane, the crippled crone. 
 
 " Holy Virgin ! what dreadful heat ! 
 
 I am faint, and weary, and out of breath \ 
 
 
FRENCH. 
 
 847 
 
 But thou art cold, — art chill as death; 
 My little friend ! what ails thee, sweet 1 " 
 " Nothing ! I heard them singing home the 
 bride ; 
 And, as I listened to the song, 
 I thought my turn would come erelong, 
 Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. 
 Thy cards forsooth can never lie. 
 To me such joy they prophesy, 
 Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide 
 When they behold him at my side. 
 And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou ? 
 It must seem long to him ; — methinks I see 
 him now ! " 
 Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press : 
 " Thy love I cannot all approve; 
 We must not trust too much to happiness ; — 
 Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less ! " 
 
 " The more I pray, the more I love ! 
 It is no sin, for God is on my side ! " 
 It was enough ; and Jane no more replied. 
 
 Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold ; 
 But to deceive the beldame old 
 She takes a sweet, contented air; 
 Speak of foul weather or of fair, 
 At every word the maiden smiles ! 
 Thus the beguiler she beguiles ; 
 
 So that, departing at the evening's close, 
 
 She says, " She may be saved ! she nothing 
 knows ! " 
 
 Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress ! 
 Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess ! 
 This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, 
 
 Thou wast so, far beyond thine art ! 
 
 Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating, 
 And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky, 
 Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting, 
 How differently ! 
 
 Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, 
 
 The one puts on her cross and crown, 
 Decks with a huge bouquet her breast, 
 And flaunting, fluttering up and down, 
 Looks at herself, and cannot rest. 
 
 The other, blind, within her little room, 
 
 Has neither crown nor flower's perfume ; 
 But in their stead for something gropes apart, 
 
 That in a drawer's recess doth lie, 
 And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye, 
 
 Convulsive clasps it to her heart. 
 
 The one, fantastic, light as air, 
 
 'Mid kisses ringing, 
 
 And joyous singing, 
 Forgets to say her morning prayer ! 
 
 The other, with cold drops upon her brow, 
 Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the 
 floor, 
 
 And whispers, as her brother opes the door, 
 " O God ! forgive me now ! " 
 
 And then the orphan, young and blind, 
 
 Conducted by her brother's hand, 
 
 Towards the church, through paths un- 
 scanned, 
 
 With tranquil air her way doth wind. 
 Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale, 
 
 Bound her at times exhale, 
 And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, 
 
 But brumal vapors gray. 
 
 Near that castle, fair to see, 
 Crowded with sculptures old, in every part, 
 
 Marvels of nature and of art, 
 
 And proud of its name of high degree, 
 
 A little chapel, almost bare 
 
 At the base of the rock, is builded there; 
 
 All glorious that it lifts aloof, 
 
 Above each jealous cottage roof, 
 Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales, 
 
 And its blackened steeple high in air, 
 
 Round which the osprey screams and sails. 
 
 " Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by ! " 
 Thus Margaret said. " Where are we ? we as- 
 cend ! " 
 
 " Yes ; seest thou not our journey's end ? 
 Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry ? 
 The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know ! 
 Dost thou remember when our father said, 
 
 The night we watched beside his bed, 
 
 ' daughter, I am weak and low ; 
 Take care of Paul ; I feel that I am dying ! ' 
 And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying"? 
 Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud ; 
 And here they brought our father in his shroud. 
 There is his grave ; there stands the cross we 
 
 set ; 
 Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret ' 
 
 Come in ! The bride will be here soon : 
 Thou tremblest ! O my God ! thou art going 
 
 to swoon ! " 
 She could no more, — the blind girl, weak and 
 
 weary ! 
 A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary, 
 " What wouldst thou do, my daughter 1" — and 
 she started ; 
 
 And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted ; 
 But Paul, impatient, urges ever more 
 
 Her steps towards the open door ; 
 And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid 
 Crushes the laurel near the house immortal, 
 And with her head, as Paul talks on again, 
 
 Touches the crown of filigrane 
 
 Suspended from the low-arched portal, 
 
 No more restrained, no more afraid, 
 
 She walks, as for a feast arrayed, 
 And in the ancient chapel's sombre night 
 
 They both are lost to sight. 
 
 At length the bell, 
 With booming sound, 
 Sends forth, resounding round, 
 Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell. 
 
SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 It is broad day, with sunshine and with 
 rain ; 
 And yet the guests delay not long, 
 For soon arrives the bridal train, 
 And with it brings the village throng. 
 
 In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, 
 For io ! Baptiste on this triumphant day, 
 Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning, 
 Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning. 
 
 And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis ; 
 To be a bride is all ! The pretty lisper 
 Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whis- 
 per 
 " How beautiful ! how beautiful she is ! " 
 
 But she must calm that giddy head, 
 For already the Mass is said ; 
 At the holy table stands the priest ; 
 The wedding ring is blessed ; Baptiste receives it. 
 Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it, 
 
 He must pronounce one word at least ! 
 'T is spoken ; and sudden at the groomsman's 
 
 side 
 "'T is he ! " a well-known voice has cried, 
 le the \ 
 breath, 
 
 Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see ! 
 " Baptiste," she said, " since thou hast wished 
 
 my death, 
 As holy water be my blood for thee ! " 
 And calmly in the air a knife suspended ! 
 Doubtless her guardian angel near attended, 
 For anguish did its work so well, 
 That, ere the fatal stroke descended, 
 Lifeless she fell ! 
 
 At eve, instead of bridal verse, 
 The De Profundis filled the air ; 
 Decked with flowers a simple hearse 
 To the churchyard forth they bear ; 
 Village girls in robes of snow 
 Follow, weeping as they go ; 
 Nowhere was a smile that day, 
 No, ah no ! for each one seemed to say : — 
 
 " The roads should mourn and be veiled in 
 
 gloom, 
 So fair a corpse shall leave its home ! 
 Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away ! 
 So fair a corpse shall pass to-day ! " 
 
 ALFEED DE MUSSET. 
 
 This favorite poet of the present generation 
 of Frenchmen — more admired than Lamar- 
 tine, and not less so than Victor Hugo — was 
 born in Paris in 1810, and died there in 1857. 
 He belongs, says his brother, in the Notice 
 prefixed to his CEuvres Posthumes, " to that ar- 
 dent and impassioned generation, whose moral 
 
 sufferings he has studied and described. His 
 birth was celebrated in his family with less 
 noise, but with as much joy, as that of the 
 King of Rome, who came into the world a 
 short time after him. The first cannons he 
 heard were those of public rejoicing ; but soon 
 afterward the people about him spoke only of 
 the disasters of our armies and the misfortunes 
 of France. The precocity of his intellect, and 
 the tears of his mother made him comprehend 
 the grandeur of these events, and his natural 
 sensibility, developed by the first impressions 
 of his childhood, became excessive." 
 
 His literary career began at the age of 
 eighteen with a translation of De Quincey's 
 " Confessions of an English Opium-Eater " ; 
 and closed only with his life, at the age of 
 forty-seven. His works consist of poems, lyric 
 and narrative, of proverbs, comedies, miscella- 
 nies, tales in verse and prose, and a romance of 
 the Werther and Obermann school, entitled La 
 Confession d'un Enfant du Siecle. They are 
 written with great artistic skill and great fas- 
 cination of style, and are all tinged, and some- 
 times saturated, with the life of Paris. It can- 
 not be denied that, with all their elegance and 
 charm, many of them belong to " the literature 
 of despair," and that often their author, like 
 some of the mediaeval artists, has painted the 
 Devil with an aureole. 
 
 Musset is of the school of Heine and Byron. 
 Like the Euphorion of Faust, " Him the Melo- 
 dies Eternal have through all his members 
 moulded." His poetry produced the same sen- 
 sation in France that Byron's did in England 
 fifty years ago. Sainte-Beuve calls him " Che- 
 rubin playing Don Juan at a masked ball," and 
 says : " When these poems of Namouna and 
 Eolla had only appeared in the reviews, and had 
 not yet been collected in a volume, law students 
 and medical students knew them by heart, from 
 beginning to end, and recited them to their 
 friends, the new-comers." Lamartine calls him 
 " The child with golden hair, the youth with 
 heart of wax," and describes him in his Cours 
 de Litte'rature, Entretien XVIII. , as he saw him 
 at Charles Nodier's. Speaking of the careless 
 ease that formed the weakness of Nodier's char- 
 acter, he goes on to say : " This same weak- 
 ness, this grace, this perpetual youth of char- 
 acter were visibly stamped upon the features 
 of Alfred de Musset. We saw him once or 
 twice, at this time, carelessly stretched in the 
 shadow upon a divan in the dark saloon of 
 Nodier, his elbow on a cushion, and his head 
 leaning on his hand. He was a handsome 
 youth, with hair well oiled, and floating upon 
 his shoulders, his face regularly framed in an 
 oval a little elongated, and also a little pallid 
 with the vigils of the muse. A forehead rather 
 abstracted than pensive, eyes rather dreamy 
 than brilliant (two stars rather than two flames), 
 a finely cut mouth, undecided between a smile 
 and sadness, a tall and lithe figure, which 
 
FRENCH. 
 
 849 
 
 seemed to bend already beneath the light bur- 
 den of his youth ; a modest and habitual silence 
 amid a chattering society of women and poets, 
 — these traits complete his portrait. 
 
 " He was not yet celebrated. I was only 
 passing through Paris. Hugo and Nodier point- 
 ed him out to me as a shade, which one day 
 would have a man's name. Later, I once or 
 twice found myself seated at his side at the 
 meeting's of the French Academy. I recog- 
 nized the same face, but lengthened by suffer- 
 ing, and a little overcast by years. They count 
 double for men of pleasure. The most striking 
 expression of his countenance at that time was 
 goodness. One felt involuntarily drawn to love 
 him He was innoceut of all that de- 
 fames life ; he had no need of pardon ; he need- 
 ed only friendship, and one would have been 
 happy to offer it to him. That is the senti- 
 ment his countenance inspired. 
 
 " We exchanged only some of those insig- 
 nificant questions and answers which two 
 strangers address to each other, when chance 
 brings them together in a public ass-embly. He 
 took me for a rigorist, who would not have 
 deigned to fraternize with a child of the age. 
 He was very much mistaken. It was at that 
 period he wrote in his last sonnet that equivo- 
 cal line, in which one cannot clearly divine 
 whether he reproaches me with my age, or ac- 
 cuses himself of, his own, — 
 
 ' Old Lamartine, who treats me as a child ' 
 
 Alas ! we have all been young ! and I wish that 
 Alfred de Musset had received from heaven 
 that complement of the human day which we 
 call evening. I should have been happy to 
 grow young again in mind and heart, with a 
 poet who bore, as he did, his years without 
 growing old." 
 
 Besides this Essay of Lamartine, two articles 
 upon Musset by Sainte-Beuve will be found in 
 his Causeries du Lundi, Vols. I. and XIII. 
 
 Musset's first volume of poems appeared in 
 1830, when the author was twenty years of age. 
 It was entitled Contes d'Espagne et d'ltalie, and 
 contained, among other things, that fantastic 
 Ballade a la Lune, which excited so much ridi- 
 cule at the time, and which his enemies never 
 forgot, beginning, — 
 
 " C'etait, dans la nuit brune, 
 Sur le clocher jauni, 
 
 La lune, 
 Comme un point sur un i." 
 
 His second volume of verse, Poesies Diverses, 
 was published in 1831 ; the third, Un Spectacle 
 dans un Fauteuil, in 1833, and the fourth, Poe'- 
 sies Nouvdles, in 1840, when they appeared to- 
 gether in one volume, with these lines by way 
 of preface, — 
 
 This little hook is all my youth ; 
 'Twas made almost without reflection; 
 It shows it, to confess the truth, 
 And I might venture some correction. 
 107 
 
 But since men change without cessation, 
 Why should we try to change the past * 
 Fly, bird of passage, far and fast, 
 God guide thee to thy destination. 
 
 Whoever thou art, that readest me, 
 Read to the ntmost that may be, 
 
 And then condemn me he who can. 
 My first rhymes are a child's, in sooth ; 
 My second only of a youth, 
 
 My last are hardly of a man 
 
 One of Musset's most ardent admirers, Mr. 
 Taine, in the last chapter of his Histoire de la 
 Litterature Anglaise, paints in glowing colors the 
 contrast between the life of a poet in England 
 and in France, and the difference of the influ- 
 ences that act upon them. He says : " There are 
 two peoples in France ; the province and Paris : 
 the one that dines, sleeps, yawns, and listens ; 
 and the other that thinks, dares, keeps awake, 
 and speaks: the first dragged by the second, 
 like a beetle by a butterfly, in turn amused and 
 disquieted by the caprices and audacity of its 
 leaders." He then describes Paris by night 
 with its flaming streets, its luminous dust, the 
 busy, noisy crowd that jostles and swarms about 
 the doors of theatres, and in the cafe's ; the pale 
 faces, the restless eyes, the nervous gestures, the 
 bedraggled robes of courtesans, the odor of gas, 
 the exhalations of the pavements. He describes 
 the gilded drawing-rooms, with their factitious en- 
 joyments, unhealthy and irritating, too prompt, 
 too keen, too multiplied ; the highly colored 
 phrases, the crude anecdotes, the biting sarcasms, 
 the new truths, the various ideas of people, 
 " who amuse themselves with all their might, 
 and discover that the)" are very little amused." 
 He then adds : " This great city is cosmopo- 
 lite ; all kinds of ideas can be born in it ; 
 there is no barrier there to arrest the mind ; the 
 immense field of thought lies open, without any 
 
 beaten or prescribed road On entering 
 
 life a Frenchman finds, on all great questions, 
 only doubts proposed. In this conflict of opin- 
 ions he must make his faith for himself; and 
 for the most part, not being able to do it, he 
 remains exposed to all kinds of uncertainty, 
 and consequently to all kinds of inquiries and 
 
 sufferings This is the world for which 
 
 Alfred de Musset wrote. It is in this Paris 
 that he must read. Must be read > We all 
 know him by heart. He is dead, and yet every 
 day we seem to hear him speak. The talk of 
 artists jesting in an atelier, a beautiful young 
 girl leaning over the edge of her box at the 
 theatre, a street washed by the rain, where the 
 darkened paving-stones shine, a fresh, smiling 
 morning in the forest of Fontainebleau, — there 
 is nothing that does not bring him before us, as 
 if alive again. Was there ever accent more 
 sonorous and true * He at least never lied. 
 He said only what he felt, and said it as he felt 
 it. He thought aloud. He made the univer- 
 sal confession. We did not admire, we loved 
 him. Each one found in him his own feel- 
 ings, the most fugitive, the most secret ; he sur- 
 
850 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 rendered himself, he gave himself, he possessed 
 the last of the virtues remaining to us, gener- 
 osity and sincerity. He had the most precious 
 of the gifts that can fascinate an old civiliza- 
 tion, youth ! . . . . What ! so young, and al- 
 ready so weary ! So many precious gifts, an 
 intellect so fine, a tact so delicate, a fancy so 
 inconstant and so rich, a fame so precocious, so 
 sudden an unfolding of beauty and of genius, 
 and at the same moment, anguish, disgust, and 
 tears and cries ! What a medley ! With the 
 same gesture he adores and blasphemes. Eter- 
 nal illusion, invincible experience, are in him 
 side by side, to struggle and lacerate him. 
 He grew old and he remained young ; he is a 
 poet, and he is a sceptic. The Muse with her 
 tranquil beauty, Nature with her immortal 
 freshness, Love with his beneficent smile, all 
 the swarm of divine visions hardly pass before 
 his sight, when we see approaching, amid male- 
 dictions and sarcasms, all the spectres of de- 
 bauchery and deajh. Like a man at a banquet 
 drinking from a chased goblet, upright in the 
 foremost place, amid applause and the fanfares 
 of trumpets, with laughing eyes, and joy at the 
 bottom of his heart, warmed and enlivened by 
 generous wine, and who suddenly turns pale ; 
 there was poison in the cup ; he falls and gasps 
 for breath ; his feet convulsively beat the silken 
 carpets, and all the guests look on in terror. 
 That is what we felt that day when the most 
 beloved, the most brilliant among us, suddenly 
 staggered under an invisible blow, and fell with 
 a death-gasp amid the deceitful splendors and 
 gayeties of our banquet." 
 
 In 1852, Alfred de Musset was elected a 
 member of the French Academy. The reader 
 will not find his Discours de Reception too long, 
 though Piron said that a discourse of this kind 
 should consist of only four words, " Mes- 
 sieurs, I thank you " ; and the Director should 
 reply, " Monsieur, you have no occasion." In 
 this discourse, which, according to custom, is a 
 eulogy on his predecessor, he turns aside for a 
 moment to justify himself. " I protest," he 
 says, " with all my force against those inexora- 
 ble condemnations, those preconceived judg- 
 ments which make the man expiate the faults 
 of the child : which forbid us, in the name of 
 the Past, ever to have any common sense, and 
 which make use of the defects which we no 
 longer have to punish us for those we never 
 had. It is not here, it is not in this hall, that 
 I need fear such cruel prejudices ; and the 
 best proof that I can have of this is, that I am 
 now speaking before you." 
 
 Indeed the later poems of Musset show, that 
 he was passing out of the hot and lurid atmos- 
 phere in which he had so long lingered, into 
 a clearer and purer air. Among these later 
 pieces the most admired are the four " Nights " 
 of May, August, October, and December, which, 
 it is to be regretted, have never yet been trans- 
 lated into English. 
 
 From his childhood, Musset had been subject 
 to an organic disease of the heart. In his 
 robust youth the symptoms disappeared, but in 
 later manhood reappeared. On the night of 
 the 2d of May, 1857, his heart ceased to beat. 
 His last poem was this : — 
 
 For these last eighteen months, the hour of Death 
 On every side is sounding in my ears ; 
 For eighteen months of sorrows and of tears, 
 
 I see it everywhere, and feel its breath. 
 
 The more I struggle with my grief profound 
 The more awakes in me the sense of ill ; 
 
 And if I set my foot upon the ground, 
 Suddenly do I feel my heart stand still. 
 
 My strength to struggle faints and wastes away, 
 
 All is a combat till my final rest, 
 And like a courser, wearied with the day, 
 
 Courage exhausted sinks within my breast. 
 
 A beautiful edition of the CEurres Completes 
 d'Alfred de Musset, has been published in 10 
 Vols. 8vo, Paris, 1866. The last volume con- 
 tains a sketch of his life by his brother. The 
 reader is referred also to the Discours of M. de 
 Laprade, Musset's successor in the Academy, 
 March 17, 1859, and to the reply of the Direc- 
 tor M. Vitet, who, speaking of the poet's youth- 
 ful popularity, says : " But do you know what 
 this early fame has cost him 1 It has nearly 
 eclipsed for a quarter of a century his true 
 fame, the work of his maturity. An Alfred de 
 Musset of eighteen, laughing and mocking, 
 coldly ironical, a charming story-teller, a piti- 
 less jester, at open war with prosody as well as 
 with morality, a kind of sceptical and licentious 
 nightingale, — this Alfred de Musset everybody 
 knows. But that there exists another, — that 
 five or six years later, and for too brief an in- 
 terval, this Cherubin grown to man's estate, 
 always a poet and moreover a thinker, — that 
 this Robin Goodfellow, this revolted rhymer, 
 had comprehended the serious side of life, and 
 the necessity of the laws of taste ; — that, 
 taught by suffering he had become capable of 
 prayer and tears, and that he had written 
 verses, perhaps the most touching, certainly the 
 most pure, of our modern poetry, — this is 
 known only in a certain circle, and I might 
 say to a few scholars only." 
 
 FROM ROLLA. 
 
 Woexdst thou recall the days, when upon 
 earth 
 
 Heaven dwelt and breathed among a race di- 
 vine 1 
 
 When Venus rose, still virgin, from the brine, 
 
 Shook from her limbs the tear-drops of her 
 birth, 
 
 And wringing from her hair the mother-wave, 
 
 Joy and fecundity to nature gave ? 
 
 The days when 'mid the flow'ring water-weeds 
 
 Buoyed in the sunshine, lay the wanton 
 nymph, 
 
FRENCH. 
 
 851 
 
 Intent with saucy laughter to provoke 
 
 Tiie lazy faun stretched out among the reeds ? 
 
 When lone Narcissus kissed the trembling 
 
 lymph, 
 When mocking Dryads hid in every oak, 
 Or started from the bark, their green abode, 
 On bending branches in the wind to sway, 
 While Echo warbled back the traveller's lay ? 
 When Hercules throughout creation strode 
 In blood-stained mautle of the lion's hide, 
 With everlasting justice at his side? 
 When all was godlike, even human pain, 
 And men paid worship to what now is slain ? 
 All happy, — save Prometheus alone, 
 He, Satan's elder-born, and fall'n like him. 
 Or when the breath of change passed cold 
 
 and dim 
 O'er all, earth, man, and heaven, like a cloud, 
 And the world's cradle had become its tomb : 
 When from the North the avalanche of doom 
 O'er Rome's vast ruin wrapped its icy shroud : 
 Wouldst thou recall the days, when as at 
 
 first 
 A savage age brought forth an age of gold ? 
 When like to Lazarus the dead earth burst 
 Fresh from her tomb, and back the gravestone 
 
 rolled ? 
 The days when spreading wide its golden 
 
 wings, 
 Romance for realms enchanted took its flight ; 
 Our monuments, our creeds, our sacred things 
 Still wore unsullied robes of virgin white ? 
 When 'neath Christ's master-hand all lived 
 
 anew, 
 When the priest's home, the prince's palace 
 
 high, 
 The self-same radiant cross upheld to view, 
 Based on the mountain, looking towards the 
 
 sky? 
 When Notre Dame, St. Peter's, and Cologne, 
 And Strasbourg, kneeling in their cloaks of 
 
 stone, 
 Poured with the organ of a world in prayer 
 The centuries' grand birth-psalm through the 
 
 air? 
 When deeds were done which history has 
 
 sung ; 
 The ivory rood o'er hallowed altars hung, 
 Its spotless arms to all mankind did ope, 
 When life was young, and even death could 
 
 hope! 
 
 ON THREE STEPS OF ROSE-COLORED MARBLE. 
 
 Sixce erst that garden, known to fame, 
 Was lost by Adam, — cruel man, — 
 Where without a skirt, his dame 
 Round an apple frisked and ran, 
 I do not think that on this earth 
 'Mid its most notable plantations 
 Has been a spot more praised, more famed, 
 More choice, more cited, oftener named, 
 Than thy most tedious park, Versailles ! 
 gods ! shepherds ! rocky vales ! 
 
 sulky Termes, satyrs old ! 
 pleasing scenes ! charming views ! 
 Sweet landscape, where one may behold, 
 Ranged onion-wise, the little yews ; 
 
 quincunx ! fountain, bowling-green, 
 Where every summer Sabbath-e'en 
 On pleasure bent, one yawning sees 
 So many honest families. 
 
 And ye imperial Roman shades ! 
 Ye naiads, pale and stony maids, 
 Holding your hands outstretched to all 
 And shivering in your waterfall ! 
 Stiles, modelled in obliging bushes ; 
 Ye formal groves, wherein the thrushes 
 Seek plaintively their native cry ; 
 Ye water-gods, who vainly try 
 Beneath your fountains to be dry; 
 Ye chestnut-trees, be not afraid 
 That I shall vex your ancient shade, 
 Knowing that at sundry times 
 
 1 have perpetrated rhymes : 
 
 No such ruthless thought is mine. 
 
 No ! I swear it by Apollo, 
 
 I swear it by the sacred Nine, 
 
 By nymphs within their basins hollow, 
 
 Who softly on three flints recline, 
 
 By yon old faun, quaint dancing-master, 
 
 Who trips it on the sward in plaster, 
 
 By thee thyself, august abode, 
 
 Who know'st save Art no other guest, 
 
 I swear by Neptune, watery god, 
 
 My verses shall not break your rest ! 
 
 I know too well what is the matter ; 
 
 The god of song has plagued you sore ; 
 
 The poets, with their ceaseless chatter, 
 
 You brood in mournful silence o'er : 
 
 So many madrigals and odes, 
 
 Songs, ballads, sonnets, and epodes, 
 
 In which your wonders have been sung 
 
 Your tired ears have sadly wrung, 
 
 Until you slumber to the chimes 
 
 Of these interminable rhymes. 
 
 Amid these haunts where dwells ennui 
 For mere conformity I slept, 
 Or 't was not sleep that o'er me crept, 
 If, dreaming, one awake may be. 
 
 say, my friend, do you recall 
 Three marble steps, of rosy hue, 
 Upon your way toward the lake, 
 When that delicious path you take 
 That leads the orangery through, 
 Left-turning from the palace wall ? 
 
 1 would wager it was here 
 Came the monarch without peer, 
 In the sunset, red and clear, 
 Down the forest dim to see 
 
 Day take flight and disappear, — 
 
 If the day could so forget 
 
 What was due to etiquette. 
 
 But what pretty steps are those ! 
 
 Cursed be the foot, said we, 
 
 That would stain their tints of rose, — 
 
 Say, do you remember yet ? 
 
852 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 With what soft shades is clouded o'er 
 This defaced and broken floor ! 
 See the veins of azure deep 
 Through the paler rose-tints creep ; 
 Trace the slender, branching line 
 In the marble, pure and fine ; 
 So through huntress Dian's breast 
 White and firm as Alpine snows, 
 The celestial ichor flows ; 
 Such the hand, and still more cold, 
 Led me leashed in days of old. 
 Don't confound these steps so rare 
 With that other staircase where 
 The monarch grand, who could not wait, 
 Waited on Conde', stair by stair, 
 When he came with weary gait, 
 War-worn and victorious there. 
 Near a marble vase are these, 
 Of graceful shape and white as snow, 
 Whether 't is classic or Chinese, 
 Antique or modern, others know. 
 I leave the question in their hands; 
 It is not Gothic, I can swear ; 
 Much I like it where it stands, 
 Worthy vase, and neighbor kind, 
 And to think it I 'm inclined 
 Cousin to my rosy stair, 
 Guarding it with jealous care. 
 O, to see in such small space 
 So much beauty, so much grace ! 
 
 Lovely staircase, tell us true, 
 How many princes, prelates proud, 
 Kings, marquises, — a pompous crowd, — 
 And ladies fair, have swept o'er you ? 
 Ah, these last, as I should guess, 
 Did not vex thee with their state, 
 Nor didst thou groan beneath the weight 
 Of ermine cloak or velvet dress : 
 Tell us, of that ambitious band 
 Whose dainty footstep lightest fell ; 
 Was it the regal Montespan ? 
 Hortense, a novel in her hand ? 
 De Maintenon with beads to tell 1 
 Or gay fontanges, with knot and fan ? 
 Didst ever look on La Valliere? 
 And tell us, marble, if you can, 
 Which of the twain you thought most fair, 
 De Parabere or De Sabran 1 
 'Twixt Sabran and De Parabere 
 The very Regent could not choose 
 When supper did his wits confuse. 
 Didst ever see the great Voltaire, 
 Who waged such war' on superstition, 
 Who to defy the Christ did dare ; 
 He, who aspired to the position 
 Of sexton to Cytherea's fane, 
 When to the Pompadour he brought. 
 His compliments and fulsome strain, 
 The holy water of the court. 
 Hast beheld the plump Dubarry 
 Accoutred like a country lass, 
 Sipping milk, beside thee tarry, 
 Or tripping barefoot through the grass 1 
 
 Stones who know our country's story, 
 What a variegated throng 
 In your bygone days of glory 
 Down your steps have swept along ! 
 The gay world lounged beneath these trees, 
 Lords and lackeys drank the breeze ; 
 There was every sort of cattle ; 
 O the duchesses ! the tattle, 
 O the brave red heels that dangled 
 Round the ladies, flounced and spangled ! 
 the gossip ! the sighs ! 
 O the flash of brilliant eyes ! 
 the feathers ! O the stoles ! 
 O the powder on their polls ! 
 O the furbelows and breeches 
 Underneath those spreading beeches ! 
 
 How many folk — not counting fools — 
 
 By the ancient fountain-pools! 
 
 Ah ! it was the good old time 
 
 Of the periwig sublime ; 
 
 Lives the cockney who dares grudge 
 
 One iota of its state, 
 
 He deserves, as I adjudge, 
 
 On his thick plebeian pate 
 
 Now and evermore to wear 
 
 Other ornament than hair. 
 
 Century of mocking wood, 
 
 Age of powder and of paste, 
 
 He who does not find thee good, 
 
 Writes himself devoid of taste, 
 
 Lacking sentiment, and stupid, 
 
 Votary abhorred by Cupid. 
 
 Rosy marble, is 't not so t 
 
 Yet, despite myself, I trow 
 
 Though here thy fate is fixed by chance, 
 
 Other destiny was thine ; 
 
 Ear away from cloudy France, 
 
 Where a warmer sun doth shine, 
 
 Near some temple, Greek or Latin, 
 
 The fair daughters of the clime 
 
 With the scent of heath and thyme 
 
 Clinging to their sandalled feet, 
 
 Treading thee in rhythmic dance, 
 
 Were a burden far more sweet 
 
 Than court-ladies, shod with satin. 
 
 Could it be for this alone 
 
 Nature formed thee in the earth, 
 
 In whose beauteous virgin stone, 
 
 Genius might have wrought a birth 
 
 Every age had joyed to own % 
 
 When with trowel and with spade 
 
 In this muddy, modern park 
 
 Thou in solemn state wert laid, 
 
 Then the outraged gods might mark 
 
 What the times had brought about, — 
 
 Mansard, in his triumph, flout 
 
 Praxiteles' injured shade»! 
 
 There should have come forth of thee 
 Some new-born divinity. 
 When the marble-cutters hewed 
 Through thy noble block their way, 
 They broke in, with footsteps rude, 
 Where a Venus sleeping lay ; 
 
FRENCH. 
 
 853 
 
 And the goddess' wounded veins 
 Colored thee with roseate stains. 
 
 Alas ! and must we count it truth 
 That every rare and precious thing, 
 Flung forth at random, without ruth, 
 Trodden underfoot may lie 2 
 The crag, where, in sublime repose, 
 The eagle stoops to rest his wing, 
 No less than any wayside rose 
 Dropped in the common dust to die ? 
 Can the mother of us all 
 Leave her work, to fulness brought, 
 Lost in the gulf of chance to fall, 
 As oblivion swallows thought ? 
 Torn away from ocean's rim 
 To be fashioned at a whim, 
 Does the briny tempest hurl 
 To the workman's feet the pearl 1 
 Shall the vulgar, idle crowd 
 For all ages be allowed 
 To degrade earth's choicest treasure 
 At the arbitrary pleasure 
 Of a mason or a churl ? 
 
 RECOLLECTION. 
 
 I feared to suffer, though I hoped to weep 
 In seeing thee again, thou hallowed ground, 
 Where ever dear remembrance for her sleep 
 A tomb has found. 
 
 Friends, in this solitude what did you dread, 
 Why did ye seek my footsteps to restrain, 
 When sweet and ancient custom hither led 
 My feet again ? 
 
 Here are these haunts beloved, the flow'ry waste, 
 The silvery footprints on the silent sand, 
 The paths, where lost in love-talk sweet we 
 paced, 
 Hand locked in hand. 
 
 Here are the pine-trees with their sombre green, 
 The deep ravine, with rocky, winding ways, 
 Lulled by whose ancient murmurs I have seen 
 Such happy days. 
 
 Here are the thickets, where my joyous youth 
 Sings like a choir of birds in every tree ; 
 Sweet wilds, that saw my mistress pass, in sooth 
 Looked ye for me ? 
 
 Kay, let them flow, for they arc precious tears, 
 The tears that from a heart unhardened rise, 
 Nor brush away this mist of bygone years 
 From off mine eyes ! 
 
 I shall not wake with vain and bitter cry 
 The echo of these woods, where I was blest ; 
 Proud is the forest in its beauty high, 
 Proud is my breast. 
 
 Let him devote himself to endless woes 
 Who kneels alone beside a loved one's tomb ; 
 
 But here all breathes of life, the churchyard 
 rose 
 Here does not bloom. 
 
 And lo ! the moon is rising through the 
 
 shades ; 
 Her glance still trembles, " beauteous queen of 
 
 night " ; 
 But all the dark horizon she pervades 
 With growing light. 
 
 As all the perfumes of the buried day 
 Rise from this soil, still humid with the rain, 
 So from my softened breast, beneath her ray, 
 Rises my love again. 
 
 Whither have fled the griefs that made me old 1 
 Vanished is all that vexed my life before, 
 I grow, as I this friendly vale behold, 
 A child once more. 
 
 fatal power of time ! fleeting hours ! 
 Our tears, our cries, our vain regrets ye hush, 
 But pity moves you, and our faded flowers 
 Te do not crush. 
 
 PALE STAR OF ETEN". 
 
 Pale star of even, on thy distant quest 
 
 Lifting thy radiant brow from twilight's veil, 
 From out thy azure palace in the west, 
 
 What seest thou in the dale ? 
 The storm recedes, the winds are lulled to rest, 
 
 The shivering trees weep on the grass be- 
 neath, 
 The evening butterfly, with gilded crest, 
 
 Flits o'er the fragrant heath. 
 What seekest thou on Nature's sleeping breast? 
 
 Down toward the mountains thou art sinking 
 fast, 
 Sinking and smiling, sweet and pensive guest ; 
 
 Thy tremulous gaze has almost looked its 
 last. 
 
 Sad, silvery tear on evening's mantle brown, 
 
 Slow gliding downward to the verdant steep, 
 The shepherd sees thee, as across the down 
 
 He homeward leads his lingering flock of 
 sheep. 
 Star, at this silent hour so strangely fair, 
 
 Through boundless night, 0, whither dost 
 thou go ? 
 To seek beside the shore a reedy lair, 
 
 Or like a pearl, sink in the gulf below ? 
 O, if thy glowing tresses thou must wet 
 
 In ocean's brine, fair star, if thou must die, 
 Ere thou forsake us, stay a moment yet ; 
 
 Sweet star of love ! ah, do not leave the sky ! 
 
 A LAST WORD. 
 
 Thing of a day ! Fret out thy little hour ; 
 
 Whence thy unceasing plaint, thy bitter cry? 
 And why in tears consume thy spirit's pow'r? 
 
 Immortal is thy soul, thy tears will dry. 
 
854 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Thy heart is racked and wrung by love be- 
 trayed, 
 Beneath the strain 't will break, or cease to 
 feel; 
 Thou prayest God to hasten to thine aid : 
 Immortal is thy soul, thy heart will heal. 
 
 By longing and regret thy life is torn, 
 
 The past shuts out the future from thine eye ; 
 
 Grieve not for yesterday, — await the morn; 
 Immortal is thy soul, time passes by. 
 
 Thy form is bent beneath oppressive thought, 
 Thy brow is burdened, and thy limbs give 
 way ; 
 0, bow the knee ! fall prostrate, thing of 
 naught ! 
 Immortal is thy soul, death frees thy clay. 
 
 Thy mouldering form its mother-earth will feed, 
 Thy glory, name, and memory must die, 
 
 But not thy love, if thou hast loved indeed, 
 Thy deathless soul will cherish it on high. 
 
 FELIX ARVEPS. 
 
 " A sonnet has saved the name of Felix 
 Arvers, which his comedies and vaudevilles 
 would perhaps have left to perish," says M. 
 Asselineau in the excellent collection of Les 
 Poetes Frangais, by M. Cre'pet. " This is not 
 one of your erudite sonnets," writes Sainte- 
 Beuve, Nouveaux Lundis, III. 350, " full of 
 profound thought, and skilfully carved after 
 the fashion of Soulary ; it is tender and chaste ; 
 a breath of Petrarch has passed over it." And 
 Jules Janin says, " Listen to this charming son- 
 net, and tell me if it is not a pity that such 
 things should be lost and disappear like news- 
 paper articles." 
 
 MY SECRET. 
 
 My soul its secret has, my life too has its mys- 
 tery, 
 
 A love eternal in a moment's space conceived ; 
 
 Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history, 
 
 And she who was the cause nor knew it nor 
 believed. 
 
 Alas ! I shall have passed close by her unper- 
 ceived, 
 
 Forever at her side, and yet forever lonely, 
 
 I shall unto the end have made life's journey, 
 only 
 
 Daring to ask for naught, and having naught 
 received. 
 
 For her, though God has made her gentle and 
 
 endearing, 
 She will go on her way distraught and without 
 
 hearing 
 These murmurings of love that round her steps 
 
 ascend, 
 
 Piously faithful still unto her austere duty, 
 Will say, when she shall read these lines full of 
 
 her beauty, 
 " Who can this woman be ■? " and will not 
 
 comprehend. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF THE INVINCIBLE 
 MALBROUGH. 
 
 A paraphrase of this popular song is given 
 on page 472. The following is a more literal 
 version. MM. Dumersan and Segur, as 
 quoted by Mr. Oxenford in his " Book of 
 French Songs," say : " The burlesque words 
 were probably spread about various provinces 
 after the battle of Malplaquet by some of the 
 soldiers of Villars and Boufflers. As early as 
 1706, verses were composed on Marlborough, 
 which were to be found in the manuscript col- 
 lection of historical songs (in 44 volumes), 
 made by M. Maurepas, and deposited in the 
 Royal Library. The nurse's song became all 
 the rage at Versailles, whence it reached Paris, 
 and was soon spread over the whole of France. 
 For four or five years nothing was heard but 
 the burden Mironton, Mirontaine. The song 
 was printed upon fans and screens, with an en- 
 graving representing the funeral procession of 
 Marlborough, the lady on her tower, the page 
 dressed in black, and so on. This engraving 
 was imitated in all shapes and sizes. It circu- 
 lated through the streets and villages, and gave 
 the Duke of Marlborough a more popular ce- 
 lebrity than "all his victories. Whenever Napo- 
 leon mounted his horse to go to battle, he 
 hummed the air Marlbrouyh s'en va-t-en guerre. 
 And at St. Helena, shortly before his death, 
 when in the course of a conversation with M. 
 de Las Cases, he praised the Duke of Marlbor- 
 ough, the song occurred to his mind, and he 
 said with a smile, which he could not repress, 
 ' What a thing ridicule is ! it fastens upon 
 everything, even victory.' He then hummed 
 the air." 
 
 Malbro' 's gone to the war, sir, — 
 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ; 
 Nobody knows, by gar, sir, 
 
 When he '11 be back again, 
 
 When he '11 be back again, 
 
 When he '11 be back again, 
 Nobody knows, by gar, sir, 
 
 When he '11 be back again. 
 
 He '11 come back again at Easter, — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ; 
 
 He '11 come back again at Easter, 
 Or at Trinity, I ween. 
 
 But Trinity has passed by, — 
 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine; 
 
 But Trinity has passed by, 
 
 And he 's not come back again. 
 
FRENCH. 
 
 855 
 
 My lady she mounted her tower, — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ; 
 
 My lady she mounted her tower, 
 As high as she could attain. 
 
 She spied his page a-riding, — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ; 
 
 She spied his page a-riding 
 In black along the plain. 
 
 My pretty page, what tidings ? — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ; 
 
 My pretty page, your tidings 1 
 To hear them I am fain. 
 
 The news I bring, my lady, — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine; 
 
 The news I bring, my lady, 
 Will make your eyes to rain. 
 
 Put off your rosy garments, — 
 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ; 
 Put off your rosy garments, 
 .And eke your satin train. 
 
 My lord of Malbro' 's dead, ma'am, — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine; 
 
 My lord of Malbro' 's dead, ma'am, 
 And in the grave is lain. 
 
 I saw him to the grave borne, — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ; 
 
 I saw him to the grave borne 
 By four of his gentlemen. 
 
 One gentleman bore his cuirass, — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine - 
 
 One bore his cuirass ; another 
 His buckler did retain. 
 
 The third his big sword carried, 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ; 
 
 The third his big sword carried, 
 The fourth bore — nothing, I ween. 
 
 Around bis tomb they planted, — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine; 
 
 The rosemaries they planted 
 Around his tomb to train. 
 
 Upon the topmost branches, — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ; 
 
 Upon the topmost branches 
 
 We heard a nightingale's strain. 
 
