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POEMS 
 
 
 ALEXANDER Ry'EVERETT. 
 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 JAMES MUNROE & CO 
 1845. 
 
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 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1645, by 
 
 JAMES MUNEOE & COMPAJS'Y, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts- 
 
 BOSTON: 
 GEORGE COOLIDGE, Peiktik. 
 1 1-2 Water Street. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Hermitage. An Eastern Tale 9 
 
 The Grecian Gossips. From Theocritus. ... 26 
 
 The Exile's Lajient. From Virgil 35 
 
 Scenes from Goethe's Faust 41 
 
 The Worth of Woman. From Schiller 57 
 
 The Spectre Bridegroom. From Buerger. ... 60 
 
 The Water King 71 
 
 The Portress. 74 
 
 The Maid of Oberland 83 
 
 The Fifth of IVIay. From Manzoni. .... 88 
 
 Enigma 92 
 
 The Dirge of Larra. From Zorrilla 94 
 
 The Young American 98 
 
 The Funeral of Goethe. From Harro Harrino. . 100 
 
THE HERMITAGE. 
 
 AN EASTERN TALE. 
 [Boston MisceUany, October, 1842.] 
 
 The following Poem may be considered, so far as the substance is con- 
 cerned, as a sort of literary curiosity. The fable on which it is founded, is 
 an episode in a Sanscrit work, entitled the Brahma Purana, supposed to 
 be, at least, as ancient as the period of the Trojan war. The tale is, there- 
 fore, the oldest specimen of comic poetry known to be extant. The trans- 
 lation from the original Sanscrit was made by the late M. de Ch^zy, one 
 of the greatest oriental scholars of our time in France, and read by him at 
 a public meeting of ihe French Academy. The manuscript was afterwards 
 communicated to the Baron Augustus W. von Schlegel, Professor of 
 Oriental Literature at the University of Bonn, on the Rhine, by whom it 
 was translated into German, and published in a periodical work called the 
 hiftian Library. The French translation of M. de Ch^zy has, I believe, 
 never been published ; the German one of Schlegel has been used for the 
 present purpose. I am not aware that the tale has appeared in any 
 form in England. 
 
 The plot turns upon the well-known principle of the Indian mythology, 
 which supposed, that by a sufficiently long and severe course of penance 
 and sacrifice, a man might acquire superhuman powers, and even obtain 
 in time, a right to a seat in the Celestial Synod, in which case some one of 
 the previous tenants was under the necessity of vacating his place in order 
 to make room for the new comer. The gods could not of course, look 
 with much satisfaction upon the efforts of these candidates for admission 
 into the sacred college, and were in the habit of throwing in their way such 
 temptations as they thought most likely to interrupt the course of their 
 devout exercises, and thus frustrate their plans. These ideas, as the reader 
 will recollect, are employed by Southey as the basis of the machinery of 
 the Curse of Kehama. In the following tale they are ridiculed by the 
 native author in a tone of pleasantry, not less pointed, but more graceful and 
 chastened than that of the similar efforts of the Lucians, Ariostos, Voltaires 
 and Wielands of later periods. It is not perhaps, to be wondered at, that 
 specimens of this kind of writing, — which is one of the natural products of 
 certain periods in the progress of opinion in all communities, — should be 
 
10 Everett's poems, 
 
 found among- Ihe copious remains of Sanscrit literalure. It is rather more 
 sing-ular that a hvely and pointed satire on the then prevailing superstitions 
 should be imbedded, — so to speak, — in a bulliy commentary on the sacred 
 books ; for such is the nature of the work from which the tale is extracted. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 I. 
 The Grecian gods possess'd their heavenly state, 
 
 (If rightly aiicient bards the story tell,) 
 On solid tenures, fore-ordain'd by fate, 
 
 In modern language, indefeasible. 
 In order first the great Triumvirate, 
 
 That rul'd the realms of ocean, earth and hell, 
 And under these the immortal House of Peers, 
 But all secure from change by force, or lapse of years. 
 
 II. 
 If Jove, provok'd, not without cause, (at times 
 
 The gods, God knows, were worse than indiscreet,) 
 Compell'd some one, in penance for his crimes, 
 
 To vacate for a while his golden seat ; 
 Toss'd Vulcan headlong down to earthly climes, 
 
 Or hung out Juno, dangling by the feet; 
 The offender still return'd, — his penance o'er, -7— 
 And all went on as smoothly as before. 
 
 And when some lucky wight by special grace 
 Or high desert a seat among them won ; 
 
 Like that young Trojan by his blooming face, 
 Or by his valiant deeds Alcmena's glorious son, 
 
 The God Elect assum'd an equal place. 
 But trench'd not on the rights of any one ; 
 
 Each eye grew brighter, — every tongue ran glibber,- 
 
 To welcome the new fellow-nectar-bibber. 
 
THE HERMITAGE. 11 
 
 Bnt customs change with cKmes. The Hindoo gods 
 Acquir'd and held their thrones in different guise : 
 
 Mere mortals there might reach the blest abodes 
 By constant penance, pain and sacrifice. 
 
 To starve, — to freeze, — to scourge one's self with rods,- 
 "Were deeds of such esteem in Brahma's eyes, 
 
 That they would change, — if kept up long enough, — ■ 
 
 Poor human nature to celestial stuff 
 
 But mark the rest. The Hindoo destinies, 
 
 Lest over-population should encumber 
 The heavens, had order'd that their deities 
 
 Should never rise above a certain number ; 
 And that whene'er a mortal reach'd the skies 
 
 By dint of pain, and loss of food and slumber, 
 Some former occupant, — a serious case, — 
 Should forthwith quit the field, and give him up his place- 
 
 In short, the Hindoo heavenly constitutions. 
 Although divine, were somewhat democratic, 
 
 Resembling much our modern institutions 
 Of Congresses or Diets diplomatic, 
 
 Whose members, still in constant revolutions, 
 Pursue each other's steps in course erratic ; 
 
 As sovereigns order, or the people chooses : 
 
 And what one gains another always loses. 
 
 VII. 
 
 So stood the law. To me, I freely own, 
 The Grecian system seems by far the better , 
 
 Fitted to introduce a friendly tone, 
 
 And sentiments of kindness and good-nature 
 2 
 
12 Everett's poems. 
 
 'Twixt gods and men : for there each god look'd down 
 
 Encouragingly on the human creature, 
 Who sought by noble deeds an apotheosis, 
 And, if he won it, felt as great a glee as his. 
 
 Whereas the Hindoo deities beheld 
 
 With jealous eyes these lofty aspirations, 
 
 Knowing that they could never be fulfiU'd, 
 
 Without dislodging them from their high stations ; 
 
 And when they were reluctantly compell'd 
 To own that men deserv'd such elevations, 
 
 Instead of cheering them and giving them assistance, 
 
 They left no stone unturn'd to keep them at a distance. 
 
 In such a case, 'twas still their treacherous course 
 To tempt the candidate to mirth and pleasure ; 
 
 And could they bring him by some bright amorce, 
 To give himself though but a moment's leisure ; 
 
 Such was the statute's unrelenting force, 
 
 That he was cheated of his long-sought treasure 
 
 And was oblig'd, though after years of pain, 
 
 To forfeit all their fruits and start afresh again. 
 
 A policy like this may seem below 
 
 A god of honor : but 't were wrong to blame 
 
 The Hindoo deities : the case, we know, 
 
 Was no child's play, but life and death to them. 
 
 What means they us'd to entrap a dangerous foe ; 
 What baits and snares to lure him to his shame \ 
 
 And how sometimes their treacherous arts prevail. 
 
 Is set forth briefly in the following tale. 
 
THE HERMITAGE. V6 
 
 THE HERMITAGE. 
 
 In Eastern climes, some thousand years ago, 
 About the time when lUon's glory fell, 
 
 Where smooth Gomati's limpid waters flow, 
 A certain Candoo fixed his domicil. 
 
 His food the plants that on its margin grow, 
 His drink the simple elemental well, 
 
 His holy heart untouched by carnal passion^ 
 
 In short a hermit after Parn ell's fashion. 
 
 Fair was the spot, and Candoo might have pass'd 
 
 A happy life in such a hermitage, 
 And felt, in sweet composure, to the last, 
 
 The quiet of a philosophic sage ; 
 For Nature all her gifts around him cast, 
 
 To suit the taste of each succeeding age. 
 And make them all serenely glide away, 
 Like the calm hours of an unclouded day. 
 
 What broke the charm of Candoo's residence ? 
 
 Ambition. Candoo could not be content 
 To taste the joys that courted every sense. 
 
 And be the happy man that nature meant : 
 His soul was ardent, — his desires immense, — 
 
 And all his views on high achievements bent. 
 And Candoo thought that mere felicity 
 For one like him was mortal ennui. 
 
14 KVEIiETT^S POEMS. 
 
 All Candoo I you'll repent, perhaps too late. 
 These idle dreams, — 'tis labor spent in vain. 
 
 The man, says Horace, who can regalate 
 
 His own desires, — whate'er his outward train, 
 
 Is, after all, a mightier potentate 
 
 And one that governs a more vast domain. 
 
 Than if the subject universe obeyed his 
 
 Imperial sway from Mexico to Cadiz. 
 
 The real goods of life are in your reach, — 
 
 Improve them, Candoo I ere the sense be gone; 
 
 Pluck the fresh blossom, — taste the blnshing peach, 
 And though a hermit, do not dwell alone I 
 
 Invite some beauteous nymph of honied speech 
 To nciake your little Paradise her own, 
 
 And laugh with her in your sequester'd bower 
 
 At all the mummery of wealth and power ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 To do him justice, Candoo's thoughts did soar 
 Above the vulgar flight of low desire; 
 
 He did not care a straw for wealth or power. 
 Titles, high rank, and all that fool^ admire : 
 
 He aimed at other objects, and far more 
 Sublime : — bis wishes modestly aspire 
 
 To nothing lovv^er than the blest abode ; 
 
 And Candoo could not rest until he was a god. 
 
 'Tis said that one may reach the Hindoo skies 
 With ease, by making earth a purgatory : 
 
 The fact, perhaps, is true, — I trust it is, 
 Because it makes the basis of my story . 
 
THE HERMITAGE. 15 
 
 But for myself, — to speak without disguise, — 
 
 I doubt that it must be a very sorry 
 Sort of divinity, that one might gain 
 By suffering in the flesh a Httle transient pain. 
 
 But be that as it may, his priests had said 
 
 To Candoo, that the achievement could be done 
 
 And from that time he could not rest in bed 
 Until the preparation was begun. 
 
 And such a life as the poor fellow led, 
 
 Such scorching in the hottest noon-day sun : 
 
 Such fasting, flagellating, sacrificing : 
 
 Freezing and thawing, — 'twas indeed surprising. 
 
 And really 't is a melancholy sight, 
 To see a hearty and a healthy man, 
 
 Striving to make himself, as if in spite 
 Of fate, as miserable as he can : 
 
 To eat and drink at meals, to sleep at night, 
 Of course were quite forbidden by his plan : 
 
 Such abstinence is far from gratifying ; 
 
 But there were other matters much more trying. 
 
 Sometimes, just in the hottest of the weather, 
 He set at once four large wood-fires to burning, 
 
 And stood where he could feel them all together, 
 And roast himself completely without turning. 
 
 At other times, when storms began to gather. 
 
 And all the world for warm, dry clothes was yearning 
 
 Candoo would put him on a cold, wet shirt, 
 
 And roll for hoiu'S together in the dirt. 
 2* 
 
16 Everett's poems 
 
 To mention how he sate upon a spike, 
 
 Trod on hot irons without shoe or stockinsr. 
 
 Tore pieces from his hve flesh, and the hke, 
 
 Were needless, and to many might be shocking. 
 
 In short, although his enterprise will strike 
 Most readers as a piece of senseless mocking, 
 
 Tlie zeal with which he undertook it, was. 
 
 As men say, worthy of a better cause. 
 
 The gods at first took little note of this, 
 And only sneer'd at such gross mnmmery : 
 
 They thought it comic that a head like his 
 Should think itself mark'd out to rule the sky. 
 
 But finding his achievements still increase. 
 And that the thing was looking seriously, 
 
 Indra, * a god more knowing than his fellows, 
 
 Began at length to grow a little jealous. 
 
 * Indra, a GoJ of hig-h consideration in ihe Hindoo mythology, though 
 not of the first order, is the Ruler of the Firmament, including the winds 
 and stars. He is represented as a handsome young man with a crown on 
 his head, four arms, and a body covered all over with ej-es, — in allusion, 
 probably, to the four points of the compass, and the stars. His dwelling, 
 kingdom, or paradise, called Indra loga, (Indra's lodge,) is on Mount 
 Meroo, (the Olympus of the Hindoos,) but below the Paradise of the three 
 great gods. Indra is supposed to have obtained his rank and power by the 
 same means which Candoo employs in the Poem to displace him ; and has 
 been already ousted more than otlce in a .similar way ; so that his apprehen- 
 sions were not entirely without motive. The Devas, (Divi of the Romans,) 
 and Gandharvas, mentioned in the text, are inferior orders of divinities 
 under the government of Indra, and residing in his Paradise. The latter 
 appear to have been the musicians of the court : two of them have the 
 appropriate names of Hahci and Huhn. 
 
THE HERMITAGE. 17 
 
 "Pramnocha ! " * quoth the god with anxious mien, 
 Unto the prettiest of the Hindoo graces, — 
 
 " Pramnocha ! " — I could wish her name had been 
 As pretty as the poets say her face is ; 
 
 But still the two last syllables are seen, 
 As Schlegel truly says, — in other places, 
 
 And it were hypercritic to reproach a 
 
 Sound, which is just the pure Italian occia. 
 