 We saw his soul fly upwards, — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ; 
 
 Fly up through the laurel branches, 
 The heavens to attain. 
 
 Each man down on the earth fell 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ; 
 
 Each man down on the earth fell, 
 And then — got up again. 
 
 To sing the mighty triumphs, — 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine; 
 
 To sing the mighty triumphs 
 That Malbro' did attain. 
 
 The ceremony ended, — 
 
 Mironton, mironton, mirontaine ; 
 
 The ceremony ended, 
 
 Each man his bed did gain, 
 Each man his bed did gain, 
 Each man his bed did gain, 
 
 The ceremony ended, 
 
 Each man his bed did gain. 
 
 0, IF MY LADY NOW WERE BY! 
 Oxenford, " Book of French Soriga." 
 
 " 0, if my lady now were by ! " 
 
 The brave Eleurange with rapture cried, 
 
 As every peril he defied, 
 And fearless scaled the fortress high. 
 He proudly bore the flag of France, 
 
 And, guarding it with flashing eye, 
 Cried every time he smote his lance, 
 
 " O, if my lady now were by ! " 
 
 They feasted well the gallant knight, 
 And games and tournaments there were, 
 And likewise many ladies fair, 
 
 Whose eyes with looks of love were bright, 
 
 A piercing glance, a winning smile, 
 His constancy would often try ; 
 
 But he would say, — and sigh the while, — 
 " O, if my lady now were by ! " 
 
 Our chevalier was hurt at last 
 
 While guarding well the flag of France ; 
 
 And, smitten by the foeman's lance, 
 Was from his saddle rudely cast. 
 He thought the fatal hour was near, 
 
 And said, " Alas ! 't is hard to die 
 So far away from all that 's dear, — 
 
 0, if my lady now were by ! " 
 
 Descendants of those knights of old, 
 O, may ye, for your country's sake, 
 Your fathers for example take, — 
 
 Their noble words, their actions bold ! 
 
 And, Eleurange, may thy motto be 
 A charm to make all hearts beat high, 
 
 That all may proudly cry, like thee, 
 " O, if my lady now were by ! " 
 
856 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 ITALIAN. 
 
 CIULLO D'ALCAMO. 
 
 The oldest Italian poet of whom any record 
 exists is Ciullo d'Alcamo ; Ciullo being the 
 popular abbreviation for Vincenzo. As the 
 name indicates, he was of the town or village of 
 Alcamo, or Camo, near Palermo, in Sicily ; and 
 flourished towards the end of the twelfth cen- 
 tury, between 1190 and 1200. This is all that 
 is known of him ; but he has had the good for- 
 tune to leave behind him a quaint and simple 
 song of love, the rosa, fresca, aulentissima, the 
 fresh morning rose of Italian poetry, worthy 
 to be ranked with the English " Nut-brown 
 Maid." 
 
 LOVER AND LADY. 
 
 Kossetti, " Early Italian Poets." 
 HE. 
 
 Thou sweetly smelling fresh red rose 
 That near thy summer art, 
 
 Of whom each damsel and each dame 
 Would fain be counterpart, 
 O, from this fire to draw me forth 
 Be it in thy good heart ! 
 
 For night or day there is no rest with me, 
 
 Thinking of none, my lady, but of thee. 
 
 If thou hast set thy thoughts on me, 
 
 Thou hast done a foolish thing. 
 Yea, all the pine-wood of this world 
 Together mightst thou bring, 
 And make thee ships, and plough the sea 
 Therewith for cora-sowing, 
 Ere any way to win me could be found : 
 For I am going to shear my locks all round. 
 
 Lady, before thou shear thy locks 
 
 I hope I may be dead : 
 For I should lose such joy thereby 
 
 And gain such grief instead. 
 Merely to pass and look at thee, 
 Eose of the garden-bed, 
 Has comforted me much, once and again. 
 O, if thou wouldst but love, what were 
 then ! 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Nay, though my heart were prone to love, 
 
 I would not grant it leave. 
 Hark ! should my father or his kin 
 
 But find thee here this eve, • 
 Thy loving body and lost breath 
 
 Our moat may well receive. 
 
 Whatever path to come here thou dost know, 
 By the same path I counsel thee to go. 
 
 And if thy kinsfolk find me here, 
 
 Shall I be drowned then ? Marry, 
 I '11 set, for price against my head, 
 
 Two thousand agostari. 
 I think thy father would not do 't 
 For all his lands in Bari. 
 Long life to the Emperor ! Be God's the praise 
 Thou hear'st, my beauty, what thy servant says. 
 
 And am I then to have no peace 
 
 Morning or evening ? 
 I have strong coffers of my own 
 And much good gold therein ; 
 So that if thou couldst offer me 
 The wealth of Saladin, 
 And add to that the Soldan's money-hoard, 
 Thy suit would not be anything toward. 
 
 I have known many women, love, 
 
 Whose thoughts were high and proud. 
 And yet have been made gentle by 
 
 Man's speech not over loud. 
 If we but press ye long enough, 
 At length ye will be bowed ; 
 For still a woman 's weaker than a man. 
 When the end comes, recall how this began. 
 
 God grant that I may die before 
 
 Any such end do come, — 
 Before the sight of a chaste maid 
 
 Seem to be troublesome ! 
 I marked thee here all yester-eve 
 Lurking about my home, 
 And now I say, leave climbing, lest thou fall, 
 For these thy words delight me not at all. 
 
 How many are the cunning chains 
 
 Thou hast wound round my heart ! 
 Only to think upon thy voice 
 
 Sometimes I groan apart. 
 For I did never love a maid 
 Of this world, as thou art, 
 So much as I love thee, thou crimson rose. 
 Thou wilt be mine at last : this my soul knows 
 
 If I could think it would be so, 
 Small pride it were of mine 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 857 
 
 That all my beauty should be meant 
 
 But to make thee to shine. 
 Sooner than stoop to that I 'd shear 
 These golden tresses fine, 
 And make one of some holy sisterhood ; 
 Escaping so thy love, which is not good. 
 
 If thou unto the cloister fly, 
 Thou cruel lady and cold, 
 Unto the cloister I will come 
 
 And by the cloister hold ; 
 For such a conquest liketh me 
 Much better than much gold ; 
 At matins and at vespers I shall be 
 Still where thou art. Have I not conquered 
 thee 1 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Out and alack ! wherefore am I 
 
 Tormented in such wise? 
 Lord Jesus Christ the Saviour, 
 In whom my best hope lies, 
 O, give me strength that I may hush 
 This vain man's blasphemies ! 
 Let him seek through the earth ; 't is long and 
 
 broad : 
 He will find fairer damsels, my God ! 
 
 I have sought through Calabria, 
 
 Lombardy, and Tuscany, 
 Rome, Pisa, Lucca, Genoa, 
 All between sea and sea ; 
 Yea, even to Babylon I went 
 And distant Barbary : 
 But not a woman found I anywhere 
 Equal to thee, who art indeed most fair. 
 
 If thou have all this love for me, 
 
 Thou canst no better do 
 Than ask me of mj r father dear 
 
 And my dear mother too : 
 They willing, to the abbey-church 
 We will together go, 
 And, before Advent, thou and I will wed ; 
 After the which, I '11 do as thou hast said. 
 
 These thy conditions, lady mine, 
 
 Are altogether naught ; 
 Despite of them, I '11 make a net 
 Wherein thou shalt be caught. 
 What, wilt thou put on wings to fly 1 
 Of wax I think they 're wrought, — 
 They '11 let thee fall to earth, not rise with 
 
 thee • 
 So, if thou canst, then keep thyself from me. 
 
 Think not to fright me with thy nets 
 And suchlike childish gear ; 
 108 
 
 I am safe pent within the walls 
 
 Of this strong castle here ; 
 A boy before he is a man 
 Could give me as much fear. 
 If suddenly thou get not hence again, 
 It is my prayer thou mayst be found and slain. 
 
 Wouldst thou in very truth that I 
 
 Were slain, and for thy sake i 
 Then let them hew me to such mince 
 
 As a man's limbs may make ! 
 But meanwhile I shall not stir hence 
 Till of that fruit I take 
 Which thou hast in thy garden, ripe enough : 
 All day and night I thirst to think thereof. 
 
 None have partaken of that fruit, 
 
 Not Counts nor Cavaliers : 
 Though many have reached up for it, 
 
 Barons and great Seigneurs, 
 They all went hence in wrath because 
 They could not make it theirs. 
 Then how canst thou think to succeed alone 
 Who hast not a thousand ounces of thine own ? 
 
 How many nosegays I have sent 
 
 Unto thy house, sweet soul ! 
 At least till I am put to proof, 
 This scorn of thine control. 
 For if the wind, so fair for thee, 
 Turn ever and wax. foul, 
 Be sure that thou shalt say when all is done, 
 " Now is my heart heavy for him that 's gone." 
 
 If by my grief thou couldst be grieved, 
 
 God send me a grief soon ! 
 I tell thee that though all my friends 
 
 Prayed me as for a boon, 
 Saying, " Even for the love of us, 
 Love thou this worthless loon," — 
 Thou shouldst not have the thing that thou dost 
 
 hope. 
 No, verily ; not for the realm o' the Pope. 
 
 Now could I wish that I in truth 
 Were dead here in thy house : 
 My soul would get its Vengeance then ; 
 Once known, the thing would rouse 
 A rabble, and they'd point and say, — 
 " Lo ! she that breaks her vows, 
 And, in her dainty chamber, stabs ! " Love, see: 
 One strikes just thus : it is soon done, pardie ! 
 
 SHE. 
 
 If now thou do not hasten hence, 
 
 (My curse companioning,) 
 That my stout friends will find thee here 
 
 Is a most certain thing : 
 
858 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 After the which, my gallant sir, 
 Thy points of reasoning 
 May chance, I think, to stand thee in small 
 
 stead. 
 Thou hast no friend, sweet friend, to bring thee 
 aid. 
 
 HE. 
 
 Thou sayest truly, saying that 
 
 I have not any friend : 
 A landless stranger, lady mine, 
 
 None but his sword defend. 
 One year ago, my love began, 
 And now, is this the end I 
 O, the rich dress thou worest on that day, 
 Since when thou art walking at my side alway ! 
 
 SHE. 
 
 So 't was my dress enamored thee ! 
 
 What marvel ? I did wear 
 A cloth of samite silver-flowered, 
 
 And gems within my hair. 
 But one more word ; if on Christ's Book 
 To wed me thou didst swear, 
 There 's nothing now could win me to be 
 
 thine ; 
 I had rather make my bed in the sea-brine. 
 
 And if thou make thy bed therein, 
 Most courteous lady and bland, 
 I 'd follow all among the waves, 
 Paddling with foot and hand ; 
 Then, when the sea hath done with thee, 
 I '11 seek thee on the sand. 
 For I will not be conquered in this strife : 
 I '11 wait, but win ; or losing, lose my life. 
 
 For Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, 
 
 Three times I cross myself. 
 Thou art no godless heretic, 
 
 Nor Jew, whose God 's his pelf: 
 Even as I know it then, meseems, 
 Thou needst must know thyself 
 That woman, when the breath in her doth cease, 
 Loseth all savor and all loveliness. 
 
 Woe 's me ! Perforce it must be said 
 
 No craft could then avail : 
 So that if thou be thus resolved, 
 
 I know my suit must fail. 
 Then have some pity, of thy grace ! 
 Thou mayst, love, very well ; 
 For though thou love not me, my love is such 
 That 't is enough for both, — yea overmuch. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Is it even so t Learn then that I 
 
 Do love thee from my heart. 
 To-morrow, early in the day, 
 
 Come here, but now depart. 
 By thine obedience in this thing 
 
 I shall know what thou art, 
 
 And if thy love be real or nothing worth ; 
 Do but go now, and I am thine henceforth. 
 
 Nay, for such promise, my own life, 
 
 I will not stir a foot. 
 I 've said, if thou wouldst te,ar away 
 
 My love even from its root, 
 I have a dagger at my side 
 
 Which thou mayst take to do 't : 
 But as for going hence, it will not be. 
 0, hate me not ! my heart is burning me. 
 
 Think'st thou I know not that thy heart 
 
 Is hot and burns to death ? 
 Of all that thou or I can say, 
 
 But one word succoreth. 
 Till thou upon the Holy Book 
 Give me thy boundcn faith, 
 God is my witness that I will not yield : 
 For with thy sword 't were better to be killed. 
 
 Then on Christ's Book, borne with me still 
 
 To read from and to pray, 
 (I took it, fairest, in a church, 
 
 The priest being gone away,) 
 I swear that my whole self shall be 
 Thine always from this day. 
 And now at once give joy for all my grief, 
 Lest my soul fly, that 's thinner than a leaf. 
 
 Now that this oath is sworn, sweet lord, 
 
 There is no need to speak : 
 My heart, that was so strong before, 
 
 Now feels itself grow weak. 
 If any of my words were harsh, 
 Thy pardon : I am meek 
 Now, and will give thee entrance presently. 
 It is best so, sith so it was to be. 
 
 FOLCACHIEEO DE' FOLCACHIEEI. 
 
 This " Knight of Siena " was a contempo- 
 rary of Ciullo d'Alcamo ; and is< the earliest of 
 the Tuscan poets, as Ciullo was of the Sicilian. 
 To him must be given the honor of beginning 
 the plaintive, poetic wail that runs through so 
 many of the Italian Canzoni. 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 HE DWELLS ON HIS CONDITION THROUGH LOVE. 
 
 Rossetti, " Early Italian Poets." 
 
 All the whole world is living without war, 
 
 And yet I cannot find out any peace. 
 
 O God ! that this should be ! 
 
 God ! what does the earth sustain me for 1 
 
 My life seems made for other lives' ill-ease x 
 
 All men look strange to me ; 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 859 
 
 Nor are the wood-flowers now 
 
 As once, when up above 
 
 The happy birds in love 
 Made such sweet verses, going from bough to 
 bough. 
 
 And if I come where other gentlemen 
 
 Bear arms, or say of love some joyful 
 thing, 
 Then is my grief most sore, 
 And all my soul turns round upon me then : 
 Folk also gaze upon me, whispering, 
 
 Because I am not what I was before. 
 I know not what I am. 
 
 I know how wearisome 
 My life is now become, 
 And that the days I pass seem all the same. 
 
 I think that I shall die ; yea, death begins ; 
 Though 't is no set down sickness that I 
 have, 
 Nor are my pains set down. 
 But to wear raiment seems a burden since 
 This came, nor ever any food I crave ; 
 Not any cure is known 
 To me, nor unto whom 
 
 I might commend my case : 
 This evil therefore stays 
 Still where it is, and hope can find no room. 
 
 I know that it must certainly be Love : 
 No other Lord, being thus set over me, 
 Had judged me to this curse ; 
 With such high hand he rules, sitting above, 
 That of myself he takes two parts in fee, 
 Only the third being hers. 
 Yet if through service I 
 
 Be justified with God, 
 He shall remove this load, 
 Because my heart with inmost love doth sigh. 
 
 Gentle my lady, after I am gone, 
 
 There will not come another, it may be, 
 
 To show thee love like mine : 
 For nothing can I do, neither have done, 
 Except what proves that I belong to thee 
 
 And am a thing of thine. 
 Be it not said that I 
 
 Despaired and perished, then ; 
 
 But pour thy grace, like rain, 
 On him who is burned up, yea, visibly. 
 
 JACOPO DA LENTTNO. 
 
 This poet was a Sicilian, and flourished 
 about the middle of the thirteenth century. 
 Dante mentions him as " the Notary," in Can- 
 to XXIV. of the Purgatorio, or, as Crescim- 
 bein phrases it, " does him the favor to put him 
 into Purgatory " ; but he forgets to mention 
 that he does not speak of him to praise, but 
 rather to disparage him. 
 
 " brother, now I see," he said, " the knot 
 Which me, the Notary, and Guittone held 
 Short of the sweet new style that now I hear.' 
 
 OF HIS LADY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Rossetti, "Early Italian Poets." 
 I have it in my heart to serve God so 
 That into Paradise I shall repair, — 
 The holy place through the which everywhere 
 I have heard say that joy and solace flow. 
 "Without my lady I were loath to go, — 
 
 She who has the bright face and the bright 
 
 hair ; 
 Because if she were absent, I being there, 
 My pleasure would be less than naught, I know. 
 Look you, I say not this to such intent 
 As that I there would deal in any sin : 
 I only would behold her gracious mien, 
 And beautiful soft eyes, and lovely face, 
 That so it should be my complete content 
 To see my lady joyful in her place. 
 
 OF HIS LADY, AND OF HER PORTRAIT. 
 Rossetti, " Early Italian Poets." 
 Marvellously elate, 
 
 Love makes my spirit warm 
 With noble sympathies ; 
 As one whose mind is set 
 Upon some glorious form, 
 To paint it as it is ; — 
 I verily who bear 
 Thy face at heart, most fair, 
 Am like to him in this. 
 
 Not outwardly declared, 
 Within me dwells enclosed 
 Thine image as thou art. 
 Ah ! strangely hath it fared ! 
 I know not if thou know'st 
 The love within my heart. 
 Exceedingly afraid, 
 My hope I have not said, 
 
 But gazed on thee apart. 
 
 Because desire was strong, 
 I made a portraiture 
 
 In thine own likeness, love ; 
 When absence has grown long, 
 I gaze, till I am sure 
 
 That I behold thee move ; 
 As one who purposeth 
 To save himself by faith, 
 
 Tet sees not, nor can prove. 
 
 Then comes the burning pain ; 
 As with the man that hath 
 A fire within his breast, — 
 When most he struggles, then 
 Most boils the flame in wrath, 
 And will not let him rest. 
 So still I burned and shook, 
 To pass, and not to look 
 In thy face, loveliest. 
 
860 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 For where thou art I pass, 
 And do not lift mine eyes, 
 Lady, to look on thee : 
 But, as I go, alas ! 
 
 With bitterness of sighs 
 I mourn exceedingly. 
 Alas ! the constant woe! 
 Myself I do not know, 
 
 So sore it troubles me. 
 
 And I have sung thy praise, 
 Lady, and many times 
 
 Have told thy beauties o'er. 
 Hast heard in any ways, 
 
 Perchance, that these my rhymes 
 Are song-craft and no more 1 
 Nay, rather deem, when thou 
 Shalt see me pass and bow, 
 These words I sicken for. 
 
 Delicate song of mine, 
 
 Go sing thou a new strain ; 
 Seek, with the first sunshine, 
 Our lady, mine and thine, — 
 
 The rose of Love's domain, 
 Than red gold comelier. 
 
 " Lady, in Love's name hark 
 
 To Jacopo the clerk, 
 Born in Lentino here." 
 
 GIACOMINO PUGLIESI. 
 
 Of this poet very little is known ; nothing in 
 fact, save that he was a native of Prato, and 
 lived in the thirteenth century, in the days of 
 Era Guittone d'Arezzo. So much information 
 is given by Crescimbeni in his Istoria delta Vol- 
 gar Poesia. Neither Tiraboschi nor Quadrio 
 mentions him. 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 Rossetti, "Early Italian Poets." 
 
 Death, why hast thou made life so hard to 
 bear, 
 Taking my lady hence I Hast thou no whit 
 Of shame ? The youngest flower and the most 
 fair 
 Thou hast plucked away, and the world 
 wanteth it. 
 O leaden Death, hast thou no pitying ? 
 Our warm love's very spring 
 
 Thou stopp'st, and endcst what was holy and 
 meet ; 
 And of my gladdening 
 Mak'st a most woful thing, 
 And in my heart dost bid the bird not sing 
 That sang so sweet. 
 
 Once the great joy and solace that I had 
 Was more than is with other gentlemen : — 
 
 Now is my love gone hence, who made me 
 glad. 
 
 With her that hope I lived in she hath ta'en, 
 And left me nothing but these sighs and 
 
 tears, — 
 Nothing of the old years 
 
 That come not back again, 
 Wherein I was so happy, being hers. 
 Now to mine eyes her face no more appears, 
 Nor doth her voice make music in mine ears, 
 
 As it did then. 
 
 O God, why hast thou made my grief so 
 deep ? 
 Why set me in the dark to grope and pine ? 
 Why parted me from her companionship, 
 
 And crushed the hope which was a gift of 
 thine ? 
 To think, dear, that I never any more 
 Can see thee as before ! 
 
 Who is it shuts thee in "? 
 Who hides that smile for which my heart is 
 
 sore, 
 And drowns those words that I am longing for, 
 Lady of mine ? 
 
 Where is my lady, and the lovely face 
 
 She had, and the sweet motion when she 
 walked ? 
 Her chaste, mild favor, — her so delicate 
 grace, — 
 Her eyes, her mouth, and the dear way she 
 talked 7 — 
 Her courteous bending, — her most noble air, — 
 The soft fall of her hair 1 . . . . 
 My lady, — she who to my soul so rare 
 
 A gladness brought! 
 Now I do never see her anywhere, 
 And may not, looking in her eyes, gain there 
 The blessing which I sought. 
 
 So if I had the realm of Hungary, 
 
 With Greece, and all the Almayn even to 
 France, 
 Or Saint Sophia's treasure-hoard, you see 
 
 All could not give me back her countenance. 
 For since the day when my dear lady died 
 From us (with God being born and glorified), 
 
 No more pleasaunce 
 Her image bringeth, seated at my side, 
 But only tears. Ay me ! the strength and pride 
 
 Which it brought once. 
 
 Had I my will, beloved, I would say, 
 
 To God, unto whose bidding all things bow, 
 That we were still together night and day : 
 
 Yet be it done as his behests allow. 
 I do remember that while she remained 
 With me, she often called me her sweet friend ; 
 
 But does not now, 
 Because God drew her towards Him, in the 
 
 end. 
 Lady, that peace which none but He can send 
 
 Be thine. Even so. 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 861 
 
 FOLGOKE DA SAN GEMINIANO. 
 
 Dante in the twenty-ninth canto of the In- 
 ferno speaks of 
 
 " The band, among whom squandered 
 Caecia d'Ascian his vineyards and vast woods, 
 And where his wit the Abbagliato proffered." 
 This was the Brigata Spendereccia, or Spend- 
 thrift Club of Siena ; " twelve very rich young 
 gentlemen," says Benvenuto da Imola, " who 
 took it into their heads to do things that would 
 make a great part of the world wonder." They 
 consequently spent their substance in riotous 
 living, and all kinds of extravagance. But 
 " this silly institution lasted only ten months, 
 the treasury being exhausted ; and the wretched 
 members became the fable and laughing-stock 
 of every one." 
 
 It was for this club that Folgore da San 
 Geminiano wrote the following sonnets, about 
 the middle of the thirteenth century. 
 
 OP THE MONTHS. 
 
 Eossetti, " Early Italian Poets." 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 Unto the blithe and lordly Fellowship, 
 
 (I know not where, but wheresoe'er, I know, 
 
 Lordly and blithe,) be greeting ; and thereto, 
 Dogs, hawks, and a full purse wherein to dip ; 
 Quails struck i' the flight ; nags mettled to the 
 whip ; 
 
 Hart-hounds, hare-hounds, and blood-hounds 
 even so ; 
 
 And o'er that realm, a crown for Niccolo, 
 Whose praise in Siena springs from lip to lip. 
 Tingoccio, Atuin di Togno, and Ancaian, 
 
 Bartolo and Mugai-o and Faenot, 
 Who well might pass for children of King Ban, 
 
 Courteous and valiant more than Lancelot, — 
 To each, God speed ! How worthy every man 
 
 To hold high tournament in Camelot. 
 
 JANUARY. 
 
 Foe January I give you vests of skins, 
 And mighty fires in hall, and torches lit ; 
 Chambers and happy beds with all things fit ; 
 Smooth silken sheets, rough furry counter- 
 panes ; 
 And sweetmeats baked ; and one that deftly 
 spins 
 Warm arras ; and Douay cloth, and store 
 
 of it; 
 And on this merry manner still to twit 
 The wind, when most his mastery the wind 
 
 wins. 
 Or issuing forth at seasons in the day, 
 
 Ye '11 fling soft handfuls of the fair white 
 snow 
 Among the damsels standing round, in play : 
 And when you all are tired and all aglow, 
 Indoors again the court shall hold its sway, 
 And the free Fellowship continue so. 
 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 In February I give you gallant sport 
 
 Of harts and hinds and great wild boars ; 
 
 and all 
 Your company good foresters and tall, 
 With buskins strong, with jerkins close and 
 
 short ; 
 And in your leashes, hounds of brave report ; 
 And from your purses, plenteous money-fall, 
 In very spleen of misers' starveling gall, 
 Who at your generous customs snarl and snort. 
 At dusk wend homeward, ye and all your folk 
 All laden from the wilds, to your carouse, 
 With merriment and songs accompanied : 
 And so draw wine and let the kitchen smoke ; 
 And so be till the first watch glorious ; 
 Then sound sleep to you till the day be 
 wide. 
 
 In March I give you plenteous fisheries 
 Of lamprey and of salmon, eel and trout, 
 Dental and dolphin, sturgeon, all the rout 
 Of fish in all the streams that fill the seas. 
 With fishermen and fishing-boats at ease, 
 Sail-barques and arrow-barques and galeons 
 
 stout, 
 To bear you, while the season lasts, far out, 
 And back, through spring, to any port you 
 
 please. 
 But with fair mansions see that it be filled, 
 With everything exactly to your mind, 
 And every sort of comfortable folk. 
 No convent suffer there, nor priestly guild : 
 Leave the mad monks to preach after their 
 kind 
 Their scanty truth, their lies beyond a 
 joke. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 I give you meadow-lands in April, fair 
 With over-growth of beautiful green grass ; 
 There among fountains the glad hours shall 
 pass, 
 And pleasant ladies bring you solace there. 
 With steeds of Spain and ambling palfreys 
 rare; 
 Provencal songs and dances that surpass ; 
 And quaint French mummings ; and through 
 hollow brass 
 A sound of German music on the air. . 
 And gardens ye shall have, that every one 
 May lie at ease about the fragrant place ; 
 And each with fitting reverence shall bow 
 
 down 
 Unto that youth to whom I gave a crown 
 Of precious jewels like to those that grace 
 The Babylonian Kaiser, Prester John. 
 
 I give you horses for your games in May, 
 And all of them well trained unto the 
 
 course, — 
 Each docile, swift, erect, a goodly horse ; 
 
862 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 With armor on their chests, and bells at play 
 Between their brows, and pennons fair and gay ; 
 
 Pine nets, and housings meet for warriors, 
 
 Emblazoned with the shields ye claim for 
 yours, 
 Gules, argent, or, all dizzy at noonday. 
 And spears shall split, and fruit go flying up 
 In merry counterchange for wreaths that drop 
 
 Prom balconies and casements far above ; 
 And tender damsels with young men and youths 
 Shall kiss together on the cheeks and mouths ; 
 
 And every day be glad with joyful love. 
 
 In June I give you a close-wooded fell, 
 
 With crowns of thicket coiled about its head, 
 
 With thirty villas twelve times turreted, 
 All girdling round a little citadel ; 
 And in the midst a springhead and fair well 
 
 With thousand conduits branched and shin- 
 ing speed, 
 
 Wounding the garden and the tender mead, 
 Yet to the freshened grass acceptable. 
 And lemons, citrons, dates, and oranges, 
 
 And all the fruits whose savor is most rare, 
 Shall shine within the shadow of your trees ; 
 
 And every one shall be a lover there ; 
 Until your life, so filled with courtesies, 
 
 Throughout the world be counted debonair. 
 
 JULY. 
 
 Poe July, in Siena, by the willow-tree, 
 I give you barrels of white Tuscan wine 
 In ice far down your cellars stored supine ; 
 
 And morn and eve to eat in company 
 
 Of those vast jellies dear to you and me ; 
 
 Of partridges and youngling pheasants sweet, 
 Boiled capons, sovereign kids : and let then 
 treat 
 
 Be veal and garlic, with whom these agree. 
 
 Let time slip by, till by and by, all day; 
 And never swelter through the heat at all, 
 
 But move at ease at home, sound, cool, and 
 
 gay; 
 
 And wear sweet-colored robes that lightly 
 fall; 
 And keep your tables set in fresh array, 
 Not coaxing spleen to be your seneschal. 
 
 For August, be your dwelling thirty towers 
 
 Within an Alpine valley mountainous, 
 
 Where never the sea-wind may vex your 
 
 house, 
 
 But clear life separate, like a star, be yours. 
 
 There horses shall wait saddled at all hours, 
 
 That ye may mount at morning or at eve : 
 On each hand either ridge ye shall perceive, 
 A mile apart, which soon a good beast scours. 
 So alway, drawing homewards, ye shall tread 
 Your valley parted by a rivulet 
 
 Which day and night shall flow sedate and 
 smooth. 
 
 There all through noon ye may possess the 
 shade, 
 And there your open purses shall entreat 
 The best of Tuscan cheer to feed your 
 youth. 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 And in September, what keen delight ! 
 Falcons and astors, merlins, sparrowhawks ; 
 Decoy-birds that shall lure your game in 
 flocks ; 
 And hounds with bells ; and gauntlets stout 
 
 and tight ; 
 
 Wide pouches ; crossbows shooting out of 
 
 sight ; 
 
 Arblasts and javelins ; balls and ball-cases ; 
 
 All birds the best to fly at ; moulting these, 
 
 Those reared by hand ; with finches mean 
 
 and slight ; 
 And for their chase, all birds the best to fly ; 
 And each to each of you be lavish still 
 In gifts ; and robbery find no gainsaying ; 
 And if you meet with travellers going by, 
 Their purses from your purse's flow shall fill ; 
 And avarice be the only outcast thing. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 Next, for October, to some sheltered coign 
 Flouting the winds, I'll hope to find you 
 
 slunk ; 
 Though in bird-shooting (lest all sport be 
 sunk), 
 Your foot still press the turf, the horse your 
 
 groin. 
 At night with sweethearts in the dance you '11 
 join, 
 And drink the blessed must, and get quite 
 
 drunk. 
 There 's no such life for any human trunk ; 
 And that 's a truth that rings like golden coin ! 
 Then, out of bed again when morning 's come, 
 Let your hands drench your face refresh- 
 ingly, 
 And take your physic roast, with flask and 
 knife. 
 Sounder and snugger you shall feel at home 
 Than lake-fish, river-fish, or fish at sea, 
 Inheriting the cream of Christian life. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 Let baths and wine-butts be November's due, 
 With thirty mule-loads of broad gold-pieces ; 
 And canopy with silk the streets that freeze ; 
 And keep your drink-horns steadily in view. 
 Let every trader have his gain of you : 
 
 Clareta shall your lamps and torches send, — 
 Caeta, citron candies without end ; 
 And each shall drink, and help his neighbor to, 
 And let the cold be great, and the fire grand : 
 And still for fowls, and pastries sweetly 
 wrought, 
 For hares and kids, for roast and boiled, 
 be sure 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 863 
 
 You always have your appetites at hand ; 
 Aud then let night howl and heaven fall, so 
 naught 
 Be missed that makes a man's bed-furni- 
 ture. 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 Last, for Decemher, houses on the plain, 
 Ground-floors to live in, logs heaped moun- 
 tain-high, 
 And carpets stretched, and newest games to 
 try, 
 And torches lit, and gifts from man to man : 
 (Your host, a drunkard and a Catalan :) 
 
 And whole dead pigs, and cunning cooks to 
 
 Each throat with titbits that shall satisfy ; 
 And wine-butts of Saint Galganus' brave span. 
 And be your coats well lined and tightly bound, 
 And wrap yourselves in cloaks of strength 
 and weight, 
 With gallant hoods to put your faces 
 through. 
 And make your game of abject vagabond 
 Abandoned miserable reprobate 
 
 Misers ; don't let them have a chance with 
 
 you. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 And now take thought, my sonnet, who is he 
 That most is full of every gentleness ; 
 And say to him (for thou shalt quickly guess 
 His name) that all his 'hests are law to me. 
 For if I held fair Paris town in fee, 
 
 And were not called his friend, 't were surely 
 
 less. 
 Ah ! had he but the emperor's wealth, my 
 place 
 Were fitted in his love more steadily 
 Than is Saint Francis at Assisi. Alway 
 Commend me unto him and his, — not least 
 To Caian, held so dear in the blithe band. 
 " Folgore da San Geminiano " (say) 
 
 " Has sent me, charging me to travel fast, 
 Because his heart went with you in your 
 hand." 
 
 GUIDO CAVALCANTI. 
 
 Beventjto da Imola calls this young poet 
 and philosopher " the other eye of Florence in 
 the days of Dante," and from what is known of 
 him he deserves this praise. He was born in 
 Florence in the latter half of the thirteenth cen- 
 tury, of a Guelf family; and married a daughter 
 of Farinata degli Uberti, the leader of the 
 Ghibelines. The reader will remember how 
 Dante puts the two fathers-in-law, of opposite 
 factions, in the same fiery sepulchre, in the 
 tenth canto of the Inferno. Guido died in 
 Florence in 1300. 
 
 It is to this Guido that Dante addresses this 
 sonnet in the Vita Nuova. 
 
 " Guido, I wish that Lapo, thou, and I, 
 
 Could be by spells conveyed, as it were now, 
 Upon a barque, with all the winds that blow 
 Across all seas at our good-will to hie. 
 So no mischance nor temper of the sky 
 Should mar our course with spite or cruel slip ; 
 But we, observing old companionship, 
 To be companions still should long thereby. 
 And Lady Joan, and Lady Beatrice, 
 And her the thirtieth on my roll * with us 
 Should our good wizard set, o'er seas to move 
 And not to talk of anything but love : 
 And they three ever to be well at ease 
 As we should be, I think, if this were thus." 
 
 That Guido was not a false or over-indul- 
 gent friend of Dante will be seen by the sonnet 
 given below. 
 
 Boccaccio, Decamerone, VI. 9, praises him for 
 his learning and other good qualities ; " for over 
 and beside his being one of the best Logitians, 
 as those times not yielded a better," so runs 
 the old translation, " he was also a most abso- 
 lute Natural Philosopher, a very friendly Gen- 
 tleman, singular^ well spoken, and whatsoever 
 else was commendable in any man was no way 
 wanting in him." In the same Novella he tells 
 this anecdote of him : — 
 
 " It chanced upon a day that Signior Guido, 
 departing from the Church of Saint Michael d' 
 Horta, and passing along by the Adamari, so 
 far as to St. John's Church, which evermore 
 was his customary walk : many goodly Marble 
 Tombs were then about the said Church, as now- 
 adays are at Saint Reparata, and divers more 
 beside. He entring among the Columns of Por- 
 phiry, aud the other Sepulchers being there, be- 
 cause the door of the Church was shut : Signior 
 Betto and his Company came riding from Saint 
 Reparata, and espying Signior Guido among the 
 Graves and Tombs, said, ' Come, let us go make 
 some jests to anger him.' So putting the Spurs 
 to their Horses they rode apace towards him ; 
 and being upon him before bee perceived them, 
 one of them said, ' Guido, thou refusest to be 
 one of our society, and seekest for that which 
 never was : when thou hast found it, tell us, 
 what wilt thou do with it ? ' 
 
 "Guido seing himself round engirt with them, 
 suddenly thus replyed : ' Gentlemen, you may 
 use me in your own House as you please.' And 
 setting his hand upon one of the Tombs (which 
 was somewhat great) he took his rising, and 
 leapt quite over it on the further side, as being of 
 an agile and sprightly body, and being thus freed 
 from them, he went away to his own lodging." 
 
 Napier, Florentine History, I. 368, speaks of 
 him as " a bold, melancholy man, who loved 
 solitude and literature ; but generous, brave, 
 and courteous, a poet and philosopher, and one 
 that seems to have had the respect and admira- 
 tion of his age." He then adds this singular 
 picture of the times : — 
 
 * That is, his list of the sixty most beautiful ladies 
 of Florence, referred to in the Vita Nuova; among whom 
 Lapo Gianni's lady, Lagia, would seem to have stood 
 thirtieth. 
 
864 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 " Corso Donati, by whom he was feared and 
 hated, would have had him murdered while on 
 a pilgrimage to Saint James of Galicia ; on his 
 return this became known and gained him 
 many supporters amongst the Cerchi and other 
 youth of Florence ; he took no regular meas- 
 ures of vengeance, but, accidentally meeting 
 Corso in the street, rode violently towards him, 
 casting his javelin at the same time ; it missed 
 by the tripping of his horse, and he escaped 
 with a slight wound from one of Donati's at- 
 tendants." 
 
 Sacchetti, Nov. 68, tells a pleasant story of 
 Guido's having his cloak nailed to the bench by 
 a roguish boy, while he was playing chess in 
 one of the streets of Florence, which is also a 
 curious picture of Italian life. 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 Rossetti, " Early Italian Poets." 
 
 A SONG OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Lo ! I am she who makes the wheel to turn ; 
 Lo ! I am she who gives and takes away ; 
 
 Blamed idly, day by day, 
 In all mine acts by you, ye humankind. 
 For whoso smites his visage and doth mourn, 
 What time he renders back my gifts to me, 
 
 Learns then that I decree 
 No state which miue own arrows may not find. 
 Who clomb must fall : — this bear ye well in 
 mind, 
 Nor say, because he fell, I did him wrong. 
 
 Yet mine is a vain song : 
 For truly ye may find out wisdom when 
 King Arthur's resting-place is found of men. 
 
 Ye make great marvel and astonishment 
 What time ye see the sluggard lifted up 
 
 And the just man to drop, 
 And ye complain on God and on my sway. 
 humankind, ye sin in your complaint ; 
 
 For He, that Lord who made the world to live, 
 
 Lets me not take or give 
 By mine own act, but as he wills I may. 
 Yet is the mind of man so castaway, 
 That it discerns not the supreme behest. 
 
 Alas ! ye wretchedest, 
 And chide ye at God also ■? Shall not He 
 Judge between good and evil righteously 1 
 
 Ah ! had ye knowledge how God evermore, 
 With agonies of soul and grievous heats, 
 
 As on an anvil beats 
 On them that in this earth hold high estate, 
 Ye would choose little rather than much store, 
 And solitude than spacious palaces ; 
 
 Such is the sore disease 
 Of anguish that on all their days doth wait. 
 Behold if they be not unfortunate, 
 When oft the father dares not trust the son ! 
 
 wealth, with thee is won 
 A worm to gnaw forever on his soul 
 Whose abject life is laid in thy control ! 
 
 If also ye take note what piteous death 
 
 They ofttimes make, whose hoards were 
 manifold, 
 Who cities had and gold 
 And multitudes of men beneath their hand ; 
 Then he among you that most angereth 
 
 Shall bless me, saying, " Lo ! I worship thee 
 
 That I was not as he 
 Whose death is thus accurst throughout the 
 
 land." 
 But now your living souls are held in band 
 Of avarice, shutting you from the true light 
 
 Which shows how sad and slight 
 Are this world's treasured riches and array 
 That still change hands a hundred times a day. 
 
 For me, — could envy enter in my sphere, 
 Which of all human taint is clean and quit, — 
 
 I well might harbor it 
 When I behold the peasant at his toil. 
 Guiding his team, untroubled, free from fear, 
 He leaves his perfect furrow as he goes, 
 
 And gives his field repose 
 From thorns and tares and weeds that vex 
 
 the soil : 
 Thereto he labors, and without turmoil 
 Entrusts his work to God, content if so 
 
 Such guerdon from it grow 
 That in that year his family shall live : 
 Nor care nor thought to other things will give. 
 
 But now ye may no more have speech of me, 
 For this mine office craves continual use : 
 
 Ye therefore deeply muse 
 Upon those things which ye have heard the 
 while : 
 Yea, and even yet remember heedfully 
 
 How this my wheel a motion hath so fleet, 
 
 That in an eyelid's beat 
 Him whom it raised it maketh low and vile, 
 None was, nor is, nor shall be of such guile, 
 Who could, or can, or shall, I say, at length 
 
 Prevail against my strength. 
 But still those men that arc my questioners 
 In bitter torment own their hearts perverse. 
 