 * Pramnocha, and her sisters or cousins, mentioned in the text, belonged 
 to another order of inferior divinities, also residing at the court of Indra 
 called Apsaras. They were the dancing girls of the place. The individuals 
 recommended by Pramnocha as so much more eligible than herself for the 
 commission, had been employed before on similar services v^rithout much 
 success, so that Indra's preference was not entu-ely arbitrary. Rambha, for 
 example, had been sent to seduce Wiswaniitra, and made her approaches 
 to his residence nearly in the same way with Pramnocha in the tale : but 
 the sage, instead of giving way to her seductions, maintained his self-pos- 
 session, and compelled her to pay pretty dearly for her presumption, by 
 uttering a curse upon her, which transformed her for ten thousand years 
 into a stone. Urvasee was not much more fortunate in a similar attempt 
 upon Arjuna, a noted hero and demi-god of the Hindoo mythology. This 
 personage, being on a visit at the court of Indra, the god entertained him 
 with a festival, to which all the principal characters of the place were 
 invited. On this occasion Arjuna was thought to pay particular attention 
 to Urvasee, and Indra was induced, in consequence, to intimate to her, that 
 she would do well to make the 'nation's guest' a visit at his lodgings. 
 Urvasee consented, and set forth one fine evening upon the expedition. 
 The poet of the Mahabharata, who relates the anecdote, gives a very 
 glowing description of her personal charms. ' When the moon arose, and 
 the fresh breeze of evening began to be feh, she left her apartment to pro- 
 ceed to the palace of Arjuna. Her long hair, adorned with flowers, and 
 curled, fell in graceful ringlets over her shoulders, as she moved in the light 
 of her beauty. So bright was her smile, and so gentle the expression of 
 her eyes, that she seemed, as it were, to challenge the moon to a contest 
 for the prize of loveliness with the moon of her countenance,' &c. All 
 this display was, however, lost upon the hero, who, upon her arriving at 
 his palace, and making known, without much ceremony, the object of her 
 visit, replied, that he could not look upon her in any other Ught, than as his 
 grandmother. It seems, in fact, that Urvasee was one of the Pooroo line 
 
18 Everett's poems. 
 
 " Pramnocha ! " — good or bad, since that's her name, 
 And must be so in spite of all we can do, — 
 
 "I don't quite like the doings of this same 
 Half-crazy, self-tormenting creature Candoo. 
 
 He'll cheat one of us of his diadem, 
 
 There's nothing like him since the time of Pandoo ; * 
 
 And I must beg of you, my little beauty ! 
 
 To visit him, and bring him to his duty." 
 
 XV. 
 
 Pramnocha had a spice of coquetry, 
 Like other beauties, in her composition, 
 
 And probably was pleas'd at heart to be 
 Despatch'd upon this sort of expedition : 
 
 But then she had the graceful modesty. 
 That suits a lady of such high condition. 
 
 And thought it due to fashionable uses, 
 
 To preface her acceptance by excuses. 
 
 " Indeed I good Indra ! " quoth the blushing fair, 
 "I would obey you with the greatest pleasure. 
 
 But really, I must say, I hardly dare 
 To venture on so delicate a measure : 
 
 of demi-gods and goddesses, from which Arjuna himself was descended. 
 Whether the lady was uninformed of his relation to her, or whether she 
 supposed, that the law, which prohibits a man from making love to his 
 grandmother, was not in force upon Mount Meroo, does not appear. The 
 anecdote is a sort of counterpart to one that is told of Ninon de I'Enclos. 
 
 * Pandoo was an ancient hero, the founder of the family of Pandoos 
 whose wars with the rival family of the Kooroos form the subject of the 
 great epic poem of the Ramayana. 
 
THE HERMITAGE. 19 
 
 The world is critical, and does not spare 
 
 The greatest ; — reputatiou is a treasure ; 
 And common usage does not grant its permit, 
 For a young ma,id to call upon a hermit. 
 
 Besides ; " — and as she spoke, she cast a glance 
 Bashfully down upon her well-cat boddice, — 
 
 " I'm such a fright to-day, that complaisance 
 Itself would hardly take me for a goddess ; — • 
 
 And looking as I do, I stand no chance, 
 Upon my word to attract the sage's notice : 
 
 Do, Indra, send my cousin Urvasee ; 
 
 You know that she's much prettier than me." 
 
 " Nay I nay ! no idle talking ! " — quoth the god, — 
 " 'T is thou must undertake the task, my dove I 
 
 But take for company upon the road, 
 
 The Spring, the Western Wind, and little Love. 
 
 Their prattle will amuse you, and 't is odd 
 If all of you are not enough to move 
 
 The constancy of one old anchorite : 
 
 So haste, my dear, and mount your ray of light." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 At this Pramnocha, with her fairy train, 
 
 Took passage gaily on a solar beam. 
 And soon they 'lighted on the Hiudoo plain. 
 
 Like flitting forms in some bright morning dream. 
 Nor did these lovely visitants disdain 
 
 The beauteous banks of smooth Gomati's stream ; 
 But deem'd them, drest in Spring's delightful guise, 
 Almost a match for Indra's Paradise. 
 
20 Everett's poems. 
 
 All-giving Nature pour'd profusely there 
 
 In tropic wealth her gayest fruits and flowers. 
 
 The golden Lemon scents the vernal air 
 
 With sweetest fragrance : the Pomegranate bowers 
 
 With scarlet blossoms glow ; erect and fair 
 The stately tufted Palm above them towers; 
 
 While fluttering round on richly painted wing, 
 
 The feather'd warblers hail the genial spring. 
 
 And little streams to cool that garden green, 
 With purest waves run gently purling through ; 
 
 And here and there a silver lake is seen, 
 
 O'erspread with Lotus, purple-flower'd and blue : 
 
 While sailing slow the fragrant cups between, 
 The milk-white swans their steady course pursue, 
 
 And birds of every name disporting lave 
 
 Their plumes, and dash around the sparkling wave. 
 
 Charm'd with the scene, Pramnocha stray'd awhile 
 In this fair bower, and, where the waters gleam. 
 
 She stopp'd at times, and, gazing with a smile 
 In the clear mirror of the glassy stream, 
 
 " I fear," she said, " a face like this will spoil 
 Our holy anchorite's ambitious dream : 
 
 This travelling really makes one look quite blooming ; 
 
 And then, — but stay, I think I hear him coming." 
 
 Meanwhile the Spring, to please his partner kind. 
 With brighter tints had touch'd each flowret fair; 
 
 And breath'd in gentle sighs the Western wind 
 A melting softness through the vernal air; 
 
THE HERMITAGE. 21 
 
 While little Love, to mischief well inclin'd, 
 His delicate enchantments did not spare, 
 But threw his darts about by quivers-full, 
 Enough to make a stoic play the fooL 
 
 Pursuing now to Candoo's lodge her way, 
 (The worthy penitent had just suspended 
 
 Himself on tenter-hooks, to pass the day, 
 
 Nor dream'd how soon his toils would all be ended,) 
 
 The graceful nymph began a charming lay, 
 
 Which Indra's self had many times commended; 
 
 And Candoo, struck by that strange melody, 
 
 Leap'd from his hooks at once, and ran to see 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Whence came the sound : — "And who art thou," he cried, 
 " Angelic beauty ! from what region stray'd?" 
 
 " Alas ! most reverend father !" she replied, 
 " No beauty, but a simple rustic maid. 
 
 Who came to wander by Gomati's side. 
 
 And pluck the flowers in which it is array'd. 
 
 If my poor service can afford you pleasure 
 
 In aught, most holy Saint ! I'm quite at leisure." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Ah Candoo ! yield not to the smooth disguise 
 
 Of modest words and female witchery ! 
 'Tis true I counsell'd not your enterprise. 
 
 And call'd it nonsense and mere mummery ; 
 But since you undertook to mount the skies. 
 
 And mortal glories could not satisfy 
 Your mighty soul, display at least a human 
 Courage, and be not conquer'd by a woman. 
 
22 E\ERETT's FOEJ58. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 What I shall a wight who aim'd at Indra's throne, 
 
 Be vv^orsted by a spinster in address ? 
 A learned sage's constancy o'erthrown 
 
 By a white bosom and a pretty face ? 
 And twenty years of labor lost for one 
 
 Glance of a little smiling traitoress ? 
 Nay, man I for shame avert those eager looks, 
 And hang yourself again upon your hooks. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Vain caution I Candoo's head was always weak, 
 And long exhaustion doubtless made it weaker ; 
 
 Nor did he once suspect the lurking trick 
 In the fair semblance of that gentle speaker. 
 
 Besides, what firmness does not sometimes shake ? 
 Who knows but we that frown had yielded quicker ? 
 
 In short, our hermit felt the beauty's power, 
 
 And led her blushing to the nuptial bower. 
 
 Her three companions, seeing the success 
 
 That had attended the negotiation, 
 Now parted from the fair ambassadress, 
 
 And mounted gaily to their former station ; 
 The gods all crowded round with eagerness. 
 
 And heard with loud applauses the relation ; 
 This done, with many a flowing bowl they quaff'd her 
 Health, and old Meroo shook beneath their laughter. 
 
 This sudden match was not so ill-assorted, 
 As many readers may at first suppose ; 
 
 For Candoo, by the pains he had supported. 
 Had gain'd the power of changing as he chose 
 
THE HERMITAGE. 23 
 
 His outward shape : at least 'tis so reported 
 
 In Hindoo authors of repute, and those, 
 Who doubt the tale, may find another just 
 Such change describ'd at full in Goethe's Faust. 
 
 No more an aged wight with meagre limbs, 
 
 Care-furrow'd face and haggard eyes and hollow, 
 
 To please his youthful bride at once he seems 
 In form a youthful Bacchus or Apollo. 
 
 Loose flow his curling locks like sunny gleams 
 From his broad front and every motion follow ; 
 
 "While new-born Love with purple radiance dies 
 
 His glowing cheeks and lights his flashing eyes. 
 
 xxxri. 
 
 And now no more of penitence or pain, 
 No more of scourging, fasting, maceration ; 
 
 But love and laughter o'er the mansion reign. 
 Where pining misery lately held her station. 
 
 Swift fly the hours, an ever joyful train. 
 On fairy wings of sweetest occupation ; 
 
 Nor did our happy lovers heed their flight, 
 
 Or scarcely mark the change of day and night. 
 
 For each to .other then was all in all ; 
 
 A little world, — a paradise of pleasure ; — 
 The nymph forgot the joys of Indra's hall ; 
 
 The sage his hard-earn'd, long-expected treasure. 
 Their life was one imceasing festival, 
 
 That left them neither memory nor leisure ; 
 And days, and weeks, and months had pass'd like one 
 Hour in the joy of this long honey-moon. 
 3 
 
24 Everett's poems. 
 
 At length, as Candoo by his lovely bride 
 
 One evening sate and marked the setting sun, 
 
 He started suddenly and left her side. 
 As recollecting something to be done ; 
 
 And " pray, my ever-dearest love I " he cried, 
 " Excuse me for a moment while I run 
 
 To offer my accustom'd sacrifice : 
 
 To intermit this holy exercise 
 
 A single day, would ruin me forever." 
 
 " And pray, most reverend anchorite I" replies 
 
 With an arch smile, the little gay deceiver, 
 " Inform me how your holiness espies 
 
 A difference, which I in vain endeavor 
 To find, between this hour of sacrifice 
 
 And all the rest, which we have pass'd together. 
 
 Since first in happy hour I wander'd hither." 
 
 " What others ? " cries the sage, in strange dismay ; 
 
 " What others can have pass'd ? My love is mocking 
 Others ? Why is not this the very day, 
 
 When first I saw you by the river walking ? 
 And this the first time, that the solar ray 
 
 Has left us since ? What mean you by the shocking 
 Thought that my services have e'er been failing. 
 And by the smile that on your lips is dwelling ?" 
 
 " Excuse me, reverend father I " she replies, 
 
 " I know such girlish levity is quite 
 Uncivil ; but to think that one so wise 
 
 Should not perceive the change of day and night ; 
 
THE IIRRMITAGE. 25 
 
 'Tis worth a million. That the sun should rise 
 
 And set, and you not know it, — is not it 
 Most exquisite ? The Gods will die with laughing. 
 A single day ? Why we have here been quaffing, 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Feasting and sporting for at least a year." 
 
 " Good God I" cries Candoo, — " is it possible ? 
 
 And are you not deceiving me, my dear?" 
 
 " Deceive you I" cries the nymph, — " oh, capital I 
 
 To think a silly girl, like me, should dare 
 Dream of deceiving such a miracle 
 
 Of wisdom ! — that could never be : — oh no I 
 
 You can't : — I burst with laughing : — wrong me so." 
 
 " Alas ! alas I " quoth Candoo, who began 
 
 By this to come a little to his senses, 
 And looked as foolish as a learned man 
 
 Need wish to, — " curse upon her fair pretences ! 
 The artful gypsy has destroyed ray plan. 
 
 And cheated me through all the moods and lenses. 
 I'm fairly duped, (like Welhngton at Cintra.) 
 Madam, adieu I I leave the skies to Indra." 
 
26 
 
 THE GRECIAN GOSSIPS. 
 
 IMITATED FROM THEOCRITUS. 
 [Democratic Review, June, 1838.] 
 
 [The following little dramatic sketch, which forms the fifteenth Idyll of 
 Theocritus, is, in the original, one of the most agreeable of tlie minor frag- 
 ments that remain to us of the Greek poetry. The scene is laid at Alexan- 
 dria, the great commercial emporium of the eastern part of the Mediterra- 
 nean. The principal personages are two married women of the middling 
 class, who attend the pubhc celebration of the Festival of Adonis. The 
 commencement of the dialogue gives us an interesting glimpse of the domes- 
 tic life of a private Greek family, and the succeeding part a lively and 
 graphic miniature sketch of the appearance of the city under the excitement 
 of a public celebration. It is amusing to remark the complete identity of 
 the occurrences described, and the feelings called forth with those which 
 we daily observe on similar occasions among ourselves. The details are 
 executed with the good taste, spirit, and truth to nature, which characterize 
 Theocritus as one of the best of the Greek poets. 
 
 The song, which is rather freely paraphrased, alludes to the mythological 
 fable of Adonis, who was represented as li\'ing alternately, for six months 
 at a time, on earth and in the lower regions. The fiction is supposed to 
 have been originally an astronomical allegory, but it has been so much em- 
 broidered upon that it has nearly lost its character. The Festival of Adonis 
 began with a funeral ceremony in commemoration of his death, and termi- 
 nated with a jubilee in honor of his return. The song, included in this little 
 drama, belongs, of course, to the close of the festival. 
 
 It is a rather striking proof of the comprehensiveness of the Greek lan- 
 guage that the original title, The Women at the Festival of Adonis, is 
 expressed in Greek by the single word, 'ASiaviatovaai. 
 
 CHARACTERS IN THE DIALOGUE. 
 
 Praxin'oe ( ■^'''' ^'''''°'^" women of Alexandria. 
 EuNOE, a female servant of Praxinoe. 
 Old Woman: — Man: — Second Maj(. 
 Female Singer. 
 
THE GRECIAN GOSSTPS. 27 
 
 GORGO 
 
 At the door of Praxinoe sjJcaJdng to Eunoe. 
 Eunoe, is your mistress in the house? 
 
 PRAXINOE [from icithin. ] 
 Welcome, dear Gorgo I So : — you've come at last. 
 I scarce believe my eyes. A chair, Eunoe, 
 And put a cushion on it. 
 
 GORGO. 
 
 Thanks, Eunoe. 
 
 PRAXINOE. 
 
 Come, pray be seated. 
 
 GORGO. 
 
 Well, — of mortal women 
 Sure I 'm the strongest. Such, a toil I 've had 
 To get to thee, Praxinoe, — such a press, 
 Men pushing, — coaches driving, — broken pavement, 
 Such elbowing, such treading upon toes : — 
 And then you live at such an endless distance. 
 
 PRAXINOE. 
 
 Thanks to my worthy spouse, who bought us, — here 
 At the very edge of the world, — this hole, not house ; 
 I know his plan : — he wanted to remove me 
 Out of your neighborhood, — a cruel, cross, 
 Ill-humored 
 
 GORGO. 
 
 Hush, my dear Praxinoe, hush ! 
 The babe hears every word you say : — do see 
 How the rogue eyes you. 
 
 3* 
 
28 Everett's poems. 
 
 praxinoe. 
 What 's the matter ? baby ! 
 Cheer up, my Httle one I I did not mean 
 Your father : — he's not cruel. 
 
 GORGO. 
 
 He 's too kind : — 
 A knowing brat, Praxinoe. 
 
 PRAXINOE. 
 
 Do but hear, 
 These husbands are so stupid I Some days since 
 I sent out mine to buy a wash, — some white 
 And red for my complexion, — and what, think you, 
 He brought me home ? A jug of plain fresh water. 
 
 My Dioclidas is but little better 
 
 In making purchases : — but yesterday 
 
 He undertook to buy some color'd wools 
 
 For my embroidery, and I do assure you 
 
 He purchas'd at a most enormous rate 
 
 The poorest article ! But come I to business I 
 
 You '11 see the show : — 'tis time we were abroad : 
 
 Where are your cloak and bonnet ? 'Tis reported 
 
 The Queen will be most elegantly dress'd. 
 
 PRAXINOE. 
 
 No wonder: — well she may : but tell us, prithee, 
 What will she wear ? 
 
 G0B.G0. 
 
 Another time for that : 
 We 've none to lose at present. 
 
THE GRECIAN GOSSIPS. 29 
 
 PRAXINOE. 
 
 Quick, Eunoel 
 Some water I — bring it hither I — Come, bestir thee I 
 How like a drone she moves I Now, — fill the basin ! — 
 Nay, — not too much I Hold I hold ! — you spatter me 
 And wet my linen. Stay ! Well, — Heaven be praised ! 
 I'm wash'd at last in some sort. Where 's the key 
 Of the great press ? Quick, bring it. 
 
 GORGO. 
 
 Dear Praxinoe I 
 That 's a fair robe, and well becomes thee. Prithee 
 What might it cost thee from the loom ? 
 
 PRAXINOE. 
 
 Good Gorge, 
 You '11 call me wasteful hussey. That robe cost me — 
 More than I choose to tell thee of, besides 
 A world of pains to get it. 
 
 GORGO. 
 
 'Twas worth while, 
 For the robe really fits thee well. 
 
 FRAXINOE. 
 
 My bonnet 
 And parasol. Good bye, boy I — I '11 not take thee 
 For fear some horse should bite thee. Be a good babe. 
 Or else the old witch will come. Nay, cry, if thou wilt, 
 'Tis better so than hurt. Come, let's away. 
 
 [ To a scn-a7tt.] 
 Phrygia, divert the babe, call the dog in, 
 And lock the outer door. 
 
 [ Without.] 
 
 Good Lord I what crowds ! 
 How can we ever pass? The street 's alive. 
 
30 Everett's poems. 
 
 Like a mere ant-hill. What a world of good 
 
 Our noble monarch doth ! Before his time, 
 
 While his late father reign'd, of glorious memory, 
 
 On such a day as this the street was fill'd 
 
 With pick-pockets. Oh mercy ! mercy ! Gorgo I 
 
 Here are the King's war-horses. Sure as life 
 
 They '11 trample on us. Spare us, do, dear driver ! 
 
 For pity ! — There I — the bay horse rears, — Oh mercy ! 
 
 How wild he is I Eunoe, you rash creature ! 
 
 Come to nay side. He '11 surely kill his rider. 
 
 Thank Heaven, I left the babe at home. 
 
 GORGO. 
 
 Praxinoe I 
 'Tis over now. We 're safe, and all the people 
 Stow'd snugly in their places. Never fear I 
 
 PRAXINOE. 
 
 Yes, here at last we 're safe. From quite a child 
 A horse and a live snake are the two things 
 I hold in most aversion. Let us hasten I — 
 Here 's a fine crowd I 
 
 GORGO [to a ivoman.'\ 
 
 Art from within, good mother? 
 
 OLD WOMAN. 
 
 Aye, children ! 
 
 GORGO. 
 
 Is the pass clear ? Could we easily 
 Find entrance to the palace ? 
 
 OLD WOMAN. 
 
 Easily ? 
 You can but try. The Greeks, by frequent trying, 
 You know, took Troy. Trying, my honey damsels, 
 Brings many a thing to pass. 
 
THE GRECIAN QOSS1P3. 31 
 
 GO EGO. 
 
 The old lady speaks 
 Like any oracle. 
 
 PRAXINOE. 
 
 Let alone women 
 For knowing every thing. She '11 tell, I warrant you, 
 How Jupiter woo'd Juno. 
 
 GORGO. 
 
 Look, Praxinoe I 
 What crowds about the door ! 
 
 PRAXINOE. 
 
 Astonishing I 
 Gorgo, your hand I Eunoe, hold by Eutychis I 
 And clo.sely or they part us. Now we enter 
 Together. Close, Eunoe I — Mercy on me I 
 Me miserable ! They 've torn in two my mantle. 
 Oh, Gorgo ! — Do, for Heaven's dear sake, dear man ! 
 Do, as you prize your happiness, save the pieces. 
 
 MAN. 
 
 I did not tear it, but will gladly aid you. 
 
 PRAXINOE. 
 
 A frightful crowd I — They jostle one another 
 For all the world like swine. 
 
 MAN. 
 
 Cheerly, my ladies I 
 Your 're safe at last. 
 
 PRAXINOE. 
 
 Good man I good luck attend thee 
 Now and forever for thy kindness. — Gorgo ! 
 'Twas a nice, well-bred gentleman. Where 's Eunoe ? 
 Oh, there she struggles. Here v/e are, child ! come I 
 Well jostled, wench I — Novi^ we are all safe within, 
 As the husband said who lock'd his wife out o' doors. 
 
32 Everett's poems. 
 
 GOE.GO. 
 
 Look here, Praxinoe ] Mark that fine embroidery ! 
 How delicate and rich I 'tis sure the work 
 Of more than mortal fingers. 
 
 PRAXINOE. 
 
 Great Minerva I 
 What weaver conld have made this stufi"? What limner 
 Mark'd out so gloriously those forms ? What nature 
 And truth they stand and move withal ! I swear 
 There 's life there and no needle work. Well I well ! 
 Man is a wondrous creature. Oh how beautiful 
 The youthful God lies on his silver bed I 
 Dearest Adonis ! Thee the very shades 
 Look kindly on. 
 
 SECOND MAN. 
 
 Nay, hold your clacking, gossips ! 
 A fiair of chattering pies ! I can 't abide 
 Your coarse, broad Syracusan. 
 
 • GORGO. 
 
 Heyday, man I 
 Who made thee our task-master? Magpies are we ? 
 Catch us, then, if you 'd cage us ! Syracusans I 
 I 'd have you know, sir, that we came from Corinth, 
 And speak like good Corinthians. 'Tis a hard case 
 If Avomen may 'at converse in their own language. 
 
 PRAXINOE. 
 
 Well answer'd, sweet-heart I we '11 not be brow-beaten. 
 I wish the rogue may not prove mischievous. 
 
 GORGO. 
 
 Hush I hush ! Praxinoe I for the Grecian girl 
 Prepares to sing, 'Tis she that led so lately 
 The dirge of Sperchis. She '11 do wonders, — hnrk I 
 
THE GRECIAN GOSSIPS. 33 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Hail Cytherea, 
 
 Pride of our coast I 
 Welcome Adonis I 
 
 The lov'd one, — the lost I 
 Death could not hold thee 
 
 In his dark reign ; 
 Fate has restor'd thee 
 
 Blooming again. 
 
 . 2. 
 Princes and heroes 
 
 Rest in their urns. 
 No I not another 
 
 Save thee returns. 
 Death could not hold thee 
 
 In his dark reign ; 
 Fate has restor'd thee 
 
 Blooming again. 
 
 3. 
 Wake to salute them 
 
 Music and song : 
 Pour in their pathway 
 
 Roses along I 
 Hail Cytherea I 
 
 Pride of our coast I 
 Welcome Adonis I 
 
 The lov'd one, — the lost 1 
 
 4. 
 Victor of agony ! 
 
 Victor of night I 
 Welcome again 
 
 To the regions of light I 
 
34 evekett's roEflis. 
 
 Hell could not hold thee 
 In his dark reign ; 
 
 Fate has restor'd thee' 
 Blooming again. 
 
 5. 
 Beauty beside thee, 
 
 Bright in her charms, 
 Waits to receive thee 
 
 Back to her arras. 
 Hail Cytherea I 
 
 Pride of our coast ! 
 Welcome Adonis I 
 
 The lov'd one, — the lost I 
 
 Egypt exalting 
 
 Rouses her throng ; 
 Shares in the triumph, 
 
 Joins in the song. 
 Hail, Cytherea ! 
 
 Pride of our coast I 
 Welcome Adonis I 
 
 The lov'd one, — the lost ! 
 
 GORGO. 
 
 A sweet, ingenious ditty I — Let me tell thee, 
 
 Praxinoe, that same minstrel is endow'd 
 
 With a rare wit, and what she doth invent 
 
 She clothes in delicate language. Come, away I 
 
 My husband is yet dinnerless. At best 
 
 He hath a testy humor, and when fasting 
 
 Is a mere savage. Fare thee well, Adonis I 
 
35 
 
 THE EXILE'S LAMENT. 
 
 IMITATED FROM THE FIEST ECLOGUE OF VIRGIL- 
 [Boston Miscellany, September, 1842.] 
 
 After the close of the civil wars, which ended in the acknowledgmenJ 
 of Augustus as Emperor of Rome, the territory of several of the Italian 
 cities was confiscated, and distributed in lots among his disbanded soldiers. 
 Among these cities was Cremona, and the territory not having held o%U as 
 well as was expected, a portion of that of the neighboring city of Mantua 
 was taken scms ch-imonie to make up the deficiency. Hence, the well 
 known verse in another Eclogue, Mantua, vm miserce nimiuin, vicma Cre- 
 mona .' Among the occupants of the Mantuan territory thus invaded 
 was the poet Virgil ; but on his personal application to Augustus for redress, 
 his property was restored to him and secured in his possession. 
 
 These incidents form the subject of the poet's first and best eclogue, in 
 which he introduces himself in the character of a shepherd under the name 
 of Tityrus ; describes his journey to Rome for the purpose of laying his 
 case before the emperor ; expresses his gratitude for the protection afforded 
 him, and condoles with his neighbor MeiibcEus, who laments very bitterly 
 the necessity of quitting his paternal property. The personage of Melibceus 
 is rather more prominent than the other, and suggested the title, which has 
 been prefixed to the imitation. 
 
 characters. 
 First Shevherd, called in the original, Melibceus. 
 Second Shepherd, Tityrtjs. 
 
 The former having quitted his cottage on his way into exile, accompanied 
 by his flock, passes the house of his neighbor representing the Poet, whom 
 he finds reclining under a beech-tree, and holds the following dialogue with 
 him. 
 
 First Shepherd. 
 While you, my friend ! beneath your beech-tree laid, 
 Whose spreading branches yield so cool a shade, 
 Attune your oaten pipe to sylvan lays 
 4 
 
36 EVERETT S POEMS. 
 
 And make the woods resound with your Aminta's praise ; 
 
 We, hapless exiles, forc'd afar to roam. 
 
 Leave our lov'd fields and all the joys of home. 
 
 Second Shejjherd. 
 
 Oh Melibocus I sure a god bestow'd 
 The blessing on me ; he shall be a god 
 To me forever : at his honor'd shrine 
 Shall often bleed some tender lamb of mine, 
 The generous Prince, who heard and did befriend 
 An humble shepherd, gave him leave to tend 
 His flocks at pasture on their wonted plains 
 And freely sing his own dear rustic strains. 
 