 Song, that wast made to carry high intent 
 Dissembled in the garb of humbleness, — 
 With fair and open face 
 To Master Thomas let thy course be bent. 
 Say that a great thing scarcely may be pent 
 In little room : yet always pray that he 
 Commend us, thee and me, 
 To them that are more apt in loft}' speech : 
 For truly one must learn ere he can teach. 
 
 TO DANTE ALIGHIERI. 
 Rossetti, " Early Italian Poets." 
 
 HE REBUKES DANTE FOR HIS WAY OF LIFE, 
 AFTER THE DEATH OF BEATRICE. 
 
 I come to thee by daytime constantly, 
 
 But in thy thoughts too much of baseness find : 
 Greatly it grieves me for thy gentle mind, 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 865 
 
 And for thy many virtues gone from thee. 
 It was thy wont to shun much company, 
 Unto all sorry concourse ill inclined : 
 And still thy speech of me, heartfelt and 
 kind, 
 Had made me treasure up thy poetry. 
 But now I dare not, for thine abject life, 
 Make manifest that I approve thy rhymes ; 
 Nor come I in such sort that thou mayst 
 know. 
 Ah ! prithee read this sonnet many times : 
 So shall that evil one who bred this strife 
 
 Be thrust from thy dishonored soul and go. 
 
 CINO DA PISTOIA. 
 
 Cino (Ambrogino) da Pistoia, who flour- 
 ished in the first half of the fourteenth century, 
 was, according to Crescimbeni, " very learned 
 in the laws, on which account he bore the title 
 of Giudice, which in those days was the same as 
 Dottore is in ours. He was, moreover, a most 
 excellent and very sweet poet, and among the 
 
 first who gave grace to Tuscan lyric song 
 
 But his greatest glory was that in law he had 
 for his pupil the famous Barolo da Sassoferrato, 
 and in law and poetry the most noble Fran- 
 cesco Petrarca." According to Quadrio, he 
 died at Bologna in 1336. 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 Rossetti, " Early Italian Poets." 
 
 HIS LAMENT FOE SELVAGGIA. 
 
 At me, alas ! the beautiful bright hair 
 That shed reflected gold 
 
 O'er the green growths on either side the 
 way; 
 Ay me ! the lovely look, open and fair, 
 Which my heart's core doth hold 
 
 With all else of that best-remembered 
 
 day; 
 Ay me ! the face made gay 
 With joy that Love confers ; 
 Ay me ! that smile of hers 
 
 Where whiteness as of snow was visible 
 Among the roses at all seasons red ! 
 
 Ay me ! and was this well, 
 Death, to let me live when she is dead ? 
 
 Ay me ! the calm, erect, dignified walk; 
 Ay me ! the sweet salute, — 
 
 The thoughtful mind, — the wit discreetly 
 worn ; 
 Ay me ! the clearness of her noble talk, 
 Which made the good take root 
 
 In me, and for the evil woke my scorn ; 
 Ay me ! the longing born 
 Of so much loveliness, — 
 The hope, whose eager stress 
 
 Made other hopes fall back to let it pass, 
 109 
 
 Even till my load of love grew light thereby ! 
 
 These thou hast broken, as glass, 
 Death, who makest me, alive, to die ! 
 
 Ay me ! Lady, the lady of all worth ; — 
 Saint, for whose single shrine 
 
 All other shrines I left, even as Love 
 willed ; — 
 Ay me! what precious stone in the whole 
 earth, 
 For that pure fame of thine 
 
 Worthy the marble statue's base to yield ? 
 Ay me ! fair vase fulfilled 
 With more than this world's good, — 
 By cruel chance and rude 
 
 Cast out upon the steep path of the moun- 
 tains 
 Where Death has shut thee in between hard 
 stones ! 
 Ay me ! two languid fountains 
 Of weeping are these eyes, which joy disowns. 
 
 Ay me ! sharp Death ! till what I ask is done 
 And my whole life is ended utterly, — 
 
 Answer, — must I weep on 
 
 Even thus, and never cease to moan Ay me ? 
 
 GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO. 
 See page 533. 
 
 SIX SONNETS. 
 Rossetti, " Early Italian Poets.'* 
 
 TO ONE WHO HAD CENSURED HIS PUBLIC EX- 
 POSITION OP DANTE. 
 
 If Dante mourns, there wheresoe'er he be, 
 That such high fancies of a soul so proud 
 Should be laid open to the vulgar crowd, 
 (As, touching my Discourse, I 'm told by 
 
 thee,) 
 This were my grievous pain ; and certainly 
 My proper blame should not be disavowed ; 
 Though hereof somewhat, I declare aloud, 
 Were due to others, not alone to me. 
 False hopes, true poverty, and therewithal 
 The blinded judgment of a host of friends, 
 And their entreaties, made that I did 
 thus. 
 But of all this there is no gain at all 
 
 Unto the thankless souls with whose base 
 ends 
 Nothing agrees that 's great or generous. 
 
 II. 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A PORTRAIT OF DANTE. 
 
 Dante Alighieri, a dark oracle 
 
 Of wisdom and of art, I am ; whose mind 
 Has to my country such great gifts assigned 
 
 That men account my powers a miracle. 
 
866 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 My lofty fancy passed as low as Hell, 
 
 As high as Heaven, secure and unconfined ; 
 
 And in my noble book doth every kind 
 
 Of earthly lore and heavenly doctrine dwell. 
 
 Renowned Florence was my mother, — nay, 
 
 Step-mother unto me her piteous son, 
 
 Through sin of cursed slander's tongue 
 and tooth. 
 Ravenna sheltered me so cast away ; 
 
 My body is with her, — my soul with One, 
 Eor whom no envy can make dim the 
 truth. 
 
 III. 
 
 TO DANTE IN PARADISE, AFTER FIAMMETTA'S 
 DEATH. 
 
 Dante, if thou within the sphere of Love, \ 
 As I believe, remain'st contemplating 
 Beautiful Beatrice, whom thou didst sing 
 
 Erewhile, and so wast drawn to her above ; — 
 
 Unless from false life true life thee remove 
 So far that Love 's forgotten, let me bring 
 One prayer before thee : for an easy thing 
 
 This were, to thee whom I do ask it of. 
 
 I know that where all joy doth most abound 
 In the third Heaven, my own Piammetta sees 
 The grief which I have borne since she is 
 dead. 
 
 0, pray her (if mine image be not drowned 
 In Lethe) that her prayers may never cease 
 Until I reach her and am comforted. 
 
 IV. 
 OF FIAMMETTA singing. 
 
 Love steered my course, while yet the sun rode 
 high, 
 On Scylla's waters to a myrtle-grove : 
 The heaven was still and the sea did not 
 move ; 
 Yet now and then a little breeze went by 
 Stirring the tops of trees against the sky : 
 And then I heard a song as glad as love, 
 Se sweet that never yet the like thereof 
 Was heard in any mortal company. 
 " A nymph, a goddess, or an angel sings 
 Unto herself, within this chosen place, 
 
 Of ancient loves " ; so said I at that sound. 
 And there my lady, 'mid the shadowings 
 
 Of myrtle-trees, 'mid flowers and grassy 
 space. 
 Singing I saw, with others who sat round. 
 
 OF HIS LAST SIGHT OF FIAMMETTA. 
 
 Round her red garland and her golden hair 
 I saw a fire about Piammetta's head ; 
 Thence to a little cloud I watched it fade, 
 
 Than silver or than gold more brightly fair; 
 
 And like a pearl that a gold ring doth bear, 
 Even so an angel sat therein, who sped 
 Alone and glorious throughout heaven, ar- 
 rayed 
 
 In sapphires and in gold that lit the air. 
 
 Then I rejoiced as hoping happy things, 
 
 Who rather should have then discerned how 
 God 
 Had haste to make my lady all his own, 
 Even as it came to pass. And with these stings 
 Of sorrow, and with life's most weary load 
 I dwell, who fain would be where she is 
 gone. 
 
 VI. 
 
 OF THREE GIRLS AND OF THEIR TALK. 
 
 By a clear well, within a little field 
 
 Pull of green grass and flowers of every hue, 
 Sat three young girls, relating (as I knew) 
 Their loves. And each had twined a bough to 
 
 shield 
 Her lovely face ; and the green leaves did yield 
 The golden hair their shadow; while the 
 
 two 
 Sweet colors mingled, both blown lightly 
 through 
 With a soft wind forever stirred and stilled. 
 After a little while one of them said, 
 
 (I heard her) " Think ! If, ere the next hour 
 struck, 
 Each of our lovers should come here to-day, 
 Think you that we should fly or feel afraid ? " 
 To whom the, others answered, " Prom such 
 luck 
 A girl would be a fool to run away." 
 
 VTNCENZO DA FILICAJA. 
 
 See page 586. 
 
 PROVIDENCE. 
 Leigh Hunt. - ■* 
 
 Just as a mother, with, sweet, pious face, 
 
 Yearns towards her little children from her 
 
 seat, 
 Gives one a kiss, another an embrace, 
 Takes this upon her knees, that on her feet ; 
 And while from actions, looks, complaints 
 pretences, 
 She learns their feelings and their various will, 
 To this a look, to that a word, dispenses, 
 And, whether stern or smiling, loves> them 
 still ; — 
 So Providence for us, high, infinite, 
 Makes our necessities its watchful task, 
 Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our 
 wants, 
 And even if it denies what seems our right, 
 Either denies because 't would have us ask, 
 Or seems but to deny, or in denying grants. 
 
 TO ITALY. 
 
 Italy ! Italy ! thou who 'rt doomed to weai- 
 The fatal gift of beauty, and possess 
 The dower funest of infinite wretchedness, 
 Written upon thy forehead by despair ; 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 867 
 
 Ah ! would that thou wert stronger, or less fair, 
 That they might fear thee more, or love thee 
 
 less, 
 Who in the splendor of thy loveliness 
 Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare ! 
 
 Then from the Alps I should not see descending 
 Such torrents of armed men, nor Gallic horde 
 Drinking the wave of Po, distained with gore, 
 
 Nor should I see thee girded with a sword 
 Not thine, and with the stranger's arm con- 
 tending, 
 Victor or vanquished, slave forevermore." 
 
 POETS OF THE XIX. CENTURY. 
 
 GIOVANNI BATTISTA NICCOLINI. 
 
 See page 616. 
 
 " Niccolini," says a writer in the Cornhill 
 Magazine for December, 1864, " was among the 
 wise few in Italy who refused to be led away by 
 the tempting voice of a reforming Pope. His 
 gauntlet had been thrown down years before at 
 the foot of the papal throne, in his great work, 
 Arnold of Brescia, which was published at Mar- 
 seilles in 1843, and smuggled into Tuscany 
 through Leghorn by hundreds of copies at a 
 time, in the very teeth of the government, 
 which, in impotent rage, prosecuted the pub- 
 lisher, M. Lemonnier of Florence, who had fur- 
 nished the funds for printing it, and sent one of 
 his compositors to Marseilles to see it through 
 the press. Arnold of Brescia, though as a whole 
 quite unfit for dramatic representation, has, in 
 parts, the most dramatic power of any of the 
 author's works, and is from the first scene to the 
 last a mighty protest against spiritual and im- 
 perial tyranny, Pope and Emperor, — 
 
 ' In whose embrace mankind is crushed to death ! ' 
 In the onward march of the tragedy, the whole 
 imagery of the bad old time when priest and 
 king carved out the world at will seems to cir- 
 cle round the centre figure of the group, — the 
 noble enthusiast Arnold, going, clear of eye and 
 firm of heart, to his martyrdom, and seeing, far 
 away in the haze of distant centuries, a dawn 
 of redemption for his beloved country." 
 
 Prom this article the following extracts are 
 taken : — 
 
 ARNOLD OF BRESCIA. —Act I. Scene 3. 
 Arnold. People of Rome. 
 
 People What power can save us 1 
 
 Arnold Liberty — and God ! 
 
 The voices of the East, 
 
 The voices of the West ; 
 
 The voices from thy wilderness, O Rome ! 
 
 The voices echoing from each gaping tomb, 
 
 Harlot ! ciy shame on thee, who, drunk with 
 blood 
 
 Of martyred saints, hast done thy wanton will 
 
 With all the kings of earth ! Woe to her ! 
 
 Woe! 
 See where she sits, all purple, gems, and gold, 
 Bowed down by costly chains. 
 
 Her snow-white robes, 
 The robes to her first bridegroom — now on 
 
 high — 
 So precious, long since trampled in the mire. 
 Therefore vain words of blasphemy she speaks, 
 And on her brow is written, Mystery. 
 Ah ! now no more to comfort those who mourn 
 Her voice comes forth ; she hath but threats for 
 
 all, 
 And by her endless curses doth create 
 In timid souls ineffable dismay. 
 When in their common woe poor wretches 
 
 try — 
 We all are wretched here — for such relief 
 As love close-linked affords, she sunders them, 
 In Christ's name, ruthlessly ! Fathers with 
 
 sons 
 She sets at feud ; tears husbands from their 
 
 wives ; 
 'Twixt loving brothers sows the seeds of war, 
 And doth so fiercely garble Holy Writ 
 That men learn hatred from the Book of 
 
 Love 
 
 Lord ! they who fled before Thy scourge of old, 
 Now on the threshold of Th} r temple porch 
 Trade in dumb beasts no more ; but in thy fane 
 Mankind is bought and sold, and thy dear blood, 
 Son of God ! is changed away for gold ! 
 
 ARNOLD OF BRESCIA. —Act II. Scene 8. 
 Pope Adrian. Arnold. 
 Arnold. Sat, art thou Pope or King 1 
 
 This second name 
 Was never heard in Rome ; and if thou be 
 Christ's vicar, thou shouldst know the crown 
 
 He wore 
 Was but a crown of thorns. 
 
 Adrian. .... The word of God 
 
 Created this great world, mine guides its course ! 
 Arnold ! beware. Thy words are empty breath ; 
 Mere noise that here dies out and straight is lost 
 In the wide waste of Rome. My voice alone 
 The world takes up and echoes back again. 
 Arnold. Thy words ne'er told of freedom. 
 Set on high 
 'Twixt man and his oppressors, still the Church 
 Lashes the weak, and cringes to the strong, 
 And still within the merciless embrace 
 Which kings with priests exchange, mankind is 
 
 crushed, 
 Panting for life. O supreme Pastors ! ye 
 Look oh while kings in merry mood make sport 
 Of human lives ; and o'er the ruthless claims 
 Of iron power, and o'er such shapes of crime 
 As pagan tyrants never dared to dream, 
 
 Ye spread the papal robe — and all is night 
 
 Adrian The Roman shepherd scorns 
 
 a bounded realm ; 
 Since he hath reigned Lord of the Infinite ! 
 
868 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Arnold What more ! Thou slay'st 
 
 the flock beneath thy care 
 With the barbarian's sword, yet dost protest 
 Thou 'rt guiltless of their blood. Alas ! thy 
 
 works 
 So jar against thy words, that still the true 
 Thou mak'st a lie, and then a lie the truth. 
 Servant of servants thou proclaim'st thyself, 
 Yet are of tyrants tyrant. Still one thought 
 Goes with thee through the ages for all time. 
 Thou wouldst a priesthood militant, and rulest 
 By the blind terror of thy mystic words, 
 Proud in thy seeming meekness, fighting on 
 As king, and cursing ever on as priest; 
 And never art thou priest nor king for long ; 
 But conquered, on the altar tak'st thy place, 
 
 And conquering, on the throne 
 
 Ye, ruthless priests ! would fain see crime grow 
 
 rife. 
 That crime may breed remorse, which doth beget 
 The ill-starred wealth men's orphaned sons la- 
 ment 
 While you rejoice. Wont to clutch all ye can 
 And give but what ye must, ye make a trade 
 Of fear and falsehood, and your caste grows fat 
 On a blind herd that to the altar flies 
 From crime, and from the altar back to crime. 
 Yet if, starvation-stung, it dare disturb 
 The golden ease you say you hold of God, 
 Ye cry aloud forsooth ! . . . . 
 
 In very deed 
 The priesthood doth fulfil the hope of Rome, 
 The burden vile of human love lays down, 
 And with the thankless passion of the beast 
 Forgets the mother, and ignores the child ! . . . . 
 And wherefore wouldst thou mingle life with 
 
 death ? 
 Why long'st thou to belie the word of God 
 Which saith, " My kingdom is not of this 
 
 world " ? 
 Follow the steps of Christ and Eome. 
 
 Her will 
 It hath been ever, and the will of God, 
 To raise the humble and abase the proud. 
 I'll kiss thy foot — set on the necks of 
 
 Kings! .... 
 Adrian. The Church in every land hath sons. 
 
 I reign 
 An unseen king, and Rome is everywhere ! 
 Arnold. Adrian ! thou cheat'st thyself. The 
 
 bolts of Rome 
 Are weak to rouse men's fears, and Reason now 
 Plucks at the bonds ye hoped might last for 
 
 aye: 
 One day she '11 burst them. 
 
 Yet but half awake 
 The mind of man already so rebels, 
 That curb it thou canst not. Christ calls to it, 
 As to the sick of yore, " Arise, and walk ! " 
 Lead it, or it will tread thee underfoot. 
 The world has learnt a truth not grown in 
 
 shrines, 
 And spurns a Church that shuts it out from 
 
 Heaven. 
 
 Thou wast a shepherd ; be henceforth a father ! 
 Mankind is sick of being called a flock. 
 Too often, chastened by the pastoral staff, 
 Trembling, it hath stopped short upon its way. 
 Why in the name of Heaven dost tread down 
 
 man, 
 The last-begotten of the thought of God ! 
 
 ARNOLD OF BRESCIA. — Act IT. Scene 10. 
 Frederick Barbarossa (dismounting from his horse). 
 
 I leave thee here, brave steed ! my comrade true 
 
 In every danger, and along the track 
 
 Which should have echoed to thy sounding 
 
 hoofs 
 I tread with noiseless foot my humble way. 
 What do I see ! The Pontiff hitherward, 
 Servant of servants, comes in placid pride 
 On his white palfrey, docile to the curb 
 As he would have us kings ! Along the path 
 By which Pope Adrian passes, one vast throng 
 Of people, soldiers, either sex, all ranks, 
 Fused in blind worship, struggles, heaves, falls 
 
 prone, 
 One heaped above another ; so that men 
 By God created to look up to Heaven 
 Are made as 't were mere stepping-stones to 
 
 pride 
 
 Ay! if the horse thou dost bestride tread out 
 The life of such a worshipper, thou 'It say 
 The gates of Heaven fly open for his soul ! 
 We share not earth's dominion, thou and I, 
 Alone thou rul'st the world ! . . . . 
 
 He doth not turn 
 This way, nor greet me with that haughty head 
 Which wears the triple crown. All things he 
 
 sees 
 Far, far below — like God. Hark ! murmured 
 
 prayers ; 
 Then, silence ! — With a blessing he moves on ! 
 Well ; is it strange this priest should scorn to 
 
 let 
 His proud foot touch the earth, when monarchs' 
 
 lips 
 He bids bow down and kiss it ? 
 
 GIACOMO LEOPARD! 
 
 " Let the winds have my memory and my 
 name," is the exclamation with which Leopardi 
 closed one of his Odes, in which he avowedly 
 expresses his own feelings and his ideas of des- 
 tiny ; and the winds have wafted his name and 
 memory to many lands and many hearts. With 
 the exception of Manzoni, no Italian poet of the 
 present centuiy holds a higher rank than Leo- 
 pardi. The unmistakable impress of a superior 
 intellect is stamped upon his works, and with 
 the admiration which this excites is mingled a 
 feeling of sympathy for his physical and mental 
 sufferings, his misfortunes and his early death. 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 869 
 
 There are few instances in literary history of 
 an intellect so precocious, a scholarship so vari- 
 ous, and a life so sad, as his. 
 
 Giacomo Leopardi was born at Recanati, in 
 the March of Ancona, in 1798, and died at Na- 
 ples in 1837. His childhood and youth were 
 passed in his native town, in solitude and study. 
 What life is in a secluded Italian town is well 
 depicted by Mr. Tuckerman, in his "Biograph- 
 ical Essays," by way of introduction to the 
 sketch of Leopardi. " Provincial life in Ita- 
 ly," he says, " can scarcely be realized by an 
 American except through observation. How- 
 ever remote from cities, or sequestered in loca- 
 tion, a town may be in this country, if not con- 
 nected with the great world by railroad and tel- 
 egraph, the newspaper, the political representa- 
 tive, and an identity of feeling and action in 
 some remote enterprise or interest, keep alive 
 mutual sympathy and intelligence. But a moral 
 and social as well as physical isolation belongs 
 to the minor towns of the Italian peninsula. 
 The quaint old stone houses enclose beings 
 whose existence is essentially monastic, whose 
 knowledge is far behind the times, and whose 
 feelings are rigidly confined within the limits of 
 family and neighborhood. A more complete 
 picture of still life in the nineteenth century it 
 is difficult to imagine, than many of these se- 
 cluded towns present. The dilapidated air of 
 the palaces, the sudden gloom of the narrow 
 streets, as one turns into them from the square, 
 where a group of idlers in tattered cloaks are 
 ever engaged in a game or a gossip, the elec- 
 trical effect of a travelling carriage, or a troop 
 of soldiers invading the quiet scene, at once in- 
 form even the casual visitor of the distance he 
 is at from the spirit of the age. With the de- 
 cayed ^air of the private houses, their worn brick 
 floors and primitive furniture, contrast impres- 
 sively the extensive and beautiful view usually 
 obtainable from the highest windows, and the 
 architectural magnificence of the church. We 
 are constantly reminded that modern ameliora- 
 tion has not yet invaded the region ; while the 
 petty objects to which even the better class are 
 devoted, the importance attached to the most 
 frivolous details of life, the confined views and 
 microscopic jealousies or dilettante tastes that 
 prevail, assure us that liberal curiosity and en- 
 larged sympathy find but little scope in these 
 haunts of a nation devoid of civil life, and thrust 
 upon the past for mental nourisnment." 
 
 Count Leopardi, the poet's father, was a stern 
 Catholic of the mediaeval type, and believed 
 firmly in the miraculous " House of Loretto," 
 and even wrote a book upon it. Between them 
 there was little or no sympathy. The only sun- 
 shine in the lonely home seems to have come 
 from his sister, and even she was made an in- 
 strument of suffering to him, for later in life his 
 means of support were diminished, that her 
 dowry might be increased. " And here," Mr. 
 Tuckerman continues, " his early youth was 
 
 passed chiefly in his father's library, which con- 
 sisted wholly of theological and classical books. 
 After being taught Latin and the elements of 
 philosophy by two priests, he seems to have 
 been left to pursue his own course ; and, at ten 
 years old, he describes himself as having com- 
 menced a wild and desperate life of study, the 
 result of which was a mastery of ancient classic 
 and church literature, not only displayed in posi- 
 tive knowledge, but reproduced habitually in the 
 form of translations and commentaries. Greek 
 is little cultivated in Italy, and in this, as well 
 as other branches of learning, he was quite iso- 
 lated. In seven years his health was completely 
 ruined by unremitted mental application. Nie- 
 buhr and Angelo Mai soon recognized him as 
 a philologist of remarkable acumen and attain- 
 ment ; and laudatory articles in the French, 
 German, and Holland journals, as well as com- 
 plimentary letters from distinguished men, found 
 their way to his secluded home. He duped 
 scholars by tricks like those of Macpherson and 
 Chatterton in the pi-etended translation of an 
 Hellenic fragment ; he engaged in a literary cor- 
 respondence with Monti and Giob^rti ; wrote 
 able commentaries on the rhetoricians of the 
 first and second centuries, annotations on the 
 chronicle of Eusebius ; invented new narratives 
 of martyrdoms that passed for genuine ; trans- 
 lated parts of the Odyssey, Epictetus, and Soc- 
 rates ; and, in fact, performed Herculean labors 
 of research and criticism." 
 
 To what a deplorable condition this course of 
 life had reduced him is apparent from a letter 
 to his friend Giordani in 1819, in which he 
 says : " I have not energy enough to conceive 
 a single desire, — not even for death; not be- 
 cause I fear death, but because I cannot see any 
 difference between it and my present life, in 
 which I have nothing but suffering to console 
 me. This is the first time that ennui not only 
 oppresses- and wearies me, but agonizes and 
 lacerates me like a severe pain. I am over- 
 whelmed with the vanity of all things, and at 
 the condition of men. My passions are dead, and 
 my very despair seems a nonentity. As for my 
 studies, which you urge me to continue, for the 
 last eight months I have not known what study 
 means ; the nerves of my eyes, and my whole 
 head are so weakened and disordered, that I 
 can neither read nor listen to reading, nor can I 
 even fix my mind on any subject, whether of 
 much or of little interest." 
 
 At the age of twenty-four, Leopardi, disgusted 
 with life, ill in body and mind, without faith and 
 without hope, left Recanati, and with one return 
 there, passed the rest of his days in Rome, 
 Florence, Bologna, and Naples. At Rome, 
 Niebuhr, the historian, sought him out in his 
 obscure lodgings, and wrote of him thus to his 
 friend Bunsen : " Conceive my astonishment 
 when I saw standing before me, pale and shy, 
 a mere youth, in a poor little chamber, of weakly 
 figure, and obviously in bad health, — he being 
 
870 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 by far the first, rather indeed the only real, 
 Greek philologian in Italy, the author of Crit- 
 ical Observations, which would have gained 
 honor for the first philologian of Germany, and 
 only twenty-two years old.* He had grown to 
 be thus profoundly learned, without school, with- 
 out teacher, without help, without encourage- 
 ment, in his father's sequestered house ! I under- 
 stand too that he is one of the first of the rising 
 poets of Italy. What a nobly gifted people ! " 
 
 A writer in the " Quarterly Review," Vol. 
 LXXXVI. p. 311, thus characterizes the poems 
 of Leopardi : " His impersonations are beau- 
 tiful, but rather after the manner of statues : 
 they have just so much of life as is sufficient to 
 put his metaphysical conceptions in motion; but 
 we always seem to discover his hand propping 
 them up and moving them on : they have not 
 the flesb and blood reality : he is eminently a 
 subjective poet, and the reader never loses him 
 from view. But he is surely a very great sub- 
 jective poet, and applies to his work, with a 
 power rarely equalled, all the resources of 
 thought and passion, all that his introspective 
 habits had taught him : he has choice and flow- 
 ing diction, a profound harmony, intense pa- 
 thos : and he unites to very peculiar grace a 
 masculine energy and even majesty of expres- 
 sion, which is not surpassed, so far as we know, 
 in the whole range of poetry or of eloquence, 
 and which indeed gives the highest evidence of 
 its prerogative by endowing sentiments, now 
 become trite and almost vulgar through use, 
 with perfect freshness of aspect and the power 
 to produce lively and strong impressions." 
 
 At the close of the article he gives this 
 summary view of his writings : " Rapidly sur- 
 veying the character of Leopardi as a writer, we 
 cannot hesitate to say that in almost every 
 branch of mental exertion, this extraordinary 
 man seems to have had the capacity for attain- 
 ing, and generally at a single bound, the very 
 highest excellence. Whatever he does, he does 
 in a manner that makes it his own; not with 
 a forced or affected but a true originality, 
 stamping upon his work, like other masters, a 
 type that defies all counterfeit. He recalls oth- 
 ers as we read him, but always the most re- 
 markable and accomplished in their kind ; al- 
 ways by conformity, not by imitation. In the Do- 
 rian march of his terza rima the image of Dante 
 comes before us ; in his blank verse we think of 
 Milton (whom probably he never read) ; in his 
 lighter letters, and in the extreme elegance of 
 touch with which he describe :nental gloom and 
 oppression, we are reminded of the grace of 
 Cowper ; when he touches learned research or 
 criticism he is copious as Warburton, saga- 
 cious and acute as Bentley : the impassioned 
 melancholy of his poems recalls his less, though 
 scarcely less, deeply unhappy contemporary 
 Shelley : to translation (we speak however of 
 
 * Leopard) was at this time twenty-four, but only 
 twenty when he wrote the Annotations. 
 
 his prose versions) he brings the lofty concep- 
 tion of his work which enabled Coleridge to 
 produce his Wallenstein ; among his ' Thoughts ' 
 there are some worthy of a. place beside the 
 Pense'es of Pascal or the Moral Essays of Ba- 
 con ; and with the style of his philosophic Dia- 
 logues neither Hume nor Berkeley need resent a 
 comparison." 
 
 An edition of Leopardi's works in four vol- 
 umes was published in Florence in 1845-46; 
 and his Letters in two volumes in 1849. 
 
 THE YOUNGER BRUTUS. 
 Christian Examiner, Nov., 1858. 
 
 What time, uprooted, in the dust of Thrace, 
 After Philippi's day, . 
 In desolation and disgrace 
 
 Italian valor lay, 
 When Fate for green Hesperia's land 
 And Tiber's hallowed strand 
 Ordained the destiny of trampling hoofs 
 And rough barbarians under civil roofs, 
 And called the Goth with his devouring brand 
 From his bleak woods — the starved bear's frozen 
 
 home — 
 To rend the illustrious walls of Rome, 
 
 Brutus, amid the night, 
 All wounds, and dripping with fraternal blood, 
 Sat down, resolved to die, 
 And thus, in his despairing mood, 
 Piercing with empty words the drowsy sky, 
 Assailed Avernus and the gods most high. 
 
 Virtue, thou very fool ! 
 The clouds, — the shadowy plains 
 Where the pale phantoms rove in restless 
 trains, — 
 These are thy school ! 
 Where thou, Repentance ever following nigh, 
 Didst learn thy lesson, proved by life a lie ! 
 
 Ye marble gods ! 
 Whether by Phlegethon, in hell, 
 Or in celestial clouds, ye dwell, 
 To whom we pay our duteous court, 
 We are your mockery aud sport, — 
 
 We, wretched race, from whom 
 
 You require temples, 
 Truth and pure temples, while you doom — 
 You whom we trust in, though we never saw — 
 Us to the insult of your fraudulent law ! 
 
 So, then, our piety excites your hate ! 
 And dost thou sit, great Jove, in state, 
 Thou God in whom we put our trust, 
 To be defender of the unjust ? 
 And when thy storm the welkin tears, 
 Is it thy hand the wicked man that spares, 
 And strikes the good man to the dust? 
 
 Unconquered Destiny, the iron sway 
 Of hard Necessity, still drives along 
 The miserable mortal throng, 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 871 
 
 Poor slaves of Death ! without relent ; 
 
 And since we wretches find no way 
 
 To 'scape our wrongs, the vulgar cry, "Content!" 
 
 What, then, are injuries less hard to bear, 
 
 Because we know that they have no repair ? 
 
 Is it a cure for pain to drink despair ? 
 
 War, mortal and eternal war, 
 Against thy rule, unworthy Fate ! 
 The brave man wages, filled with hate 
 Of that injustice brave men most abhor. 
 And when thy tyrant hand, 
 Victorious, bears him down, 
 Shattered, not conquered, with a smile 
 He tempers his disdainful frown 
 At the black shadows, even while 
 He plunges in his Roman breast 
 The bitter cure of his unrest. 
 
 The gods are angered if a violent man 
 
 Break into Tartarus, — their gentle hearts 
 
 Such valor moves not : yea, perchance they scan, 
 
 From their high seats above, 
 
 The pleasant spectacle of human woes, 
 
 Our toils, our troubles, our defeated love, 
 
 Serenely smiling in sublime repose. 
 
 O, not in sorrow nor in shame 
 
 Did Nature, once our goddess and our queen, 
 
 To man a wretched life prescribe, 
 
 But free and joyous, without blame, 
 
 In the fresh world, among the green 
 
 Wild woods, with every wandering tribe : 
 
 But now that evil custom on the earth 
 
 Those happy kingdoms — that were so, 
 
 And meant to be so, at their birth — 
 
 Hath scattered, till no more we know 
 
 The temperate life devoid of sin, 
 
 Since wine and luxury came laughing in, — 
 
 Now that each manly spirit scorns 
 
 These altered, miserable days, — 
 
 Nature, unfair, to her first word returns, 
 
 And blames the wretch himself that slays. 
 
 Ye happy herds, all ignorant of crime 
 
 And your own destiny! ye flocks that stray 
 
 By brooks in meadows deep amid the thyme ! 
 
 Calmly ye crop your fragrant way, 
 
 And slowly wander, still serene, 
 
 To your last passion unforeseen. 
 
 But should some torment — say the summer's 
 
 heat, 
 Or the sharp gadfly, or should you have drunk 
 Some pleasant poison — -counsel you to beat 
 Your brains out madly 'gainst a knotty trunk, 
 No secret law would hinder your desire, 
 Nor darksome doctrine: no, ye souls of fire! 
 Of all the tribes that Heaven gave life, 
 Sons of Prometheus ! unto you alone, 
 When you are weary with the strife, 
 And with your long calamities ye groan, 
 And life hangs heavy on your lids, 
 To you alone the suicidal knife 
 Great Jupiter forbids. 
 
 Thou, too, just rising, calm and white, 
 
 From the sea red with Roman blood, 
 
 Shine forth, survey the noisy night, 
 
 And with thy gentle beams explore 
 
 This fatal Macedonian shore, 
 
 Where Latin valor lies to rise no more. 
 
 The conquerors trample on their brothers' 
 
 breasts : 
 The hills yet echo with the battle's roar, 
 And Rome, now tottering 'mid her ancient walls, 
 From her high top to her last ruin falls. 
 And thou, so placid in thy silent sky, 
 Thou who hast looked upon Lavinia's boy, 
 And the glad years that went so gayly by, 
 Those memorable years of joy, 
 And the large aurels that shall never die, 
 And thou upon the Alps 
 Wilt pour thy silent ray, 
 Silent, unchangeable as they, 
 When to the damage of our Roman fame, 
 Sunk in th' Italian, servile name, 
 Under the thunder of barbarian feet 
 That hushed and solitary seat 
 Shall echo with our shame. 
 Ev'n here, by their accustomed meads, 
 On rock or bough, the dreaming brood 
 Of beasts and birds, in slumber curled, 
 Filled with oblivion and their food, 
 Knows nothing of our wreck, nor heeds 
 The altered fortunes of the world. 
 And when, at cockcrow, on the farmer's roof 
 The friendly sun is red, 
 One will prowl forth to keep the rest aloof, 
 Lording it o'er the weak, plebeian throng ; 
 Another, lighting on some rustic shed, 
 Will rouse the valley with his morning song. 
 
 chance ! O abject human race ! 
 We are the refuse part of things. 
 
 Our grief disturbs not Nature's tranquil face ; 
 From ocean's cave no louder murmur rings; 
 Man's little misery never mars 
 Your peace, ye many-colored meads ! 
 Nor when he triumphs, when he bleeds, 
 Do you change color, O ye steadfast stars ! 
 
 1 call not you from your Olympian thrones, 
 Nor from Cocytus, you hard-hearing gods ! 
 Nor thee, thou Night, nor Earth, whose common 
 
 sods 
 I come to make more fertile with my bones, 
 Nor thee will I invoke, last ray of death, 
 Poor hope of being in the future's breath ! 
 Can sighs or words appease thy tomb, Disdain, 
 Or gifts or garlands of the mourning train 1 
 
 The days rush daily into worse : 
 We pass, and to a rotten race, 
 That follow after like a curse, 
 Must ill intrust our honor and our place, 
 And, with the honor of our lofty mind, 
 This the last vengeance that the wretched find. 
 (He falls on his sword.) 
 
 Come, now, thou greedy bird ! 
 Wheel thy dark pinions round this hated form, 
 
872 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 And in the earth from which it came 
 
 Tread me, ye beasts, until my dust be stirred 
 
 And scattered by the storm ! — 
 
 Let the winds have my memory and my name ! 
 
 TO ITALY. 
 
 Westminster Review, Oct., 1859. 
 
 Italy, my country ! I behold 
 
 Thy columns, and thine arches, and thy walls, 
 And the proud statues of our ancestors ; 
 The laurel and the mail with which our sires 
 Were clad, these I behold not, — nor their jfame. 
 Why thus unarmed, with naked breast and brow ? 
 What means that livid paleness, — those deep 
 
 wounds ? 
 To heaven and earth I raise my voice, and ask 
 What hand hath brought thee to this low estate, 
 Who, worse than all, hath loaded thee with 
 
 chains, — 
 So that unveiled, and with dishevelled hair, 
 Thou sittest on the ground disconsolate, 
 Hiding thy weeping face between thy knees 1 
 Aye, weep, Italia ! thou hast cause to weep ! 
 Degraded and forlorn. Yes, were thine eyes 
 Two living fountains, never could thy tears 
 Equal thy desolation and thy shame ! 
 Fallen ! — ruined ! — lost ! who writes or speaks 
 
 of thee, 
 But, calling unto mind thine ancient fame, 
 Exclaims, — Once she was mighty ! Is this she ? 
 Where is thy vaunted strength, — thy high re- 
 solve ? 
 Who from thy belt hath torn the warrior sword ? 
 How hast thou fallen from thy pride of place 
 To this abyss of misery ! Are there none 
 To combat for thee, — to defend thy cause ? 
 To arms ! Alone I '11 fight and fall for thee ! 
 Content if my best blood strike forth one spark 
 To fire the bosoms of my countrymen. 
 Where are thy sons 1 I hear the clang of arms, 
 The din of voices and the bugle note ; 
 Sure they are fighting for a noble cause ! 
 Yes, one faint hope remains, — I see — I see 
 The fluttering of banners in the breeze, 
 
 1 hear the tramp of horses and of men, 
 
 The roar of cannon — and like glittering lamps 
 Amid the darkening gloom — the flash of swords! 
 Is there no comfort ? And who combat there 
 In that Italian camp ? Alas, ye Gods, 
 Italian brands fight for a foreign lord ! 
 O, miserable those whose blood is shed 
 Not for their native land, for wife or child ; 
 But for a stranger lord, — who cannot say 
 With dying breath, My country ! I restore 
 The life thou givest, and gladly die — for thee ! 
 
 ON THE LIKENESS OP A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN 
 CAItVEN UPON HER TOMB. 
 
 W. D. Howells, North American Review, Oct., 1866. 
 
 Such wast thou : now under earth 
 
 A skeleton and dust. O'er dust and bones 
 
 Immovably and vainly set, and mute, 
 
 Looking upon the flight of centuries, 
 
 Sole keeper of memory 
 
 And of regret is this fair counterfeit 
 
 Of loveliness now vanished. That sweet look, 
 
 Which made men tremble when it fell on them, 
 
 As now it falls on me ; that lip, which once, 
 
 Like some full vase of sweets, 
 
 Ran over with delight ; that fair neck, clasped 
 
 By longing ; and that soft and amorous hand, 
 
 Which often did impart 
 
 An icy thrill unto the hand it touched ; 
 
 That breast, which visibly 
 
 Blanched with its beauty him who looked on 
 
 h; — 
 
 All these things were, and now 
 
 Dust art thou, filth, — a fell 
 
 And hideous sight hidden beneath a stone. 
 
 Thus fate hath wrought its will 
 Upon the semblance that to us did seem 
 Heaven's vividest image ! Eternal mystery 
 Of mortal being ! To-day the ineffable 
 Fountain of thoughts and feelings vast and high, 
 Beauty reigns sovereign, and seems 
 Like splendor thrown afar 
 From some immortal essence on these sands, 
 To give our mortal state 
 A sign and hope secure of destinies 
 Higher than human, and of fortunate realms, 
 And golden worlds unknown. 
 To-morrow, at a touch, 
 Loathsome to see, abominable, abject 
 Becomes the thing that was 
 All but angelical before ; 
 And from men's memories 
 All that its loveliness 
 Inspired forever faints and fades away. 
 
 Ineffable desires 
 And visions high and pure 
 Rise in the happy soul, 
 Lulled by the sound of cunning harmonies, 
 Whereon the spirit floats, 
 As at his pleasure floats 
 Some fearless swimmer over the deep sea ; 
 But if a discord strike 
 The wounded sense, to naught 
 All that fair paradise in an instant falls. 
 
 Mortality! if thou 
 Be wholly frail and vile, 
 Be only dust and shadow, how canst thou 
 So deeply feel % And if thou be 
 In part divine, how can thy will and thought 
 By things so poor and base 
 So easily be awakene'd and quenched 1 
 
 TO SYLVIA. 
 W. D. Howells, North American Review, Ost., 1866. 
 
 Sylvia, dost thou remember 
 
 In this, that season of thy mortal being 
 
 When from thine eyes shone beauty, 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 873 
 
 In thy shy glances fugitive and smiling, 
 And joyously and pensively the borders 
 Of childhood thou didst traverse ? 
 
 All day the quiet chambers 
 And the ways near resounded 
 To thy perpetual singing, 
 When thou, intent upon some girlish labor, 
 Sat'st utterly contented, 
 
 With the fair future brightening in thy vision. 
 It was the fragrant month of May, and. ever 
 Thus thou thy days beguiledst. 
 
 I leaving my fair studies, 
 Leaving mymanuscripts and toil-stained volumes, 
 Wherein I spent the better 
 Part of myself and of my young existence, 
 Leaned sometimes idly from my father's windows, 
 And listened to the music of thy singing, 
 And to thy hand, that fleetly 
 Kan o'er the threads of webs that thou wast 
 
 weaving. 
 I looked to the calm heavens, 
 Unto the golden lanes and orchards, 
 And unto the far sea and to the mountains : 
 No mortal tongue may utter 
 What in my heart I felt then. 
 
 Sylvia mine, what visions, 
 What hopes, what hearts we had in that far season ! 
 How fair and good before us 
 Seemed human life and fortune ! 
 When I remember hope so great, beloved, 
 An utter desolation 
 And bitterness o'erwhelm me, 
 And I return to mourn my evil fortune. 
 Nature, faithless Nature, 
 Wherefore dost thou not give us 
 That which thou promisest? Wherefore deceivest, 
 With so great guile, thy children 1 
 
 Thou, ere the freshness of thy spring was 
 withered, 
 Stricken by thy fell malady, and vanquished, 
 Didst perish, ray darling ! and the blossom 
 Of thy years never sawest : 
 Thy heart was never melted 
 At the sweet praise, now of thy raven tresses, 
 Now of thy glances amorous and bashful ; 
 Never with thee the holiday-free maidens 
 Reasoned of love and loving. 
 
 Ah ! briefly perished, likewise, 
 My own sweet hope ; and destiny denied me 
 Youth, even in my childhood. 
 Alas ! alas ! beloved 
 Companion of ray childhood, — 
 Alas, my mourned hope ! how art thou vanished 
 Out of my place forever ! 
 This is that world '< the pleasures, 
 The love, the labors, the events, we talked of, 
 These, when we prattled long ago together? 
 Is this t'ac fortune of our race, heaven ? 
 At the truth's joyless dawning, 
 Thou fellest, sad one, with thy pale hand pointing 
 110 
 
 Unto cold death, and an unknown and naked 
 Sepulchre in the distance. 
 
 TOMMASO GROSSI. 
 
 In reading literary history, one is struck with 
 the number of recruits to the grand army of 
 letters who are deserters from the ranks of law- 
 students. Names and dates being changed, the 
 first paragraph of the biography of any one 
 might serve for all. They forget or neglect the 
 example of their great leader Blackstone, who, 
 in his " Lawyer's Farewell to the Muse," bade 
 farewell to poetry, and intrenched himself for- 
 ever in the citadel of law. 
 
 Tommaso Grossi was no exception to this 
 general rule. Born at Bellano on the Lake of 
 Como, in 1791, he studied law at the University 
 of Pavia, and began the practice of his profes- 
 sion at Milan. But he was a deserter ; and 
 gained his laurels in literature and not in law. 
 His first signal success was lldegonda, a poem 
 in ottava rima, which at once became so pop- 
 ular that the ladies wore " lldegonda dresses 
 and lldegonda bonnets." Still greater was the 
 success of / Lombardi alia Prima Crociata. 
 Nevertheless his fame rests chiefly upon his 
 prose romance of Marco Visconti. He wrote 
 also poems in the Milanese dialect. Of these 
 the most celebrated is La Fuggitiva, an extract 
 from which is given on page 620. Grossi died 
 in 1853. The following lyric is from Mr. How- 
 ells's article on " Modern Italian Poets " in the 
 North American Review for April, 1867. In 
 this article Mr. Howells says : — 
 
 " The Italians now talk about lldegonda and 
 the other romances of its author, but they do 
 not read them much. Indeed, it seems to have 
 been the fate of Grossi as a poet to achieve fash- 
 ion, and not fame ; and his great poem, in fifteen 
 cantos, called / Lombardi alia Prima Crociata, 
 which made so great a noise in its day, has been 
 wholly eclipsed in reputation by his subsequent 
 novel of Marco Visconti. Since the Gerusaiemme 
 of Tasso, it is said that no poem has made so great 
 a sensation in Italy as / Lombardi, in which the 
 theme treated by the elder poet is celebrated ac- 
 cording to the assthetics of the Romantic school. 
 .... After the Marco Visconti, Grossi seems to 
 have produced no work of importance. He mar- 
 ried late, but happily ; and he now devoted him- 
 self almost exclusively to the profession of the 
 law, in Milan, where he died in 1853, leaving 
 the memory of a good man, and the fame of a 
 poet unspotted by reproach." 
 
 THE PAIR PRISONER TO THE SWALLOW. 
 
 Pilgrim swallow ! pilgrim swallow ! 
 
 Thou that sitt'st by yonder stair, 
 Singing, as the mornings follow, 
 
 Quaint and pensive ditties there, — 
 
874 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 What wouldst tell me in thy lay 2 
 Prithee, pilgrim swallow, say ! 
 
 All forgotten, com'st thou hither 
 Of thy tender spouse forlorn, 
 
 That we two may grieve together, 
 Little widow, sorrow worn "i 
 
 Grieve then, weep then, in thy lay ! 
 
 Pilgrim swallow, grieve alway ! 
 
 Yet a lighter woe thou weepest : 
 Thou at least art free of wing, 
 
 And while land and lake thou sweepest, 
 Mayst make heaven with sorrow ring, 
 
 Calling his dear name alway, 
 
 Pilgrim swallow, in thy lay. 
 
 Could I too ! that am forbidden 
 
 By this low and narrow cell, 
 Whence the sun's fair light is hidden, 
 
 Whence thou scarce canst hear me tell 
 Sorrows that I breathe alway, 
 While thou pip'st thy plaintive lay. 
 
 Ah ! September quickly coming, 
 Thou shalt take farewell of me, 
 
 And, to other summers roaming, 
 Other hills and waters see, — 
 
 Greeting them with songs more gay, 
 
 Pilgrim swallow, far away. 
 
 Still, with every hopeless morrow, 
 While I ope mine eyes in tears, 
 
 Sweetly through my brooding sorrow 
 Thy dear song shall reach mine ears, — 
 
 Pitying me, though far away, 
 
 Pilgrim swallow, in thy lay. 
 
 Thou, when thou and spring together 
 Here return, a cross shalt see, — 
 
 In the pleasant evening weather 
 Wheel and pipe, here, over me ! 
 
 Peace and peace ! the coming May, 
 
 Sing me in thy roundelay ! " 
 
 GIUSEPPE GIUSTI. 
 
 One of the most eminent names among the 
 modern Italian poets is that of Giuseppe Giusti. 
 As a humorous and satirical writer he stands 
 first of all, and is particularly dear to the hearts 
 of Tuscans, as the representative of Tuscan 
 thought and speech. 
 
 He was born at Mansummano, a little town 
 in the Val di Nievole, among the Apennines, in 
 1809 ; in 1826 went to Pisa as a law-student; 
 and in 1834 to Florence, nominally to practise 
 his profession, but really to abandon it for 
 poetry and politics, to which he devoted him- 
 self till the day of his death in 1850. 
 
 In " The Tuscan Poet, Giuseppe Giusti," by 
 Susan Horner, — an interesting volume, which 
 gives an attractive picture of the man and the 
 poet, — his writings are thus characterized : — 
 
 " Whilst Manzoni, Niccolini, and others pro- 
 duced works of a grave or romantic nature, 
 Giusti's writings more peculiarly represented a 
 type of the Tuscan mind. Tuscany had always 
 been celebrated for satirical writers from the 
 days of Horace, of Dante, and Macchiavelli, 
 and young Giusti had been early encouraged in 
 satire by a favorite uncle, himself noted for his 
 wit, and beloved by his nephew as a second 
 father. His first attempts at poetry intended 
 to meet the public eye cost him no small 
 labor, and were discouraged even by his own 
 father. But, in spite of acknowledged failure, 
 he felt an inward conviction of his own powers, 
 which stimulated him to persevere, and the re- 
 sult was a series of minor poems, which, though 
 laid aside by himself, were published after his 
 
 death, among his youthful productions 
 
 " The charm of his compositions consists, 
 partly in their musical metre, and the selection 
 of words which, in elegant yet racy language, 
 convey the meaning of the poet ; they are in- 
 deed sometimes obsolete, or only employed by 
 the peasantry, yet so forcible that no other 
 could have as well expressed the intention of 
 the author ; grace of thought and expression, 
 united with redundancy of wit and playful 
 humor, sparkling condensed in every line, seem 
 to soften the asperity of his denunciations 
 against political and ecclesiastical tyranny, 
 against the corruptions of the age, and against 
 those native Italians who cringed before men in 
 power ; and this was boldly spoken, at a time 
 when the agents of the government were ready 
 to seize on all such expressions as a ground 
 for persecution. His verses roused the most 
 lethargic to see the necessity of clearing away 
 so great an accumulation of evil, and he de- 
 lighted the ears of the wit-loving Florentines, 
 whilst avoiding everything which could offend 
 individuals, or degenerate into petty scandal : 
 they present a rare combination of the highest 
 moral tone and common sense, united with 
 a lively fancy and poetic flights ; the author 
 never condescending to puerile or insipid tru- 
 isms, nor conceits, nor carrying himself and 
 his reader into a region of wild and extrava- 
 gant dreams." 
 
 Mr. Mariotti, in his " Italy, Past and 
 Present," bears this testimony to Giusti's merit 
 and influence : " Written in the secret of his 
 closet, and strewn to the winds, like Sibylline 
 lives, those songs La Cronica dello Stivale, 
 Girella, and perhaps fifty more, travelled from 
 mouth to mouth with astonishing speed ; they 
 were copied with unwearied diligence, stuck up 
 like play-bills at the corners of the street, sent 
 by post, or laid under the napkin at the break- 
 fast-table of the exalted personages they were 
 intended for, until they at last made their way 
 into the world, by the means of a clandestine 
 publication, under the quaint title Poesie tralte 
 da un testo a penna, and bearing the infallible 
 date, Italia, — the accommodating fatherland, 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 875 
 
 during the distress of her sons, being made the 
 common receiver of all contraband goods. 
 
 " The poetry of Giusti was as new to Italy 
 as the peculiar position of the country itself. 
 The Italian muse substitutes satire for heroics, 
 even as Italian patriotism lays its hopes on 
 moderate and conciliatory, rather than violent 
 measures. Berchet taught his countrymen the 
 language of sorrow and wrath, Giusti that of 
 scorn and derision ; the former preached a 
 crusade against the oppressors of Italy ; the 
 latter is satisfied with raising a laugh — a low, 
 but deep, bitter, and withering laugh — at 
 their expense 
 
 " Giusti's humor is of the quietest. It never 
 stoops to indecent contumely, never rises to 
 fierce invective. It is raillery in a quick hut 
 subdued tone, a gentlemanly sneer, more, to say 
 the truth, after the manner of French persi- 
 flage, than in the sanguinary tone of Italian 
 pasquinade. The style is distinguished by 
 nerve and laconism ; by an adroit spontaneous- 
 ness which is, however, the result of careful stud}'. 
 
 " Since the publication of Manzoni's hymns, 
 Italian literature has sent forth nothing so 
 fresh and vigorous as these political satires. 
 They are the earliest manifestation of Italian 
 revival ; a flagrant proof of the dependence of 
 literature on the ebb and flow of public spirit. 
 Thev are the poetry of the age ; the poetry of 
 life." 
 
 THE CHRONICLE OF THE BOOT. 
 For. Quart. Rev.,Tol. XXXVI. 
 
 I was not made of common calf, 
 Nor ever meant for country loon; 
 
 If with an axe I seem cut out, 
 
 The workman was no cobbling clown ; 
 
 A good jack-boot with, double sole he made, 
 
 To roam the woods, or through the rivers wade. 
 
 Down from the thigh unto the heel 
 I 'm ever wet,* and stand it well ; 
 
 Good for the chase, or spurring hard, 
 As many jackasses can tell. 
 
 Sewn strong with solid stitching,, you must know, 
 
 At top a hem, all down a seam I show.f 
 
 But then, to don I 'm rather hard; 
 
 Unfit for wear of hucksters small, 
 I tire and gall a feeble foot, 
 
 And most men's legs don't fit at all. 
 To wear me long has been the lot of none ; 
 
 A little while has satisfied each one. 
 
 I '11 give you here no catalogue 
 
 Of all who wished to try their foot ; 
 
 But here and there, merely for fun, 
 The most illustrious I '11 quote. 
 
 How torn and maimed I 've been I '11 tell in brief, 
 
 And then how passed along from thief to thief. 
 
 * The peninsular form of Italy, 
 t The Alps and Apennines. 
 
 'T will seem incredible ; but once 
 
 I set off at a gallop round, 
 And traversed all the world full speed ; 
 
 But running over too much ground, 
 I lost my balance, and I fell down smack 
 By my own weight, full-length upon' my back. 
 
 Then was a rumpus and a row ; 
 
 Men of all nations, greatest, least, 
 Poured down some thousand thousand miles, 
 
 Led by the Devil and a priest : 
 Some caught the leg, some held the tasselled tie ; 
 And " touch and take " was on all sides the cry. 
 
 A priest, regardless of the faith, 
 
 Helped or unhelped would put me on, 
 
 Then found I did not fit his foot, 
 So let mc out to any one ; 
 
 And thus at last in the first comer's hands 
 
 He leaves me, and for boot-hook only stands. 
 
 A German braggart with the priest 
 Played pikes to put his heel in me ; 
 
 But homewards on St. Francis nag* 
 Full many a time I 've seen him flee. 
 
 Again he hither came ; but sore of foot ; 
 
 Nor has he ever yet quite donned the Boot. 
 
 Unworn for one whole age or more, 
 Then pulled on by a merchant plain, 
 
 He greased me fresh, and made me trot 
 To the Levant and back again. 
 
 Unpolished, true ; — but not one jot I failed, 
 
 With rare good hobs and sparables well nailed. 
 
 The merchant throve ; then thought it right 
 
 To polish up and smarten me ; 
 I wore the spur, the fleece of gold ; — 
 
 But lost my old consistency. 
 Change followed change, that now I plainly see, 
 That my first nails were far the best for me. 
 
 I had nor rip nor wrinkle then ; 
 
 When from the west a pilfering oaf 
 Jumped from his galley on my heel 
 
 Tried even to insert his hoof. 
 But comfortably there he could not stay ; 
 And at Palermo t him I lamed one day. 
 
 'Mongst ultramontane amateurs 
 A certain King of Spades essayed, 
 
 With feet and hands to put me on ; 
 But like Berlicche % there he stayed, 
 
 When jealous of the roost a Capon § crowing, 
 
 Just threatened him to set the bells a-going. 
 
 My ruin to complete just then, 
 Or maybe later, an M. D., || 
 
 * A proverbial expression, signifying barefoot. 
 
 t Sicilian Vespers. 
 
 X Berlicche. A grotesque character of Italian farce, 
 who stands open-mouthed and looks like a fool. 
 
 § The allusion is to the famous scene between Pietro 
 Capponi and Charles the Eighth. 
 
 || The Medici. 
 
876 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Leaving his drugs and shop, rushed forth ; 
 
 Upon my upper leathers he 
 To help my case devised intrigues and lies, 
 Whose web was woven for three centuries. 
 
 He polished, gimcracked me all o'er, 
 And with emollients, glosses rare, 
 
 He rubbed me till I lost my skin ; 
 And he who had me next in care 
 
 Still doctored me according to the rule 
 
 Of that iniquitous and cursed school. 
 
 Thus tossed about from hand to hand, 
 
 I every harpy's mark became. 
 Both Frank ami Spaniard I endured, 
 
 Who played the " Devil and Baker's " game. 
 Don Quixote proved at length the lucky wight; 
 But rent and ridiculed he held me tight. 
 
 Who saw me on the Spaniard's foot, 
 
 Say that I sat " malissimo," 
 Though greased and varnish-daubed, and styled, 
 
 " Chiarissimo " — " I/lustrissimo." 
 But on the sly he used the file so sore, 
 That I was left more ragged than before. 
 
 Thenceforth each one at his own will 
 
 Using the pincers and the awl 
 From frying-pan to fire I fell. 
 
 Rogues, Bullies, Barons, great and small, 
 To torture me had each a new idea, 
 " Et diviserunt vestimenta mea." 
 
 Thus shuffled on from hoof to hoof 
 Of each untutored clownish brute, 
 
 I 've come to lose the olden print 
 Of that upright, well-planted foot, 
 
 On which, without one single crooked tread, 
 
 The circuit of the Universe I made. 
 
 wretched boot! I must confess 
 One foolish plan has me undone; 
 
 Of walking with another's legs 
 
 When it was time to use my own ; 
 And more than this, the madness most unmeet, 
 Of hoping change of luck from change of feet. 
 
 With tears I say it ; for I feel 
 
 Myself all shattered and awry ; 
 Earth seems to shake beneath my tread 
 
 If but one single step I try. 
 By dint of letting bad guides lead me so, 
 
 1 've lost the habit and the power to go. 
 
 But my worst foes have been the priests, 
 
 Unconscionable grasping race! 
 I 'd have at certain poets too * 
 
 Who count their bead-roll nowadays, 
 Christ goes for nothing ; the Decretal puts 
 A veto 'gainst the priesthood wearing "boots." 
 
 * The recently renewed Catholic tendencies in France 
 and Germany have shown themselves also in Italy in the 
 creation of a school of literature. Manzoni, and perhaps 
 Silvio Pellico, &c. are the poets belonging to the class 
 here alluded to. 
 
 Torn and neglected now I lie, 
 
 And pawed by every dirty hand, 
 Long have I waited for some leg 
 
 To fill my vvrinkles, make me stand ; 
 No German leg or Frenchman's be it known, 
 But one within my native country grown. 
 
 A certain great man's once I tried, 
 Who, had he not gone strolling forth, 
 
 Might well have boasted he possessed 
 In me the strongest boot on earth. 
 
 But snowstorms, on his crooked course one day, 
 
 Froze both his legs just as he got half-way. 
 
 Refitted on the ancient last 
 
 And subject to the knife again, 
 Though once of mighty worth and weight, 
 
 My under-leathers scarce remain ; 
 And as for patching holes both new and old, 
 It is not thread nor pegs will make them hold. 
 
 The cost is dear, the labor long ; 
 
 You must patch over piece by piece ; 
 Brush off the dirt in ancient mode, 
 
 Drive nails and brads ; then by degrees 
 The calf and upper-leathers all remake : — 
 But to the cobbler go,* for Heaven's sake ! 
 
 Find me but out some man ; he '11 do, 
 
 If only not a coward ; when 
 I find nvyself upon his foot, 
 
 Should some kind sir, like former men, 
 Presume with me in the old way to treat, 
 We '11 give him a sound kick on honor's seat." 
 
 SAINT AMBROSE. 
 Tr. by W D. Ilowells. 
 Your Excellency is not pleased with me 
 
 Because of certain jests I made of late, 
 And, for my putting rogues in pillory, 
 
 Accuse me of being anti-German. Wait, 
 And hear a thing that happened recently 
 
 When wandering here and there one day as fate 
 Led me, by some odd accident I ran 
 On the old church St. Ambrose, at Milan. 
 
 My comrade of the moment was, by chance, 
 The young son of one Sandro j — one of 
 those 
 
 Troublesome heads — an author of romance — 
 Promessi Sposi — your Excellency knows 
 
 The book perhaps ? — has given it a glance ? 
 Ah, no % I see ! God give your brain repose : 
 
 With graver interests occupied, your head 
 
 To all such stuff as literature is dead. 
 
 I enter, and the church is full of troops : 
 Of northern soldiers, of Croatians, say, 
 
 And of Bohemians, standing there in groups 
 As stiff as dry poles stuck in vineyards, — nay, 
 
 * But mind who the cobbler is. 
 t Alessandro Manzoni. 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 877 
 
 As stiff as if impaled, and no one stoops 
 
 Out of the plumb of soldierly array ; 
 All stand, with whiskers and mustache of tow, 
 Before their God like spindles in a row. 
 
 I started back : I cannot well deny 
 
 That being rained down, as it were, and 
 thrust 
 Into that herd of human cattle, I 
 
 Could not suppress a feeling of disgust 
 Unknown, I fancy, to your Excellency, 
 
 By reason of your office. Pardon ! I must 
 Say the church stank of heated grease, and that 
 The very altar-candles seemed of fat. 
 
 But when the priest had risen to devote 
 
 The mystic wafer, from the band that stood 
 
 About the altar, came a sudden note 
 Of sweetness over my disdainful mood : 
 
 A voice that, speaking from the brazen throat 
 Of warlike trumpets, came like the subdued 
 
 Moan of a people bound in sore distress, 
 
 And thinking on lost hopes and happiness. 
 
 'T was Verdi's tender chorus rose aloof, — 
 That song the Lombards, there, dying with 
 thirst, 
 
 Send up to God, " Lord, from the native roof." 
 O'er countless thrilling hearts the song has 
 burst, 
 
 And here I, whom its magic put to proof, 
 Beginning to be no longer I, immersed 
 
 Myself amidst those tallowy fellow-men 
 
 As if they had been of my land and kin. 
 
 What would your Excellency ? The piece was 
 fine, 
 And ours, and played, too, as it should be 
 played : 
 It drives old grudges out when such divine 
 
 Music as that mounts up into your head ! 
 But when the piece was done, back to my line 
 
 I crept again, and there I should have stayed, 
 But that just then, to give me another turn, 
 From those mole-mouths a hymn began to 
 yearn : 
 
 A German anthem, that to heaven went 
 On unseen wings, up from the holy fane : 
 
 It was a prayer, and seemed like a lament, 
 Of such a pensive, grave, pathetic strain 
 
 That in my soul it never shall be spent ; 
 
 And how such heavenly harmony in the 
 brain 
 
 Of those thick-skulled barbarians should dwell 
 
 I must confess it passes me to tell. 
 
 In that sad hymn, I felt the bitter sweet 
 
 Of the songs heard in childhood, which the 
 soul 
 
 Learns from beloved voices, to repeat 
 To its own anguish in the days of dole : 
 
 A thov.ght of the dear mother, a regret, 
 A longing for repose and love, the whole 
 
 Anguish of distant exile seemed to run 
 Over my heart and leave it all undone : 
 
 When the strain ceased, it left me pondering 
 Tenderer thoughts and stronger and more 
 clear : 
 These men, I mused, the self-same despot king, 
 
 Who rules in Slavic and Italian fear, 
 Tears from their homes and arms that round 
 them cling, 
 And drives them slaves thence, to keep us 
 slaves, here : 
 From their familiar fields afar they pass 
 Like herds to winter in some strange morass. 
 
 To a hard life, to a hard discipline, 
 Derided, solitary, dumb, they go : 
 
 Blind instruments of many-eyed Rapine 
 
 And purposes they share not, and scarce know : 
 
 And this fell hate that makes a gulf between 
 The Lombard and the German, aids the foe 
 
 Who tramples both divided, and whose bane 
 
 Is in the love and brotherhood of men. 
 
 Poor souls ! far off from all that they hold dear, 
 And in a land that hates them ! Who shall 
 say 
 
 That at the bottom of their hearts they bear 
 Love for our tyrant 1 I should like to lay 
 
 They 've our hate for him in their pockets ! 
 Here, 
 But that I turned in haste and broke away, 
 
 I should have kissed a corporal, stiff and tall, 
 
 And like a scarecrow stuck against the wall. 
 
 LTJIGI CAERER. 
 
 Of this writer, Mr. Howells in the North 
 American Review for April, 1867, says: "Lu- 
 igi Carrer of Venice was the first of that large 
 number of poets and dramatists to which the 
 states of the old Republic have given birth dur- 
 ing the present century. His life began with 
 our century, and he died in 1850. During this 
 time the poet witnessed great political events ; — 
 the retirement of the French after the fall of 
 Napoleon ; the failure of all the schemes and 
 hopes of Carbonari to shake off the yoke of the 
 stranger ; and that revolution in 1848 which 
 drove out the Austrians, only that, a year later, 
 they should return in such force as to make the 
 hope of Venetian independence through the 
 valor of Venetian arms a foolish and empty 
 dream forever. There is not wanting evidence 
 of a tender love of country in the poems of 
 Carrer, and probably the effectiveness of the 
 Austrian system of repression, rather than his 
 own indifference, is witnessed by the fact that 
 he has scarcely a line to betray a hope for the 
 future, or a consciousness of political anomaly 
 in the present. 
 
878 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 " Carrer was poor, but the rich were glad to be 
 his friends, without putting him to shame ; and 
 as long as the once famous conversazioni were 
 held in the great Venetian houses, he was the 
 star of whatever place assembled genius and 
 beauty. He had a professorship in a private 
 school, and he knew " quanto sa di sale " the 
 hard bread earned by literary labor, — bread 
 lean and bitter everywhere, leanest and bitterest 
 in Italy, where the bookseller gives not enough 
 to live on and just too much to die on.* While 
 he was young, he printed his verses in the jour- 
 nals ; as he grew older, he wrote graceful books 
 of prose, and drew his slender support from their 
 sale and from the minute pay of some offices in 
 the gift of his native city. His memory is 
 greatly loved and honored in Venice, as that of 
 a gentle and good man ; and it is but natural 
 that, since he is dead, his fellow-citizens should 
 exaggerate his genius." 
 
 The following specimens of his poems are 
 from the same article. 
 
 THE DUCHESS. 
 
 From the horrible profound 
 
 Of the voiceless sepulchre, 
 Comes, or seems to come, a sound : 
 
 Is 't his Grace, the Duke, astir ? 
 In his trance he hath been laid 
 As one dead among the dead ! 
 
 The relentless stone he tries 
 
 With his utmost strength to move ; 
 
 Fails, and in his fury cries, 
 
 Smiting his hands, that those above, 
 
 If any shall be passing there, 
 
 Hear his blasphemy, or his prayer. 
 
 And at last he seems to hear 
 
 Light feet overhead go by : 
 " O, whoever passes near 
 
 Where I am, the Duke am I ! 
 All my states and all I have 
 To him that takes me from this grave." 
 
 There is no one that replies : 
 
 Surely, some one seemed to come ! 
 
 On his brow the cold sweat Vies, 
 As he waits an instant dumb ; 
 
 Then he cries with broken breath, 
 
 " Save me, take me back from death ! " 
 
 " Where thou liest, lie thou must, 
 Prayers and curses alike are vaiu : 
 
 Over thee dead Gismond's dust — 
 Whom thy pitiless hand hath slain — 
 
 On this stone so heavily 
 
 Rests, we cannot set thee free." 
 
 From the sepulchre's thick walls 
 Comes a low wail of dismay, 
 
 * Guerrazzi. 
 
 And, as when a body falls, 
 
 A dull sound ; — and the next day 
 In a convent the Duke's wife 
 Hideth her remorseful life 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 I am a pilgrim swallow, and I roam 
 
 Beyond strange seas, of other lands in quest, 
 Leaving the well-known lakes and hills of home, 
 
 And that dear roof where late I hung my 
 nest ; 
 All things beloved and love's eternal woes 
 
 I fly, an exile from my native shore : 
 I cross the cliffs and woods, but with me goes 
 
 The care I thought to abandon evermore. 
 Along the banks of streams unknown to me, 
 
 I pipe the elms and willows pensive lays, 
 And call on her whom I despair to see, 
 
 And pass in banishment and tears my days. 
 Breathe, air of spring, for which I pine and yearn, 
 That to his nest the swallow may return ! 
 
 GIOVANNI PRATI. 
 
 Prati is a Troubadour, restored to earth 
 again, or left behind in the flight of those joyous 
 birds of passage, that passed singing over our 
 heads so long ago. He might be Folchetto di 
 Marsiglia, or the Chatelain de Couci, enamored 
 of Alazais or the Lady of Fayel. There is a 
 feeling of the Spring about him, and of the open 
 air and sunshine, and the neighborhood of trees 
 in bloom and birds in song. He is gallant and 
 courtly ; and nothing is wanting but the me- 
 diaeval costume and the mediaeval tongue to 
 complete the illusion, and restore him to his lost 
 privileges. " I have written my poems," lie says 
 in one of them, " in good days and in evil days, 
 on the banks of rivers, in dark valleys, in the 
 woods, on the mountains, in the cities." 
 
 Giovanni Prati was born at Dascindo in the 
 Italian Tyrol, above Trent, in 1815, and studied 
 law at Padua. While a student, he published 
 his first poem, Edmenegarda, a tale of love, which 
 was received with great enthusiasm, and was 
 followed in rapid succession by Canti Lirici, 
 Canti per il Popolo, Baliate, Nuovi Canti, and 
 Passeggiate Solitarie, " Breathing his first in- 
 spirations," says Mr. Howells in the North 
 American Review for April, 1867, "from those 
 airs of romance blowing into Italy with every 
 northern gale, — a son of the Italian Tyrol, the 
 region where the fire meets the snow, — he has 
 some excuse, if not a perfect reason, for being 
 romantic and half German in his feeling. And 
 as Piedmont and northernmost Lombardy only, 
 of all the Italian countries, seem to have had a 
 native ballad, it is natural that Prati should love 
 that form, and should pour into its easy verse 
 all the wild legends heard during a boyhood 
 passed among mountains and mountaineers. He 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 879 
 
 betrays love of country in all his poems ; bat it 
 is usually love of country as a home, and not as 
 a state ; and far better than political songs, he 
 loves to write of those well-known phases of the 
 affections concerning which the world will per- 
 haps not weary of hearing so long as there are 
 love-sick youths and maidens in it. As we read 
 his poetic tales, with a little heart-break, more or 
 less fictitious, in each, we seem to have found 
 again the sweet German songs that fluttered 
 away out of our memory long ago. There is a 
 tender light on the pages ; a softer passion than 
 that of the south breathes through the dejected 
 lines ; and in the ballads we see all our old ac- 
 quaintance once more, — the dying girls, the 
 galloping horsemen, the moonbeams, the famil- 
 iar, inconsequent phantoms, — scarcely changed 
 in the least, and only betraying now and then 
 that they have been at times in the bad company 
 of Lara, and Medora, and other dissipated and 
 vulgar people." 
 
 More serious themes now occupied the poet's 
 mind, and in 1849 appeared the Canti Politici, 
 and in the same year he was appointed Poeta 
 Cesareo, or Poet Laureate to Charles Albert, 
 King of Piedmont, and took up his abode in 
 Turin. A few years later he published, II Conte 
 di Riga, Rodo/pho, La Battaglia d' Imera, and 
 Satana e le Grazie. " In these poems," says 
 Marchese in the Revue des Deux Mondes for 
 March 15, 1856, " the poet aims at nothing less 
 than to compose a vast Epic under the grandiose 
 title of ' God and Humanity.' The author 
 does not dissemble the immensity of his design. 
 He would bring to life again the great eras of 
 humanity, recount the Biblical, Greek, Boman, 
 Christian epochs, the Middle Ages, and modern 
 times, and show God perpetually accompanying 
 man to aid him in his combat with evil, and to 
 direct him in the way of truth, justice, liberty, 
 and civilization. It is the struggle between the 
 Almighty and Satan, described in a work 
 wherein the lyric, dramatic, and epic elements 
 shall be combined." 
 
 To this group of poems belongs Prati's last 
 and most elaborate work, Armando, published in 
 1868, and written partly in prose and partly in 
 verse, narrative, dramatic, and lyrical. The 
 author says his poem is " neither Paust nor 
 Manfred " ; but Armando, the '•' pale and weary 
 shadow, wandering about the Ausonian shores," 
 is certainly of this family of poetic heroes, 
 though perhaps nearer akin to " Childe Harold." 
 
 The following specimen of Prati's Ballads, 
 is from Mr. Howells's " Modern Italian Poets," 
 in the North American Review for April, 
 1867. 
 
 THE MTDXIGHT RIDE. 
 
 Euello, Euello, devour the way ! 
 
 On your breath, bear us with you, winds, 
 as ye swell ! 
 
 My darling, she lies near her death to-day, — 
 Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel ! 
 
 That my spurs have torn open thy flanks, alas ! 
 
 With thv long, sad neighing, thou need'st not 
 tell"; 
 We have many a league yet of desert to pass, — 
 
 Gallop, gallop, gallop, Euel ! 
 
 Hear'st that mocking laugh overhead in space ? 
 
 Hear'st the shriek of the storm, as it drives, 
 swift and fell i 
 A scent as of graves is blown into my face, — 
 
 Gallop, gallop, gallop, Euel ! 
 
 Ah, God ! and if that be the sound I hear 
 Of the mourner's song and the passing-bell ! 
 
 heaven ! What see I ! The cross and the 
 bier ? — 
 Gallop, gallop, gallop, Euel ! 
 
 Thou falt'rest, Euello 1 0, courage, my steed ! 
 
 Wilt fail me, traitor I trusted so well ? 
 The tempest roars over us, — halt not, nor heed! — 
 
 Gallop, gallop, gallop, Euel ! 
 
 Gallop, Euello, 0, faster yet ! 
 
 Good God, that flash ! God ! I am chill, — 
 Something hangs on my eyelids heavy as death, — 
 
 Gallop, gallop, gallop, Euel ! 
 
 Smitten with the lightning stroke, 
 From his seat the cavalier 
 
 Fell, and forth the charger broke, 
 Eider-free and mad with fear, — 
 
 Through the tempest and the night, 
 
 Like a winge'd thing in flight. 
 
 In the wind his mane blown back, 
 With a frantic plunge and neigh, - 
 
 In the shadow a shadow black, 
 Ever wilder he flies away, — 
 
 Through the tempest and the night, 
 
 Like a winge'd thing in flight. 
 
 From his throbbing flanks arise 
 Smokes of fever and of sweat, — 
 
 Over him the pebble flies 
 
 From his swift feet swifter yet, — 
 
 Through the tempest and the night, 
 
 Like a winged thing in flight. 
 
 From the cliff unto the wood, 
 Twenty leagues he passed in all ; 
 
 Soaked with bloody foam and blood, 
 Blind he struck against the wall : 
 
 Death is in the seat ; no more 
 
 Stirs the steed that flew before. 
 
 And the while, upon the colorless, 
 Death-white visage of the dying 
 
Maiden, still and faint and fair, 
 
 Rosy lights arise and wane ; 
 And her weakness lifting tremulous 
 
 From the couch where she was lying, 
 Her long, beautiful, loose hair 
 
 Strives she to adorn in vain. 
 
 " Mother, what it is has startled me 
 
 From my sleep I cannot tell thee : 
 Only, rise and deck me well 
 
 In my fairest robes again. 
 For, last night, in the thick silences, — 
 
 I know not how it befell me, — 
 But the gallop of Euel, 
 
 More than once I heard it plain. 
 
 " Look, mother, through yon shadowy 
 
 Trees, beyond their gloomy cover.: 
 Canst thou not an atom see 
 
 Toward us from the distance start ? 
 Seest thou not the dust rise cloudily, 
 
 And above the highway hover ? 
 Come at last ! 't is he ! 't is he ! 
 
 Mother, — something breaks my heart." 
 
 Ah, poor child ! she raises wearily 
 
 Her dim eyes, and, turning slowly, 
 Seeks the sun, and leaves this strife 
 
 With a loved name in her breath. 
 Ah, poor child ! in vain she waited him. 
 
 In the grave they made her lowly 
 Bridal bed. And thou, O life ! 
 
 Hast no hopes that know not death 1 
 
 ALEAEDO ALEAEDI. 
 
 Aleaedi was horn in the village of San 
 Giorgio, near Verona, in the first quarter of the 
 present centui-y, though we find in no biography 
 the exact date of his birth. He studied law at 
 Padna, and from the University went to Verona 
 to enter upon the practice of his profession. 
 When the Austrians were driven from Venice 
 in 1848, and the Venetian Republic established, 
 he was sent as ambassador to Paris ; and when 
 the Eepublic fell, returned to Italy, was in Bo- 
 logna during its bombardment, and afterwards 
 went to Genoa. In 1852 he was arrested and 
 imprisoned at Mantua, for the part he had taken 
 in the revolution. After his liberation he re- 
 turned to Verona ; was again imprisoned in 
 1859, and liberated after the peace of Villa- 
 franca. Such are in brief the events of his life. 
 
 A single volume of five hundred pages con- 
 tains his poems, or such of them as he has cared 
 to preserve. In reading them we feel that we 
 are breathing a pure and pleasant atmosphere. 
 There is an air of culture, of refinement, of self- 
 respect and dignity about them which is a relief 
 from much of the vociferous singing of the Eo- 
 mantic school ; and at the same time a tender- 
 ness of feeling, a sympathy and sentiment, which 
 
 is an equal relief from the rigidity and coldness 
 of the Classical school. 
 
 Prefixed to the volume of Aleardi's poems are 
 Due Pagine Autobiographiche, two pages of auto- 
 biography, themselves a poem in prose, in which 
 he says that his father more than once warned 
 him against the fascinations of poetry. " My 
 son, follow not the path of the Poet. It will 
 lead thee to evil. Thou wilt seem perverse and 
 stupid among men. Thou wilt neglect thine 
 own affairs, waste thy substance ; and, falling 
 from the golden clouds of thy fancy, wilt find 
 thyself in a sorry plight in this calculating 
 world." And again : " My son, be not enam- 
 ored of this coquette, Poesy ; for with all her airs 
 of a great lady, she will play thee some trick of 
 a faithless grisctte. Choose a good companion, 
 as one might say, for instance, the Law ; and 
 thou wilt found a family ; wilt partake of God's 
 bounties ; wilt be content in life, and die quietly 
 and happily. These vagrant passions will bring 
 thee to grief. Thou wilt live disquieted, per- 
 haps unhappy ; thou wilt wear out thy soul and 
 thy life." The young Aleardi bowed assent, 
 but, being born a poet, continued to be a poet 
 still. His old drawing-master, on his knees, 
 besought the father to make him a painter ; but 
 in vain. And the autobiography continues: — 
 
 "Not being allowed to use the pencil, I have 
 used the pen. And precisely on this account 
 my pen resembles too much a pencil ; precisely 
 on this account I am often too much of a nat- 
 uralist, and am too fond of losing myself in 
 minute details. I am as one who in walking 
 goes leisurely along, and stops every minute to 
 observe the dash of light that hreaks through 
 the trees of the woods, the insect that alights 
 on his hand, the leaf that falls on his head, a 
 cloud, a wave, a streak of smoke ; in fine, the 
 thousand accidents that make creation so rich, 
 so various, so poetical, and beyond which we 
 evermore catch glimpses of that grand, mysteri- 
 ous something, eternal, immense, benignant, and 
 never inhuman nor cruel, as some would have 
 us believe, which is called God." 
 
 Speaking of the Classic and Eomantic schools, 
 he says : " It seemed to me strange, on the one 
 hand, that people who, in their serious moments 
 and in the recesses of their hearts, invoked 
 Christ, should ^n the recesses of their minds, in 
 the deep excitements of poetry, persist in invok- 
 ing Apollo and Pallas Minerva. It seemed to 
 me strange, on the other hand, that people born 
 in Italy, with this sun, with these nights, with 
 so many glories, so many griefs, so many hopes 
 at home, should have the mania of singing the 
 mists of Scandinavia, and the sabbaths of 
 witches, and should go mad for a gloomy and 
 dead feudalism, which had come from the North, 
 the highway of our misfortunes. It seemed to 
 me, moreover, that every Art of Poetry was 
 marvellously useless ; and that certain rules 
 were mummies embalmed by the hands of ped- 
 ants. In fine, it seemed to me that there were 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 cS81 
 
 two kinds of Art ; the one, serene with an 
 Olympic serenity, the Art of all ages, that be- 
 longs to no country ; the other, more impas- 
 sioned, that has its roots in one's native soil, 
 under the shadow of one's own belfry, in the 
 court-yard of the house where we were born ; 
 the first, that of Homer, of Phidias, of Virgil, 
 of Tasso ; the other, that of the Prophets, of 
 Dante, of Shakespeare, of Byron. And I have 
 tried to cling to this last, because I was pleased 
 to see how these great men take the clay of their 
 own land and their own time, and model from 
 it a living statue, which resembles their contem- 
 poraries." 
 