 First Sliepherd. 
 Oh, blest with all a shepherd need desire I 
 I may not envy, but I must admire 
 Your happy fortiuie, — thus to hold your ground 
 When wild confusion shakes the country round. 
 But I, less favor'd, feel the general shock ; 
 Forsake my home, and sadly drive my flock 
 To exile with me. All unus'd to pain, 
 The puny wanderers scarce the toil sustain. 
 This ewe, that fainting in my arms I hold. 
 Just bore me twins, — the promise of the fold. 
 But all too weak to join the travelling flock. 
 Poor things ! I left them on the naked rock. 
 Alas I good friend I too well I now recall 
 The various omens that foretold it all. 
 For this the lightning struck so many an oak ; 
 For this the crow would sit for hours and croak 
 On yon old holm-tree : — signs, that might have taught. 
 A child, had I, dull fool, but mark'd them as I ought. 
 No more of this, nor let my selfishness 
 By such complaints your faithful heart distress 
 
THE EXILF.'S LAMENT. 37 
 
 With useless grief, — but tell me, gentle friend ! 
 The god, the generous Prince you thus commend, 
 The noble patron to whose kind decrees 
 You owe your fortune, — tell me who he is. 
 
 Se cond Sh eph e rd 
 
 When I to Rome good shepherd I hast thou lieanl 
 
 What wonders luvk beneatli that little word ? 
 For me, I own, before T view'd her towers, 
 I fondly thought her some such place as ours, 
 Our pretty Mantua, where so oft we drive 
 Our flocks to market. Shepherd, as I live, 
 It shames me now the idle dream to tell, 
 That liken'd things in no way parallel. 
 Why, gentle shepherd ! Rome as far outvies 
 All other towns, her lordly turrets rise 
 As far above all fear of rivalry 
 Or envious peerage, as the cypress tree 
 In yonder garden towers in spiry pride 
 Above the lowly bushes by its side. 
 
 First Shepherd. 
 But what of Rome ? what powerful, cause or care 
 Could lead a rustic swain to wander there ? 
 Explain, good shepherd I 
 
 Second Shepherd,. 
 
 Freedom I gentle friend I 
 To sue for Freedom was my glorious end. 
 Sweet nymph ! she mock'd my hopes with long delay ; 
 She made me linger till my locks were grey ; 
 But smil'd at last. Grood shepherd I I had been 
 Too long the victim of a thriftless quean, 
 On whom, enthrall'd by love's inglorious chains, 
 In costly gifts I wasted all my gains, 
 
38 Everett's poems. 
 
 Nor hop'd for liberty, nor car'd for gold. 
 
 In vain I toil'd ; in vain the victim sold 
 
 For many a shrine ; — in vain my cheeses bore 
 
 The highest prices ; empty was my store : 
 
 My Galatea wanted all and more : 
 
 At length, — though much too late, — Aminta's eyes 
 
 Revers'd the charm, and taught rae to be wise. 
 
 First Shepherd. 
 
 Aminta's charms your heart may justly move, 
 
 Since thus she gave you life as well as love. 
 
 I well remember when the voyage you made 
 
 To Rome, how oft the graceful mourner pray'd 
 
 At every altar, call'd in loud despair 
 
 The gods to aid her ; still with generous care 
 
 Kept the ripe fruit that paid her husbandry 
 
 In mellow pride untouch'd upon the tree. 
 
 For you, my friend, the fruit was kept, — for you 
 
 She wept and pray'd : — we all, — the country through 
 
 Deplor'd your loss, — the very groves of pine 
 
 Lamented it in tears of turpentine ; 
 
 Grief's gushing tides each fountain's margin wet, 
 
 And alders shone with dew-drops of regret. 
 
 Second Shepherd. 
 In truth, good shepherd ! much it griev'd my heart 
 From such a mistress, — such a friend to part, 
 But nowhere else could I pursue my end 
 With like advantage, — nowhere else attend 
 The generous patron, in whose honor'd name 
 Twelve times each year my loaded altars flame. 
 At Rome I found him, — there my suit preferr'd ; 
 All trembling I, while he as kindly heard. 
 And, courage I shepherd I — never fear ! — he said ; — 
 Pursue your labors ! till your wonted glade 
 
THE extlk's lament. 39 
 
 In peace I — no stranger shall invade your plains 
 Or dare to interrupt your much-lov'd rustic strains. 
 
 First Shcjjherd. 
 Oh favor'd ancient I dwelling as before 
 On your own fields I — nor need you wish for more. 
 Small though they be, and of that narrow bound, 
 Half, naked rock, and half, a swampy ground, 
 O'ergrown with rushes, — they to you become, 
 Being, as they are, the dear domain of home, 
 More rich and charming than Hesperian bowers. 
 Amid their well-known haunts and wonted flowers 
 No pasture strange shall harm your pregnant ewes, 
 No stranger flock contagion shall difluse 
 Among them : — here beneath your beech-tree laid, 
 Beside the babbling brook you court the shade. 
 From yonder willow hedge the toiling bee 
 With drowsy hum shall sing your lullaby ; 
 The distant woodman trill his ditty clear 
 To rock and hill ; and on the elm-tree here 
 Your favorite bird, the pretty ringdove, woo 
 His gentle mate, the constant turtle coo. 
 
 Second Shepherd. 
 Delightful thoughts I and ere your friend shall cease 
 To bless the giver of a boon like this, 
 Great Nature's general laws no more shall stand ; 
 Deer tread the deep, and fish frequent the land ; 
 The Parthian bathe him in the turbid Rhine 
 And blue-eyed Belgium bask beneath the Line. 
 
 First Shepherd. 
 Less favor'd we to various regions haste, 
 Crete, — frozen Scythia, — Afric's thirsty waste, — 
 
 4* 
 
40 Everett's poems. 
 
 Or northward, where the cirding Sleeve * divides 
 
 Britannia's cliffs from all the world besides. 
 
 Ah luckless shepherd I shall I e'er again 
 
 Some ten years hence behold my lov'd domain ? 
 
 My little palace, roof 'd with thatch, espy, 
 
 In time, at least, at its low door to die ? 
 
 Oh God I what horrors civil discord pours 
 
 Upon the people, — all my rural stores, — 
 
 The rich reward of all my toils and cares, — 
 
 My golden grain, — my curious grafted pears, 
 
 IMy luscious grapes ; — all sacrific'd to feed 
 
 The ruffian butchers, by whose rage we bleed. 
 
 Away, my goats I — poor fools ! — in other time 
 
 How blest I — away ! — no longer shall you climb 
 
 With skilful step the mountain's beetling brow 
 
 While stretch'd in some green bower, I view you fVom 
 
 below ; 
 No more I sing ; — I feed my kids no more : 
 Song, labor, pastime, hope itself is o'er. 
 
 Second Shepherd. 
 Hard lot I but, gentle friend ! forget your care I 
 And deign to-night my humble roof to .share ; 
 Sweet apples, chestnuts, cheese in plenty spread 
 Shall be your meal ; — fresh leaves your fragrant bed. 
 Night hastens on : — o'er yonder roof aspires 
 The smoke, up-curling from the evening fires, 
 And from the hills the sun descending throws 
 A lengthening shade ; — 'tis time to seek repose. 
 
 * The French name for the British Channel is La JMcinche. The Sleeve. 
 
41 
 
 SCENES FROM GOETHE'S FAUST. 
 
 [Boston Miscellany, October, 1S420 
 
 The plan of Faust was conceived by Goethe very early in his literary 
 Sife, but was executed slowly and at long intervals of time. The first draft 
 is supposed to have been made between 1770 and 1775. It was published, 
 for the first time, in 1790, in a complete edition of the author's works, where 
 it app&ared as a fragment, without the introductory scenes, and with impor- 
 tant variations, in other respects, from its later form. It was first published 
 in its present shape in the edition of the author's works that appeared in 
 1807. In the introductory stanzas, which were then prefixed, for the first 
 time, under the title of Zneignmig, — 'Dedication,' — and to which the 
 translator has given the title of the Spirit hand., the poet expresses his feel- 
 ings on resuming the favorite work of his earlier years at a later period of 
 life, when most of the friends and companions of his youth had been sepa- 
 rated from him. The stanzas are distinguished by a tenderness and delicacy 
 of sentiment, which are not very frequently the prevailing characteristics 
 of Goethe's works, and which render this one of the most pleasing of 
 his minor poems. 
 
 T. 
 
 THE SPIRIT LAND. 
 
 Again ye fehrong aronncl me, shadowy dreams, 
 That wont before my youthful eyes to play I 
 
 Shall I once more your ever changing gleams 
 Attempt to catch before they pass away ? 
 
 And now ye nearer press. Then since, it seems, 
 Ye must and will appear, I bid you sta.y ; 
 
 Although your presence racks my tortur'd brain 
 
 With a deep sense of long-forgotten pain. 
 
42 jeverett'.s roEMS. 
 
 For with you come fond thoughts of many a clay 
 Of bhss, and many a form to fancy dear ; 
 
 And hke some ancient, half-reraember'd lay, 
 Departed loves and friendships re-appear. 
 
 Fresh bleeds each grief, that time could ne'er allay ; 
 And memory reckons o'er, with wo severe. 
 
 The good, whose flower of happiness .was crost 
 
 In its fresh bud, — the early lov'd and lost. 
 
 They cannot bear the lays that now I sing, 
 The gentle hearts, for whom I sang before ; 
 
 Dissever'd is the friendly gathering, 
 
 And that first kind response returns no more. 
 
 The few survivors of my joyous spring 
 Are scatter'd far o'er every sea and shore. 
 
 While I, abandon'd, tune ray ancient strain 
 
 To a strange crowd, whose very praise is pain. 
 
 And o'er me steals a long unfelt desire 
 To reach the silent, solemn Sjnrit Land; 
 
 Low, lisping notes, as of the /Eolian lyre, 
 
 Breathe from the strings beneath my wavering hand 
 
 Tears follow fast on tears ; the soul of fire 
 
 Grows faint and weak, by softness all unmanu'd ; 
 
 And the fair scenes, in which ray lot is cast. 
 
 Appear like dreams ; — I live but in the past. 
 
«CE?}ES FROM Goethe's faust. 43 
 
 II. 
 
 SCENE IN THE LIBRARY. 
 
 ckaractehs. 
 Fai:st. 
 Wagnek, a Student, residing hihis house. 
 
 The ouliine of the plot of Faust is, of course, familiar to most read- 
 «rs. Ur. Faustus, a distinguished scholar of the middle ageS; makes a 
 .compact with the Prince of Darkness, by which he surrenders his soul to 
 eternal punishment hereafter, on condition of renewing his youth, and 
 being gratified in all his wishes in this world. After the dedication, and the 
 introductory scenes, the piece opens with the appearance of Faust, or Dr. 
 Faustus, seated in his library, — surrounded with books, and at the same 
 time beset with cares and doubts, — the victim of weariness, disgust and 
 despair. While he is indulging in a train of reflections on the vanity of 
 learning and science, analogous to these sentiments, he is overheard by 
 AVagner, a student residing in his house, who supposes him to be reciting a 
 Oreek play, and comes in to improve himself in the art of declamation. 
 The following dialogue takes place between them. 
 
 FavM. 
 ■Oh death ! — 'lis he I — I know his knock ; 
 Perdition seize the senseless block I 
 While comminiing with spirits, face to face, 
 'Tis hard to be call'd off by this dull Pratapace. 
 
 Wagner [alters). 
 Forgive me, sir I I heard yonr declamation, 
 And thought you must be reading some Greek play. 
 I long have wish'd to mend my recitation : 
 'Tis necessary at the present day, 
 A clergyman, indeed, — 'tis often said, — 
 Should to an actor go to learn his trade. 
 
 Faust. 
 Aye I — if he mean himself to be a player ; 
 And that is not unfrequeutly the case. 
 
44 everktt'.s poems. 
 
 Wagner. 
 But how should one, who hardly feels the ah% 
 Or sees the light, except on holidays, 
 Chain'd to his parchment rolls, without vacation. 
 Know any thing of graces or persuasion ? 
 
 Faust. 
 Persuasion, friend I comes not hy toil or art ; 
 Hard study never made the matter clearer : 
 'Tis the live fountain in the speaker's heart. 
 Sends forth the streams that melt the ravish'd hearev. 
 Then v/ork away for hfe ; heap book on book, 
 Line upon line, and precept on example : 
 The stupid multitude may gape and look, 
 And fools may think your stock of wisdom ample : 
 For touching hearts the only secret known, 
 My worthy friend, is this : — to have one of your own 
 
 TVagnci'. 
 But still the manner 's every thing in preaching : 
 I know it, though I fail in that partic'lar. 
 
 F(au':t. 
 Manner! find out some matter worth the teaching, 
 Nor be for words and forms a barren stickler. 
 The spirit's all : — no matter for the letter. 
 Good sense and truth are good enough for men. 
 Hast any thing to say ? Out with it, then I 
 And the more natural the style, the better. 
 Your pompous words, your phrases nicely join'd, 
 Will find the people deaf as any adder; 
 They're but dry leaves, that rustle in the wind. 
 No comfort for the soul ; — peas in a bladder. 
 
SCENES i-fioM Goethe's faust. 45 
 
 Wagner. 
 But art, alas I is long and life is short ; 
 How much to learn I — how little time to learn it ! 
 This studying hard is, after all, dull sport. 
 And head-aches often force -one to adjourn it. 
 How hard to master all the kinds of aid 
 That help us on to learning's fountain-head I 
 And then, before the journey is half made. 
 The chance is, the poor traveller is dead. 
 
 Faust. 
 What fountain-head ? Is parchment then the spring 
 At which the soul must quench its dying thirst ? 
 My friend I for this no streams refreshment bring. 
 Unless the source in thine own bosom burst. 
 
 Wagner. 
 
 But, pardon me I it gives me great delight 
 To enter into the spirit of various ages. 
 And see the progress we have made in light, 
 Compar'd with what was known by ancient sages. 
 
 Faust. 
 Great progress, to be sure I — of ages past, 
 Mine honest friend I the knowledge we inherit 
 Is small : their history is a book seal'd fast : — 
 And what we call the spirit of an age 
 Is commonly the gentleman's own spirit, 
 Quickening the letter of some musty page. 
 
 Wagner. 
 But then mankind, the world, the human heart, 
 You '11 grant that these, at least, are points of knowledge. 
 