 It is hardly necessary to enumerate all the 
 poems of Aleardi, and the dates of their publi- 
 cation. Chief among them are Un' Ora della 
 mia Giovinezza ("An Hour of my Youth"); 
 Le Prime Storie (the "Primal Histories"), in 
 which the author paints the story of the human 
 race through the ages ; and Monte Circello, the 
 ancient cape of Circe, on the western verge of 
 the Pontine Marshes. From all of these, speci- 
 mens are given below. 
 
 Speaking of Aleardi, Mr. Hqwells, from whose 
 article in the Nortli American Eeview for 
 April, 1867, the following extracts are made, 
 says : "As a poet he has been twice wise : he 
 has written little poetry, and little but poetry. 
 He has in greater degree than any other Italian 
 poet of this age, or perhaps of any age, those 
 merits which our English taste of this time de- 
 mands, — quickness of feeling and brilliancy of 
 expression. He lacks simplicity of idea, and 
 his style is an opal which takes all lights and 
 hues, rather than the crystal which lets the day- 
 light colorlessly through. He is distinguished no 
 less by the themes he selects than by the expres- 
 sion he gives them. In his poetry there is pas- 
 sion, but his subjects are usually those to which 
 love is accessory rather than essential ; and he 
 cares better to sing of universal and national 
 destinies as they concern individuals, than the 
 raptures and anguishes of youthful individuals 
 as they concern mankind." 
 
 FROM AN HOUR OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 Eke yet upon the unhappy Arctic lands, 
 In dying autumn, Erebus descends 
 With the night's thousand hours, along the verge 
 Of the horizon, like a fugitive, 
 Through the long days wanders the weary sun ; 
 And when at last under the wave is quenched 
 The last gleam of its golden countenance, 
 Interminable twilight land and sea 
 Discolors, and the north-wind covers deep 
 All things in snow, as in their sepulchres 
 The dead are buried. In the distances 
 The shock of warring Cyclades of ice 
 Makes music as of wild and strange lament ; 
 And up in heaven now tardily are lit 
 The solitary polar star and seven 
 Lamps of the Bear. And now the warlike race 
 111 
 
 Of swans gather their hosts upon the breast 
 Of some far gulf, and, bidding their farewell 
 To the white cliffs, and slender junipers, 
 And sea-weed bridal-beds, intone the song 
 Of parting, and a sad metallic clang 
 Send through the mists. Upon their south- 
 ward way 
 They greet the beryl-tinted icebergs ; greet 
 Elamy volcanoes, and the seething founts 
 Of Geysers, and the melancholy yellow 
 Of the Icelandic fields ; and, wearying, 
 Their lily wings amid the boreal lights, 
 Journey away unto the joyous shores 
 Of morning. 
 
 So likewise, my own soul, from these obscure 
 Days without glory, wings its flight afar 
 Backward, and journeys to the years of youth 
 And morning. 0, give me back once more, 
 0, give me, Lord, one hour of youth again ! 
 For in that time I was serene and bold, 
 And uncontaminate, and enraptured with 
 The universe. I did not know the pangs 
 Of the proud mind, nor the sweet miseries 
 Of love ; and I had never gathered yet, 
 After those fires so sweet in burning, bitter 
 Handfuls of ashes, that, with tardy tears 
 Sprinkled, at last have nourished into bloom 
 The solitary flower of penitence. 
 The baseness of the many was unknown, 
 And civil woes had not yet sown with salt 
 Life's narrow field. Ah ! then the infinite 
 Voices that Nature sends her worshippers 
 From land, from sea, and from the cloudy depths 
 Of heaven smote the echoing soul of youth 
 To music. And at the first morning sigh 
 Of the poor wood-lark, — at the measured bell 
 Of homeward flocks, and at the opaline wings 
 Of dragon-flies in their aerial dances 
 Above the gorgeous carpets of the marsh, — 
 At the wind's moan, and at the sudden gleam 
 Of lamps lighting in some far town by night, — 
 And at the dash of rain that April shoots 
 Through the air odorous with the smitten 
 
 dust, — 
 My spirit rose, and glad and swift my thought 
 Over the sea of being sped all-sails. 
 
 FROM THE PRIMAL HISTORIES. 
 
 Hast thou seen 
 In the deep circle of the valley of Siddim, 
 Under the shining skies of Palestine, 
 The sinister glitter of the Lake of Asphalt ? 
 Those coasts, strewn thick with ashes of damna- 
 tion, 
 Forever foe to every living thing, 
 Where rings the cry of the lost wandering bird 
 That, on the shore of the perfidious sea, 
 Athirsting dies, — that watery sepulchre 
 Of the five cities of iniquity, 
 Where even the tempest, when its clouds hang 
 low, 
 
882 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Passes in silence, and the lightning dies, — 
 If thou hast seen them, bitterly hath been 
 Thy heart wrung with the misery and despair 
 Of that dread vision ! 
 
 Yet there is on earth 
 A woe more desperate and miserable, — 
 A spectacle wherein the wrath of God 
 Avenges Him more terribly. It is 
 A vain, weak people of faint-heart old men, 
 That, for three hundred years of dull repose, 
 Has lain perpetual dreamer, folded in 
 The ragged purple of its ancestors, 
 Stretching its limbs wide in its country's sun, 
 To warm them ; drinking the soft airs of au- 
 tumn 
 Forgetful, on the fields where its forefathers 
 Like lions fought ! Prom overflowing hands, 
 Strew we with hellebore and poppies thick 
 The way. 
 
 How many were the peoples ? Where the trace 
 Of their lost steps ? Where the funereal fields 
 In which they sleep 1 Go, ask the clouds of 
 
 heaven 
 How many bolts are hidden in their breasts, 
 And when they shall be launched ; and ask the 
 
 path 
 That they shall keep in the unfurrowed air. 
 The peoples passed. Obscure as destiny, 
 Forever stirred by secret hope, forever 
 Waiting upon the promised mysteries, 
 Unknowing God, that urged them, turning still 
 To some kind star, — they swept o'er the sea- 
 weed 
 In unknown waters, fearless swam the course 
 Of nameless rivers, wrote with flying feet 
 The mountain pass on pathless snows ; impa- 
 tient 
 Of rest, for aye, from Babylon to Memphis, 
 From the Acropolis to Rome, they hurried. 
 
 And with them passed their guardian house- 
 hold gods, 
 And faithful wisdom of their ancestors, 
 And the seed sown in mother fields, and gathered, 
 A fruitful harvest, in their happier years. 
 And, 'companying the order of their steps 
 Upon the way, they sung the choruses 
 And sacred burdens of their country's songs, 
 And, sitting down by hospitable gates, 
 They told the histories of their far-off cities. 
 And sometimes in the lonely darknesses 
 Upon the ambiguous way they found a light, — 
 The deathless lamp of some great truth, that 
 
 Heaven 
 Sent in compassionate answer to their prayers. 
 
 But not to all was given it to endure 
 That ceaseless pilgrimage, and not on all 
 Did the heavens smile perennity of life 
 Revirginate with never-ceasing change ; 
 And when it had completed the great work 
 Which God had destined for its race to do, 
 
 Sometimes a weary people laid them down 
 To rest them, like a weary man, and left 
 Their nude bones in a vale of expiation, 
 And passed away as utterly forever 
 As mist that snows itself into the sea. 
 
 FROM MONTE CIRCELLO. " 
 
 What time, 
 In hours of summer, sad with so much light, 
 The sun beats ceaselessly upon the fields, 
 The harvesters, as famine urges them, 
 Draw hitherward in thousands, and they wear 
 The look of those that dolorously go 
 In exile, and already their brown eyes 
 Are heavy with the poison of the air. 
 Here never note of amorous bird consoles 
 Their drooping hearts ; here never the gay songs 
 Of their Abruzzi sound to gladden these 
 Pathetic bands. But taciturn they toil, 
 Reaping the harvests for their unknown lords ; 
 And when the weary labor is performed, 
 Taciturn they retire ; and not till then 
 Their bagpipes crown the joys of the return, 
 Swelling the heart with their familiar strain. 
 Alas ! not all return, for there is one 
 That dying in the furrow sits, and seeks 
 With his last look some faithful kinsman out. 
 To give his life's wage, that he carry it 
 Unto his trembling mother, with the last 
 Words of her son that comes no more. And 
 
 dying, 
 Deserted and alone, far off he hears 
 His comrades going, with their pipes in time 
 Joyfully measuring their homeward steps. 
 And when in after years an orphan comes 
 To reap the harvest here, and feels his blade 
 Go quivering through the swaths of falling 
 
 grain, 
 He weeps and thinks : haply these heavy stalks 
 Ripened on his unburied father's bones. 
 
 GIULIO CARCANO. 
 
 The following notice of Giulio Carcano, and 
 the specimen of his verse, are from Mr. Howells's 
 " Modern Italian Poets," in the North American 
 Review for April, 1867 : — 
 
 "No one could be more opposed, in spirit 
 and method, to Aleardo Aleardi than Giulio 
 Carcano ; but both of these poets betray love 
 and study of English masters. In the former 
 there is something to remind us of Milton, of 
 ' Ossian,' and of Byron ; and in the latter, Ar- 
 naud notes very obvious resemblances to Gray, 
 Crabbe, and Wordsworth in the simplicity or 
 the proud humility of the theme, and the unaf- 
 fected courage of its treatment. The critic de- 
 clares the poet's aesthetic creed to be, God, the 
 family, and country ; and in a beautiful essay on 
 Domestic Poetry, written amidst the universal 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 883 
 
 political discouragement of 1839, Carcano him- 
 self declares that in the cultivation of a popular 
 and homelike feeling in literature the hope of 
 Italy no less than of Italian poetry lies. He was 
 ready to respond to the impulses of the nation's 
 heart, which he had felt in his communion with 
 its purest and best life, when in later years its 
 expectation gave place to action, and many of 
 his political poems are bold and noble. But his 
 finest poems are those which celebrate the affec- 
 tions of the household, and poetize the mute, 
 pathetic beauty of toil and poverty in city and 
 country. He sings with a tenderness peculiarly 
 winning of the love of mothers and children, 
 and we shall give the best notion of the poet's 
 best in the following beautiful lullaby, premis- 
 ing merely that the title of the poem is the Ital- 
 ian infantile for sleep." 
 
 NANNA. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep ! my little girl : 
 Mother is near thee. Sleep, unfurl 
 Thy veil o'er the cradle where Baby lies ! 
 Dream, Baby, of angels in the skies ! 
 On the sorrowful earth, in hopeless quest, 
 Passes the exile without rest ; 
 Where'er he goes, in sun or snow, 
 Trouble and pain beside him go. 
 
 But when I look upon thy sleep, 
 And hear thy breathing soft and deep, 
 My soul turns with a faith serene 
 To days of sorrow that have been, 
 And I feel that of love and happiness 
 Heaven has given my life excess ; 
 The Lord in his mercy gave me thee, 
 And thou in truth art part of me ! 
 
 Thou knowest not, as I bend above thee, 
 How much I love thee, how much I love thee ! 
 Thou art the very life of my heart, 
 Thou art my joy, thou art my smart ! 
 Thy day begins uncertain, child : 
 Thou art a blossom in the wild ; 
 But over thee, with his wings abroad, 
 Blossom, watches the angel of God. 
 
 Ah ! wherefore with so sad a face 
 
 Must thy father look on thy happiness ? 
 
 In thy little bed he kissed thee now, 
 
 And dropped a tear upon thy brow. 
 
 Lord, to this mute and pensive soul, 
 
 Temper the sharpness of his dole : 
 
 Give him peace whose love my life hath kept ; 
 
 He too has hoped, though he has wept. 
 
 And over thee, my own delight, 
 
 Watch that sweet Mother, day and nignt, 
 
 To whom the exiles consecrate 
 
 Altar and heart in every fate. 
 
 By her name I have called my little girl ; 
 
 But on life's sea, in the tempest's whirl, 
 
 Thy helpless mother, my darling, may 
 Only tremble and only pray ! 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep ! my baby dear ; 
 
 Dream of the light of some sweet star. 
 
 Sleep, sleep ! and I will keep 
 
 Thoughtful vigils above thy sleep. 
 
 0, in the days that are to come, 
 
 With unknown trial and unknown doom, 
 
 Thy little heart can ne'er love me 
 
 As thy mother loves and shall love thee ! 
 
 FRANCESCO DALL' ONGARO. 
 
 "Which is the greater?" asks Herder, — 
 " the wise man who lifts himself above the 
 storms of time, and from aloof looks down upon 
 them and yet takes no part therein, or he who, 
 from the height of quiet and repose, throws him- 
 self boldly into the battle-tumult of the world ? " 
 Most of the Italian poets of the present century 
 have answered the question for themselves in 
 exile, in prison, and on the field of battle ; and 
 none more promptly and completely than Fran- 
 cesco Dall' Ongaro, who like his friend and 
 companion Garibaldi, has given the labor of his 
 life to the freedom and unity of Italy. 
 
 Dall' Ongaro was born in a village of the 
 Friuli in 1808, and educated for the Church, 
 first at a Seminary in Venice, and then at the 
 University of Padua. After taking orders he 
 taught belles-lettres at Este for a while, but 
 having some disagreement with the Bishop of 
 Padua, abandoned the town and the Church, 
 and went to Trieste, taught literature and phir 
 losophy, wrote for the stage, and established a 
 journal in which for ten years he promulgated 
 the doctrines of progress and unity. In the 
 revolutionary period of 1848, he was active and 
 influential in various parts of Italy. When the 
 Pope fled to Gaeta, and the Roman Republic 
 was proclaimed, he and Garibaldi were chosen 
 representatives of the people. When the Re- 
 public fell, he took refuge in Switzerland. 
 Driven from Switzerland in 1852 he went to 
 Brussels; and in 1855 to Paris, where he re- 
 mained till 1859, and then returned to Italy. 
 He now lives at Florence, as professor of Dra- 
 matic Literature in the University. 
 
 Dall' Ongaro's poetical works are Poesie, 
 1840 ; Slorndli Italiani, 1863 ; and Fantasie 
 Drammalkhe e Liriche, collected and published 
 in 1866, but written between 1838 and 1866. 
 Of these the most popular are the Slorndli, or 
 what the Greeks would have called Epigrams, 
 though in a wider sense than our modern mean- 
 ing of the word. Of these Mr. Howells in an 
 article on Dall' Ongaro in the North American 
 Review for January, 1868, says : " The Storndli 
 of the revolutionary period of 1848 have a pecu- 
 liar value, because they embody, in forms of ar- 
 tistic perfection, the evanescent as well as the 
 
 
884 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 enduring qualities of popular feeling. They 
 give us what had otherwise been lost, in the 
 passing humor of the time. They do not cele- 
 brate the battles or the great political occur- 
 rences. If they deal with events at all, it is 
 with events that express some belief or longing, 
 — rather with what people hoped or dreamed 
 than with what they did. They sing the Eriu- 
 lan volunteers, who bore the laurel instead of 
 the olive during Holy Week, in token that the 
 patriotic war had become a religion ; they re- 
 mind us that the first fruits of Italian longing 
 for unity were the cannon sent to the Romans 
 by the Genoese ; they tell us that the tricolor 
 was placed in the hand of the statue of Marcus 
 Aurelius at the Capitol, to signify that Rome 
 was no more, and that Italy was to be. But 
 the Stornelli touch with most effect those yet 
 more intimate ties between national and indi- 
 vidual life that vibrate in the hearts of the Li- 
 vornese and the Lombard woman, of the lover 
 who sees his bride in the patriotic colors, of the 
 maiden who will be a sister of charity that she 
 may follow her lover through all perils, of the 
 mother who names her new-born babe Costanza 
 in the very hour of the Venetian Republic's fall. 
 And we like the Stornelli all the better because 
 they preserve the generous ardor of the time, 
 even in its fondness and excess." 
 
 Erom the same article are the following speci- 
 mens. 
 
 PIO NONO. 
 
 Pio Nono is a name, and not the man 
 
 Who saws the air from yonder Bishop's seat ; 
 
 Pio Nono is the offspring of our brain, 
 The idol of our hearts, a vision sweet ; 
 
 Pio Nono is a banner, a refrain, 
 
 A name that sounds well sung upon the street. 
 
 Who calls, "Long live Pio Nono!" means to 
 
 call, 
 Long live our country, and good-will to all ! 
 And country and good-will, these signify 
 That it is well for Italy to die ; 
 But not to die for a vain dream or hope, 
 Not to die for a throne and for a Pope ! 
 
 THE WOMAN OF LEGHORN. 
 
 Adieu, Livorno ! adieu, paternal walls ! 
 
 Perchance I never shall behold you more ! 
 On father's and mother's grave the shadow falls. 
 
 My love has gone under our flag to war ; 
 And I will follow him where fortune calls ; 
 
 I have had a rifle in my hands before. 
 
 The ball intended for my lover's breast, 
 Before he knows it, my heart shall arrest ; 
 And over his dead comrade's visage he 
 Shall pitying stoop, and look who it can be , 
 Then he shall see and know that it is I : 
 Poor boy ! how bitterly my love shall cry ! 
 
 THE SISTER. 
 (Palma, May 14, 1848.) 
 
 And he, my brother, to the fort had gone, 
 And the grenade, it struck him in the breast ; 
 
 He fought for liberty, and death he won, 
 For country here, and found in heaven rest. 
 
 And now only to follow him I sigh ; 
 A new desire has taken me to die, — 
 To follow him where is no enemy, 
 Where every one lives happy and is free. 
 
 THE LOMBARD WOMAN. 
 (Milan, January, 1848.) 
 
 Herb, take these gaudy robes and put them by ; 
 
 I will go dress me black as widowhood ; 
 I have seen blood run, I have heard the cry 
 
 Of him that struck and him that vainly sued. 
 Henceforth no other ornament will I 
 
 But on my breast a ribbon red as blood. 
 
 And when they ask what dyed the silk so red, 
 I '11 say, " The life-blood of my brothers dead." 
 And when they ask how it may cleansed be, 
 I '11 say, " O, not in river nor in sea ; 
 Dishonor passes not in wave nor flood ; 
 My ribbon ye must wash in German blood." 
 
 THE DECORATION. 
 
 My love looks well under his helmet's crest ; 
 
 He went to war, and did not let them see 
 His back, and so his wound is the breast : 
 
 For one he got, he struck and gave them 
 three. 
 When he came back, I loved him, hurt so, best ; 
 
 He married me and loves me tenderly. 
 
 When he goes by, and people give him way, 
 
 I thank God for my fortune every day ; 
 
 When he goes by, he seems more grand and fair 
 
 Than any crossed and ribboned cavalier : 
 
 The cavalier grew up with his cross on, 
 
 And I know how my darling's cross was won ! 
 
 THE CARDINALS. 
 
 Senator of Rome ! if true and well 
 You are reckoned honest, in the Vatican, 
 
 Let it be yours His Holiness to tell, 
 
 There are many Cardinals, and not one man. 
 
 They are made like lobsters, and, when they are 
 
 dead, 
 Like lobsters change their colors and turn red ; 
 And while they are living, with their backward 
 
 gait 
 Displace and tangle good Saint Peter's net. 
 
ITALIAN. 
 
 885 
 
 THE RING OF THE LAST DOGE. 
 
 I saw the widowed Lady of the Sea 
 
 Crowned with corals and sea-weed and shells, 
 That her long anguish and adversity 
 
 Had seemed to drown in plays and festivals. 
 I said : " Where is thine ancient fealty fled ? — 
 Where is the ring with which Manin did wed 
 His bride ? " With tearful visage she : 
 " An eagle with two beaks tore it from me. 
 Suddenly I arose, and how it came 
 I know not, but I heard my bridegroom's name." 
 Poor widow ! 't is not he. Yet he may bring — 
 Who knows ? — back to the bride her long-lost 
 
 THE IMPERIAL EGG. 
 
 Who knows what hidden devil it may be 
 
 Under yon mute, grim bird that looks our 
 way? — 
 Yon silent bird of evil omen, — he 
 
 That, wanting peace, breathes discord and 
 dismay. 
 Quick, quick, and change his egg, my Italy, 
 Before there hatch from it some bird of 
 prey, — 
 
 Before some beak of rapine be set free, 
 
 That, after the mountains, shall infest the sea ; 
 
 Before some ravenous eaglet shall be sent 
 
 After our isles to gorge the continent. — 
 
 I 'd rather a goose even from yon egg should 
 
 come, — 
 If only of the breed that once saved Borne ! 
 
 TO MY SONGS. 
 
 Fly, my songs, to Varignano fly ! 
 
 Like some lost flock of swallows homeward 
 flying, 
 And hail me Rome's Dictator, who there doth 
 lie 
 Broken with wounds, but conquered not, nor 
 dying : 
 Bid him think on the April that is nigh, 
 
 Month of the flowers and ventures fear-defying. 
 
 Or if it is not nigh, it soon shall come, 
 As shall the swallow to his last year's home, 
 As on its naked stem the rose shall burn, 
 As to the empty sky the stars return, 
 As hope comes back to hearts crushed by re- 
 gret ; — 
 Nay, say not this to his heart ne'er crushed yet ! 
 
 WILLING OR LOATH. • 
 Willing or loath, the flames to heaven tend, 
 
 Willing or loath, the waters downward flow, 
 Willing or loath, when lightning strokes descend, 
 Crumbles the cliff, and the tower's crest sinks 
 low; 
 
 Willing or loath, by the same laws that send 
 Onward the earth and sun, the people go. 
 
 And thou, successor of Saint Peter, thou 
 Wilt stop the sun and turn us backward now? 
 Look thou to ruling Holy Church, for we 
 Willing or loath fulfil our destiny ; 
 Willing or loath, in Borne at last we meet ! 
 We will not perish at the mountain's feet. 
 
 LUIGI MERCANTINI. 
 
 This poet is a professor in the University of 
 Palermo. The following simple and striking 
 poem from his pen has reference to the ill-fated 
 expedition of Carlo Pisacane, on the shores of 
 the kingdom of Naples in the summer of 1857, 
 in which, says Dall' Ongaro, " he fell with his 
 followers, like Leonidas with his three hun- 
 dred." 
 
 THE GLEANER OF SAPRI. 
 
 They were three hundred, they were young and 
 strong, 
 
 And they are dead ! 
 One morning as I went to glean the grain, 
 I saw a bark in middle of the main ; 
 It was a bark came steaming to the shore, 
 And hoisted for its flag the tricolor. 
 At Ponza's isle it stopped beneath the lea, 
 It stayed awhile, and then put out to sea, 
 Put out to sea, and came unto our strand ; 
 Landed with arms, but not as foemen land. 
 They were three hundred, they were young and 
 strong, 
 
 And they are dead ! 
 
 Landed with arms, but not as foemen land, 
 Por they stooped down and kissed the very sand. 
 And one by one I looked them in the face ; 
 A tear and smile in each one I could trace ! 
 " Thieves from their dens are these," some peo- 
 ple said, 
 And yet they took not even a loaf of bread ! 
 I heard them utter but a single cry : 
 " We for our native land have come to die ! " 
 They were three hundred, they were young and 
 strong, 
 And they are dead ! 
 
 With eyes of azure, and with hair of gold, 
 A young man marched in front of them ; and bold 
 I made myself, and having seized his hand, 
 Asked him, " Where goest, fair captain of the 
 
 band ? " 
 He looked at me and answered, " Sister mine, 
 I go to die for this fair land of thine ! " 
 I felt my heart was trembling through and 
 
 through, 
 Nor could I say to him, " God comfort you ! " 
 They were three hundred, they were young and 
 
 strong, 
 And they are dead ! 
 
886 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 That morning I forgot to glean the grain, 
 And set myself to follow in their train. 
 Twice over they encountered the gens-d'armes, 
 Twice over they despoiled them of their arms ; 
 But when we came before Certosa's wall 
 We heard the drums beat and the trumpets 
 
 call, 
 And 'mid the smoke, the firing, and the glare, 
 More than a thousand fell upon them there. 
 They were three hundred, they were young and 
 
 strong, 
 And they are dead ! 
 
 They were three hundred, and they would not fly; 
 They seemed three thousand, and they wished 
 
 to die, 
 But wished to die with weapons in their hands ; 
 Before them ran with blood the meadow lands. 
 I prayed for them, but ere the fight was o'er, 
 Swooned suddenly away, and looked no more; 
 For in their midst I could no more behold 
 Those eyes of azure and that hair of gold ! 
 They were three hundred, they were young and 
 strong, 
 And thev are dead ! 
 
 SPANISH 
 
 SANTA TEEESA. 
 See page 676. 
 
 SANTA TERESA'S BOOK-MARK. 
 
 The following lines were written by Santa 
 Teresa as an inscription or motto on the book- 
 mark of her Breviary. 
 
 Let nothing disturb thee, 
 Nothing affright thee ; 
 All things are passing; 
 God never changeth. 
 Patient endurance 
 Attaineth to all things ; 
 Who God possesseth 
 In nothing is wanting ; 
 Alone God sufficeth. 
 
 PEANCISCO DE FJOJA. 
 
 See page 707. 
 
 THE RUINS OF ITALICA. 
 Bryant, " Thirty Poems." 
 I. 
 Fabitjs, this region, desolate and drear, 
 These solitary fields, this shapeless mound, 
 Were once Italica, the far-renowned ; 
 For Scipio, the mighty, planted here 
 His conquering colony, and now, o'erthrown, 
 Lie its once dreaded walls of massive stone. 
 Sad relics, sad and vain, 
 Of those invincible men 
 Who held the region then. 
 Funereal memories alone remain 
 
 Where forms of high example walked of yore. 
 Here lay the forum, there arose the fane, 
 
 The eye beholds their places and no more. 
 Their proud gymnasium and their sumptuous 
 baths, 
 
 Resolved to dust and cinders, strew the paths. 
 Their towers, that looked defiance at the sky, 
 Fallen by their own vast weight, in fragments lie. 
 
 This broken circus, where the rock weeds climb, 
 Flaunting with yellow blossoms, and defy 
 The gods to whom its walls were piled so 
 high, 
 Is now a tragic theatre, where Time 
 Acts his great fable, spreads a stage that shows 
 Past grandeur's story and its dreary close. 
 Why, round this desert pit, 
 Shout not the applauding rows 
 Where the great people sit ? 
 Wild beasts are here, but where the combatant, 
 With his bare arms, the strong athleta where 1 
 All have departed from this once gay haunt 
 
 Of noisy crowds, and silence holds the air. 
 Yet, on this spot, Time gives us to behold 
 A spectacle as stern as those of old. 
 As dreamily I gaze, there seem to rise, 
 From all the mighty ruin, wailing cries. 
 
 The terrible in war, the pride of Spain, 
 
 Trajan, his country's father, here was born ; 
 Good, fortunate, triumphant, to whose reign 
 Submitted the far regions, where the morn 
 Rose from her cradle, and the shore whose steeps 
 O'erlooked the conquered Gaditanian deeps. 
 Of mighty Adrian here, 
 Of Theodosius, saint, 
 Of Silius, Virgil's peer, 
 Were rocked the cradles, rich with gold, and 
 
 quaint 
 With ivory carvings : here were laurel houghs 
 And sprays of jasmine gathered for their brows 
 From gardens now a marshy, thorny waste. 
 Where rose the palace, reared for Csesar, yawn 
 Foul rifts, to which the scudding lizards haste. 
 Palaces, gardens, Csesars, all are gone, 
 And even the stones their names were graven on. 
 
SPANISH, 
 
 887 
 
 Fabius, if tears prevent thee not, surrey 
 
 The long dismantled streets, so thronged of 
 old, 
 The broken marbles, arches in decay, 
 
 Proud statues, toppled from their place and 
 
 rolled 
 In dust, when Nemesis, the avenger, came, 
 And buried, in forgetfulness profound, 
 The owners and their fame. 
 Thus Troy, I deem, must be, 
 With many a mouldering mound; 
 And thou, whose name alone remains to thee, 
 Rome, of old gods and kings the native ground ; 
 And thou, sage Athens, built by Pallas, whom 
 Just laws redeemed not from the appointed 
 
 doom. 
 The envy of earth's cities once wert thou, — 
 A weary solitude and ashes now. 
 Por fate and death respect ye not : they strike 
 The mighty city and the wise alike. 
 
 But why goes forth the wandering thought to 
 frame 
 New themes of sorrow, sought in distant 
 
 lands ? 
 Enough the example that before me stands ; 
 Por here are smoke wreaths seen, and glimmer- 
 ing flame, 
 And hoarse lamentings on the breezes die ; 
 So doth the mighty ruin cast its spell 
 On those who near it dwell. 
 And under night's still sky, 
 As awe-struck peasants tell, 
 A melancholy voice is heard to cry, 
 " Italica is fallen " ; the echoes then 
 Mournfully shout " Italica " again. 
 
 The leafy alleys of the forest nigh 
 Murmur " Italica," and all around, 
 A troop of mighty shadows, at the sound 
 Of that illustrious name, repeat the call, 
 " Italica ! " from ruined tower and wall. 
 
 
 CALDEPvON DE LA BARCA. 
 
 See page 708. 
 
 FROM LOVE THE GREATEST ENCHANTMENT. 
 Mac-Carthy, " Love the Greatest Enchantment." 
 {Enter Ulyssfs.) 
 Ulysses. 
 The quicker was my speed, 
 The quicker failed the hot breath of my steed, 
 Following thy track along the devious way, 
 Since in thy flight thou hast outstripped the day. 
 
 Circe. 
 Aweary with the chase, 
 To this retired and sylvan-shaded place 
 I came. Say, what has risen ? 
 
 Ulysses. 
 A fond desire, ah me ! from out its prison, 
 Which dared in lofty flight 
 To pierce the clouds of one sweet heaven so 
 
 bright, 
 That from the glowing sky 
 Through which it soared a passion-winged desire, 
 With plumage all afire, 
 Fell back to earth, a flame-singed butterfly. 
 
 Circe. 
 I spoke of hawking when I asked, What rose ? 
 
 Ulysses. 
 And I replied, A woe of tenderest woes. 
 
 Circe. 
 Why thus forgetful of my dignity, 
 Dost thou still make equivocal reply ? 
 
 Ulysses. 
 Because I thought the task thyself had given 
 Might have supposed such fault would be for- 
 given. 
 
 Circe. 
 Ah ! yes, I had forgotten .... 
 
 Ulysses (aside). 
 
 I am mad. 
 
 To-day's dispute. 
 
 Circe. 
 
 What do you say ' 
 
 Ulysses (aside). 
 
 'T were better that I had. 
 
 Circe. 
 
 That only ? 
 
 Ulysses. 
 S T was that impelled my suit. 
 
 Circe. 
 
 Ulysses. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Circe (aside). 
 Accursed be the dispute ! — 
 Well, since these feignings but false flatteries 
 
 seek, 
 Let us speak of the chase alone. 
 
 Ulysses. 
 
 So let us speak : — 
 You scarce had gone, when near 
 The margin of a lake, that crystal-clear 
 Seemed a smooth mirror for the beauteous 
 
 Spring, 
 A heron rose, so sudden its quick wing 
 Bore it amid the sky elate and proud, 
 That at one moment it was bird and cloud, 
 And 'twixt the wind and fire, 
 (Would that such courage had my heart's de- 
 sire ! ) 
 So interposed itself, that its bold wings 
 Wheeling alternate near, 
 Now the diaphanous, now the higher sphere, 
 
Were burnt or froze, 
 
 As down they sank or upward soaring rose, 
 
 In all the fickleness of fond desire, 
 
 Now in the air and now amid the fire. 
 
 An emblem as it were, 
 
 This heron was, betwixt each opposite sphere, 
 
 Of one who is both cowardly and bold, 
 
 Can burn with passion, and yet freeze with cold, 
 
 And 'twixt the air and fire still doubts his place. 
 
 Circe. 
 You speak not of the chase. 
 
 Ulysses. 
 I speak of my heart's care, 
 Which seems a quarry for each fond despair. 
 
 Circe. 
 This would have offended me again, 
 Did I not know, Ulysses, that you feign. 
 
 Ulysses {aside). 
 Ah ! would to Jupiter 't were so ! 
 
 Circe (aside). 
 Ah ! would to Heaven 't were otherwise I 
 
 know ! — 
 And since you 're here alone with me, you need 
 Not further feign ; proceed. 
 
 Ulysses. 
 
 I thus proceed : — 
 Scarce had the heron dwindled to a speck 
 On the far sky, when from about the neck 
 Of a gerfalcon I unloosed the band 
 Which held his hood ; a moment on my hand 
 I soothed the impatient captive, his dark-brown 
 Proud feathers smoothing with caressings down ; 
 While he, as if his hunger did surpass 
 All bounds, picked sharply on his bells of brass. 
 Scarce were they back restored to light, 
 He and another, when in daring flight 
 They scaled heaven's vault, the vast void space 
 
 where play 
 In whirling dance the mote-beams of the day, 
 Then down the deserts of the wind they float, 
 And up and down the sky 
 One flies away as the other swoopeth nigh ; 
 And then the ashen-colored boat 
 (An ashen-colored boat it surely were, 
 That heron, that through shining waves of air 
 Furrowed its way to fields remote), 
 Resolving to be free and not to fail, 
 Although alone it saileth now, 
 Of feet made oars, of curve'd beak a prow, 
 Sails of its wings and rudder of its tail ; — 
 " Poor wretched heron," said I then, " thy strife 
 'Gainst two opposing ills are of my life 
 Too true an image , since it is to-day 
 Of two distinct desires the hapless prey." 
 
 Circe. 
 Now thou canst not excuse thee, since 't is plain 
 Thou offendest, whether thou feignest or don't 
 feign. 
 
 Ulysses. 
 I can ; thy lover's part I would badly play, 
 If at thy first command I could obey. — 
 'Gainst this, 'gainst that, as either doth assail, 
 It furled its wing, and drooped its languid sail. 
 And placing its dazed head beneath the one, 
 Trusting to fortune, like a plummet-stone 
 Straight down it fell; we looking, from afar 
 Saw it descending, an incarnate star, 
 Through the dark sky, 
 With the pursuing falcons ever nigh. 
 
 thou ! if thou 'rt the image of my thought, 
 Be thou a warning too, with wisdom fraught ; 
 Let no delusive hope by thee be shown, 
 
 If in thy fate I must foresee my own. 
 
 ClKCE. 
 
 Though this be feigning, it offends no less 
 Than if the feigning were all truthfulness ; 
 Since if I bade thee feign, 
 At another time, the lover's anxious pain, 
 
 1 also bade thee now not feign again, 
 Since we are here alone. 
 
 Ulysses. 
 
 O Lady ! then 
 If I alike thy chastisement must rue, 
 Whether my passionate speech be feigned or 
 
 true ; 
 Then let the true be punished or disdained, 
 Since it is only feigned in being feigned. 
 
 FKOM THE PHYSICIAN OF HIS OWN HONOR. 
 
 Mac-Carthy, " Dramas of Calderon." 
 
 ACT II. SCENE T. 
 The garden of Don Gdtierre's villa by night, as in the 
 former scene. Dona Mencia is seen reclining upon a 
 couch asleep, beside her is a table with a lighted lamp 
 upon it. Don Gutierre is seen descending from the 
 garden-wall, which he has climbed. 
 
 GOTIERRE. 
 
 In the mute silence of this breathless night, 
 Which fills my breast with terror and delight — 
 Whose dusky shades and glimmering stars, at 
 
 strife, 
 Build the dark sepulchre of human life, 
 Here to my house in secret have I come — 
 Here I approach to Mencia and to home, 
 No tidings of my freedom reached her ear, 
 Lest (woe is me !) she should expect me here. 
 I call myself Physician of my Honor, 
 Since I procure the cure of my dishonor. 
 And so I come, my visit here to pay, 
 At the same hour I did on yesterday, 
 To see if jealousy's sharp, sudden pain 
 Hath left the patient, or doth still remain. 
 For this I 've leapt the garden's barrier o'er, 
 Lest I be seen when entering the door. 
 O God ! what falsehood doth the whole world 
 
 taint, 
 That no man dare examine his complaint 
 Without the danger of perpetual fears ' 
 Badly he spoke who said, the wretch has tears 
 
SPANISH. 
 
 To shed for his misfortunes. 'T is untrue 
 That he who feels the jealous shaft pierce 
 
 through 
 His heart can e'er be silent thereupon. 
 It may be that that man has never known 
 What 't was to feel that agony of pain ; 
 But knowing that, he must perforce complain. 
 This is the place, within whose cool retreat 
 She loves at night to rest ; and though the feet 
 Make no sharp echo 'neath those boughs of 
 
 gloom, 
 Let us tread gently, Honor, since we 've come. 
 For prying thus, beneath o'ershadowing leaves, 
 Oft jealous men must use the step of thieves. 
 
 [He sees Mencia sleeping. 
 Ah ! fairest Mencia — ah ! my gentle dove, 
 Badly you meet my constancy and love ! 
 Another time I will return again ; 
 My honor I find well, and freed from pain. 
 Now that 't is so, it needs no other cure, 
 And in its health I feel myself secure. 
 But — not a slave attends upon her here — 
 Perhaps she watcheth for some stranger near ; — 
 O, slanderous breath ! vile terror ! cruel thought ! 
 Still this suspicion chains me to the spot, 
 And, till by sifting it, it pass away, 
 Here must my doubting footsteps lingering stay. 
 The light I quench, and treading through the 
 
 night, [Extinguishes the light. 
 
 Come doubly blind, bereft of sense and light. 
 My voice, too, sinks its usual pitch beneath ; 
 And thus I whisper, with my gentlest breath — 
 Mencia ! [Awakes her. 
 
 Mencia. 
 
 My God ! Who 's there ? 
 
 GUTIERRE. 
 
 My love, speak low. 
 
 Mencia. 
 Who 's there 1 
 
 GUTIERRE. 
 
 'T is I. And does my life not know ■? 
 
 Mencia. 
 Ah ! yes, my lord, no other would have dared. . . 
 
 GUTIERRE. 
 
 She knows me, then. What agony is spared ! 
 
 [Aside. 
 Mencia. 
 To venture here. If any one but you 
 Did dare so much, this hour I would imbrue 
 My hands in the hot blood that warms his frame, 
 Defending thus my honor and my name. 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 
 joy ! — how sweetly am I undeceived ! 
 
 Well does he act who probes where he is grieved. 
 
 [Aloud. 
 
 Mencia, dear Mencia, do not now persist 
 In fear. 
 
 Mencia. 
 How badly, terror, I resist 
 The feeling ! 
 
 112 
 
 Gutierre. 
 Ever in my heart shall live 
 Your worth. 
 
 Mencia. 
 Say what excuse thou now shalt give 1 . 
 
 None. 
 
 Gdtierre. 
 
 Mencia. 
 For your highness daring to come here ? 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 Highness ! O God, what word is this I hear ? 
 She knows me not. I struggle once again 
 With doubt, misfortune, misery, and pain ! 
 
 Mencia. 
 Wouldst thou a second time behold my death t 
 Think'st thou each night .... 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 
 I gasp — I faint for breath ! 
 
 Mencia. 
 Thou canst conceal thyself ? 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 
 Heavens ! 
 
 And by 
 
 Mencia. 
 
 Extinguishing the light .... 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 
 Now let me die ! 
 
 Mencia. 
 At my extremest peril, from this place 
 Escape before Don Gutierre's face 1 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 I doubt my own existence, since I live ; 
 And that my breath her death-stroke doth not 
 
 give. 
 She does not chide the prince for being here : 
 No coyness doth she feel, but only fear, 
 Lest he, perchance (0, bitter, bitter pain !) 
 Should be compelled to hide himself again ! 
 O, let my heart be firm, my hand be strong, 
 To make my vengeance equal to my wrong ! 
 
 Mencia. 
 My lord, I pray your highness to retire. 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 O God, I feel myself all rage — all fire ! 
 
 Mencia. 
 Risk not again your safety, I implore. 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 Who for such care but would return once more t 
 
 Mencia. 
 This hour Don Gutierre I expect. 
 
890 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 Who would not now all patience quite reject t 
 Ah ! only he who waits a fitting time 
 To wreak his vengeance, and to punish crime ! — 
 
 [Aloud. 
 He will not come. I left him late to-day, 
 Engaged in business. By the public way 
 A friend of mine doth keep a strict lookout; 
 He will not come unnoticed, do not doubt. 
 
 (Enter Jacinta.) 
 Jacinta (aside). 
 
 Trembling I come to see who speaketh here. 
 
 Mencia. 
 Methinks I hear some footsteps drawing near. 
 
 GUTIERRE. 
 
 What shall I do ? 
 
 Mencia. 
 
 Retire, retire, your grace, 
 Not to my chamber, but some other place. 
 
 [Don Gutierre retires to the back of the stage. 
 
 Jacinta. 
 My lady ! 
 
 Menoia. 
 The cool air that trembling crept 
 Amid these whispering branches, while I slept, 
 Blew out the lamp : you may again retire 
 And bring a light. 
 
 [Jacinta goes into the house. 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 
 Enkindled in my fire ! — 
 If I remain here when the light is shown, 
 She must behold me, and then all is known, — 
 Because then Mencia will know 
 And understand my soul's o'erwhelming woe. 
 This cannot be, I must at any price 
 Prevent the pang of being offended twice, 
 Once by the intent, 
 And once by the thought I knew, and could 
 
 consent 
 Her well-earned death one moment to delay, 
 So I must needs dissemble in this way : — 
 
 [He advances and continues in a loud voice. 
 Ho ! how is this 1 What, no one from the 
 
 whole 
 Household attends ! — 
 
 Mencia (aside). 
 
 Rejoice, my coward soul, 
 'T is Gutierre, not the dreaded fate 
 You feared. 
 
 Gutierre. 
 No lamp lit yet, and it so late ! 
 
 (Enter Jacinta with a light. Don Gutierre advances 
 as if from the garden-gate.) 
 
 Here is the light. 
 
 Jacinta. 
 
 Gutierre. 
 
 Ah ! Mencia, my dear wife ! 
 
 Mencia. 
 My husband ! joy and glory of my life ! 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 Her false caresses strike my bosom chill, 
 But heart and soul we must dissemble still. 
 
 Mencia. 
 How did you enter, my dear lord ? 
 
 GUTTEREE. 
 
 This key 
 Through the small garden-gate admitted me ; 
 My love ! my life ! but tell me how 
 You here enjoy yourself? 
 
 Mencia. 
 
 I came but now 
 Down to this garden, where the winds of night, 
 Cooled by these fountains, have blown out the 
 light. 
 
 Gutierre. 
 I do not wonder at it, darling mine, 
 Because the air that killed this light of thine 
 Was breathed out by a zephyr wild and bold, 
 And then ran circling round so icy cold 
 That, of this, you need have little doubt, 
 Not lights alone, but lives it could blow out. 
 Had you slept then, my wife, 
 Its poisoned breath might have destroyed your 
 life. 
 
 Mencia. 
 I wish to understand you, but I find 
 Your thoughts too subtle, or too dull my mind. 
 
 Gutierre. 
 Have you not seen a burning flame expire, 
 Struck by the air, and quenched before your 
 
 eyes, 
 Which, by the embers of another fire, 
 It soon relit, while that which lights rt dies ? 
 Thus death and life the quick combustion finds, 
 And so the flattering tongue of wanton winds 
 May kill the light with thee, 
 And, the same moment, kindle it for me. 
 
 Mencia. 
 'T is plain your words two meanings must con- 
 ceal. 
 Can it be jealousy, my lord, you feel ? 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 Too soon my sorrows to my lips arise, — 
 But then the jealous never yet were wise ; — 
 Jealousy 1 Know you then what jealousy is ? 
 
 (Aloud. 
 As the Heavens live ! I know no pang like 
 
 this, — 
 For if I could, from any reason, know 
 What jealousy was .... 
 
 Mencia (aside). 
 
 Alas ! bitter woe ! 
 
SPANISH. 
 
 891 
 
 GCTIERRE. 
 
 If I had grounds to fancy what may be 
 This phantom terror you call jealousy — 
 That it were more than a mere dream of night 
 That some poor slave or handmaid doth affright, 
 Whoe'er the object, I would cruelly tear 
 Out bit by bit the warm heart she doth bear ; 
 Then as the quivering fragments came 
 Reeking with blood and liquefied in flame, 
 I would the red drops, as they fell, 
 Drink with delight, and eat the heart as well ; — 
 Nay, her very soul I forth would snatch, 
 Which with a thousand wounds I would de- 
 spatch, 
 If souls, by pain, can e'er be visited : — 
 But Heavens ! what words are these my lips 
 have said'? 
 
 Mencia. 
 You overwhelm my trembling heart with fear. 
 
 GUTIERRE. 
 
 God ! God ! my Mencia, Mencia dear ! 
 My good, my wife, — the glory of my skies ! 
 Dear mistress mine, O, pardon by thine eyes 
 This wild disorder, this strange burst of grief, 
 Which, past conception, past all sane belief, 
 
 A mere chimera of the brain did cause, 
 Making my thoughts o'erleap all natural laws ; 
 But by thy life, I swear to thee, my dear, 
 
 1 still look on thee with respect and fear, 
 
 Yes, notwithstanding this my strange offence : — 
 Heavens ! how I must have been bereft of sense ! 
 
 Mencia (aside). 
 Fear, terror, dread, as if with poisoned breath, 
 Breathe o'er my soul the pestilence of death. 
 
 GUTIERRE. 
 
 I called myself Physician of my Honor, 
 And in the earth shall bury my dishonor. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 ACT III. SCENE II. 
 
 A room in Don Gutierre's house in Seville. Enter Dona 
 Mencia and Jacinta. 
 
 Jacinta. 
 
 Senora, what deep source of sadness 
 Darkens thy beauty and denies thee gladness, 
 That day and night you can do naught but 
 
 weep? 
 
 Mencia. 
 The anguish that o'erwhelms me is so deep, 
 So full of doubtful terror, no allusion 
 Can ope this dark confusion on confusion, 
 Or this phantom fear dismember : — 
 Since that doleful night, if you remember, 
 When at our country-house residing, 
 I, Jacinta, unto thee confiding 
 My secret troubles, came and told to thee 
 How Don Enrique spoke but then to me, 
 When (I know not how my grief to tell) 
 You said that that was quite impossible, 
 
 For at the time I said he spoke to me 
 
 He in another quarter spoke to thee : 
 
 I am sad and tearful, 
 
 Doubtful, distracted, timorous, and fearful — 
 
 Thinking it must necessarily be 
 
 Gutierre who did speak to me. 
 
 Jacinta. 
 Could such an error happen thee without 
 Thy knowing ? 
 
 Mencia. 
 Yes, Jacinta, now I cannot doubt, — 
 'T was night and in low whispering words he 
 
 spoke. 
 Frightened and in confusion I awoke, 
 And thinking 't was the prince's voice I heard, 
 Easily the mistake might have occurred. — ■ 
 Besides to see him smile and hear him groan, 
 Joyful with me and weeping when alone, — 
 The prey of troubles and dark jealousies 
 Which make such fatal friendship with the eyes, 
 That from them they nothing can conceal, — 
 All make my heart foreboding terrors feel. 
 
 (Enter Coquin.) 
 
 Coquin. 
 
 Senora. 
 
 Mencia. 
 Well, what message do you bear 1 
 
 Coquin. 
 To tell its purport I can scarcely dare, — 
 Don Enrique the Infante .... 
 
 Mencia. 
 
 Coquin, cease — 
 No more that name shall scare my bosom's 
 
 peace, 
 No more shall waken my scarce slumbering 
 
 woe, 
 So much I fear it and abhor it so. 
 
 Coquin. 
 The message that I bear thee do not fear ; 
 'T is not of love. 
 
 Mencia. 
 
 In that case I shall hear ; 
 Say on. 
 
 Coquin. 
 Senora, the Infante, who 
 Was so bootlessly in love with you, 
 Had to-day a serious altercation 
 With the king, his brother ; the narration 
 Should you perchance demand it 
 I cannot tell, as I don't understand it, — 
 And if I did, among forbidden things 
 With jesters is the sacred talk of kings, — 
 This by the way : — Enrique summoned me, 
 And thus addressed me with great secrecy : — 
 " To Dona Mencia speedily depart, 
 And bear this message to her on my part, —• 
 Tell her that her tyrannous disdain 
 From me the favor of the king hath ta'en, 
 
892 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 And drives me from my native land, 
 A mourning exile, to a foreign strand, 
 Where every hope of life shall fly, 
 Since there, by Mencia hated, I shall die ! " 
 
 Mencia. 
 What ! must the prince the favor of the king, 
 And even his country, lose through me? — a 
 
 thing 
 To strike the proudest reputation down ! — 
 O, I shall be the babble of the town ! — 
 What shall I do ? O Heavens ! — 
 
 Jacinta. 
 
 Be sure, 
 My lady, it is better to prevent than cure 
 This evil. 
 
 COQUIN. 
 
 Yes, how can she ? pray explain. 
 
 Jacinta. 
 By asking the Infante to remain : — 
 For if on thy account he leaves this place, 
 As now is whispered, thy unjust disgrace 
 Will be made public, since, whate'er compels 
 A prince's absence, rumor ever tells 
 With added circumstance and sateless zest 
 The why and wherefore. 
 
 CoQum. 
 
 How shall this request 
 Come to his ears, if off in thought he flies 
 Booted and spurred, and bearing countless sighs ? 
 
 Jacinta. 
 By my lady writing to him now 
 A letter which will simply tell him how 
 Her reputation doth require that he 
 Go not away : and if brought back by thee 
 Will reach him in full time. 
 
 Mencia. 
 
 Alas ! although 
 To palter with one's honor is, I know, 
 A dangerous experiment, to me 
 The writing of this letter seems to be 
 The only hopeful thing that I can do ; — 
 And if an ill, the lesser ill of two, — 
 If any ill of mine can be called light : — 
 Both here remain, while I go in and write. 
 
 [She draws a curtain aside, and enters an adjoining 
 apartment. The curtain closes behind her. 
 
 Jacinta. 
 Coquin, how comes it that from day to day 
 You grow more sad, you once so light and 
 
 gay? 
 Say, what can be the sudden cause of it 1 
 
 Coquin. 
 Why, I attempted to become a wit, 
 For my misfortune, and have got all over 
 A hypochondria I '11 ne'er recover. 
 
 A hypochondria ? and what is that ? 
 
 Coquin. 
 'T is an infirmity the sick world gat 
 A year or two ago, unknown before ; 
 'T is one of fashion's fevers and no more ; — 
 From which, fair friend, no lady can excuse her, 
 Or, should she catch it not, to him who wooes 
 
 her 
 She mourning comes, and says to him some 
 
 day, 
 " Bestow a little hypochondria " : — 
 But my master enters now the room. 
 
 Jacinta. 
 My God ! — I fly to tell her he* has come. 
 
 (Enter Don Gutierre.) 
 Gutierre. 
 Hold ! hold, Jacinta, stay ! 
 Why do you fly my presence in this way ? 
 
 Jacinta. 
 I meant but quickly to proclaim 
 Unto my lady that your lordship came 
 Into the house. 
 
 ' Gutierre (aside). 
 
 race of servants ! ye 
 The fostered foes of every family ! — 
 They seem perplexed by my abrupt intrusion : — 
 
 [To Jacinta. 
 Come, tell me what 's the cause of this confu- 
 sion? 
 Why would you so have fled ? 
 
 Jacinta. 
 My lord, I meant to announce, as I have said, 
 Your coming to my mistress. 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 
 She doth seal 
 Her lips ; perchance this other may reveal 
 The truth : — You, Coquin, as you are aware, 
 Have been my trusted servant firm and fast — 
 Be now obedient to my earnest prayer — 
 Tell me, good God ! quick, tell me what has 
 passed ? 
 
 Coquin. 
 My lord, I 'd grieve if I but knew a tittle 
 That I had learned and could reveal so little — 
 Please God ! my master . . . 
 
 Gutierre. 
 
 Do not speak so high : — 
 Why were you so disturbed when I came nigh ? 
 
 Coquin. 
 We 're easily frightened ; both our nerves are 
 weak. 
 
 Gutierre (aside). 
 With signs, I see them to each other speak ; 
 No feeble cowardice must now be shown : — 
 Both of you leave me. 
 
 [Exeunt Coquin and Jacinta. 
 Now we are alone, 
 My honor, you and I, we now must go 
 
SPANISH. 
 
 893 
 
 At once to end my rapture or my woe : — 
 
 "Who ever saw a grief like this arise 
 
 That hands must kill while tears bedew the eyes ! 
 
 [He draws the curtain, and Mencia is seen writing 
 at a table ; her back is towards him. 
 Mencia is writing ; I am driven to see 
 To whom she writes, and what the theme may 
 be: 
 
 [He advances cautiously and seizes the letter; 
 Mencia starts up and with a sudden ex- 
 clamation faints away. 
 
 Mencia- 
 
 God ! Heaven ! assist me in my woe ! 
 
 GUTIERRE. 
 
 She lies a living statue of cold snow ! — 
 
 [Reads. 
 " I pray your highness " — Ah ! since he is high, 
 Low on the ground, my honor, thou must lie ! — 
 " Do not depart " . . . . No more my voice 
 
 impart 
 This hated prayer that he should not depart : — 
 So freely now I yield me to my fate, 
 
 1 almost thank my woes they are so great ! — 
 But shall I now her senseless body slay ? 
 
 No, I must act in a more cautious way : 
 First, all my servants I must send elsewhere, 
 That then companioned only by my care 
 Alone I stay : And she, my hapless wife, 
 "Whom more than all in my unhappy life 
 I truly loved, I now desire in this 
 Final farewell — this trembling o'er the abyss 
 Of death and judgment — she should feel once 
 
 more 
 My care, my pity ere her life be o'er — 
 That latest care affection's zeal supplies, — 
 That the soul die not when the body dies. 
 
 [He writes some lines upon the letter, which he places 
 upon the table, and then leaves the apartment. 
 
 Mencia (recovering). 
 0, avert ! avert ! thy vengeful sword ! — 
 Think me not guilty, my beloved lord, — ■ 
 For Heaven doth know that I die innocent ! 
 What furious hand ! what bloody steel is bent 
 To pierce my heart ! O, hold ! — thy wrath 
 
 assuage, 
 Nor slay an innocent woman in thy rage ; — 
 But how is this ? Ah me ! I am alone, 
 And is he gone ? hath Gutierre flown ? — 
 Methought — and who would not have thought 
 
 with me? — 
 Dying I sank amid a ruby sea : — 
 
 God ! this fainting, when I gasped for breath, 
 Was the foreshadow of impending death ! — 
 The illusive truth I doubt and yet believe ! — 
 This letter I shall tear. 
 
 [She takes up the letter. 
 
 But what do I perceive ? 
 
 Some writing of my husband placed beneath, — 
 
 1 feel it is the sentence of my death ! 
 
 [Reads. 
 
 " Love adores thee, but honor abhors thee ; 
 
 and thus while one condemns thee to death, the 
 
 other gives thee this admonition : thou hast but 
 two hours to live, — thou art a Christian, — save 
 thy soul, for as to thy life it is impossible." 
 
 O God, defend me ! ho ! Jacinta, here ! 
 
 No one replies, another fatal fear ! — 
 
 Is there no servant waiting ? I shall know. — 
 
 Ah me ! the door is locked, I cannot go : 
 
 No one in all the house appears to hear me ; 
 
 Terror and horror shuddering come more near 
 
 me ! 
 These windows too are barred with iron railings, 
 In vain to vacant space I utter my bewailings, — 
 Since underneath an outstretched garden lies, 
 Where there is none to heed my frantic cries. 
 Where shall I go 1 0, whither shall I fly, 
 Girt by those shades of death that darken heart 
 
 ande y e! [Scene closes. 
 
 ACT III. SCENE IV. 
 
 A chamber in Don Gutierre's house. At the back scene is 
 an antechamber, the entrance to which is covered by a 
 curtain. 
 
 (Enter Don Gutierre, conducting Ludovico, a Surgeon, 
 whose eyes are bound.) 
 
 Gutierre. 
 Enter without any fear ; 
 Now 't is time that I unfasten 
 From your face this needful bandage, 
 And that I conceal mine own. 
 
 [He loosens the bandage and conceals his own 
 face in his cloak. 
 
 God preserve me ! 
 
 Ludovico. 
 
 Gutierre. 
 
 Be not frightened, 
 
 Whatsoe'er you see. 
 
 Ludovico. 
 My lord, 
 From my house this night you drew me 
 Forth, but scarcely had we entered 
 On the street, when, with a dagger 
 Pointed at my breast, you forced me 
 Tremblingly to do thy bidding, 
 Which was to conceal and cover 
 Up my eyes, and then to yield me 
 To thy guidance, and you led me 
 Onward by a thousand windings, 
 Telling me my life depended 
 On my loosening not the bandage ; — 
 Thus an hour I have gone with you 
 Without knowing where I wandered — 
 Lost in speechless admiration 
 At so serious an adventure ; — 
 But now more disturbed and wondering 
 Do I feel, to find me standing 
 In a house so richly furnished — 
 Where there seems no living inmate 
 But yourself, and you, too, hiding 
 Close your face within your mantle : — 
 What 's your wish ? 
 
894 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 GUTIERRE. 
 
 That you await me 
 Here alone for one brief moment. 
 
 [ Goes into the antechamber 
 
 IiDDOVICO. 
 
 What mysterious termination 
 Can conclude so many wonders ? 
 God protect me ! — 
 
 [Don Gutierre comes forth from the chamber, 
 and draws the curtain aside. 
 
 Gutierre. 
 It is time 
 That you enter here ; but listen 
 Ere you do so : this bright dagger 
 Will be instantly enamelled 
 With the best blood of your bosom, 
 If you disobey my orders ; 
 Come, and look within this chamber : 
 What do you see in it 1 
 
 Ludovico. 
 
 An image 
 Of pale death — an outstretched body, 
 Which upon a bed is lying : — 
 At each side a lighted candle 
 And a crucifix before it, — 
 Who it is I cannot say, 
 As the face is covered over 
 With a veil of taffeta. 
 
 Gutierre. 
 To this living corse, this body 
 Which you see, you must give death. 
 
 Ludovico. 
 What are your orders ? 
 
 Gutierre. 
 
 That you bleed her ; 
 Freely let the blood flow forth, 
 Drop by drop the life-stream watching, 
 Standing by her purple bedside 
 Firmly through the horrid scene, 
 Till from out the little puncture 
 She doth sink and bleed to death. 
 Answer not ; 't is vain and useless 
 To attempt to move my pity. 
 If you wish to live, obey me. 
 
 LUDOVICO. 
 
 my lord, such terror thrills me ! 
 Though I hear you, I have not 
 Any strength to do thy bidding. 
 
 Gutierre. 
 He who, forced by sternest fate, 
 Dares discharge so dread a duty 
 Will know how to kill thee too. 
 
 LUDOVICO. 
 
 'T is life's instinct that compels me. 
 
 Gutierre. 
 You do well to yield to it, 
 Since the world holds many persons 
 
 Who but only live to kill : — 
 From this spot I can behold you — 
 Ludovico, enter in. 
 
 [Ludovico enters the antechamber. 
 
 This was the most subtle method 
 
 To dissemble my affront ; 
 
 If 't were poison, it were easy 
 
 To investigate the cause ; 
 
 If 't were by a wound, the death-mark 
 
 Never wholly could be hid : — 
 
 Now, her natural death relating, 
 
 I can say, a sudden cause 
 
 Made the bleeding necessary : 
 
 No one can deny that statement, 
 
 If it is quite possible 
 
 For a band itself to loosen : — 
 
 And to have observed the caution 
 
 With this man that I have used, 
 
 Was required : for if uncovered 
 
 Here he came, and saw a woman 
 
 Whom he was compelled to bleed, 
 
 Then how strong were the' presumption : — 
 
 Now he cannot even say, 
 
 If he speaks of this adventure, 
 
 Who the woman was he bled : — 
 
 And moreover when I bring him 
 
 Forth some distance from my house, 
 
 I feel strongly moved to kill him. 
 
 I, Physician of my Honor, 
 
 Mean to give it health and life 
 
 By a bleeding, since now all things 
 
 At the cost of blood are cured. [Exit. 
 
 FROM BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST. 
 
 Mac-Carthy, " Mysteries of Corpus Christi." 
 
 The beautiful garden of Belshazzar's palace, terminated 
 by a summer-house and wall. 
 
 SCENE THE FIRST. 
 
 (Enter The Thought, dressed in a coat of many colors, as 
 the Fool, and after him Daniel, detaining him.) 
 
 Stay! 
 
 Stop! 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 Thought. 
 Why stay 1 the road is free. 
 
 Thought. 
 Why stop 1 the coast is clear. 
 
 Hear me ! 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 Thought. 
 I don't want to hear. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 See though . 
 
 Thought. 
 
 I don't want to see. 
 
SPANISH. 895 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 I am not sole fool ; and why 1 
 
 Who before, in words like these, 
 
 Just because in public I 
 
 Questioned thus, has thus replied ? 
 
 Try my best to act discreetly. 
 
 
 Since a fool 't were hard to find 
 
 Thought. 
 
 More incurable than he 
 
 I, for I, by rules untied, 
 
 Who would do, or say, or be 
 
 I alone say what I please. 
 
 What he thought within his mind. — 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 Thus few wear the fool's-cap feather, 
 
 Although most that badge might win, 
 
 Say, who art thou ? 
 
 For, when looked at from within, 
 
 Thought. 
 
 We are madmen all together, — 
 
 Thy not knowing 
 
 Fools of the same kith and kin. 
 
 This offends me, I confess : — 
 
 And, in fine, I, being a fool, 
 
 Tells it not to thee this dress 
 
 Did not like to stop and pause 
 
 With a thousand colors glowing, 
 
 Here to speak with thee, because 
 
 Like the many-hued emission 
 
 It would outrage every rule, 
 
 The chameleon's skin gives out, 
 
 That we two were joined, and trod 
 
 Leaving its true shade in doubt 1 
 
 On together, badly mated ; 
 
 Hear, then, this, my definition : — 
 
 For if " Daniel," when translated, 
 
 I am of those attributes 
 
 Meaneth Wisdom as of God, 
 
 In which deathless being prideth ; 
 
 It were difficult to try 
 
 I that light am which divideth 
 
 To keep up a conversation, 
 
 Man's high nature from the brute's. 
 
 We being in our separate station, 
 
 I am that first crucible 
 
 Wisdom thou, and Folly I. 
 
 In which fortune's worth is tested — 
 
 
 Swift as sunlight unarrested — 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 Than the moon more mutable : — 
 
 Yet to-day I know no rules 
 
 I have no fixed place wherein 
 
 That forbid our casual speaking, 
 
 To be born, or live, or die. — 
 
 Thou the way of the wise man seeking, 
 
 On I move, yet know not I 
 
 I not stooping to the fool's : 
 
 Where to end or to begin. 
 
 For, although the distance be 
 
 Fate, how dark or bright it be, 
 
 Great 'twixt wise and witless words, 
 
 Ever at its side beholds me ; 
 
 Still 't is from two different chords 
 
 Every human brain enfolds me, 
 
 Springs the sweetest harmony. 
 
 Man's and woman's, — none are free. 
 
 
 I am in the king his care, 
 
 Thought. 
 
 When he plans his kingdom's weal ; 
 
 Well, I '11 answer with decision, 
 
 I am vigilance and zeal, 
 
 And get over my confusion, 
 
 When his favorite's toils I share. 
 
 Since it is a right conclusion 
 
 I am guilt's sure punishment, 
 
 Thought should tell the Prophet's vision. 
 
 Self-reproach in the offender ; 
 
 
 I am craft in the pretender, 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 Foresight in the provident. 
 
 Say what pleasure, deeply drawn, 
 
 In the lady, I am beauty ; 
 
 Art thou now in spirit drinking ? 
 
 In the lover, his romance ; 
 
 
 In the gambler, hope of chance ; 
 
 Thought. 
 
 In the gallant soldier, duty ; 
 
 Of the bridal I am thinking, 
 
 In the miser, money-madness ; 
 
 Which to-day all Babylon 
 
 In the wretch, his life's long dearth ; 
 
 Celebrates with festive roar. 
 
 In the joyful, I am mirth ; 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 And in the sorrowful, am sadness ; — 
 
 And, in fine, thus strangely wrought, 
 
 Now the bridegroom's name declare. 
 
 Kestless, rapid, on I fly, 
 
 Thought. 
 
 Nothing, everything am I, 
 
 King Belshazzar, son and heir, 
 Of Nabuchaddnosdr, 
 
 Since I am the Human Thought. 
 
 See, if such strange changes give 
 
 Heir of pride, bv pride increased ; — 
 
 Thee, Man, true views about me, 
 
 
 Since the thing that lives without me 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 Scarcely can be said to live. 
 
 Who is, then, the happy bride ? 
 
 This I am for each and all, 
 
 
 But to-day I am assigned 
 
 Thought. 
 
 To the King Belshazzar's mind, — 
 
 She who rules the Orient wide, 
 
 He for whom the world 's too small. 
 
 The fair Empress of the East, 
 
 Though in fool's clothes dressed completely, 
 
 Cradle of day's infancy. 
 
896 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 DANIEL. 
 
 An idolatress, is she ■? 
 
 Thought. 
 
 Yes, 
 And so great an idolatress 
 She is herself Idolatry. 
 
 Daniel. 
 Is he not, in marriage vows, 
 Wed already to a wife, 
 In the vanity of life ? 
 
 Thought. 
 Yes ; but then his law allows 
 Two, or even a thousand wives ; 
 And, though wed to Vanity, 
 Now for Paganism he, 
 With imperious passion, strives, 
 Daniel, or " God's Wisdom," names 
 (For the two are one) to thee 
 Given by Scripture. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 Woe is me ! 
 
 Thought. 
 Would you wed yourself the dames 
 That you thus take on you so ? [Aside. 
 
 This to tell was wrong, I see. 
 
 Daniel. 
 Woe ! God's people ! woe to thee ! 
 Woe ! unhappy kingdom, woe ! 
 
 Thought. 
 If the truth were told, thy deepest 
 Pain is now the contemplating 
 The great bride-feast celebrating, 
 While a captive here thou weepest. 
 This it is that saddens thee ; 
 Eor if he had chanced to wed 
 With the Jewish rite instead, 
 Thou wouldst be redeemed and free ; — 
 
 [ Clarions are heard. 
 Hark ! the distant music sounds ; 
 Now I pass to other things ; 
 Babylon with rapture rings, 
 Every heart with joy rebounds, 
 Welcoming, with jubilee, 
 The new Wife-Queen. — Let us go. 
 
 Daniel. 
 Woe ! unhappy kingdom, woe ! 
 Woe ! God's people ! woe to thee ! 
 
 [ They retire. 
 
 scene the sixteenth. 
 Belshazzar. — The Thought — Idolatry. 
 
 Idolatry. 
 No, a voice shall not conclude my story, 
 No fraud shall rob my triumphs and my glory ; — 
 
 The pomp that I display 
 Shall make this night outshine the light of day. — 
 
 Belshazzar, Prince Supreme, 
 
 Eor thee a god, more than a king, I deem. 
 
 Whilst thou in sweet suspense 
 Of sleep gave rest to every weary sense, 
 
 Making a truce with thought, 
 My love, with thy best interests ever fraught, 
 
 Its faithful watch would keep, 
 For fond affection knows not how to sleep. 
 
 A supper, rich and rare, 
 Full of all dainties cunning could prepare, 
 
 Things yet unknown to taste, 
 Are all, by my prevision, duly placed : 
 
 What every sense could wish 
 Breathes from each vase, or tempts from every 
 dish : 
 
 Upon the sideboards glow 
 Rich gold and silver vessels all a-row, 
 
 And many a costly prize, 
 Whose brightness gives a dropsy to the eyes. 
 
 Sweetest perfumes 
 Breathe their delicious fragrance through the 
 
 rooms 
 From emerald braziers filled with souls of 
 
 flowers 
 That died in fair Arabia's happy bowers : 
 
 Sole food, as thou thyself canst tell, 
 That satisfies the hunger of the smell. 
 The music, too, in well-accorded note, 
 Nor yet too near, nor yet too far remote, 
 From many a silken string, and mellow horn, 
 Quenches the thirst wherewith the ear is born. 
 
 The table-cloths of white, 
 Around whose broidered edges pinks unite 
 With clustered lilies, which commingled throw 
 A brighter brightness o'er the blinding snow 
 On which they lie, give to the wondering touch 
 A smooth surprise it cannot feel too much. 
 Nectar, ambrosia, such as gods might claim, 
 Cold, icy drinks 't is freshness but to name, 
 From the rich orange and the rose distilled, 
 For thee, in golden goblets shall be filled, 
 To please thy taste, that so in joyous state 
 With every course the cups should alternate. 
 
 And that these may be 
 To-day the surest proof of victory, 
 The vessels sacred then to Israel's God, 
 Which Nabuchadonosdr, unawed, 
 Bore off from great Jerusalem the day 
 When a remoter East received his sway, 
 
 Command them here to bring : — 
 This night, with them, thou 'It pledge the gods, 
 
 King ! 
 And thus profane the temple's sacred store, 
 In honor of the idols I adore : 
 For sweet dessert, let these my arms suffice, 
 Inventing, feigning, every fond device 
 By which, as in a cipher's interlacing, 
 Thy greatness may be known from my embracing, 
 Love's sweetest manna this, in which unite 
 Smell, tasting, touch, the hearing, and the sight. 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 In seeing thee, the memory fades away, 
 Of all the solemn thoughts I held to-day, 
 Thy living light in lustrous beauty beams, 
 
SPANISH. 897 
 
 I wake and find thee fairer than my dreams. 
 
 Music. 
 
 Thy light alone, I feel, 
 
 This table, Idolatry .' 
 
 Can from my heart the fatal sadness steal, 
 
 Is an altar raised to thee, 
 
 That keeps it so dejected. 
 
 Vanity I thou 'rt here adored, 
 
 
 Since, a thing without example, 
 
 Thought. 
 
 The rich vessels of the Temple 
 
 By Heaven ! this is but just what I expected : 
 
 Decorate Belshazzar's board. 
 
 You 're not so foolish, though not overwise, 
 
 [ They all take their seats at the table. 
 
 As such a glorious supper to despise : — 
 
 
 Let there be feasting, let us be jolly, 
 
 SCENE THE EIGHTEENTH. 
 
 This night, at least, we '11 banish melancholy ; 
 
 (Enter Death, disguised as one of the attendants.) 
 
 My folly rises now to exaltation, 
 
 By cynics sometimes called inebriation. 
 
 Death (aside). 
 
 To the great feast of the king, 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 
 Thus disguised I freely enter : 
 
 Let the gold vessels, which within the shrine 
 
 Since at this great supper I 
 
 Of conquered Judah flowed with mystic wine 
 
 Am concealed and unsuspected, 
 
 For Israel's priests, those cups so richly chased, 
 
 I believe that I can hide me 
 
 Be filled for me too. 
 
 'Mong the crowd of his attendants. 
 
 
 Careless here Belshazzar sits, 
 
 Thought. 
 
 And of me has no remembrance, 
 
 I admire your taste. 
 
 Circled by his women round, 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 
 By his nobles and dependants. 
 
 Go for them. 
 
 Those rich cups which Solomon 
 
 
 To the one true God presented, 
 
 SCENE THE SEVENTEENTH. 
 
 And with which his holy priests 
 
 
 Sacrificial rights effected, 
 
 Belshazzar, The Thought, Idolatry, Vanity ; Music, 
 Attendants, fyc. 
 
 
 0, thou Judgment of the Eternal, 
 
 Vanity (entering). 
 
 Loose thy hand now, let mine loose, too, 
 
 Stay; for I the vessels bring; 
 
 For he surely hath the measure 
 
 From Vanity's hands receive the cups, King ! 
 
 Of his sins at last accomplished 
 
 Idolatry. 
 
 In a sacrilege so dreadful. 
 
 Set out the tables for the supper here, 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 
 Close by this summer-house. 
 
 Give me wine. 
 
 Thought. - 
 
 
 
 Thought (to Death). 
 
 For me? dear ! 
 
 Halloo ! ho ! comrade, 
 
 Idolatry. 
 
 Have you an attack of deafness ? — 
 
 For thee, my friend % Why, who here spoke 
 
 Bring the king a cup of wine, 
 
 of thee? 
 
 Whilst I to this dish address me. 
 
 
 [He draws a dish to himself and begins to eat. 
 
 Thought. 
 
 
 He who says supper, speaks he not of me ? 
 
 Death (aside). 
 
 For if I am to sup, the thing is clear, 
 
 For a servant I am taken : — 
 
 Senora, that the supper standeth here, 
 
 Well, the cup I will present him, 
 
 And this reminds me of an antique song ; 
 
 Since he can't know me, he who 
 
 Brief is the moral and the stave not long. 
 
 Is so blinded and forgetful. 
 
 [ Sings. 
 " Supper for me was made, I think, 
 
 [He takes a gold goblet from the table. 
 
 This rich vessel of the altar 
 
 Since I was born to eat and drink, 
 
 Holds life in it, it is certain, 
 
 For in easy mood, I submit to food, 
 
 Since the soul, athirst for life, 
 
 When the wine is old and the meat is good." 
 [The table is brought in, on which the sacred 
 
 Finds in it its sure refreshment. 
 
 But it also holds within it 
 
 vessels are displayed ; the attendants com- 
 
 Death as well as Life; its essenee 
 
 mence serving the banquet. 
 
 Is of life and death commingled, 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 Here take your seats, ye two ; along the sides 
 Sit ye, my friends, and take what Heaven pro- 
 vides ; 
 When even the Temple gives us cups at call, 
 
 And its liquor is the blended 
 Heavenly nectar and the hemlock, — 
 Bane and antidote together. [Aloud. 
 Here, Monarch ! is the wine. 
 
 [He presents the cup to the King. 
 
 Be sure the supper has been meant for all : — 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 
 Now, let the thanks that to the gods belong 
 
 From thy hand I will accept it. 
 
 From your full hearts find utterance in song. 
 
 What a beauteous cup ! 
 
 113 __ 
 
 
898 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Death (aside). 
 
 woe! 
 Not to know the draught is deadly ! 
 
 Idolatry. 
 The King drinks ; let all arise. [ah arise. 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 Ye, the glories of my empire, 
 In this cup of Israel's God 
 I salute our own. Forever, 
 Moloch, God of the Assyrians, 
 Live ! [He drinks slowly. 
 
 Thought. 
 We drink the toast with pleasure : 
 Thirty thousand gods to-day 
 Seem too few to fill our revels ; 
 I would like to drink them all. 
 
 Idolatry. 
 Let song mingle with the pledges. 
 
 Music. 
 This table, Idolatry ! 
 Is an altar raised to thee, 
 Vanity ! thou 'rt here adored, — 
 Since, a thing without example, 
 The rich chalice of the Temple 
 Drains Belshazzar at his board. 
 
 [A great clap of thunder is heard. 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 What an awful sound ! What means 
 This tumultuous voice of terror 
 That doth call the clouds to arm 
 On the battle-field of Hearen 1 — 
 
 Idolatry. 
 When you drank it must have been 
 A salute the heavens presented 
 With their fearful thunder-guns. 
 
 Vanity. 
 See, a gloomy horror settles 
 O'er the sky, that hides the stars. 
 
 Death. 
 I, who darkest night engender, 
 How I love this gloom, this horror ! 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 Comets dark, with burning tresses, 
 Through the air, wild birds of fire, 
 Plash the lightning's flames incessant ; 
 With loud cries of grief and pain 
 Groans the cloud, as if 't were pregnant : 
 It in travail seems to be, 
 And 't is so, for from its entrails 
 Breaks a bright bolt forth, the glowing 
 Embryo that filled its centre : 
 When the cloud gives birth to lightning, 
 Thunder but its cry expresses. 
 , [A louder and more terrific clap of thunder is heard, 
 accompanied by lightning: on tlie ceiling of the 
 hall appears a hand, pointing to a paper, on which 
 is inscribed, " Mane, Thecel, Pharis." 
 
 See ye not ? 0, woe is me ! 
 Through the trembling air projected 
 What is bursting, what is breaking, 
 Which, above my head, suspended 
 Hangs but by a hair, and glideth 
 Towards the wall ? Its form presenteth 
 The appearance of a hand, 
 Of a hand the cloud has severed 
 From some monstrous form unseen ! — 
 Who, O, who, in lightning, ever, 
 Arteries saw till now 1 I know not 
 What its finger writes, what message, 
 Since when it has left the impress 
 Of three rapid strokes or sketches 
 On the wall, to join its body 
 
 Once again the hand ascendeth 
 
 Pale my cheek has grown, my hair 
 Stands on end through fear and terror; 
 Trembling throbs my heart; my breath 
 Chokes my parched throat, or deserts me. 
 For what was the Babel of tongues 
 Is to-day the Babel of letters. 
 
 Vanity. 
 I a burning mountain seem. 
 
 Idolatry. 
 I a statue of ice resemble. 
 
 Thought. 
 I am neither mountain nor statue, — 
 But a nice, fine fear o'erwhelms me. 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 Thou, Idolatry, thou that knowest 
 All the gods' deep secrets, tell me 
 What do these strange letters mean ? 
 
 Idolatry. 
 These I'm powerless to interpret; 
 Even the character I know not. 
 
 Belshazzar [to Vanity). 
 Thou, whose genius comprehendeth 
 Deepest science — thou, the augur's, 
 The magician's, chief preceptress, 
 What here read'st thou ? Say — What ? 
 
 Vanity. 
 
 Nothing ; — 
 Here my genius fails to help me : 
 These are all to me unknown. 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 Thou, O Thought ! dost comprehend them 1 
 
 Thought. 
 You have asked a sage at last ! 
 I 'm an ignorant fool, Heaven help me ! 
 
 Idolatry. 
 Daniel, the same Hebrew, who 
 Did so well the dream interpret 
 Of the statue and the tree, 
 He will tell it. 
 
SPANISH. 
 
 899 
 
 SCENE THE NINETEENTH. 
 {Enter Daniel.) 
 Daniel. 
 List attentive : — 
 Mane" means that God hath numbered, 
 And thy kingdom's days hath ended ; 
 Thecel, that thou hast completed 
 The full number, thy offences 
 Not admitting one sin more ; 
 Phare's, that a waste, a desert, 
 Will thy kingdom be, when seized 
 By the Medes and by the Persians. 
 Thus the hand of God hath written 
 With the finger thy dread sentence, 
 And its carrying out hath He 
 To the secular arm expressly 
 Delegated. This hath God 
 Done to thee, because perversely 
 Thou, with scorn and ribald jest, 
 Hast profaned the sacred vessels. 
 For no mortal should misuse 
 These pure vessels of the Temple, 
 Which, until the law of grace 
 Reigns on earth, foreshow a blessed 
 Sacrament, when the written Law 
 Time's tired hand shall blot forever, 
 If these vessels' profanation 
 Is a crime of such immenseness, 
 Hear the cause, ye mortals, hear it ! 
 For in them, life, death, are present — 
 'T is that he who receives in sin, 
 Desecrates God's holy vessel. 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 In them is there death % 
 
 Death. 
 
 There is, 
 When they are by me presented, 
 I, the pride-born child of sin, 
 Of whose dark and deadly venom 
 He who drinks must surely die. 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 Ah ! in spite of all my senses, 
 I believe thee, I believe thee ; 
 For though torpid and dejected, 
 Through the sight, and through the hearing, 
 Have thy fearful voice and presence 
 Penetrated my proud bosom, — 
 To my very soul's seat entered : — 
 Save me, Idolatry ! 
 From this agony. 
 