46 Everett's poems. 
 
 Faust. 
 Points, if you please, — but which, with all your art. 
 You '11 find it very hard to learn at college. 
 Besides, — what serves your learning ? When all 's o'er 
 You dare not tell the world what you have learnt : 
 The few, that, having gain'd this valued lore, 
 Had not sufficient caution to disguise it, 
 And to the crowd display'd their precious store, 
 Have for their pains been crucified and burnt, 
 To prove how well the crowd knew how to prize it. 
 But come, my friend, — 'tis late ; — we '11 break off here. 
 
 Wagner. 
 Sir, as you please ; — I gladly would remain 
 To talk with you so learnedly a year. 
 I hope to-morrow you '11 give me leave again 
 To ask a few more questions of you here. 
 Though I know much, I cannot but feel uneasiness 
 Until I reach the bottom of the business. 
 
 After the retirement of Wagner, Faust relapses into bis former gloom 
 Dark and bewildering thoughts crowd upon his fancy and plunge him deeper 
 and deeper into the " slough of Despond," in which he is engulphed; until, 
 at length, in his agony of feeling, he resolves to shake off the burden of his 
 miserable existence by suicide. He grasps the poisoned vial, which he 
 has long kept ready for this purpose, and is in the act of lifting it to his lips, 
 when his ears are saluted from without by the sound of cheerful voices 
 singing, in several choirs, the Easter Hymn of the Cathohc Liturgy, which 
 celebrates the resurrection and ascension of the Redeemer. The several 
 stanzas sung by the different choirs, with the reflections successively made 
 ■upon them by Faust, close the scene. 
 
 Chorus of Angels. 
 Rejoice I ye sons of men, rejoice f 
 
 Awake the choral strain I 
 The Savior who was crucified, 
 
 Has broken his death-chain ; 
 
SCENES FROM GOETHE's FAUST. 47 
 
 And mounting high above the sky 
 
 To reahns of brighter day, 
 He points you to a better world, 
 
 And proudly leads the way. 
 
 Faust. 
 
 What glorious sounds are these that break at once 
 
 So loud and clear upon the stilly night? 
 
 Is this the midnight bell that should announce 
 
 The approach of Easter Sunday's holy light? 
 
 And does the choir repeat the charming strain, 
 
 That angels sang of old on Judah's blessed plain 
 
 Proclaiming peace on earth — but hark I that sound again ' 
 
 Chorus of Women. 
 
 With sweetest spices o'er him strew'd,' 
 
 In finest linen bound, 
 We laid him, — we that lov'd hira much, — 
 
 In his cold burial-ground ; 
 And now we fondly come again 
 
 To wash with many a tear 
 The grave in which we buried him, — ■ 
 
 But ah I he is not here. 
 
 Chwus of Angels. 
 
 Rejoice! ye sons of men, rejoice! 
 
 The Loving One that boro 
 The agony of death for you, 
 
 Is buried here no more ; 
 But mounting high above the sky 
 
 To realms of brighter day. 
 He points you to a better world, 
 
 And proudly leads the way. 
 5 
 
48 Everett's poems. 
 
 Faust. 
 
 Celestial sounds ! why come ye here to greet 
 
 A groveUing earth-worm with your cheerful breath ? 
 
 Go I tell your tale where hearts congenial beat, 
 
 I hear the message well, but want the saving faith. 
 
 Faith dearly loves the miracles she hears. 
 
 And most delights, where wonders most abound ; 
 
 But I no more may reach the lofty spheres, 
 
 From which the voice of Revelation sounds. 
 
 Yet ah ! in youth how sweetly o'er me fell 
 
 Heaven's kiss of love upon the Sabbath day ! 
 
 How full of meaning was the deep-ton'd bell I 
 
 And what an extasy it was to pray I 
 
 Strange loligiugs led me from my parent's hearth 
 
 O'er hill and dale to wander far and near ; 
 
 And there with many a hotly-gushing tear 
 
 I felt an unknown world within me have its birth. 
 
 And now, — e'en now, — Vv'ith that accustom'd song. 
 
 So often heard in youth's enchanting hours, 
 
 What hosts of cheerful recollections throng 
 
 Upon my mind and nerve my fainting powers \ 
 
 Oh, sound again! sweet voices I as before: 
 
 I weep ! — I feel myself a man once more. 
 
 Chorus of Disciples. 
 
 His mission done, the Buried On© 
 
 Has gone in peerless pride 
 To sit forever on his throne 
 
 By his Great Father's side. 
 Alas ! that we, the faithful few. 
 
 To whom he was so dear, 
 Are left behind in misery 
 
 To mourn his absence here. 
 
SCENES FROM GOETHE's FAUST. 49 
 
 Chorus of Angels. 
 Kejoice I ye sons of men, rejoice I 
 
 Awake the choral strain I 
 The Saviour, wlio was crucified, 
 
 Has broken his death-chain; 
 And ye that follow'd him with love, — 
 
 Tf ye devoutly prize 
 The counsels that he gave on earth, 
 
 Shall meet him in the skies. 
 
 Ill 
 
 SCENE IN Martha's house. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 MEPHI.STOPHEMCS. 
 MARTHA. 
 MARGARET. 
 
 The impression made upon the mind of Faust by the incidents repre- 
 sented in the above scene, as expressed in his reflections, are merely 
 momentary. He is intended as a type of frail humanity, — and as soon as 
 the impulse to good cease.s, he relapses at once into his habitual tendency 
 to evil. In the next scene he concludes his compact with the evil Spirit, 
 (here personified under the name of Mephistopheles) agreeably to the popu- 
 lar tradition ; and having taken the form of a gay, young cavalier, sets forth, 
 accompanied by the demon to whom he has sold himself, in quest of adven- 
 tures. The scene in Martha's house occurs in this part of the play and 
 serves as an introduction to Faust's love for Margaret, which forms the 
 principal subject. Margaret is on a visit to the house of Marlha, a married 
 woman, in the neighborhood, whose husband is absent. Mephistopheles 
 introduces himself by pretending to have known her husband abroad, and 
 giving her an account of his supposed death. Faust, before obtaining a per- 
 sonal introduction, had already sent to Margaret through the agency of Me- 
 phistopheles, but without informing her from what quarter they came, a 
 present of some valuable jewels to which allusion is made in the dialogue. 
 
 Mephistopheles enters. 
 Ladies, excuse me for the liberty 
 I take in entering thus upon your leisure, 
 
 ( boxes respectfully to Margaret, ) 
 — Does mistress Martha Swerdtlein live hereby ? 
 
50 EVfiRETX's POEMS. 
 
 Martha. 
 She does, sir, at your service : — what 's your pleasure ? 
 
 Mephistopheles aside to Martha. 
 Madam, I had a message to relate ; 
 But as you 're now engag'd with company 
 Of rank, I '11 call again this evening late, 
 If you permit me and the hour agree. 
 
 Martha, aloud to Margaret. 
 There, child ! what think you now ? This gentleman 
 Just took you for a lady of condition. 
 
 Margaret. 
 Oh me ! the gentleman is much too good ; 
 I 'm but a poor, young, simple, artless blood : 
 These ornaments I wear but by permission. 
 The gentleman must really look again. 
 
 Mephistojjheles. 
 Oh madam I 'tis the tone, the look, the air, 
 That prove your rank, and not the pearls you wear 
 1 'm truly happy that you bid me tarry. 
 
 MartJia. 
 But let me ask, good sir, this message, pray '.* 
 
 Mephisioph eles . 
 Madam, I cannot say the tale is merry, 
 But life is short : we all must have our day. 
 Your husband 's dead ; — he bade me bring the news. 
 
 Martha. 
 My husband dead I — the faithful, honest soul I 
 Oh, I shall faint. 
 
SCENES FROM GOETHE's FAUST. 51 
 
 Margaret. 
 Dear madam, pray take heart. 
 
 Mephistoyheles. 
 Allow me, madam, to relate the whole. 
 
 Margaret. 
 At such a loss as that I could not choose 
 But weep myself to death. 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 
 'Tis hard to part, 
 We know ; but time brings all extremes together. 
 Grief turns to joy : — rain follows pleasant weather. 
 
 Martha. 
 Where died he then? 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 
 In Padua he lies. 
 By Saint Antonio's church, in seemly guisa, 
 A cool, still spot for everlasting rest. 
 
 Martha. 
 Pray with this message sent he nought beside ? 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Oh yes I he bade me add his last request, 
 That, as his soul through purgatory passes, 
 You'd order for his good three hundred masses, 
 But left his purse quite empty when he died. 
 
 Martha. 
 How ? — nothing to help out his soul's release ? 
 Not e'en a keep- sake or a pocket-piece ? 
 
 5* 
 
62 Everett's poems. 
 
 What every labouring, handy-working man 
 
 Lays by to leave it to his wife or send it, 
 
 And toils, begs, starves to death, — rather than spend it? 
 
 Mejyhistopheles. 
 Madam I it grieves my heart to give you pain ; " 
 Your husband did not even pay his bills : 
 Yet, — to be just, — he suffer'd many ills. 
 And of his various faults repented sore : 
 Aye, and of his unlucky stars much more. 
 
 Margaret. 
 How sad it is men should be so distrest ! 
 I'll surely say my prayers for his soul's rest. 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 It is high time, my sweet and pretty maid, 
 You had a husband of your own to pray for. 
 
 Margaret. 
 Marriage, alas I sir, this is not the day for. 
 
 MeiMstoplieles. 
 What then ? — a gallant should not be delay'd : — 
 A sweetheart that should tell you pretty stories, 
 Cheer you by day and keep you warm by night 
 
 Margaret. 
 The people here, sir, think it is not right. 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Right or not right, they do it when they can 
 
 Martha. 
 But let me know the rest. 
 
SCENES FROM GOETHE's FAUST. 53 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 
 My dearest madam, 
 I watch'd beside your dear, departed man 
 In his last moments, doing all to glad 'em 
 That lay within my power. He suffer'd much, 
 But own'd his fate was richly merited. 
 I am, he said, a wretch, for leaving such 
 A wife at home, alone, dispirited. 
 I could have died with some faint hopes of heaven, 
 Could I be sure she had forgiven me here. 
 
 Martha weeping. 
 Poor, dear, good man I he was long since forgiven. 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 But she, he added, was more to blame than I. 
 
 Martha. 
 He hes I he lies ! — What ? On his death-bed lie 
 So shamelessly ? 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 He stretch'd the truth, I fear, 
 At least, if I may judge : — indeed, 'twas clear. 
 I did not want, said he, for occupation : 
 House-work of all sorts was an endless task . 
 Do what I could my wife was never easy. 
 And then to feed her was an operation, 
 Almost as hard ; her stomach was not queasy : 
 I could not give so fast as she could ask. 
 But this was nothing ; had I been allow'd 
 To eat my share in peace, and quietly 
 I could have borne the rest ; but daily, — nightly, — 
 'Twas one continual scolding, long and loud ; 
 Until one day I thought it best to quit her. 
 
54 evekett's poems. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 The wretch I — the villain ! — conld he so forget her, — 
 Abuse her so ? — the wife he lov'd before ? 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 
 At other times he felt your absence more ; 
 He told me this. — When we from Malta sail'd, 
 I for my wife and children pray'd sincerely ; 
 And Providence my constancy rewarded ; 
 For, on our voyage as we proceeded cheerly, 
 Forthwith a Turkish packet-ship we hail'd, 
 Which, instantly, sans ceremonie, we boarded 
 And took : 'twas laden with a most rich treasure 
 For the Grand Seignior ; and, I say it with pleasure, 
 I had my share or more : — perhaps 'twas merited. 
 
 Martha. 
 Where is 't ? — what came on 't ? Has he buried it ? 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 
 Light come, light go. — God knows with whom he spent it ; 
 
 But this he said. — When I to Naples came 
 
 There took a fancy to me a fair, young dame, 
 
 I being alone, of wife and friends bereft, 
 
 And much she cherish'd, much befriended me. 
 
 In a most loving guise, — howe'er she meant it ; — 
 
 But of my cash so largely she expended me. 
 
 That in the end I had not a farthing left, 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Oh the vile thief I — What? waste upon a woman, 
 Off in the moon, his hard-earn'd family stores ? 
 Rob his own wife to pamper up a common . 
 
SCENES FROM GOETHE's FAUST. 55 
 
 Mephistopheles. 
 Well I well I the poor man's dead : that pays all scores. 
 You '11 put on weeds to wear a week or two ; 
 But give me leave to say, that were 1 you, 
 I 'd lose no time in tying the knot again. 
 
 Martha. 
 Alas I my dear sir I I should seek in vain 
 A treasure like the first : so good a creature ! — 
 He had his faults ; — was much too great a rover ; — 
 Drank hard ; — to naughty women sadly given ; — 
 Of cards and dice a most intemperate lover: 
 
 Mephist(ypheles. 
 Well I well ! and he, — to keep the balance even, — 
 No doubt o'erlook'd some petty peccadilloes. 
 And so you worried along for worse or better. 
 But, madam, when you're tir'd of wearing willows, 
 I 'd gladly change myself a ring with you. 
 
 Martha. 
 The gentleman is pleas'd to be facetious. 
 
 Mephistopheles {aside.) 
 I must be off^ and that in season too ; 
 She 'd force the devil himself to keep his word. 
 
 {To Margaret.) 
 How stands your heart, my love ? 
 
 Margaret. 
 
 What are your wishes ? 
 
 Mephistopheles — {aside.) 
 Innocent thing ! she never yet has heard 
 She has a heart. — {To the ladies) — 
 
 Fair ladies both, good night ! 
 
56 evesett's poexs. 
 
 MirVia. 
 But, sir, before you go, I fain would ask 
 What proof you have of this sad visitatioa ? 
 To make it public is a moaroful task: — 
 Bat yet to read his death in black and white 
 Would be, methinks, some little consolation. 
 
 ISI'^histopheles. 
 Madam, two witnesses will be euong^h: 
 I have a friend to join me in the proof 
 And. if you please, will bring him here. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Pray do. 
 
 J>I'"p 'i ii'.'-':'}^^?s. 
 The young laJy, I bope. will stop and see him too. 
 A fine, young gallant ! — he has travell'd much. 
 Is passionately devoted to the ladies. 
 
 Jlargaret. 
 Oh sir ! I 'm not fit company for such. 
 
 Meph isioph eles. 
 For any body on earth, whate'er his trade is. 
 
 Martha. 
 Then, sir, this evening we shall look for you 
 At the summer-house in the garden here helow. 
 
 {Exit Mephistopheles.) 
 
67 
 
 THE WORTH OF W03IAN. 
 
 FROM THE GEEMAN OF SCHILLEE- 
 [Demecratic- Review, October, 1837.] 
 
 Honor'd be woman I she beams on the sight, 
 Graceful and fair, like a being of light ; 
 Scatters around her, wherever she strays, 
 Roses of bliss o'er our thorn-cover'd ways ; 
 Roses of Paradise, sent from above, 
 To be gather'd and twin'd in a garland of love. 
 
 Man on Passion's stormy ocean, 
 
 Toss'd by surges mountains high, 
 Courts the hurricane commotion, 
 
 Spurns at reason's feeble cry. 
 Loud the tempest roars around him, 
 
 Wilder still it wars within ; 
 Flashing lights of hope confound him, 
 
 Stuns him life's incessant din. 
 
 Woman invites him with bliss in her smile. 
 To cease from his toil and be happy awhile , 
 Whispering wooingly, come to my bower! 
 Go not in search of the phantom of power I 
 Honor and wealth are illusory ; come I 
 Happiness dwells in the temple of home. 
 
58 Everett's foems. 
 
 Man, with fury stern and savage, 
 
 Persecutes his brother man ; 
 Reckless if he bless or ravage, 
 
 Action, action, still his plan. 
 Now creating, now destroying. 
 
 Ceaseless wishes tear his breast, 
 Ever seeking, ne'er enjoying. 
 
 Still to be, but never blest. 
 
 Woman contented in silent repose. 
 
 Enjoys in its beauty life's flower as it blows, 
 
 And waters and tends it with innocent heart ; 
 
 Far richer than man with his treasures of art, 
 
 And wiser by far, in her circle confin'd. 
 
 Than he with his science, aud flights of the mmd. 
 
 Coldly to himself sufficing, 
 
 Man disdains the gentler arts, 
 Knoweth not the bhss arising 
 
 From the interchange of hearts ; 
 Slowly through his bosom stealing 
 
 Flows the genial current on, 
 Till, by- age's frost congealing. 
 
 It is harden'd into stone. 
 
 She, like the harp that instinctively rings, 
 As the night-breathing zephyr soft sighs on the strings, 
 Responds to each impulse with ready reply, 
 Whether sorrow or pleasure her sympathy try ; 
 And tear-drops and smiles on her countenance play, 
 Like the sunshine and showers of a morning in May. 
 
 Through the range of man's dominion, 
 
 Terror is the ruling word ; 
 And the standard of opinion 
 
 Is the temper of the sword 
 
THE WORTH OF WOAIAN. 59 
 
 Strife exults, and Pity blushing, 
 
 From the scene despairing flies, 
 Where to battle madly rushing, 
 
 Brother upon brother dies. 
 
 Woman commands with a milder control, 
 She rules by enchantment the realm of the soul ; 
 As she glances around in the light of her smile, 
 The war of the passions is hush'd for a while, 
 And discord, content from his fury to cease. 
 Reposes entranc'd on the pillow of peace. 
 
60 
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 IMITATED FEOM THE GERMAN OF BUEEGEK. 
 
 [Democratic Review, June, ISil.] 
 
 Bueeger's Lenora is acknowledged, by all who are familiar with German 
 poetry, to be the masterpiece of ballads. No composition of the kind in 
 German, or perhaps any other language, can be compared with it for effect. 
 It is rather remarkable that the works of a poet who was capable of pro- 
 ducing It, should be so scanty, and generally of so little value. With the 
 exception of the Wild Hiuitsman ( WUdt Jaeger), another ballad of great 
 power, though not equal to the Lenora, the contents of his little volume are 
 almost wholly destitute of interest. 
 
 There is a fine translation of the Wild Ilantsmaii by Sir Waher Scott. 
 The Lenora has been several times attempted, but without much success. 
 The poem, which is published in Sir Walter's works nnder the title of Wil- 
 liam and Helen, though founded upon that of Buerger, can hardly be said 
 with propriety to be a translation, or even an imitation of it. It was written 
 by Scott after having heard a friend relate the substance of the ballad, as 
 he had heard it read by a lady in the translation of Mr. Taylor, at the house 
 of Dugald Stewart. That, with so little knowledge of the original, Scott 
 should have approached it so nearly as he did in William and Helen, is a fact 
 which does credit to his memory as well as to that of his relator. There are, 
 however, great deviations, not only in the language, but in the narrative ; and 
 the poem, in general, has very little merit. 
 
 Among other alterations. Sir Walter has changed the time to that of the 
 Crusades, and the scene from the common walks of life to those of knight- 
 hood and romance. This change, as Mr. J. Q. Adams has justly remarked 
 in a letter to the late Dr. FoUen, injures the effect. It was a part of the 
 author's plan to give an air of reality to his wild machinery, by placing it 
 among ordinary characters and incidents. For the same reason he makes 
 the language, which is exceedingly bold, striking and poetical, at the same 
 time colloquial and familiar. I have attempted to combine the same char- 
 acteristics, and also to bring out more distinctly than is done in some of the 
 other translations, the sneering, Mephistopheles tone of the spectre. 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 61 
 
 I. 
 
 At the first sight of dawning h'ght 
 
 Lenora left her bed : 
 " Oh Wilham ! William ! art thou false 
 
 To me, or art thou dead ? " 
 The youth had gone with Frederic's bands 
 To fight in far Bohemian lands, 
 And ne'er had written home, to tell 
 His love if he were sick or well. 
 
 Tt. 
 
 At length, the king and empress queen, 
 
 Quite surfeited with strife, 
 Resolv'd to make their quarrel up, 
 
 And lead a quiet life; 
 And both the armies, gaily drest 
 In garlands green and all their best, 
 With bugles braying, beat of drum, 
 And flying colors, hurried home. 
 
 III. 
 And wheresoe'er they took their way, 
 
 To meet the joyous rout. 
 Forth came the people one and all, 
 
 From every village out. 
 " Thank God ! " each grateful mother cried ; 
 " Thrice welcome, dearest I " many a bride ; 
 A happy meeting seem'd in store 
 For all, except the poor Lenore. 
 
 IV. 
 
 As on they journey'd, troop by troop, 
 
 She sought through all the train 
 And question'd each, " Is William here V 
 
 And question'd all in vain. 
 
62 Everett's poems. 
 
 When now the long parade was o'er, 
 She storm'd, and wept, and wildly tore 
 Her raven tresses, till the curls 
 Were scatter'd like a crazy girl's. 
 
 Her mother clasp'd her in her arms. 
 And kiss'd her o'er and o'er — 
 
 " The Lord have mercy on thee, child ! 
 What ails my poor Lenore?" 
 
 " Oh mother ! mother ! woe is me ! 
 
 Oh day of blackest misery I 
 
 My love is lost ; my life is o'er ; 
 
 God has no mercy for Lenore ! " 
 
 " Nay, dearest daughter ! say not so, 
 
 But rather pray for grace : 
 The ways of God are always just. 
 
 And full of tenderness." 
 " No, mother I no: they are not so : 
 His ways to me are wrath and wo : 
 The many prayers I pray'd before. 
 Were all in vain, — I'll pray no more 
 
 " Oh, dearest child ! thy talk is wild, 
 
 And thou art mad with grief ; 
 Partake the blessed sacrament, 
 
 And that will bring relief" 
 " No, mother ! no : it will not so : 
 No sacrament will cure my wo. 
 Unless the sacramental bread 
 Could raise my William from the dead. 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. &3 
 
 " Nay, listen, child ! perhaps beguii'd 
 By some bright Magyar dame. 
 
 Thy faithless spouse has broke his vows 
 And found another flame. 
 
 Then let him go, the treacherous friend! 
 
 He'll rue his falsehood in the end: 
 
 Tormented for his base desires 
 
 Hereafter in eternal fires I " 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Oh, mother dear ! he is not here I 
 
 Ob most unhappy morn I 
 Would God that I were in the grave I; 
 
 That I had ne'er been born I 
 Oh, would to God that I could be 
 At once put out of misery, 
 And never see the day-light more : 
 God has no mercy for Lenore ! " 
 
 " Oh, gracious Father I do not heed 
 
 The' poor unhappy thing I 
 Hei' senses have deserted her: ' ' '^ 
 '''' She's mad with suffering I 
 Dear child ! forget these earthly ties, 
 And think of God and paradise : 
 That thus the blessed Lord may be '' 
 Thy spouse through all eternity." 
 
 XI. - , '. 
 
 " Ob, what care I for future bliss? 
 ;(iu.i v'iTis.all an idle dream ! i: 'r,- .-.' 
 i;;.'Tis paradise where William is, 
 And hell away fromhim I 
 6* 
 
64 kverbtt's pokms. 
 
 Oh, would to God that I could be 
 At once put out of misery, 
 And never see the day-light more I 
 God has no niercv for Lenore I " 
 
 Thus in her transports of despair, 
 
 She ventur'd to deny 
 The Almighty goodness, and condemn 
 
 The ways of the Most High ; 
 Continuing still to rage and moan 
 All day, until the sun went down, 
 And night, with starry gems besprent, 
 Rode darkling u{) the firmament. 
 
 When hark I a horseman, tramp I tramp I tramp ' 
 
 Comes prancing to the door, 
 Arrd straight alights, with jingling stamp, 
 
 Upon the step before. 
 The door-bell next, with gentle ring, 
 Is softly sounded, kling-ling-ling. 
 And, through the passage clearly heard, 
 Thus spoke the horseman, word for word : 
 
 " What ho I what ho ! unlock the door ' 
 
 Ho ! lady bright I awake I 
 Art fast asleep, or dost thou watch 
 
 And weep for William's sake ? " 
 " Ah, William I thou ? so late at night : 
 I've watch'd and wept since morning light 
 But tell me, dearest ! whence you come. 
 Alone, at midnight, travelling home." 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 65 
 
 XV. 
 
 " We mount for flight, at dead of night ; 
 
 Our coursers fleet and black ; 
 I come from far Bohemian lands, 
 
 And take you with me back." 
 " Nay, WiUiam, rest, at least till morn I 
 •The wind blows wildly through the thorn ; 
 Come I rest thee from its loud alarms 
 Till morning in thy true love's arms." 
 
 " Blow high or low ! blow sleet or snow I 
 
 Blow tempest, rack or rain I 
 My steed is dight ; my time is night : 
 
 I must not here remain. 
 Come ! hurry I hurry ! don your sack, 
 And jump upon my charger's back I 
 We have to ride, my lady bright, 
 At least a hundred leagues to-night." 
 
 " What, William I — ride a hundred leagues 
 
 Before the crow of cock ? 
 Already by our village chimes 
 
 'Tis past eleven o'clock?" 
 " Past fiddle-stick I — why let it strike I 
 We ride, I tell you, spectre-like ! 
 I'll bring thee, sweetheart, — never dread ! — 
 By morning to our marriage bed." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " Sweet William, say I — this marriage bed ! - 
 
 What is it you intend ? " 
 " Six boards in length, and one short piece 
 
 Across at either end." 
 
^6^ Everett's poems, 
 
 " So little room ? " — " Enough for both I 
 Come, jump upon my saddle-cloth ! 
 The wedding party is prepar'd, 
 And our bed-chamber nicely aired." 
 
 Up sprang that lovely maiden then 
 
 Upon the steed behind, 
 And closely in her snowy arms 
 
 The darling rider twin'd. 
 Then off they go: hurra I hurra I 
 'Tis gallop ! gallop ! all the way ! 
 The horse and horseman pant for breath ; 
 The pavement sparkles underneath.'' 
 
 On either side, as on they ride, ' ' ^.'_' 
 
 Away the houses fly; 
 The bridges thunder under foot, " 
 
 The moon is bright on high. 
 " Art frighten'd, love ? — Down dale I up dike I 
 'HurraT we go it, spectre-like I 
 Dost fear the spectres, sweetheart?" " No I 
 But, dearest William, talk not so!*' '" 
 
 What sound is iheje u pop, the air; ■ 
 The crows, are on the wing ; 
 
 The passing bell tolls out a knell, 
 And, lo I the mourners bring 
 
 A coffin plac'd upon a hearse, .. ,. 
 
 And chant a sort of funeral verse, 
 ^ Much like \he wolf 's terrific howl, .. 
 
 Or shrieking of jthe inidnjght owl. , 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 67 
 
 XXIT. 
 
 " Enough ! enough of this vile stuff! 
 
 I 've other sport in quest I 
 I wed to-night ray lady bright, 
 
 And bid ye to the feast. 
 Come, Chorister! with all your throng, 
 And warble us the wedding song ! 
 Come on, Sir Parson ! we shall need 
 A blessing for our marriage bed." 
 
 XXJII. 
 
 The chant is done ; — the bier is gone, 
 
 And, at the horseman's call, 
 Procession, Parson, Chorister, 
 
 They follow, one and all. 
 Again away ! hurra ! hurra ! 
 'Tis gallop ! gallop ! all the way ! 
 The horse and horseman pant for breath ; 
 The pavement sparkles underneath. 
 
 On either side, as on they ride, 
 
 The hills, and eveiything, 
 Trees, houses, cities, villages. 
 
 Are all upon the wing. 
 " Art frighten'd, love ? — Down dale ! up dike ' 
 Hurra ! we go it, spectre-like ! 
 Dost fear the spectres, sweetheart? " " No ' 
 But, dearest WiUiara ! talk not so ! " 
 
 " Stay ! stay ! I see the gallows tree ; 
 
 And footing it about, 
 Half out of sight, by the moonlight, 
 
 An airy rabble rout. 
 
68 Everett's poems. 
 
 What ho I you rabble ! here ! come here ! 
 You rabble ! to the wedding cheer I 
 And show us, as we change our rings, 
 Your pirouettes and pigeon-wings." 
 