 Idolatry. 
 
 I am helpless, 
 For at the terrific voice 
 Of that Mystery predestined, 
 Which you have to-day profaned 
 In these cups that are its emblems, 
 All my courage I have lost, — 
 All my former fire and mettle. 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 Help me now, O Vanity ! 
 
 Vanity. 
 I am humbled, through Heaven's mercy. 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 Thee, O Thought ! 
 
 Thought. 
 
 Thy greatest foe 
 Now is in thy Thought presented, 
 Since you did not wish to heed 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 Daniel ! 
 
 Daniel. 
 I am God's decree : — 
 Yea, He hath pronounced thy sentence ! 
 Yea, the measure is filled up ! 
 
 Thought. 
 Nulla est redemptio. 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 All, ah ! all in this dread hour, 
 In this final need desert me ! — 
 Who, O, who hath power to save me 
 From this horror, from this spectre ? — 
 
 Death. 
 No one : — for thou wouldst not be 
 Safe within the abysmal centre 
 Of the earth. 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 
 Ah ! fire enfolds me ! 
 
 Death. 
 Die, thou sinner ! 
 
 [Death draws his sword, and stabs Belshazzar ; he then 
 seizes him in his arms, and they struggle together, 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 
 This is death, then ! — 
 Was the venom not sufficient 
 That I drank of? 
 
 Death. 
 
 No : that venom 
 Was the death of the soul ; the body's, 
 This swift death-stroke representeth. 
 
 Belshazzar. 
 With death's agony upon me, 
 Sad, despairing, and dejected, 
 Struggling against odds, and dying, 
 Soul and body both together, 
 Hear ! ye mortal men, O, hear ! 
 What doth mean this fearful message, 
 What this Mane, Thecel, Phare's 
 Of the one Supreme God threatens ; — 
 He who dares profane God's cup, 
 Him He striketh down forever ; 
 He who sinfully receives, 
 Desecrates God's holiest vessel ! 
 
 [Exeunt Death and Belshazzar struggling to- 
 gether, and after them The Thought. 
 
FROM LIFE IS A DREAM. 
 Trench, " Calderon; his Life and Genius." 
 
 Clotaldo 
 All, as thou coramand'st it, 
 Has been happily effected. 
 
 Kins. 
 Say, Clotaldo, how it passed. 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 In this manner it succeeded. 
 With that mildly soothing draught, 
 Which thou badest should be tempered 
 With confections, mingling there 
 Of some herbs the influences, 
 Whose tyrannic strength and power, 
 And whose force that works in secret, 
 So the reason and discourse 
 Alienateth and suspendeth, 
 That it leaves the man who quaffs it 
 Than a human corpse no better, 
 And in deep sleep casting him 
 Robs him of his powers and senses — 
 With that potion in effect, 
 Where all opiates met together 
 In one draught, to Sigismund's 
 Narrow dungeon I descended. 
 There I spoke with him awhile 
 Of the human arts and letters, 
 Which the still and silent aspect 
 Of the mountains and the heavens 
 Him have taught, — that school divine, 
 Where he has been long a learner, 
 And the voices of the birds 
 And the beasts has apprehended. 
 Then, that I might better raise 
 And exalt his spirit's temper 
 To the enterprise you aim at, 
 For my theme I took the fleetness 
 Of a soaring eagle proud, 
 Which, an overbold contemner 
 Of the lower paths of air, 
 To the sphere of fire ascended, 
 And like winge'd lightning there 
 Showed, or comet fiery-tresse'd. 
 Then I hailed its lofty flight, 
 Saying, " Thou in truth art empress 
 Of the birds, 't is therefore just 
 That thou be o'er all preferred." 
 But there was no need of more, 
 For if one of empire speaketh 
 But a word, with high-raised pride 
 Straightway he discourses ever; 
 For in truth his blood excites him, 
 That he fain would be the attempter 
 Of great things, — and he exclaimed, 
 "In yon free and open heaven 
 Are there any then so base 
 That to serve they have consented 1 
 Then when I consider, then 
 My misfortunes solace yield me : 
 For at least if I am subject, 
 Such I am by force, not freely, 
 Since I never to another 
 
 Of freewill myself would render." 
 When I saw him maddened thus 
 With these thoughts, the theme forever 
 Of his griefs, I pledged him then 
 With the drugged cup ; from the vessel 
 Scarcely did the potion pass 
 To his bosom, ere he rendered 
 All his senses up to sleep, — 
 Through his veins and all his members 
 Running such an icy sweat, 
 That had I not known the secret 
 Of his feigned death, for his life 
 I in verity had trembled. 
 
 Sigismuhd. 
 Help me, Heaven, what do I see 1 
 Help me, Heaven, what things are here ? 
 Filling me with little fear, 
 But with much perplexity ! 
 I in sumptuous palaces, 
 Costliest hangings round me spread, 
 I with servants compasse'd, 
 Gay and glittering as these ! 
 On a couch so rich and rare 
 I to waken suddenly, 
 With this retinue to me 
 Offering royal robes to wear ! 
 Dream to call it, were deceit, 
 For myself awake I know ; 
 I am Sigismund, — even so. 
 Heavens, let no delusion cheat 
 Me, but say what this may be, 
 That has overcome me, while 
 Sleep my senses did beguile : 
 Is it truth or fantasy ? 
 But what profit to debate, 
 And this idle coil to keep ? 
 Best the present joy to reap, 
 And the future leave to fate. 
 
 First Servant. 
 What of sadness veils his brow ! 
 
 Second Servant. 
 Who were not distraught, to whom 
 Should arrive such change of doom t 
 
 I for one. 
 
 CLARIN. 
 
 Second Servant. 
 Speak to him now. 
 
 First Servant. 
 Wouldst thou they should sing again 1 
 
 Sigismund. 
 No, their singing pleases not. 
 
 Second Servant. 
 As thou wert so wrapped in thought, 
 We had hoped to ease thy pain. 
 
 Sigismund. 
 Not with melodies like these 
 I my sadness can assuage ; 
 
SPANISH. 
 
 901 
 
 Nothing did mine ear engage 
 
 SIGISMUND. 
 
 
 But those martial harmonies. 
 
 Let none dare 
 Hindrance in my way to throw : 
 
 
 (Enter Clotaldo.) 
 
 'T is in vain : by Heaven, I say, 
 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 If thou standest in my way, 
 
 
 Let your highness, mighty lord, 
 
 From the window shalt thou go — 
 
 
 First give me your hand to kiss : 
 
 
 
 I must not the honor miss 
 
 Second Servant. 
 
 
 First this homage to afford. 
 
 Fly, Clotaldo. 
 
 
 SIGISMUND. 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 
 'T is Clotaldo ! he who used 
 
 Woe is thee ! 
 
 
 In my tower to treat me so ; 
 
 Sigismund, what pride thou showest, 
 
 
 Doth he now this homage show ? 
 
 Nor that thou art dreaming knowest. 
 
 
 I am utterly confused ! 
 
 [CLOTALDO^ieS. 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 Second Servamt. 
 
 
 With the strange perplexity 
 
 He did but — 
 
 
 Growing from thy new estate, 
 
 SIGISMUND. 
 
 
 Unto many doubts and great 
 
 No words with me. 
 
 
 Reason might expose'd be; 
 
 
 
 But I gladl}' thee would spare, 
 
 Second Servant. 
 
 
 If I might, them all, — and so 
 
 With the king's commands comply. 
 
 
 I would give thee, sir, to know 
 
 
 
 Thou a prince art, Poland's heir. 
 
 SIGISMUND. 
 
 
 And if until now thy state 
 
 But in an unrighteous thing 
 
 
 Has been hidden and retired, 
 
 He should not obey the king ; 
 
 
 'T was that it was thus required 
 
 And besides, his prince am I. 
 
 
 By the menaces of fate, 
 
 . 
 
 
 Which pronounced a thousand woes 
 
 Sigismund. 
 
 
 To this empire, if in it 
 
 All this causes me disgust ; 
 
 
 Should the sovran laurel sit 
 
 Nothing appears right to me, 
 
 
 Crowning thy imperial brows. 
 
 Being against my fantasy. 
 
 
 But relying on thine heed, 
 
 
 
 That thou wilt the stars o'ercome, 
 
 Second Servant. 
 
 
 For not servile to his doom 
 
 But alone in what is just 
 
 
 Lives the valiant man indeed, 
 
 By thyself I heard it said 
 
 
 Thee from that thy cell forlorn, 
 
 It was fitting to obey. 
 
 
 While the might of deep sleep all 
 
 
 
 Thy wrapt senses did inthrall, 
 
 Sigismund. 
 
 
 They have to this palace borne. 
 
 And you also heard me say 
 
 
 But thy sire, the king my lord, 
 
 Who in me displeasure bred 
 
 
 Will be here anon, and he 
 
 From the balcony should go. 
 
 
 What is more will tell to thee. 
 
 Second Servant. 
 
 
 SIGISMUND. 
 
 But that feat with such a one 
 
 
 But, thou villain, wretch abhorred, 
 
 As myself were scarcely done. 
 
 
 If I do mine own self know, 
 
 
 
 Know I not enough ? — what more 
 
 Sigismund. 
 
 
 Need I to be told, my power 
 
 That we very soon will know. 
 
 
 And my pride of place to show ? 
 
 [Seizes him, and they go out struggling 
 
 ; the 
 
 How didst thou to Poland dare 
 
 rest follow. Enter Astolfo. 
 
 
 Act such treason, in despite 
 
 Astolfo. 
 
 
 Of all reason and all right, 
 
 What do I to see arrive r i 
 
 
 To me never to declare 
 
 
 
 What my birth was ? — woe is thee ! 
 
 Estrella. 
 
 
 Thus thou didst the state betray, 
 
 Haste, if you his life can save. 
 
 
 Flatterer to thy monarch play, 
 
 Sigismund {within). 
 
 
 Cruel tyrant unto me. 
 
 Thus for wrongs so strange and rare 
 
 There, the sea may be his grave. 
 
 
 Thee the state, the king, and I, 
 
 [He re-enters, 
 I could do it, as I live. 
 
 Each and all condemn to die 
 
 
 
 By my hands. 
 
 (Enter the KING.) 
 
 
 Second Servant. 
 
 King. 
 
 
 Sir— 
 
 What has been ? 
 
 
902 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 SlGISMUND. 
 
 SlGISMUND. 
 
 Not anything. 
 
 I should not of thee complain, 
 
 A fellow that was vexing me 
 
 Hadst thou never given me it, 
 
 I tumbled from that balcony. 
 
 But that given, thou didst think fit 
 
 
 To resume thy gift again : 
 
 ClARDJ. 
 
 For though giving is well named 
 
 Be aware ; it is the king. 
 
 Deed that honor high doth bring, 
 
 
 Yet to give is meanest thing, 
 
 King. 
 
 When the gift again is claimed. 
 
 Prom thy coming, my son, 
 
 King. 
 
 Must a death so soon ensus 1 
 
 These then are thy thanks to me, 
 
 
 That of poor and wretched thrall 
 
 SlGISMUND. 
 
 But he said I could not do 
 
 Thou a prince art ? 
 
 That which I have fairly done. 
 
 SlGISMUND. 
 
 
 What at all 
 
 King. 
 
 Owe I here of thanks to thee, 
 
 Prince, it brings me sorrow great, 
 
 thou cruel tyrant hoar 1 
 
 When I hither did repair, 
 
 If thou old and doting art, 
 
 Thinking to have found thee ware, 
 
 Dying, what dost thou impart? — 
 
 Triumphing o'er stars and fate, 
 
 Aught that was not mine before? 
 
 There has baen such savage pride 
 
 Thou my father art and king ; 
 
 Thus in thy demeanor seen, 
 
 Then doth nature's law to me 
 
 That thy foremost act has been 
 
 All this pomp and majesty 
 
 A most grievous homicide. 
 
 By its ordinances bring. 
 
 With what feeling can I now 
 
 Though I am then in this case, 
 
 Pound thy neck mine arms intwine, 
 
 Owe I nothing to thine hand ; 
 
 Knowing the proud folds of thine 
 
 Rather might account demand 
 
 Have been taught so lately how 
 
 For the freedom and due place 
 
 To give death ? Who, drawing near, 
 
 Thou hast robbed me of till now. 
 
 Sees a dagger on the ground 
 
 Therefore rather thank thou me, 
 
 Bare, that gave a mortal wound, 
 
 That I reckon not with thee, 
 
 And can keep from feeling fear 1 
 
 While my debtor provest thou. 
 
 Or who sees the bloody spot 
 
 King. 
 
 Where they slew another man, 
 
 Arrogant and bold thou art ; 
 
 And to nature's instinct can 
 
 To its word Heaven sets its seal : 
 
 Help replying, shuddering not ? 
 
 To the same Heaven I appeal, 
 
 I then, who in thine arms see 
 
 thou proud and swollen of heart. 
 
 Of this death the instrument, 
 
 Though thyself thou now dost know, 
 
 And the spot see, blood-besprent, 
 
 Counting no delusion near, 
 
 Prom thine arms am lain to flee, 
 
 Though thou dost in place appear 
 
 And although I purposed 
 
 Where as foremost thou dost show, 
 
 For thy neck a fond embrace, 
 
 Yet from me this counsel take 
 
 Will without it leave this place, 
 
 That thou act a gentler part, 
 
 Having of thine arms just dread. 
 
 For perchance thou dreaming art, 
 
 SlGISMUND. 
 
 Though thou seemest thus awake. [Exit 
 
 Well, I can without it fare, 
 
 SlGISMUND. 
 
 As I have fared until now. 
 
 That perhaps I dream, although 
 
 For a father who to show 
 
 I unto myself may seem 
 
 Harshness such as this could bear 
 
 Waking ; — but I do not dream, 
 
 Me has like a wild beast bred, 
 
 What I was and am I know; 
 
 Driven me wholly from his side, 
 And all nurture has denied, 
 
 And howe'er thou mayst repent, 
 
 Little help that yields thee now ; 
 
 Would have gladly seen me dead ; 
 It import but little can 
 That he will not now bestow 
 
 Know I now myself, and thou 
 
 With thy sorrow and lament 
 Canst not this annul, that I 
 
 His embrace who robbed me so 
 
 Born am heir to Poland's crown. 
 
 Of my being as a man. 
 
 If before time I bowed down 
 To my dungeon's misery, 
 
 King. 
 
 'T was that knowledge I had none 
 
 that Heaven had thought it good 
 
 Of my state ; but now I know 
 
 I had ne'er given that to thee ! 
 
 This, and mine own self also, 
 
 Then thy pride I should not see, 
 
 Man and beast combined in one. 
 
 Should not mourn thy savage mood. 
 
 
SPANISH. 903 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 Ktng- 
 
 Lay your burden on this floor, 
 
 What dreameth he ? 
 
 For to-day must end his pride, 
 
 Let us listen. 
 
 Where it started. 
 
 
 
 Sigismund (speaking in his sleep). 
 
 Servant. 
 
 What is this ? 
 
 I have tied 
 
 He a righteous ruler is, 
 
 His fetter as it was before. 
 
 Who the tyrants doth chastise. 
 
 
 By my hand Clotaldo dies, 
 
 Clarin. 
 
 And my feet my sire shall kiss. 
 
 Never, never any more 
 
 
 Waken, Sigismund, to see 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 Thy reverse of destiny : 
 
 With my death he threatens me. 
 
 Like a shadow with no stay, 
 
 
 Like a flame that dies away, 
 
 King. 
 
 Vanishing thy majesty ! 
 
 Me with outrage and with wrong. 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 One who such moralities 
 
 He means my life shall not be long. 
 
 Makes, should never lack a place 
 
 K 
 
 Where he may have ample space 
 
 Me at his feet he means to see. 
 
 And leisure to discourse at ease : 
 
 
 This is he whom ye must seize, — 
 
 Sigismund. 
 
 Let him here continue bound. 
 
 Let my valor proud and free 
 
 c 
 
 On the world's broad stage be found. 
 
 But me wherefore ? 
 
 With a peerless glory crowned : 
 
 
 That my vengeance full may be, 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 O'er his sire let all men see 
 
 When are found 
 
 Triumphing King Sigismund ! [jy e wa kens. 
 
 Secrets grave to clarion known, 
 
 But, alas ! where am I, where ? 
 
 We guard it safe, lest they be blown, 
 
 
 If the clarion once should sound. 
 
 King. 
 
 
 Me he must not look upon : 
 
 Clarin. 
 
 Thou wilt do what needs be done, 
 
 But me, — wherefore bind me thus 1 
 
 While I yonder will repair. 
 
 At my father's life did I 
 
 [ The King retires. 
 
 Aim 1 or from that balcony 
 
 Sigismund. 
 
 Did I, fierce and tyrannous, 
 
 Can it be then I that bear, 
 
 Fling that little Icarus 1 
 
 Prisoned here, this fetter's weight ? 
 
 [ They take him away. Enter the Kins disguised. 
 
 I in this forlorn estate 1 
 
 KING. 
 
 Yea, and is not this dark room, 
 
 Clotaldo ? 
 
 Help me, Heaven ! my former tomb ? 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 I have dreamed strange things of late. 
 
 Does your majesty 
 Thus in this disguise appear 1 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 
 I must now my station take, 
 
 King. 
 
 And my part allotted play. [Aside. 
 
 Foolish yearnings draw me here, 
 
 It is time to wake, I say. 
 
 And a mournful wish to see 
 
 
 How it fares (ah, woe is me !) 
 
 Sigismund. 
 
 With my son. 
 
 Yea, time is it to awake. 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 Behold him shorn 
 
 Wilt thou not this whole day break 
 
 Of his glory, and forlorn, 
 
 Thy deep slumber ? Is it so 
 
 In his woful first estate. 
 
 That since I that eagle's slow 
 
 
 Flight pursued and path sublime, 
 
 King. 
 
 Leaving you, that all this time 
 
 Prince, alas, unfortunate, 
 
 You have never wakened 1 
 
 Under stars malignant born ! 
 
 
 Rouse him from his lethargy, 
 
 Sigismund. 
 
 No, 
 
 Now that all his strength has sunk 
 
 With the opiate that he drunk. 
 
 Nor yet now awake am I ; 
 For, Clotaldo, as it seems, 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 I am still involved in dreams ; 
 
 He is slumbering restlessly, 
 
 Nor this deem I erringly, 
 
 And he speaks. 
 
 For if that I did espy 
 
904 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Sure and certain was a dream, 
 That I now see doth but seem. 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 What your dream was might I know ? 
 
 SlGISMUND. 
 
 I awoke from sleep, and lo ! 
 
 'T was upon a gorgeous bed 
 
 With bright colors pictured, 
 
 (0 the cruel flattery !) 
 
 Eich as that flowered tapestry 
 
 Which on earth the spring has spread. 
 
 Many nobles in my sight 
 
 Humbly bending, gave me name 
 
 Of their prince, to serve me came 
 
 With rich jewels, vestments bright, 
 
 Till thou changedst to delight 
 
 That suspense which held me bound, 
 
 Uttering the joyful sound, 
 
 That though now I this way fare, 
 
 I was Poland's rightful heir. 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 Welcome good I must have found. 
 
 SlGISMUND. 
 
 None so good, — I drew my sword, 
 Thee a traitor fiercely named, 
 Twice to take thy life I aimed. 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 How should I be so abhorred ? 
 
 SlGISSIUXD. 
 
 I was then of all the lord, 
 And revenge on all I sought : 
 Only a woman in me wrought 
 Love, which was no dream I trow, 
 For all else has ended now, — 
 This alone has ended not. 
 
 [ The King goes out. 
 Clotaldo. 
 He has moved the king to weep, 
 Who has from his post retired. [Aside. 
 
 Thou wert by our talk inspired 
 Of that eagle ; thus thy sleep 
 Did the same lordly current keep : 
 Yet in dreams it were well done, 
 Sigismund, to honor one 
 Who has watched and loved thee so, 
 Since good does not perish, though 
 It be wrought in dream alone. [Exit. 
 
 SlGISMOTfD. 
 
 Truth, — and let us then restrain 
 This the fierceness of our pride, 
 Lay this wilfulness aside, 
 Lest perchance we dream again : 
 And we shall so, who remain 
 In a world of wonder thrown, 
 Where to live and dream are one. 
 For experience tells me this, 
 Each is dreaming what he is, 
 Till the time his dream is done. 
 The king dreams himself a king, 
 
 And in this conceit he lives, 
 
 Lords it, high commandment gives, 
 
 Till his lent applause takes wing, 
 
 Death on light wings scattering, 
 
 Or converting (0, sad fate!) 
 
 Into ashes all his state : 
 
 How can men so lust to reign, 
 
 When to waken them again 
 
 From their false dream Death doth wait ? 
 
 And the rich man dreams no less 
 
 'Mid his wealth which brings more cares ; 
 
 And the poor man dreams he bears 
 
 All his want and wretchedness ; 
 
 Dreams, whom anxious thoughts oppress, 
 
 Dreams, who for high place contends, 
 
 Dreams, who injures and offends; 
 
 And though none are rightly ware, 
 
 All are dreaming that they are 
 
 In this life, until death ends. 
 
 I am dreaming I lie here, 
 
 Laden with this fetter's weight, 
 
 And I dreamed that I of late 
 
 Did in fairer sort appear. 
 
 What is life ? a frenzy mere ; 
 
 What is life ? e'en that we deem ; 
 
 A conceit, a shadow all, 
 
 And the greatest good is small : 
 
 Nothing is, but all doth seem, — 
 
 Dreams within dreams, still we dream ! 
 
 ( The Scene closes.) 
 
 Sigismuxd. 
 Must I dream again of glories 
 (Is your pleasure so, high Heavens ?) 
 O, how soon to be dissolve'd ! 
 Will you that again encompassed 
 With those phantom-shapes to mock me, 
 I behold my kingly state 
 Of the wind dispersed and broken 1 
 Must I my sad lesson learn 
 Once again ? — again discover 
 To what perils mortal power 
 Lives its whole life long exposed? 
 No, it shall not, shall not be : 
 To my destiny behold me 
 Subject now ; and having learned 
 That this life a dream is wholly, 
 Hence I say, vain shapes, pretending 
 To possess a voice and body, 
 Cheating my dull sense, and having 
 In good truth nor one nor other ! 
 I desire not borrowed greatness, 
 Nor imaginary glories, 
 Pomps fantastical, illusions, 
 With the faintest breath that bloweth 
 Of the light wind perishing : 
 As the buds and bloom disclosed 
 By the flowering almond-tree, 
 With such timeless haste unfolded, 
 That the first breath dims their brightness, 
 Tarnishing and staining wholly 
 All the light and loveliness 
 Which its roseate tresses boasted. 
 Now I know, I know ye now, 
 
SPANISH. 
 
 905 
 
 And I know there falls no other 
 Lot to every one that dreams ; 
 Cheats avail with me no longer ; 
 Undeceived, now know I surely 
 That our life a dream is only. 
 
 Soldier. 
 If thou thinkest we deceive thee, 
 Turn thine eyes that way, to yonder 
 Proud acclivity, and see 
 Multitudes that wait to offer 
 Homage unto thee. 
 
 SIGISMUND. 
 
 Already 
 I the same things have beholden 
 Just as clearly and distinctly 
 As at this time I' behold them, — 
 Yet was it a dream. 
 
 Soldier 
 
 Sir, ever 
 Great events have sent before them 
 Their announcements : dreamt you this, 
 It was surely such an omen. 
 
 SIGISMUND. 
 
 'T is well said ; such omen was it. 
 
 Yet, since life so quickly closes, 
 
 Let us, even though this as false is. 
 
 Dream once more, — this not forgotten, 
 
 That we must at fittest hour 
 
 Wake again, this brief joy over; 
 
 For that known, the undeception 
 
 Will not prove so sad nor costly. 
 
 Then, premising only this, 
 
 That this power, if true, belongeth 
 
 Not to us, but merely lent is, 
 
 To return unto its Owner, 
 
 Let us venture upon all. — 
 
 Vassals, my best thanks acknowledge 
 
 Your true fealty. Lo ! in me 
 
 One whose valor and whose boldness 
 
 From a foreign yoke shall free you. 
 
 Sound to arms, and in brief moment 
 
 Ye my courage high shall witness : 
 
 I against my father boldiy 
 
 Wage this battle, and the word 
 
 Will make true which Heaven has spoken, 
 
 At my feet beholding him. 
 
 But lest this my dream be over, 
 
 That not done, best hold my peace, 
 
 Lest I prove an empty boaster. 
 
 All. 
 Long live Sigismund, our king! 
 
 (Enter Clotaldo.) 
 Clotaldo. 
 Ha ! what noise 1 my life is forfeit. 
 
 SlGISMBND. 
 
 You, Clotaldo 1 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 
 Sire? — on me 
 Will his whole wrath fall. 
 114 
 
 Claris. 
 
 I wonder 
 If he '11 fling him down the rocks. 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 At your royal feet behold me, 
 That it is to die, I know. 
 
 Sigismund. 
 Eise, my father, — kneel no longer ; 
 Rise to be the guide and pole-star 
 By the which I shape my projects ; 
 For by your great loyalty 
 Was my helpless childhood fostered. 
 Give me your embrace. 
 
 Clotaldo 
 
 What say you ? 
 
 Sigismund 
 That I dream, and would act nobly, 
 Since well-doing is not lost, 
 Though it be in dreams done only. 
 
 Clotaldo 
 Then, sir, if it be your blazon 
 To do well, that I with boldness 
 Crave of you the same permission 
 Cannot for a fault be noted. 
 Arms you wield against your sire : 
 I can neither counsel offer, 
 Nor lend aid against my king. 
 See me prostrated before thee ; 
 Kill me, if thou wilt. 
 
 Sigismund. 
 
 Ha, villain! 
 Ingrate ! — but 't is need I govern 
 And in meekness rule my soul, 
 For his true estate who knoweth 1 
 To your loyalty, Clotaldo, 
 Owe I envy, praise, and wonder ; 
 Go and serve your lord and king, 
 We shall meet in battle shortly. 
 But for you, now sound to arms. 
 
 Clotaldo 
 My best thanks this grace acknowledge. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Sigismund. 
 
 Destiny, we go to reign ; 
 
 Wake I, let not sleep come o'er me; 
 
 Sleep I, do not waken me 
 
 But well-doing most imports me, 
 
 Be it thus or thus, — if truth, 
 
 For the truth's sake ; if the other, 
 
 To win friends against the time 
 
 When this fleeting dream is over. 
 
 [ They go out, sounding alarums. 
 
 Soldier. 
 In this intricate wilderness, 
 Somewhere in its thickest tangles, 
 The king hides himself. 
 
 Sigismund. 
 
 Pursue him, 
 Till not one bush has remained 
 
906 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Which you have not thoroughly searched, 
 All its trunks and all its branches. 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 Ely, sir ! 
 
 King. 
 Wherefore should I fly ? 
 
 Astolpo. 
 Sire, what mean you 1 
 
 King. 
 
 Prince, unhand me ! 
 
 Clotaldo. 
 What, sir, would you ? 
 
 King. 
 
 Use, Clotaldo, 
 That sole help which yet avails me. — 
 Prince, if thou art seeking me, 
 At thy feet behold me fallen. 
 Let the snow of these white hairs 
 Serve unto thee as a carpet ; 
 Set thy foot upon my neck, 
 On my crown — my glory trample. 
 Serve thyself of me thy captive, 
 And, all cares and cautions baffled, 
 Let the stars fulfil their threatenings, 
 Heaven accomplish what is fated. 
 
 SlGISMUND. 
 
 Princes, nobles, court of Poland, 
 
 Who of these unequalled marvels 
 
 Are the witnesses, your prince 
 
 Speaks unto you, — therefore hearken ! 
 
 That which is of Heaven determined, 
 
 That which on its azure tablets 
 
 God has with his finger written, — 
 
 Who those broad and skyey pages, 
 
 Pranked with all their golden ciphers, 
 
 Makes his solemn scroll and parchment, — 
 
 That doth never falsely play : 
 
 It is he alone plays falsely 
 
 Who, injuriously to use them, 
 
 Their hid mysteries unravels. 
 
 Thus my father, who is here, 
 
 That he might escape the madness 
 
 Of my nature, did for this 
 
 In man's shape a wild beast make me, 
 
 In such fashion that when I, 
 
 By the gentle blood that races 
 
 In my veins, my noble state, 
 
 By such nurture as became me. 
 
 Might, of good hope, have approved me 
 
 Mild and docile ; yet that manner 
 
 Of my wild and savage rearing 
 
 Was alone sufficient amply 
 
 To have brutalized my souL 
 
 O, fair way to shun the danger ! 
 
 Were it to a man fore-uttered, 
 
 " Some inhuman beast will slay thee," 
 
 Would he choose, such prophecy 
 
 That he might defeat, to waken 
 
 Beasts that he perchance found sleeping f 
 
 Were it said, " The sword thou bearest 
 
 Sheathed, shall prove the very one 
 
 Which shall be thy death," O vainest 
 
 Method to annul the threat, 
 
 Erom that hour to bear it naked, 
 
 With its point against his bosom ! 
 
 Were it said, " The gulfs of water, 
 
 Building silver tombs above thee, 
 
 Eor thy sepulchre are fated," 
 
 'T were ill done to brave the wild waves, 
 
 When the indignant sea in anger 
 
 Lifted hills of snowy foam, 
 
 Mountainous heights of crystal raise'd. 
 
 With my sire the same thing fortuned, 
 
 As with one who should awaken 
 
 The wild beast that threatened him ; 
 
 As with one who bared the dagger 
 
 He most feared, or, to sea-tomb 
 
 Doomed, the stormiest oceans challenged. 
 
 When my fury might have proved 
 
 Like a sleeping beast (now hearken), 
 
 And my fierceness a sheathed sword, 
 
 And my pride a tranquil calmness, 
 
 Yet no destiny by wrong 
 
 Or unrighteousness is baffled, — 
 
 Bather these do more provoke it: 
 
 So that he who means to master 
 
 Fate, with gentleness must do it, 
 
 With meek wisdom, not with harshness. 
 
 Let for an example serve 
 
 This rare spectacle, this strangest 
 
 Prodigy, most wonderful 
 
 Sight of all ; for what were stranger 
 
 Than to have arrived to see, 
 
 After such preventions taken, 
 
 At my feet a father prostrate, 
 
 In the dust a monarch fallen * 
 
 'T was the sentence of high Heaven, 
 
 Which, for all he strove to baffle, 
 
 Yet he could not ; and could I, 
 
 Less in all things, hope to master, 
 
 Less in valor, and in years, 
 
 And in wisdom 1 — my father, 
 
 Thy hand reach me ; sire, arise: 
 
 Now that Heaven this way has made thee 
 
 See thou erredst in the mode 
 
 Of o'ercoming it, I place me 
 
 Here, awaiting thy revenge : 
 
 On my neck thy feet be planted. 
 
 ANTONIO DE MENDOZA. 
 
 This writer was one of the minor dramatists 
 in the time of Calderon. Mr. Tick nor, in his 
 " History of Spanish Literature," says : " An- 
 other sort of favor fell to the share of Antonio 
 de Mendoza, who wrote much for the court be- 
 tween 1623 and 1643. His works — besides a 
 number of ballads and short poems addressed 
 to the Duke of Lerma and other principal per- 
 sons of the kingdom — contain a Life of Our 
 Lady, in nearly eight hundred redondillas, and 
 five plays, to which two or three more may be 
 
SPANISH. 
 
 907 
 
 added from different miscellaneous collections. 
 The poems are of little value ; the plays are bet- 
 ter. ' He deserves most who loves most ' may 
 have contributed materials to Moreto's ' Disdain 
 met with Disdain,' and is certainly a pleasant 
 drama, with natural situations and an easy dia- 
 logue. ' Society changes Manners ' is another 
 real comedy with much life and gayety. And 
 ' Love for Love's Sake,' which has been called 
 its author's happiest effort, enjoyed the distinc- 
 tion of being acted before the court by the 
 queen's maids of honor, who took all the parts, 
 — those of the cavaliers, as well as those of the 
 women." The following specimen is from Sir 
 Richard Fansbaw's translation. 
 
 FROM LOVE FOR LOVE'S SAKE. 
 
 Felisbravo, prince of Persia, from a picture sent him of 
 the brave Amazonian queen of Tartary, Zelidaura, be- 
 coming enamoured , sets out for that realm ; in his way 
 thither disenchants a queen of Araby ; but first, over- 
 come by fatigue, falls asleep in the Enchanted Grove, 
 where Zelidaura herself, coming by, steals the picture 
 from him. The passion of the romance arises from his 
 remorse at being taken so negligent, and her disdain 
 that he should sleep, having the company of her picture. 
 She here plays upon him, who does not yet know her, in 
 the disguise of a rustic. 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 What a spanking Labradora ! 
 
 ZELIDAURA. 
 
 Tou, the unkent Knight, God ye gud mora ! * 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 The time of day thou dost mistake. 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 And joy — 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 Of what ? 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 
 That I discover, 
 By a sure sign, you are awake. 
 
 Awake ? the sign ■ 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 
 Your being a lover. 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 In love ami? 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 And very deep. 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 Deep in love % how is that seen ! 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 Perfectly. You do not sleep. 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 Rustic excellence, unscreen, 
 And discover that sweet face, 
 Which covers so much wit and grace. 
 
 * She affects rusticity. 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 You but dream so : sleep again, 
 And forget it. 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 Why, now, saint? 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 Why, the lady, that went in,* 
 Looks as if that she did paint. 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 What has that to do with sleeping 1 
 She is indeed angelical. 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 That picture now 's well worth your keeping. 
 For why ? 't is an original. 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 Is this shepherdess a witch ? 
 Or saw the sleeping treason, which 
 I committed against love 
 Erst, in the Enchanted Grove 1 
 Me hast thou ever seen before 1 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 Seen ? ay, and know thee for a man 
 That will turn him, and sleep more 
 Than a dozen dunces can. 
 Thou ken'st little what sighs mean. 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 Unveil, by Jove, that face serene. 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 What, to make thee sleep again ? 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 Still in riddles ? 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 Now he sees : 
 This pinching wakes him by degrees. 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 Art thou a nymph t 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 
 Of Parnass Green. 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 Sleep I indeed, or am I mad ? 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 None serve thee but the enchanted queen ? 
 I think what dull conceits ye have had 
 Of the bird phoenix, which no eye 
 E'er saw ; an odoriferous lie : 
 How of her beauty's spells she 's told ; 
 That by her spirit thou art haunted ; 
 And, having slept away the old, 
 With this new mistress worse enchanted. 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 I affect not, shepherdess, 
 Myself in such fine terms to express ; 
 
 * The enchanted queen of Araby, of whom Zelidaura is 
 jealous. 
 
9oe 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Sufficeth me an humble strain : 
 Too little happy to be vain. — 
 Unveil ! 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 Sir Gallant, not so fast. 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 See thee I will. 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 See me you shall : 
 But touch not fruit you must not taste. 
 
 [She takes off her veil. 
 What says it, now the leaf doth fall ? 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 It says 't is worthy to comprise 
 The kernel of so rare a wit ; 
 Nor, that it grows in Paradise, 
 But Paradise doth grow in it. 
 The tall and slender trunk no less divine, 
 Though in a lowly shepherdess's rine. 
 
 [He begins to know her. 
 This should be that so famous queen 
 For unquelled valor and disdain. — 
 In these enchanted woods is seen 
 Nothing but illusions vain. 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 What stares the man at ? 
 
 Feliseravo. 
 
 I compare 
 A picture — I once mine did call — 
 With the divine original. 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 Fallen again asleep you are : 
 We poor human shepherd lasses 
 Nor are pictured, nor use glasses. 
 Who skip their rank, themselves and betters 
 
 wrong ; 
 To our dames, God bless them, such quaint 
 
 things belong. 
 Here a tiny brook alone, 
 Which fringed with borrowed flowers (he has 
 Gold and silver enough on his own) 
 Is Heaven's proper looking-glass, 
 Copies us : and its reflections, 
 Showing natural perfections, 
 Pree from soothing, free from error, 
 Are our pencil, are our mirror. 
 
 Feliseravo. 
 Art thou a shepherdess ? 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 
 And bore 
 On a mountain, called There. 
 
 Felisbravo. 
 Wear'st thou ever heretofore 
 Lady's clothes ? 
 
 Zelidaura. 
 I lady's gear ? — 
 Yes — what a treacherous poll have I! — 
 
 In a country comedy 
 I once enacted a main part ; 
 Still I have it half by heart : 
 The famous history it was 
 •Of an Arabian — let me see — 
 No, of a queen of Tartary, 
 Who all her sex did far surpass 
 In beauty, wit, and chivalry : 
 Who with invincible disdain 
 Would fool, when she was in the vein, 
 Princes with all their wits about them ; 
 But, an they slept, to death she 'd flout them : 
 And, by the mass, with such a mien 
 My majesty did play the queen ; 
 Our curate had my picture made 
 In the same robes in which I played. 
 
 JOSE ZOREILLA. 
 
 Josi; Zoreilla y Moral was born at Valla- 
 dolid in 1817, and studied law at Toledo. On 
 his return to his native city he received a gov- 
 ernment appointment, but soon abandoned it, 
 and went to Madrid to pursue a literary career. 
 Here he first attracted public notice by a poem 
 on the death of the unfortunate Larra, a dis- 
 tinguished poet and journalist, who committed 
 suicide from disappointed love. Of the funeral 
 and Zorrilla's appearance at it, the following de- 
 scription by his friend, Pastor Diaz, is given 
 by Mr. Alexander H. Everett, in his " Critical 
 and Miscellaneous Essays " : — 
 
 " It was a dark evening in the month of Feb- 
 ruary. A funeral car passed slowly through 
 the streets of Madrid, followed by a long pro- 
 cession, composed chiefly of the most intelligent 
 and highly educated young men of the capital 
 of Spain. On the car was a coffin containing 
 the remains of Larra. His friends had placed 
 upon the cover a garland composed of laurel in- 
 terwoven with cypress. It was one of the few 
 occasions which have occurred in Spain within 
 our time, when a public homage has been offered 
 to merely literary and poetical talent, unaided 
 by the outward advantages of rank and fortune. 
 
 "Don Jose Mariano dc Larra had been, for 
 several years preceding, the most distinguished 
 of the living poets of Spain. His career was 
 arrested by an unfortunate attachment. The 
 lady of his love, after lending for some time a 
 favorable ear to his vows, with a fickleness not 
 unnatural to the sex changed her purpose, and 
 insisted on breaking off the connection. After 
 using every effort to dissuade her from this de- 
 termination, Larra, at the end of a long conver- 
 sation on the suhject, swore, in the passionate 
 excitement of the moment, that he would not 
 survive the separation, and that the hour in 
 which she should finally announce it to him 
 should be the last of his existence. ' You have 
 then but a short time left for repentance,' replied 
 the lady, perhaps considering the desperate words 
 
SPANISH. 
 
 909 
 
 of Larra as mere bravado, ' for I assure you, 
 whatever the results may be, that, with my con- 
 sent, we shall never meet again.' Larra retired 
 from her presence, and within a few minutes she 
 heard the report of the pistol-shot that termi- 
 nated his life. 
 
 " The procession took its melancholy way 
 through the streets of Madrid to the cemetery 
 near the Fuencarral Gate, where a niche had 
 been prepared by a friendly hand for the remains 
 of the dead. A numerous concourse filled the 
 place, and the fast-retiring twilight threw a gray 
 and gloomy color upon the bones that paved the 
 floor, the inscriptions that covered the walls, 
 and the faces of the assistants. After the fu- 
 neral ceremonies were over, a friend of the de- 
 ceased, Senor Eoca de Togores, pronounced a 
 eulogy, in which he sketched with the eloquence 
 of kindred genius the brilliant, though stormy 
 and disastrous career of the unfortunate bard. 
 