 The dance is up ; the rabble troop 
 
 Come after with a rush : 
 Like whistling breeze through thick pine-trees, 
 
 Or through the hazel-bush. 
 Once more away I hnrra! hurra I 
 'Tis gallop ! gallop I all the way ! 
 The horse and horseman pant for breath ; 
 The pavement sparkles underneath. 
 
 As on they ride, on either side, 
 
 The world is hurrying past; 
 Moon, stars, and planets in the sky, 
 
 Are hurrying on as fast. 
 " Art frighten'd, love ? — Down dale I up dike ! 
 Hurra I we go it, spectre-like I 
 Dost fear the spectres sweetheart ? " " No ! 
 But, dearest William ! talk not so I" 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " What ho I what ho I the roosters crow I — 
 
 We 've had a pretty chase I 
 Your work is sped, my gallant steed I 
 
 For we are at the place. 
 'Tis time ; I scent the morning air; 
 The wedding company is there ; 
 And all is ready for the show ; 
 Come on, my charger ! in we go." 
 
THE S1>ECTRE BRIDEGROOM 69 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 A lofiy gate of iroa grate 
 
 Athwart the passage rose : 
 At his vv'hip-stroke back springs the lock, 
 
 Away the cross-bar goes ; 
 The church-yard portals open wide, 
 And, helter-skelter I in they ride ; 
 The horse's hoofs, in tramping on, 
 Struck fire from many a burial-stone. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Look I look ! what now ? A pretty show I 
 
 What miracle is this ? 
 See I see I the horseman's drapery 
 
 Is faUing piece by piece I 
 Off go at once his flesh and hair I 
 His skull and all his bones are bare ! 
 A naked skeleton he stands, 
 With scythe and hour-glass in. his hands. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Uprears the horse with wildest force, 
 
 And snorts a fiery stream ; 
 Then wheeling round sinks in the ground 
 
 Directly under them. 
 There's howling in the upper spheres! 
 There's wailing from the sepulchres I 
 Till poor Lenora well may doubt. 
 If she be in the flesh or out. 
 
 Around her then the spectre train 
 A ghostly dance prolong, 
 
 And capering in airy ring, 
 They howl a parting song: 
 
70 Everett's poems. 
 
 " Be patient, though your heart should break I 
 
 And never, never undertake 
 
 God's holy purpose to control : 
 
 The Lord have mercy on your soul I" 
 
71 
 
 THE WATER KING. 
 
 A LEGEND FROM THE NORSE. 
 [Deraofratic Eeview, May, 1843.] 
 
 f " Two little boys were playing by the side of a river and they saw the 
 StrOm Karl, or Water Spirit, sitting on the shore and playing on his harp. 
 Then the children called out to him, and said, ' StrOm Karl, why do you sit 
 here playing? there is no salvation for you.' Whereupon the StrOm Karl 
 fell to weeping bitterly, threw his harp away, and sunk in the deep waters. 
 When the boys returned home, they related to their father, who was a 
 godly man, what had befallen them. The father said, ' You have sinned 
 against the Str5m Karl. Go back and comfort him, and tell him that he too 
 shall be saved.' When they went back to the river, the StrOm Karl sate on 
 the shore, weeping and lamenting. And the children said, ' Weep not so, 
 StrOm Karl ! our Father says that thy Redeeraar also liveth.' Then the 
 StrOm Karl joyfully took his harp and played sweetly until sunset." 
 
 Another slightly different version of this pretty legend is given in Mise 
 Bremer's admirable novel. The Neighbors. The Spirit is there called Neck] 
 
 Two boys beside a river play'd 
 
 At eve's retiring light, 
 And there, beneath the alder shade, 
 
 They saw the Water- Sprite. 
 
 He sate beneath the alder shade, 
 
 The wayward Water- King, 
 And deftly on his harp he play'd, 
 
 And sweetly did he sing. 
 
 Long time the boys attentive heard 
 The harp's melodious strain, 
 
 While not a breeze the river stirr'd 
 Or breath'd across the plain. 
 
 7 
 
72 Everett's poems. 
 
 At length the elder thns address'd 
 The Spirit of the stream : 
 
 " We know you never can be bless'd^ 
 For as joyful as you seem." 
 
 Oh r then the S[)irit ceased to play, 
 For alter'd was his mood, 
 
 And he threw his harp at once away,. 
 And leap'd into the flood. 
 
 And the two boys return''d at night, 
 
 And to their father said, 
 How they had seen the Water- Sprite^ 
 
 As on his harp he play'd ; 
 
 And how they told him that in spite 
 
 Of his sweet melodies. 
 They knew that such a wayward sprite 
 
 Might never hope for bliss. 
 
 And hovv' the Spirit ceas'd to play 
 When thus they spoke to him, 
 
 And threw his lyre at once away, 
 And leap'd into the stream. 
 
 This answer then the father gave, 
 " Dear boys I ye said not right : 
 
 God's grace is rich enough to save 
 A wayward Water- Sprite." 
 
 Again the boys at evening play'd 
 Beside the flowing spring. 
 
 And saw again beneath the shade 
 The wayward Water-King. 
 
THE WATER KING. 73 
 
 He sate beneath the alder shade 
 
 In melancholy guise, 
 No more upon his harp he play'd 
 
 And tears were in his eyes. 
 
 Again the elder brother spake, 
 
 To break the mournfal spell, 
 " Nay weep not thus, unhappy Neck ! 
 
 For all may yet be well. 
 
 " Our father says that wliat before 
 
 We told you, was not right : 
 For God has grace enough in store 
 
 To save a Water- Sprite." 
 
 Up sprang the joyful Spirit then, 
 
 As waking from a dream, 
 And took his golden lyre again 
 
 That lay beside the stream. 
 
 And long the boys delighted heard 
 
 The glad, unearthly sound, 
 While not a breeze the river stirr'd 
 
 And silence slept around. 
 
74 
 
 THE PORTRESS 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 CDemociatic Beview, April, 184^.J 
 
 l'envoi. 
 
 To M.L. 
 
 Fair Saint ! who, in thy brightest day 
 
 Of life's meridian joys, 
 Hast turn'd thy serious thoughts away 
 
 From fashion's fleeting toys, 
 And fasten'd them with lofty view 
 Upon the Only Good and True, 
 Come, listen to me while I tell 
 A tale of holy miracle ! 
 
 Come I fly with me on fancy's wing 
 
 To that far, sea-girt strand, 
 The clime of sunshine, love, and spring, 
 
 Thy favorite Spanish land ! 
 And lo I before our curious eyes 
 An ancient city's turrets rise. 
 And circled by its moss-grown wall. 
 There stands a vast, baronial hall. 
 
 And opposite, a convent pile 
 
 Its massy structure rears. 
 And in the chapel's vaulted aisle 
 
 A holy shrine appears : 
 
THE PORTRESS. 75 
 
 And at the shrine devoutly bent, 
 There kneels a lovely penitent, 
 In sable vesture, sadly fair, 
 Come ! listen with me to her prayer ! 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 " Blest shrines I from which in evil hour 
 
 My erring footsteps stray'd, 
 Oh! grant your kind protecting power 
 
 To a repentant maid I 
 Sweet Virgin ! if in other days 
 I sang thee hymns of love and praise. 
 And plaited garlands for thy brow, 
 Oh ! listen to thy votary now I 
 
 " The robe, in which thy form is drest, 
 
 These patient fingers wrought ; 
 The flowers that bloom upon thy breast 
 
 With loving zeal I brought; 
 That holy cross, of diamond clear, 
 I often wash'd with many a tear. 
 And dried again in pious bliss. 
 Sweet Virgin I with a burning kiss. 
 
 "And when by cruel arts betray'd, 
 
 IMy wayward course began. 
 And I forsook thy holy shade. 
 
 With that false-hearted man, 
 I breath'd to thee my parting prayer, 
 And gave me to thy gentle care. 
 Sweet Virgin I hear thy votary's vow, 
 And grant her thy protection now ! " 
 7* 
 
76 Everett's poems. 
 
 Unhappy Margaret ! she had been 
 
 The fairest and the best, 
 In pious zeal and modest mein 
 
 Outshining all the rest ; 
 And was so diligent withal, 
 That she had won the trust of all, 
 And by superior order sate 
 As Portress at the convent gate. 
 
 And well she watch'd that entrance o'er ; 
 
 Ah ! had she known the art 
 To guard as faithfully the door 
 
 Of her own virgin heart. 
 But when the glozing tempter came 
 With honied words of sin and shame, 
 She broke her order's sacred bands 
 And follow'd him to distant lands. 
 
 And there, in that delicious clime 
 Of song, romance and flowers. 
 While guilty love was in its prime. 
 
 They dream'd away the hours : 
 But soon possession's touch of snow 
 Subdued his passion's fiery glow, 
 Converting love to scorn and hate, 
 And he has left her desolate. 
 
 And she from Madrid's courtly bowers 
 
 A weary way has gone. 
 To seek in old Palencia's towers 
 
 False-hearted Alarcon. 
 His hall is vacant : not a beam 
 Is from the windows seen to gleam, 
 Nor sound of life is heard to pour 
 From balcony or open door. 
 
THE PORTRESS. 77 
 
 But lo I where in the cool moonh'ght, 
 
 Her home of former years, 
 The well-known convent opposite 
 
 Its massy structure rears : 
 And open stands the chapel door, 
 Saying with mute language to the poor, 
 The heavy-laden and distrest, 
 " Come in ! and I will give you rest ! " 
 
 And she has enter'd, and has knelt 
 . Before the blessed shrine, 
 And stealing o'er her senses felt 
 
 An influence divine. 
 And the false world's corrupt control 
 No more can subjugate her soul. 
 Where thoughts of innocence again 
 With undivided empire reign. 
 
 Again she sees her quiet cell, 
 
 And the trim garden there ; 
 Again she hears the matin bell. 
 
 That summons her to prayer : 
 Again she joins in chorus high 
 The strain of midnight minstrelsy, 
 That lifts her with each thrilling tone, 
 In transport to the eternal throne. 
 
 " Ah I who will give me back ? " she said, 
 
 With hotly-gushing tears, ' 
 " The blameless heart, the guiltless head 
 
 Of my departed years ? 
 What heavenly power can turn aside 
 The course of time's unchanging tide. 
 And make the Penitent again 
 The Pure One, tlmt she might have been ? " 
 
78 EVERETT S POEMS. 
 
 While musing thus, around the dome- 
 She casts a vacant glance ; 
 
 She sees, emerging from the gloom, 
 A graceful form advance. 
 
 Proceeding forth with noiseless feet. 
 
 From a far chapels dim retreat, 
 
 The figure, .clad in nun's array, 
 
 Along the pavement took her way. 
 
 A lantern in her hand she bore, 
 
 The shade upon her face ; 
 And Margaret vainly scann'd it o'er, 
 
 Familiar lines to trace ; 
 Then murmur'd, fearing to intrude, 
 " She is not of the sisterhood : 
 Perhaps a novice, who has come, 
 Since Margaret left her convent home." 
 
 From shrine to shrine with measur'd pace, 
 
 The figure went in turn, 
 And plac'd the flowers, and trimm'd the dress, 
 
 And made the tapers burn : 
 Nor ever rested to look back : 
 And Margaret follow'd in her track, 
 Though far behind : a charm unknown 
 With secret impulse led her on. 
 
 Fair sight it w^as, I ween, but dread 
 
 And strange as well as fair. 
 To see how as she visited 
 
 Each separate altar there, 
 A wondrous flame around it play'd, 
 So soft it scarcely broke the shade. 
 But glow'd with lustre cold and white. 
 Like fleecy clouds of Boreal Light 
 
THE PORTRESS. 79 
 
 Save only where around the Nun 
 
 A warmer blaze it threw ; 
 For there the bright suffusion shone 
 
 With tints of various hue ; 
 Pale azure, clear as seraph's eyes, 
 Mix'd with the rose's blushing dyes, 
 And gathering to a halo, spread 
 In rainbow circles round her head. 
 
 And every flower her touch beneath 
 
 Renew'd its former bloom, 
 And from its bell of odorous breath, 
 
 Sent forth a sweet perfume ; 
 And though no voice the silence stirr'd, 
 A low, sweet melody was heard, 
 That fell in tones subdued but clear, 
 Like heavenly music on the ear. 
 
 Entranc'd in ecstacies of awe 
 
 And joy that none can tell, 
 The Penitent at distance saw 
 
 The beauteous miracle ; 
 And scarce can trust the evidence 
 That pours in floods through every sense ; 
 And thinks, so strange the vision seems, 
 That she is in the land of dreams. 
 
 At length, each altar duly dight 
 
 And all her labors o'er. 
 The wondrous Nun resum'd the hght, 
 
 And cross'd the minster floor ; 
 Returning to the chapel shade, 
 From which her entrance she had made, 
 Along the aisle where Margaret stood. 
 And passing, brush'd the maiden's hood 
 
80 Everett's poems. 
 
 Thea she the stranger's mantle caught, 
 And something she woitIcI say, 
 
 But on her Hps the unutter'd thought 
 In silence died away, 
 
 " What would'st thou with rae, gentle one ? 
 
 In sweetest tones inquir'd the Nun. 
 
 Poor Margaret still no language found, 
 
 But gaz'd intently on the ground. 
 
 " Say, then, who art thou ? " At her side 
 
 Pursued the form divine, 
 " My name is Margaret." She replied, 
 
 " It is the same with mine." 
 " Thy office, maiden ? " " Lady dear ! 
 For years I was a sister here ; 
 And by superior order sate 
 As Portress at the convent gate." 
 
 *' I too," the Nun replied, " as one 
 
 Among the sisters wait. 
 And am to all the convent known, 
 
 As Portress at the gate." 
 Then first, entranc'd in wild amaze, 
 Her downcast eyes did Margaret raise. 
 And fix them earnestly upon 
 The stranger's face ; — it was her own ! 
 
 Reflected in that glorious Nun, 
 
 She sees herself appear : 
 The air, the lineaments, her own, 
 
 In form and character : 
 The dress the same that she has worn ; 
 The keys the same that she has borne ; 
 Herself in person, habit, name, 
 At once another and the same. 
 