 " ' The impression produced by it,' says an 
 eye-witness, ' was of the deepest kind. The at- 
 tachment we had felt for the deceased poet, — 
 our sorrow at his melancholy death, — the im- 
 ages of decay and mortality with which we were 
 surrounded, — the sepulchre opening at our feet, 
 — the starry sky above our heads, — the touch- 
 ing expressions of sympathy and tenderness 
 which had fallen from the lips of the eloquent 
 speaker, — all combined to excite our sensibility 
 to the highest degree. Tears flowed from every 
 eye ; and we looked round upon each other in 
 silence, as if we were longing to hear some new 
 voice give utterance, under a still higher inspi- 
 ration, to our common feelings. 
 
 " ' At this moment there stepped forth from 
 among us, and, as it were, from within the sep- 
 ulchre before our feet, a young man unknown 
 to us all, and of almost boyish appearance. 
 After glancing at the grave and then at the sky, 
 he turned his pale face to the company and 
 began to read with a trembling voice, which 
 none of us had ever heard before, an elegy in 
 honor of the dead. Scarcely, however, had he 
 commenced, when he was overcome by the ex- 
 cess of his emotion and compelled to stop. 
 The reading of the elegy was finished by the 
 orator, who had just concluded his address. 
 Never, perhaps, was the full effect of fine poetry 
 more distinctly seen or more promptly acknowl- 
 edged. Our surprise was equal to our enthusi- 
 asm. No sooner had we learned the name of 
 the gifted mortal who had framed these charm- 
 ing verses than we saluted him with a sort of 
 religious reverence, and gave thanks to the 
 Providence which had thus so manifestly inter- 
 fered to bring forth, as it were from the very 
 grave of our lost bard, a fit successor to his 
 genius and glory. The same procession which 
 had attended the remains of the illustrious Larra 
 to the resting-place of the dead now sallied forth 
 in triumph to announce to the living the advent 
 of a new poet, and proclaimed with enthusiasm 
 the name of Zorrilla.' 
 
 " The high expectations excited by this in- 
 teresting scene seem to have been fully realized. 
 Zorrilla has been ever since regarded as the most 
 distinguished of the Spanish living poets." 
 
 Zorrilla's writings are : Cantos del Trovador 
 (Songs of the Troubadour), consisting of his- 
 toric legends and traditions, 3 vols., 1840-41 ; 
 Floras Perdidas (Lost Flowers), 1843 ; and Gra- 
 nada, Poema Oriental, 2 vols., 1853-54, which 
 is considered his greatest work. In addition to 
 these he has written three dramatic pieces : El 
 Zapatero y el Rey (The Shoemaker and the 
 King), A Buen Juez Mejor Testigo (To Good 
 Judge the Better Witness), and Don Juan Te- 
 norio. 
 
 Mr. Eliot says in his " Translations from the 
 Spanish Poet Zorrilla" : "His poetry abounds 
 in solemn thoughts and images. Most of the 
 legends, which are held in Spain to be his best 
 poems, but which are too long to be translated 
 in a single essay, are of purely religious charac- 
 ter. Scriptural allusions are much more fre- 
 quent in them than is common with poets of his 
 own faith. Zorrilla's heart is full of devotion. 
 He gives it reverently to God, and generously 
 to man. It leads him beyond still meadows 
 and up to mountains, that may be cloudy but 
 are not barren. He loves to climb heights which 
 most men shrink from. He watches for visions 
 
 upon which most men shut their eyes 
 
 In the midst of turmoils and intrigues — the 
 constant curses of his unhappy Spain — he lifts 
 his voice and pleads with generous eagerness 
 for the renewal of action and spirit such as he 
 finds among generations gone before. His lau- 
 reate odes are not given to the politicians or the 
 soldiers of his days. He claims men's sympa- 
 thies for purer lives than these. His homage is 
 given, — and it is an example to men around 
 him, — his homage is given to glory more peace- 
 ful and more universal." 
 
 THE DIRGE OF LARRA. 
 A. H- Everett, " Critical and Miscellaneous 
 
 On the breeze I hear the knell 
 Of the solemn funeral bell, 
 Marshalling another guest 
 To the grave's unbroken rest. 
 
 He has done his earthly toil, 
 And cast off his mortal coil, 
 As a maid, in beauty's bloom, 
 Seeks the cloister's living tomb. 
 
 When he saw the Future rise 
 To his disenchanted eyes, 
 Void of Love's celestial light, 
 It was worthless in his sight ; 
 And he hurried, without warning, 
 To the night that knows no morning. 
 
 He has perished in his pride, 
 Like a fountain, summer-dried ,• 
 
910 
 
 ^SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Like a flower of odorous breath, 
 
 Which the tempest scattereth ; 
 
 But the rich aroma left us 
 
 Shows the sweets that have been reft us, 
 
 And the meadow, fresh and green, 
 
 What the fountain would have been. 
 
 Ah ! the Poet's mystic measure 
 Is a rich but fatal treasure ; 
 Bliss to others, to the master 
 Full of bitterest disaster. 
 
 Poet ! sleep within the tomb, 
 Where no other voice shall come 
 O'er the silence to prevail, 
 Save a brother-poet's wail; 
 That, — if parted spirits know 
 Aught that passes here below, — 
 Falling on thy pensive ear, 
 Softly as an infant's tear, 
 Shall relate a sweeter story 
 Than the pealing trump of glory. 
 
 If beyond our mortal sight, 
 In some glorious realm of light, 
 Poets pass their happy hours, 
 Far from this cold world of ours, 
 O, how sweet to cast away 
 This frail tenement of clay, 
 And in spirit soar above 
 To the home of endless Love. 
 
 And if in that world of bliss 
 Thou rememberest aught of this, 
 If not-Being' s higher scene 
 Have a glimpse of what has been, 
 Poet ! from the seats divine, 
 Let thy spirit answer mine. 
 
 TO SPAIN. 
 Eliot, " Translations from Zorrilla." 
 
 Many a tear, O country, hath been shed, 
 Many a stream of brother's blood been poured, 
 
 Many a hero brave hath found his bed, 
 In thy deep sepulchres, how richly stored ! 
 
 Long have our eyes with burning drops been 
 filled, — 
 
 How often have they throbbed to overflow ! 
 But always bent upon some crimsoned field, 
 
 They could not even weep for blood and woe. 
 
 Look ! how beseech us to their own sweet rest, 
 Yon smiling flowers, yon forests old and brave, 
 
 Yon growing harvests, sleeping on earth's breast, 
 Yon banners green that o'er our valleys wave. 
 
 Come, brothers, we were born in love and peace, 
 In love and peace our battles let us end ; 
 
 Nay, more, let us forget our victories, — 
 Be ours one land, one banner to defend ! 
 
 IN THE CATHEDRAL OF TOLEDO. 
 Eliot, " Translations from Zorrilla." 
 
 This massive form, sculptured in mountain 
 stones, 
 
 As it once issued from the earth profound, 
 Monstrous in stature, manifold in tones 
 
 Of incense, light and music spread around ; 
 
 This an unquiet people still doth throng, 
 
 With pious steps, and heads bent down in 
 fear, — 
 
 Yet not so noble as through ages long, 
 Is old Toledo's sanctuary austere. 
 
 Glorious in other days, it stands alone, 
 
 Mourning the worship of more Christian 
 years, 
 
 Like to a fallen queen, her empire gone, 
 Wearing a crown of miseries and tears. 
 
 Or like a mother, hiding griefs unseen, 
 She calls her children to her festivals, 
 
 And triumphs still, — despairing, yet serene, — 
 With swelling organs, and with pealing bells. 
 
 Looking with sombre brow 
 On the stream flowing by, 
 
 It scorns the world below, 
 
 And mourns, through bells tolled low, 
 From tower high. 
 
 It seems to breathe deep sighs, 
 Breaking a spell borne long, — 
 
 To gaze towards the skies, 
 
 And speak life's destinies 
 With bells, — its tongue. 
 
 Then comes, in peals outbreaking, 
 
 Gigantic harmony, 
 The church, its slumbers shaking, 
 In joyous life awaking, 
 
 Shouts glad and free. 
 
 The tones are changing, — hark ! 
 
 Their strain is one of prayer 
 For lives in passion dark, 
 As sympathy to mark 
 
 With doubt and care. 
 
 But lighter through the air 
 
 Are clam'rous sounds of mirth, 
 
 Ringing through heavens fair, 
 
 As they the heralds were 
 Of joy to earth. 
 
 in. 
 
 In tumult all is lost, — 
 
 Then sweeps a deeper gloom, - 
 
SPANISH. 
 
 911 
 
 With shades, in phantom host, 
 One moment seen, — then tossed 
 Back to their tomb. 
 
 The sun of morning shines 
 
 Through windows jewelled bright, 
 With the dim lamps its rays combines, 
 And brings a promise to the shrines 
 
 Of heavenly light. 
 
 It crowns the column tall 
 
 With brilliant wreath, 
 Then streams upon the wall, 
 Driving dark shades from all 
 
 The aisles beneath. 
 
 In the Cathedral hoary, 
 
 So comes, with every morning, 
 Such light, an offering holy 
 To the Great God of Glory, 
 
 His house adorning. 
 
 Through the long nave is heard the measured 
 tread 
 
 Of the old priest, who early matins keeps, 
 His sacred robe, in rustling folds outspread, 
 
 Over the echoing pavement sweeps, — 
 
 A sound awaking, like a trembling breath 
 Of earnest yet unconscious prayer, 
 
 Uprising from thick sepulchres beneath, 
 A voice from Christian sleepers there. 
 
 Upon the altars burns the holy fire, 
 
 The censers swing on grating chains of gold, 
 
 And from the farther depths of the dark choir 
 Chants in sublimest echoings are rolled. 
 
 The people come in crowds, and, bending lowly, 
 
 Thank their Great Maker for his mercies 
 
 given ; 
 
 Then raise their brows, flushed with emotion 
 
 holy, — 
 
 About them beams the light of opening heaven. 
 
 The priest repeats full many a solemn word, 
 Made sacred to devotion through all time ; 
 
 The people kneel again, as each is heard, 
 
 Each cometh fraught with memories sublime. 
 
 The organ, from its golden trumpets blowing, 
 Swells with their robust voices through the 
 aisles, 
 
 As from a mountain-fall wild waters flowing, 
 Poll in sonorous waves and rippling smiles. 
 
 CALDERON. 
 Eliot, " Translations from Zorrilla." 
 
 Thjeke is a chapel old, 
 Broken with years and poor, 
 Forgotten and obscure, 
 
 Buried in dust and mould : 
 
 Where we read upon a stone, 
 More with hands than eyes, 
 " Here the body lies 
 Of Pedro Calderon." 
 
 Bird, whose feathers glow, 
 With hundred changing colors, 
 Blushing bright as flowers, 
 Or pale as fleecy snow ; — 
 
 From the sun those eyes 
 Borrowed light and fire, 
 Spanish breaths inspire 
 Those swift wings to rise. 
 
 This wide earth was thy home, 
 Fortune to thee was mild, 
 Tet thy soul flashed out wild, 
 And now the earth 's thy tomb ; 
 
 Thou, eagle-like, to soar, 
 King of the wind wast born, — 
 A phoenix of the morn, 
 Singing forevermore. 
 
 But bound by mortal chains, 
 Thy gushing throat is dry, 
 And in thy hollow eye 
 No beaming sight remains. 
 
 Sleep on beneath this stone, 
 Made sacred to thy glory 
 Bv one low cross, in memory 
 Of Pedro Calderon. 
 
 Not in so vile a place 
 Hadst thou, a prince, been laid, 
 Then had thy grave been made 
 Before the altar's face. 
 
 Tet sleep here tranquilly, 
 Here in this corner dark, — 
 Let it the world's shame mark, 
 Thv name 's enough for thee. 
 
 Hi-summoned shade, forgive 
 The voice which breaks thy slumbers, 
 These rude yet earnest numbers 
 Are all my heart can give 
 
 To thy great crown of wonders. 
 
 Thy own bold inspiration 
 Lives in eternal history, — 
 
 Rest, then, beneath the stone 
 Made sacred to thy glory 
 By one poor cross, — sad memory 
 
 Of Pedro Calderon. 
 
 MOORISH BALLAD. 
 Eliot, " Translations from Zorrilla.-' 
 
 Rising 'neath the moon's dim ray, 
 
 Far away, 
 Stands a Moorish tower tall ; 
 The Darro's waters, swift and pure, 
 
 Flow obscure 
 Below its frowning wall. 
 
912 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Above the stream the sad elms sigh 
 
 Mysteriously, 
 Making soft music to the ear ; 
 And close among the meadow reeds 
 
 And tangled weeds, 
 The night breeze whispers near. 
 
 On the shore of yellow sand 
 
 Flowers expand, 
 Outpouring perfume wild ; 
 Birds of plumage fair and bright 
 
 Sing by night, 
 Amidst the flowers mild. 
 
 Waters, dropping, sparkling, fall 
 
 Dashing all 
 Down the rocks' rough sides ; 
 And like the image of a dream, 
 
 The broken stream 
 Paints pictures as it glides. 
 
 Thrown open to a wayward breeze, 
 
 The jalousies 
 Welcome its murmurs breathed around ; 
 Within the dark balcony wide, 
 
 The Sultan's bride 
 Stands as in silence bound. 
 
 Yet, soft ! she sings, half hidden there, 
 
 The midnight air 
 Is touched with gentle sound, 
 And the bride's voice, in breathings low, 
 
 Is lost below 
 Upon the herb-grown ground. 
 
 Only to that plaintive voice, 
 
 With wakeful noise, 
 The nightingale replies, 
 Warbling in tuneful ease, 
 
 Among the trees 
 That in the garden rise. 
 
 This sweet and strange accord 
 
 Of voice and bird 
 Swells round that solemn tower; 
 Hushed, as if listening, seem 
 
 The breeze, the stream, 
 Elm, palace, field, and flower. 
 
 There sang the Sultan's bride, 
 
 And there replied 
 The bird in harmony, — 
 And there the Sultan stood, 
 
 And murmurs heard, 
 While watching jealously. 
 
 " They give me love of price untold, 
 
 Rich pearls and gold, 
 And bring me garlands dear; 
 Yet say, flower ! to fortune rare 
 
 And beauty fair, 
 What still is wanting here ? 
 
 " They give me festival and state, 
 And gardens great, 
 
 To Eden's paradise near; 
 
 But, garden, say, — with fortune rare 
 
 And beauty fair, 
 What still is wanting here ? 
 
 " They give me plumes as bright 
 
 As fleecy light, 
 Veiling the charms they fear ; 
 O, say, thou bird ! to fortune rare 
 
 And beauty fair, 
 What still is wanting here ? 
 
 " Nothing appears in frightful guise 
 
 Before my eyes, 
 Nothing calls forth a tear ; 
 Then say, moon ! to fortune rare 
 
 And beauty fair, 
 What still is wanting here ? " 
 
 So far she sang, — when silently 
 
 And suddenly 
 A shadow came across the light, — 
 It was the Sultan, at the side 
 
 Of his fair bride — 
 She started, half in fright. 
 
 " Thou hast all things," said he to her, 
 
 " In thy tower, — 
 Flowers and jewels dear ; 
 Tell me, loved one, to thy portion, 
 
 To thy passion, 
 What still is wanting here ? 
 
 " What is there in the garden old, 
 
 Or waters cold., 
 What has the bird or flower, 
 That with the dawn of every day, 
 
 I do not lay 
 At thy own feet, a dower ? 
 
 " Tell me what thou wishest, sweet one, 
 
 Charm or fortune, — 
 Ask me even for a folly — " 
 " Sultan, these birds that I love, singing, 
 
 These flowers spriuging, 
 Have air and liberty .' " 
 
 TO MY LYRE. 
 
 Eliot, " Translations from Zorrilla." 
 
 Come, harp, in love and pleasure strung, 
 Thy chords too long have borne my pains, 
 
 If thy soft voice be still unwrung, 
 0, breathe the rapture that remains ! 
 
 They who are sad must laugh and sing, 
 The slave must still seem to be free, 
 
 Among the thick throngs gathering, 
 There is no place for misery. 
 
 Why should I weep ? The skies are bright, 
 Waves, woods, and fields are fresh and fair, 
 
 Far from thy strings be sounds of night, — 
 Come, then, and fancies rapturous dare ! 
 
SPANISH. 
 
 913 
 
 Joyful and mournful be thy tones, 
 From crowded and from lone abodes, 
 
 Temples and cottages and thrones 
 
 Shall give thee hymns and tears and odes. 
 
 I '11 tune thee to the sighing breeze, 
 Or to the swift, sonorous storm, — 
 
 Beneath the roofs of palaces 
 
 And hamlets, make thy shelter warm. 
 
 Come to my hands, then, harp resounding, 
 
 My life is wasted, day by day, 
 Its hours, as they speed onward, bounding, 
 
 Shall to thy measure pass away. 
 
 ASPIRATION. 
 Eliot, " Translations from Zorrilla." 
 
 All insufficient to my heart's true rest, 
 Is the deep murmur of a fountain pure, 
 
 Or the thick shade of trees in green leaves drest, 
 Or a strong castle's solitude secure. 
 
 Not to my pleasure ministers the cup 
 Of bacchic banquet, clamorous and free, 
 
 Nor cringing slaves, in miserable troop, 
 Whose keys unlock no splendid treasury. 
 
 By God created, in His Might I live, 
 
 From Sovereign Spirit my soul's breath I 
 borrow, 
 
 To grow a giant — now a dwarf — I strive, 
 I will not be to-day, to die to-morrow. 
 
 CAROLINA CORONADO. 
 
 The following sketch of this - distinguished 
 Spanish poetess is taken from the notes of Mr. 
 Bryant's " Thirty Poems." To the list of her 
 writings may be added the titles of her four 
 dramatic works, — El Cuadro de la Esperanza, 
 Alfonso IV. de Leon, Petrarca, and El Divino 
 F'ujueroa. 
 
 " The literature of Spain at the present day 
 has this peculiarity, that female writers have, in 
 considerable number, entered into competition 
 with the other sex. One of the most remark- 
 able of these, as a writer of both prose and poe- 
 try, is Carolina Coronado de Perry, the author 
 of the little poem here given. The poetical lit- 
 erature of Spain has felt the influence of the 
 female mind in the infusion of a certain delicacy 
 and tenderness, and the more frequent choice of 
 subjects which interest the domestic affections. 
 Concerning the verses of the lady already men- 
 tioned, Don Juan Eugenio Hartzenbusch, one 
 of the most accomplished Spanish critics of the 
 present day, and himself a successful dramatic 
 writer, says: — 
 
 " ' If Carolina Coronado had, through mod- 
 esty, sent her productions from Estremadura to 
 Madrid under the name of a person of the other 
 115 
 
 sex, it would still have been difficult for intelli- 
 gent readers to persuade themselves that they 
 were written by a man, or at least, considering 
 their graceful sweetness, purity of tone, sim- 
 plicity of conception, brevity of development, 
 and delicate and particular choice of subject, we 
 should be constrained to attribute them to one 
 yet in his early youth, whom the imagination 
 would represent as ingenuous, innocent, and gay, 
 who had scarce ever wandered beyond the flow- 
 ery grove or pleasant valley where his cradle 
 was rocked, and where he had been lulled to 
 sleep by the sweetest songs of Francisco de la 
 Torre, Garcilaso, and Melendez.' 
 
 " The author of the Pdjaro Perdido, according 
 to a memoir of her by Angel Fernandez de los 
 Bios, was born at Almendralejo, in Estremadu- 
 ra, in 1823. At the age of nine years she began 
 to steal from sleep, after a day passed in vari- 
 ous lessons, and in domestic occupations, several 
 hours every night to read the poets of her coun- 
 try, and -other books belonging to the library of 
 the household, among which is mentioned as a 
 proof of her vehement love of reading, the Crit- 
 ical History of Spain, by the Abbe' Masuden, 
 ' and other works equally dry and prolix.' She 
 was afterwards sent to Badajoz, where she re- 
 ceived the best education which the state of the 
 country, then on fire with a civil war, would 
 admit. Here the intensity of her application to 
 her studies caused a severe malady, which has 
 frequently recurred in after life. At the age of 
 thirteen years she wrote a poem entitled La 
 Palma, which the author of her biography de- 
 clares to be worthy of Herrera, and which led 
 Espronceda, a poet of Estremadura, a man of 
 genius, and the author of several translations 
 from Byron, whom he resembled both in men- 
 tal and personal characteristics, to address her 
 an eulogistie sonnet In 1843, when she was 
 but twenty years old, a volume of her poems 
 was published at Madrid. . . . . To this vol- 
 ume Hartzenbusch, in his admiration for her 
 genius, prefaced an introduction. 
 
 " The task of writing verses in Spanish is not 
 difficult. Rhymes are readily found, and the 
 language is easily moulded into metrical forms. 
 Those who have distinguished themselves in this 
 literature have generally made their first essays 
 in verse. What is remarkable enough, the men 
 who afterwards figure in political life mostly 
 begin their career as the authors of madrigals. 
 A poem introduces the future statesman to the 
 public, as a speech at a popular meeting intro- 
 duces the candidate for political distinction in this 
 country. I have heard of but one of the emi- 
 nent Spanish politicians of the present time, who 
 made a boast that he was innocent of poetry, 
 and if all that his enemies say of him be true, it 
 would have been well both for his country and 
 his own fame if he had been equally inno- 
 cent of corrupt practices. The compositions of 
 Carolina Coronado, even her earliest, do not 
 deserve to be classed with the productions of 
 
914 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 which we have spoken, and which are simply 
 the effect of inclination and facility. They pos- 
 sess the mens divinior. 
 
 "In 1852 a collection of the poems of Carolina 
 Coronado was brought out at Madrid, including 
 those which were first published. The subjects 
 are of larger variety than those which prompted 
 her earlier productions ; some of them are of a 
 religious cast, others refer to political matters. 
 One of them, which appears among the ' Impro- 
 visations,' is an energetic protest against erect- 
 ing a new amphitheatre for bull-rights. The 
 spirit of all her poetry is humane and friendly 
 to the best interests of mankind. 
 
 " Her writings in prose must not be overlooked. 
 Among them is a novel entitled Sigea, founded 
 on the adventures of Camoens; another entitled 
 Jorilla, a beautiful story, full of pictures of rural 
 life in Estremadura, which deserves, if it could 
 find a competent translator, to be transferred to 
 our language. Besides these there are two other 
 novels from her pen, Paquita, and La Luz del 
 Tejo. A few years since appeared, in a Madrid 
 periodical, the Semanario, a series of letters 
 written by her, giving an account of the impres- 
 sions received in a journey from the Tagus 
 to the Rhine, including a visit to England. 
 Among the subjects on which she has written, 
 is the idea, still warmly cherished in Spain, of 
 uniting the entire peninsula under one govern- 
 ment. In an ably conducted journal of Madrid, 
 she has given accounts of the poetesses of Spain, 
 her contemporaries, with extracts from their 
 writings, and a kindly estimate of their respec- 
 tive merits. 
 
 " Her biographer speaks of her activity and 
 efficiency in charitable enterprises, her interest 
 in the cause of education, her visits to the pri- 
 mary schools of Madrid, encouraging and re- 
 warding the pupils, and her patronage of the 
 escuela de pdrvulos, or infant school, at Badajoz, 
 established by a society in that cit}', with the 
 design of improving the education of the labor- 
 ing class. 
 
 " It must have been not long after the publi- 
 cation of her poems, in 1852, that Carolina 
 Coronado became the wife of an American gen- 
 tleman, Mr. Horatio J. Perry, at one time our 
 Secretary of Legation at the Court of Madrid, 
 afterwards our Charge' d' Affaires, and now, in 
 1863, again Secretary of Legation. Amidst the 
 duties of a wife and mother, which she fulfils 
 with exemplary fidelity and grace, she has not 
 either forgotten or forsaken the literary pursuits 
 which have given her so high a reputation." 
 
 THE LOST BIRD. 
 Bryant, " Thirty Poems." 
 My bird has flown away, 
 Far out of sight has flown, I know not where. 
 Look in your lawn, I pray, 
 Ye maidens, kind and fair, 
 And see if my beloved bird be there. 
 
 His eyes are full of light ; 
 
 The eagle of the rock has such an eye ; 
 And plumes, exceeding bright, 
 Round his smooth temples lie, 
 
 And sweet his voice, and tender as a sigh. 
 
 Look where the grass is gay 
 With summer blossoms, haply there he cowers , 
 
 And search, from spray to spray, 
 
 The leafy laurel bowers, 
 Eor well he loves the laurels and the flowers. 
 
 Find him, but do not dwell, 
 With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see, 
 
 Nor love his song too well ; 
 
 Send him, at once, to me, 
 Or leave him to the air and liberty. 
 
 For only from my hand . 
 
 He takes the seed into his golden beak, 
 And all unwiped shall stand 
 The tears that wet my cheek, 
 
 Till I have found the wanderer I seek. 
 
 My sight is darkened o'er, 
 Whene'er I miss his eyes, which are my day, 
 
 And when I hear no more 
 
 The music of his lay, 
 My heart in utter sadness faints away. 
 
 TO A TURTLE-DOVE. 
 Christian Examiner for September, 1864. 
 
 Turtle-dove mysterious, 
 Mournfully thy loving chants 
 
 Uttering, 
 Agitated, tremulous, 
 Like the rain upon the plants 
 
 Fluttering. 
 
 How thy plumage with the sigh 
 From thy bosom palpitating 
 
 Rises light, 
 Like the water murmuring by 
 When the wavelet vacillating 
 
 Foameth white. 
 
 Timid, beauteous turtle-dove, 
 Gentle, melancholy guest 
 
 'Mong the hills, 
 Thy complaining note of love, 
 Thy sweet song of deep unrest, 
 
 Never stills. 
 
 Sing it, sing it, gently wooing 
 Her thy tender mate and friend, 
 
 Sing thy loves. 
 Thou shalt see thy artless cooing 
 Sympathetic life doth send 
 
 Through the groves. 
 
 Why, since thou so well dost please 
 Murmuring in my wearied ear 
 Soft and low, 
 
SPANISH. 
 
 915 
 
 Is my breast so ill at ease 
 When thy plaintive song I hear 
 Trembling so ? 
 
 Is it because I also feel as thou, 
 O'erburdened with my bosom's tenderness? 
 
 Is it because my sweetest sorrow now 
 Thy love ineffable would fain express 7 . 
 
 With newer fire my heart is animate 
 In listening to thy passionate complaint. 
 
 Is it because I also sigh and wait, 
 By love's ensnarement held in long restraint ? 
 
 May not thy sadness then my sadness be "? 
 For with the selfsame note our song we strike ; 
 
 If we are never one in melody, 
 In grieving we are surely then alike. 
 
 ON THE BULL-PIGHT. 
 
 Christian Examiner for September, 186i. 
 
 Bravo ! thou nation of a noble line ! 
 Thou mean'st to fashion after beasts thy men. 
 How well thy mission thou dost now divine, 
 Escaping from the Latin Church's shrine 
 To intrench thyself around the fighters' pen ! 
 
 New Plazas for the bull-fight let there be ; 
 Build them, O Country ! pour thy treasures free ! 
 Ah ! stranger lands are wiser far than we, — 
 
 For here we are but cowherds, we are fools : 
 Which do we value most, the laws or bulls 1 
 
 Who cares for liberty, while he doth roar, 
 The hunted bull, along the spacious plain, 
 Or tear the arena, and his victim gore 1 
 When swells his passion with the pricking pain, 
 Who sees the vision of our mournful Spain 1 
 
 And when he draws his breath with hoarsest sigh, 
 And from his pierce'd heart come out the groans, 
 And men fall down to earth, and horses die, 
 How sweet to hear the rosy children nigh 
 Break out in merry laughter's silvery tones ! 
 
 But hark! I see before my vision rise, 
 
 Brave to uphold the war of beasts and men, 
 
 Some spirited hidalgo, listening wise. 
 
 "I glory in the spectacle," he cries; 
 
 " The thing is Spanish, — it has always been ! " 
 
 patriotic ardor ! Let them bind 
 A starry crown upon the learned brow 
 Of every noble knight, who thinks to find 
 Our highest strength within the bull enshrined, 
 Our Spanish glory in the Picador's bow ! 
 
 With all the fairest ladies of repute 
 The love of country so refined has grown 
 They look with rapture even on this brute ; 
 For tenderness is here a foreign shoot 
 And cruelty is Spanish-born alone ! 
 
916 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 PORTUGUESE. 
 
 GIL VICENTE. 
 
 See page 736. 
 
 FROM THE SEASONS. 
 
 Quarterly Review for December, 1846. 
 
 THE SONG OF SPKING. 
 
 1 'll away to the garden, 
 For winter is over; 
 The Hose is awake 
 To the song of her lover ! 
 I will go and discover 
 The passionate Nightingale singing ahove her. 
 
 Prom the boughs green and golden 
 That slope to the river, 
 A Nymph gathers lemons 
 To give to her lover : 
 I will go and discover , 
 The shy little Nightingale singing above her. 
 
 Near the vineyard, where often 
 I have spied out a rover, 
 Sits a damsel who sings 
 To be heard by her lover : 
 I will go and discover 
 The bold little Nightingale singing above her. 
 
 SONG OF THE PLANET JUPITER. 
 
 Shine out, thou glorious Sun, 
 
 Illume the path I run 
 
 With brighter day ; 
 
 Por the false triumphant time 
 
 Of the gods of every clime 
 
 Has passed away. 
 
 Void shall be Dian's fane, 
 
 Abjured the reverence vain 
 
 To Juno vowed ; 
 
 Nor henceforth shalt thou behold 
 
 Pebrua with aspect bold 
 
 O 'era we the crowd. 
 
 Apollo's reign is o'er ; 
 The Bacchi shall no more 
 Be hailed in Rome; 
 Hymen shall no more preside 
 At the blessing of the Bride 
 In Persic dome. 
 No more the Fountain-Nymph 
 Shall pour her sparkling lymph, 
 By votaries sued : 
 Nor with shows of fiery snakes 
 Shall the Witch-demoniacs 
 Man's sight delude. 
 
 Naiads of marish leas, 
 The huntress-Diyades, 
 And Ocean's Lord, 
 And the Goddess-rivals three, 
 Shall resign their sovereignty, 
 With one accord. 
 Prom her Tarpeian throne 
 The Maid of Rhamnus prone 
 Is cast with scorn : 
 She and all those powers exiled 
 Leave the sceptre to a child, 
 A child new-born. — 
 
 Methinks I hear the shout 
 Of the prophets old, from out 
 Their graves this day : 
 What they told hath come about, 
 And the infernal tyrant-rout 
 Have lost their sway. — 
 
 All living things on earth, 
 Rejoicing in the birth 
 Of God made Man, 
 Praise their Maker, — tuneful birds, 
 Bleating folds, and lowing herds 
 In forests wan. 
 Ev'n brutes of savage mood, 
 The reem, the panther-brood, 
 The lion's dam, 
 
 Give voice to praise in wood and wold, 
 While the pastors of the fold 
 Adore the Lamb. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Page 
 
 Aleardi, Aleardo 880 
 
 Arreboe, Anders Christensen .... 788 
 
 Arvers, Felix 854 
 
 Basselin, Olivier 834 
 
 Becker, Nicolaus 831 
 
 Bellau, Remi 835 
 
 Boccaccio, Giovanni 865 
 
 Calderon de la Barca 887 
 
 Canitz, Friedrich Rudolph von 814 
 
 Carcano, Giulio 882 
 
 Carrer, Luigi 877 
 
 Chamisso, Ludolf Adalbert von .... 823 
 
 Cino da Pistoia 865 
 
 Ciullo d'Alcamo ....... 856 
 
 Coronado, Carolina 913 
 
 Dair Ongaro, Francesco 883 
 
 DuBartas 837 
 
 Eberhard, Christian August Gottlob . . . 822 
 
 Filicaja, ViDcenzo da . . . . ' . . . 866 
 
 Folcachiero de' Folcachieri 858 
 
 Folgore da San Geminiano 861 
 
 Franzen, Franz Michael 794 
 
 Geibel, Emanuel 831 
 
 Gerhardt, Paul 809 
 
 Giacomino Pugliesi 860 
 
 Giusti, Giuseppe 874 
 
 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von .... 819 
 
 Grillparzer, Franz 824 
 
 Grossi, Tommaso 873 
 
 Guido Cavalcanti 863 
 
 Gustavus Adolphus 794 
 
 Heine, Heinrich 828 
 
 Hertz, Henrik 791 
 
 Page 
 
 Jacopo da Lentino . . 859 
 
 Jasmin, Jaques 843 
 
 Kerner, Andreas Justinus 824 
 
 Kingo, Thomas 789 
 
 Lenau, Nicolaus 830 
 
 Leopardi, Giacomo 868 
 
 Logau, Friedrich von . . ... 814 
 
 Luther, Martin 808 
 
 Malherbe, Francois de 836 
 
 Mendoza, Antonio de ..... 906 
 
 Mercantini, Luigi 885 
 
 Miiller, Wilhelm 828 
 
 Musset, Alfred de 848 
 
 Niccolini, Giovanni Battista 867 
 
 Platen, August Graf von ...... 828 
 
 Prati, Giovanni 878 
 
 Reboul, Jean 841 
 
 Rioja, Francisco de 886 
 
 Runeberg, Johan Ludvig 798 
 
 Santa Teresa 886 
 
 Schnezler, August 832 
 
 Silesius, Angelus 815 
 
 Stagnelius, Eric Johan 796 
 
 Strassburg, Gottfried von 802 
 
 Tollens, Hendrik Corneliszoon 833 
 
 Ticente, Gil 916 
 
 Villon, Francois 835 
 
 Vogelweide, Walther von der .... 801 
 
 Voltaire 841 
 
 Wall in, Johan Olof 795 
 
 Wiilffer, Daniele 813 
 
 Zorrilla, Jose .908 
 
 917 
 
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 919 
 
920 
 
 TRANSLATORS AND SOURCES. 
 
 Spanish of Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. By Charles 
 
 Jarvis, Esq. 2 vols. Lonjon. 1842. Svo. 
 Kemele. A Translation of the Anglo-Saxon Poem of Beo- 
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 Latham. Axel. From the Swedish of Esaias Tegner. By 
 
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 Lloyd. The Tragedies of Vittorio Alfieri. Translated from 
 
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 Lockhart. Ancient Spanish Ballads, Historical and Ro- 
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 Lyell. Xlie Canzoniere of Dante Alighieri, including the 
 
 Poems of the Vita Nuova and Convito; Italian and Eng- 
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 Macray. Stray Leaves, including Translations from the 
 
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 Mertvale. The Minor Poems of Schiller. By John Her- 
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 Mickle. TheLusiad; or the Discovery of India; an Epic 
 
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 Ozell. The Trophy Bucket; a Mock Heroic Poem, done 
 
 from the Italian into English Rhyme. By Mr. Ozell. 
 
 Loudon. 1710. Svo. 
 Parsons. T. W. The first ten Cantos of the Inferno of Dante 
 
 Alighieri, newly translated into English Verse. Boston. 
 
 1843. Svo. 
 Periodicals. American. 
 
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 Wrkjht, E. Fables of La Fontaine. Illustrated by J. J 
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TRANSLATORS AND SOURCES. 
 
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 Baskerville. The Poetry of Germany. Consisting of 
 Selections from upwards of Seventy of the most cele- 
 brated Poets, translated into English Verse, with the 
 Original Text on the opposite page, by Alfred Basker- 
 yille. Leipzig. 1854. 
 
 Brooks. German Lyrics. By Charles T. Brooks. Boston. 
 1853. 
 
 Bryant. Thirty Poems. By William Cullen Bryant. 
 New York. 1861. 
 
 Caldwell. Poems, Original and Translated. By William 
 W. Caldwell. Boston. 1857. 
 
 Cart. The Early French Poets, a Series of Notices and 
 Translations, by the late Rev. Henry Francis Cary. 
 London. 1846. 
 
 Chambers Miscellany of Useful and Entertaining Tracts. 
 Edinburgh. No date. 
 
 Cochrane. Hannah and her Chickens. From the Ger- 
 man of Eberhard, by James Cochrane. Edinburgh. 
 1854. 
 
 Cox. Sacred Hymns from the German. Translated by 
 Frances Elizabeth Cox. London. 1841. 
 
 Dasext. The Story of Burnt Njal. From the Icelandic 
 of the Njals Saga. By George Webbe Dasent. 2 vols. 
 Edinburgh. 1861. 
 
 Dehlcken. The Book of German Songs. Translated and 
 Edited by H. W. Dulcken. London. 1856. 
 
 Eliot, S. Translations from the Spanish Poet, Jose Zor- 
 rilla. By S. E. No date. 
 
 Everett. Critical and Miscellaneous Essays. To which 
 are added a few poems. By Alexander H. Everett. 
 Boston. 1845. 
 
 Howells, W. D. In the North American Review, and 
 MS. 
 
 Howitt. The Literature and Romance of Northern Eu- 
 rope. By William and Mary Howitt. 2 vols. London. 
 1852. 
 
 Kroegee, A. E. In the Missouri Republican. 
 
 Lela_nd. Heine's Book of Songs. Translated by Charles 
 G. Leland. Philadelphia. 1864 
 
 Lockwood. Axel and other Poems. Translated from 
 the Swedish by Henry Lockwood. London. 1867. 
 
 Longfellow. The Belfry of Bruges, and other Poems. 
 By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Cambridge. 1845. 
 
 The Seaside and the Fireside. By Henry 
 
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 Lowell, J. R. MS. 
 
 Mac-Carthy. Dramas of Calderon. Translated from the 
 Spanish by Denis Florence Mac-Carthy. 2 vols. Lon- 
 
 don. 1S53. 
 
 Love the Greatest Enchantment : The Sor- 
 
 ceries of Sin : The Devotion of the Cross. From the 
 Spanish of Calderon. By Denis Florence Mac-Carthy. 
 London. 1861. 
 
 Mac-Carthy. Mysteries of Corpus Christi. From the 
 Spanish. By Denis Florence Mac-Carthy. Dublin. 1867. 
 
 Mangan. German Anthology. By James Clarence Man- 
 gan. Dublin. 1845. 
 
 Martin. King Rene's Daughter, a Danish Lyrical Dra- 
 ma by Henrik Hertz. Translated by Theodore Martin. 
 New York. 1867. 
 
 Middleton. Sappho, after the German of Franz Grillpar- 
 zer, by Edda Middleton. New York. 1858. 
 
 Naylor. Reynard the Fox. A Renowned Apologue of 
 the Middle Age, reproduced in Rhyme. [S. Naylor.] 
 London. 1845. 
 
 Oxexford. The Illustrated Book of French Songs. From 
 the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Century. Translated 
 and edited by John Oxenfbrd, Esq. London. 1855. 
 
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 publican. — The Home Journal. 
 
 English. The Foreign Quarterly Review. 
 
 — The Quarterly Review. — Fraser's Magazine. — The 
 Cornhill Magazine 
 
 Rossetti. The Early Italian Poets from Ciullo d' Alca- 
 mo to Dante Alighieri. Translated by D. G. Rossetti. 
 London. 1861. 
 
 Poems by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. London, 
 
 1870. 
 
 Scherb, E. Yitalis. In the Massachusetts Quarterly Re- 
 view. 
 
 Sylvester. Du Bartas his Divine Weekes and Workes. 
 Translated and written by yt famous Philomusus 
 Joshua Sylvester, Gent. London. 1633. 
 
 Taylor. Faust, a Tragedy. Translated by Bayard Tay- 
 lor. In Press. 
 
 Trexch. Calderon, his Life and Genius, with Specimens 
 of his Plays. By Richard Chenevix Trench. New York. 
 1856. 
 
 The Story of Justin Martyr ; Sabbation ; and 
 
 other Poems. London. 1844. 
 
 Winkworth. Lyra Germanica. Hymns for the Sundays 
 and chief Festivals of the Christian Year. Translated 
 from the German by Catherine Winkworth. New York. 
 1859. 
 
 Wesley. Hymns and Sacred Poems. By John and 
 Charles Wesley. London. 1756. 
 
 WisTm, S. B. Selections from the Prose and Poetry of 
 Alfred de Musset. New York. 1870. 
 
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