THE PORTRESS. gj 
 
 Struck down with speechless ecstasy, 
 
 Astonish'd Margaret fell : 
 " Rise ! " spake the vision, " I am she, 
 
 Whom thou hast serv'd so well ; 
 And when thou forfeitedst thy vows, 
 To be a perjur'd traitor's spouse, 
 And mad'st to me thy parting prayer 
 For my protecting love and care : 
 
 " 1 heard and granted thy request, 
 
 And to conceal thy shame, 
 I left the mansion of the blest 
 
 And took thy humble name, 
 Thy features, person, office, dress ; 
 And did the duty of thy place, 
 And daily made report of all 
 In order lo the Principal. 
 
 " Behold I where still at every shrine 
 
 The votive taper stands ; 
 The dress that once thou wor'st is thine. 
 
 The keys are in thy hands : 
 Thy fame is clear, thy trial o'er : 
 Then, gentle maiden ! sin no more ! 
 And think on her, who faithfully 
 In hours of danger thought on thee I" 
 
 A lightning flash ! — a thunder peal ! — 
 
 And parting o'er their heads, 
 The church's vaulted pinnacle 
 
 An ample passage spreads ; 
 And lo ! descending angels come 
 To guard their queen in triumph home, 
 The while the echoing minster riuirs 
 With sweetest notes from heavenly strings. 
 
EVERETT S POEMS. 
 
 Then up, on cherub pinions borne, 
 
 The Virgin -Mother pass'd ; 
 And as she rose, on the Forlorn, 
 
 A radiant smile she cast ; 
 And Margaret saw, with streaming eyes 
 Of grateful joy, the vision rise, 
 And watch'd it till, from earthly view. 
 It vanish'd in the depths of blue. 
 
83 
 
 THE MAID OF OBERLAND. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 " The baths which the Parisians frequent the most willingly in Switzer- 
 land, are those of Kerchenbach, near the lake of Brienz. The Lake of 
 Brienz, that pearl of Oferland, has not yet a steamboat, but it has lost its 
 most g^raceful ornament. There was for some years, they cite, in all 
 Swilzerland, as one of the marvels of the country, the beautiful boatwo- 
 man of Brienz, and who knows how many romantic stories they relate of 
 this queen of the lake ; what passions she enkindled ; how many travel- 
 lers wished to have as relic and souvenir a ringlet of her hair or the riband 
 of her girdle? But the boatwoman was virtue itself, and alone in the midst 
 of the lake, with the most devoted passenger, this daughter of Helvetia, an 
 oar in each hand, set at defiance the perils of a tete-u-lete. 
 
 " There was, they say, a young lord who proposed to marry her, absolute- 
 ly, as if she had been a noble heiress, or a dancer of Drury Lane ; but she 
 wished not to become a lady. Then the young lord proposed to become a 
 boatman, if she would, on that condition, take him for a husband ; and hav- 
 ing experienced a second refusal, he blew his brains out in the boat con- 
 ducted by the lovely boatwoman." 
 
 A SKIFF is on the mountain lake 
 
 Of lovely Oberland, 
 And in it sits a beauteous maid, 
 
 An oar in either hand : 
 And by her side in stately pride 
 
 A noble British peer, 
 And she must row the little skilF 
 
 And he must sit and steer. 
 
84 EVERETT S POEMS. 
 
 As when the day its dawning ray 
 
 O'er clouds of silver throws, 
 So through that maiden's blushing cheek, 
 
 The soft carnation glows. 
 Serene but fearless is her eye, 
 
 The gentle girl of Brence, 
 And o'er her face is spread the grace 
 
 Of purest innocence. 
 
 And evermore she plies the oar, 
 
 And oft in sportive glee 
 Her notes awake the quiet lake 
 
 With simple melody. 
 " I would not be a city belle 
 
 Or dame of high degree, 
 My little bark is my domain. 
 
 An ample one for me. 
 
 " The lark shall rouse me at the dawn, 
 
 Upsoaring through the sky, 
 The ripple of my own dear lake 
 
 Shall be my lullaby. 
 I covet not a prouder lot 
 
 For I am fancy-free, 
 And reign within my own domain : 
 
 A little bark for me." 
 
 So fair that beauteous vision rose 
 
 Upon the Briton's eye. 
 So sweetly fell upon his ear 
 
 That simple minstrelsy, 
 That his fond heart for death or life 
 
 A spell of love came o'er, 
 And she must be his wedded wife 
 
 Or he must be no more. 
 
THE MAID OF OBERLAND. 85 
 
 " Oh come I sweet maid of Obeiiand ! " 
 
 Thus spake that noble peer, 
 " The oar is not for thy soft hand, 
 
 Nor suits it mine to steer. 
 Then leave thy oar upon the shore, 
 
 Thy bark beside the strand, 
 And come with me to part no more 
 
 To my far British land. 
 
 " Fair lawns are mine beside the Tyne, 
 
 With forest, town, and tower, 
 My city home a stately dome 
 
 Upon the Thames's shore. 
 Come with me there and thou shalt bear 
 
 My high ancestral names, 
 Thy spouse an Earl, and thou the pearl 
 
 Of England's noble dames." 
 
 " Nay gallant youth ! thy phrase is sooth 
 
 But suileth not my ear. 
 For thou must wed another maid 
 
 And I must tarry here. 
 The Switzer girl and British earl 
 
 May never fitly pair, 
 And I should shame the noble name 
 
 That thou would'st have me bear." 
 
 " Nay, maiden dear," return'd the P«er, 
 
 " If such be thy design, 
 And if thou dare not meet me there, 
 
 I'll make my home of thine; 
 And I will quit my lordly seat, 
 
 My forest, town and tower ; 
 And I will quit my stately home 
 
 Upon the Thames's shore ; 
 
86 Everett's poems. 
 
 " And I will take for thy clear sake 
 
 An oar in either hand, 
 And be a boatman on the lake 
 
 Of lovely Oberland ; 
 And at the bow I'll sit and row, 
 
 A joyful gondolier, 
 And thou beside me at the stern, 
 
 Shalt gaily sing and steer." 
 
 " Thy speech is vain," replied again 
 
 That maiden sweet and fair, 
 " The Switzer girl and British earl 
 
 May never fitly pair. 
 The Eagle nestles on the cliffy 
 
 The Dove upon the lea ; 
 And thou must leave ray little skiff . 
 
 And think no more of me." 
 
 A blight came o'er that Briton's brain 
 
 Of dark death-doing thrall : — 
 '■And if 1 must not live for thee, 
 
 I may not live at all. 
 I '11 go to rest this troubled breast 
 
 Where Thought may never wake ; - 
 And overboard upon the word 
 
 He leap'd into the lake. 
 
 One cry through that lone valley rang 
 
 Of horror wild and shrill ; 
 It echoed from the mountain side, 
 
 And all again was still. 
 One ripple stirr'd the shining glass 
 
 Of that clear watery plain ; 
 It sunk into the liquid mass 
 
 And all was smooth again. 
 
THE MAID OF OBERLAND. 87 
 
 The sky is blue above the lake, 
 
 Green are its grassy sides, 
 And gracefully the little skiff 
 
 Upon its bosom rides. 
 And there in calmest innocence, 
 
 An oar in either hand, 
 Is seen the gentle maid of Brence, 
 
 The pearl of Oberland. 
 
 And evermore she plies the oar, • 
 
 And oft in sportive glee, 
 Her notes awake the mountain lake 
 
 With simple melody. 
 " I would not be a city belle. 
 
 Or dame of high degree, 
 My little bark is my domain 
 
 An ample one for me. 
 
 " The lark shall rouse me at the dawn 
 
 Upsoaring through the sky ; 
 The ripple of my own dear lake 
 
 Shall be my lullaby. 
 I covet not a prouder lot, 
 
 A maiden fancy-free, 
 I reign within my own domain, 
 
 A little bark for me." 
 
 8* 
 
88 
 
 THE FIFTH OF MAY. 
 
 IMITATED FROJI THE ITALIAN OF MAINZONI. 
 [Boston Miscellfiny, November, 1842.] . 
 I. 
 
 He too rei)Oses from his toil : 
 
 The giant mind has fled ; 
 And motionless the mortal coil 
 
 Upon the earth is laid. 
 Methinks, that, at a blow so rude, 
 Earth's self a moment must liave stood, 
 
 As motionless and mute ; 
 Reflecting on the fatal hour 
 Of him who sway'd so vast a power, 
 
 And doubting if the foot 
 Of one so great would ever place 
 Its track again upon her face. 
 
 II. 
 I saw him, thron'd in glory, reign 
 
 In his refulgent hall : 
 I saw him sink, — ascend again, — 
 
 And then forever fall. 
 I flatter'd not his hour of state, 
 Nor meanly niock'd his adverse fate : 
 
 But o'er his funeral urn 
 I come to chant a mournful song, 
 On which, perhaps, the curious throng 
 
 A passing glance may turn. 
 When future centuries shall cast 
 Their eyes on the recorded Past. 
 
THE FIFTH OF MAY. 89 
 
 From Egypt's flood to St. Bernard, 
 
 From Madrid to the Don, 
 His crasliing thunderbolts were heard, 
 
 His lightning terrors shone. 
 From North to South, from sea to sea, 
 His very name was victory. 
 
 Was this the true renown ? 
 Let other times the question scan ! 
 We humbly bow before the plan 
 
 Of that Most Holy One, 
 Who deign'd so copiously to shower 
 Upon his head the gift of power. 
 
 The joy of wild Ambition's dream, 
 
 Its inly-gnawing care 
 Were his ; and his the last extreme 
 
 Of good and ill to share : 
 Success, by danger inade more sweet, 
 Dominion, glory, base defeat, 
 
 The palace and the jail : 
 Twice master of the subject world, 
 And twice in fury headlong hurl'd 
 
 From that proud pinnacle 
 By fortune's whelming thundergust, 
 To grovel in the common dust. 
 
 V. 
 
 Two worlds, — the men of Yesterday 
 And of To-morrow, — stood, 
 
 Engag'd for years in furious fray, 
 Drench'd in each other's blood. 
 
 He wav'd his hand, and all was peace 
 
90 Everett's poems. 
 
 He bade the stern contention cease, 
 
 And then he passed away : 
 But still in ruin always great, 
 The mark of boundless love and hate 
 
 And reverence and dismay 
 And pity ; — on his distant rock 
 Mankind's perpetual gazing-stock. 
 
 VI. 
 
 How oft ; — as some poor shipwreck'd man. 
 
 Mid ocean's raging swell, 
 With straining eyeballs tries to scan 
 
 The life-preserving sail ; — 
 He trac'd in vain that rock-bound coast, 
 And when he knew that all was lost, 
 
 What shades of black despair 
 In horror o'er his spirit fell ! 
 How oft in Memory's bitter well 
 
 He strove to drown his care. 
 And still at every fresh design 
 Left incomplete the attempted line ! 
 
 vii. 
 How often, — as with downcast eyes 
 
 And folded arms he stood. 
 When sunset stain'd with golden dyes 
 
 The vast Atlantic flood : — 
 Before his thought would Fancy raise 
 A dream of other glorious days, 
 
 Of tents extending fair. 
 The flashing steel, the countless host, 
 The glittering banners, wildly tost 
 
 Upon the troubled air, 
 The vollied charge, — the maddening cry 
 Of onset and of victory I 
 
THE FIFTH OF MAY 9] 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ah I then he felt his fatal lapse 
 
 From that resplendent show- 
 To his rock-prison, and, perhaps, 
 
 Had sunk beneath the blow : — 
 But from above into his soul 
 A gracious voice of comfort stole, 
 
 And told him of the bliss 
 Of other worlds, by Heaven design'd 
 To welcome the Immortal Mind, 
 
 That takes its leave of this ; — 
 Bright worlds, beside whose beaming face 
 Our glories are but nothingness. 
 
 Faith, — saving Faith, — the ever-blest. 
 
 Upon the record -roll 
 Of her achievements then impress'd 
 
 The noblest of the whole : 
 For never yet did prouder knee, 
 Before the Man of Cavalry 
 
 In homage touch the sod. 
 Then breathe not o'er his lowly toini) 
 A lisp of hate or wrath to come. 
 
 But leave him to his God, 
 Who deign'd a holy calm to shed 
 Upon the soldier's dying bed. 
 
92 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 [Democratic Review, October, 1837.] 
 
 The lightest and the softest thing 
 That floats upon the zephyr's wing, 
 I move, with unresisting ease, 
 Before the breath of every breeze. 
 
 With power resistless and sublime, 
 I sweep along from clime to clime, 
 And I defy all earthly force 
 To intercept me in my course. 
 
 A favorite guest with all the fair, 
 I play with Beauty's twisted hair ; 
 And harmless as the gentle dove, 
 I share the couch of happy love. 
 
 'Tis mine to hurl the bolts of fate. 
 That overwhelm the guilty great ; 
 I wield the giant arm that brings 
 Dismay and death on tyrant kings. 
 
 No throb of passion ever press'd 
 The vacant chambers of my breast ; 
 And no desire nor dream of care 
 Could ever gain admittance there. 
 
ENIGMA. . 93 
 
 With passion's various fires I burn ; 
 And all, as each prevails in turn, 
 With equal rage incessant roll 
 Their boiling currents through my soul. 
 
 In Folly's lap I had my birth, 
 The simplest creature on the earth ; 
 At Folly's bosom I was nurs'd, 
 And am as simple as at first. 
 
 The wisest own that I am wiser, 
 And sages make me their adviser ; 
 The great demand my prudent cares, 
 To aid them in their state affairs. 
 
 I boast but little outward grace, 
 For frequent stains deform my face ; 
 And when I bathe, though strange it seems, 
 I seek from choice the foulest streams. 
 
 I soar to fields of liquid light, 
 
 Where rainbows glow and stars are bright ; 
 
 I sun me at their spotless fires. 
 
 And sport amid the heavenly choirs 
 
 The nameless being of a day, 
 I barely am, and pass away ; 
 Nor leave a trace behind, to be 
 The record of my history. 
 
 No chance or change has power enough 
 To harm my life's perennial stuff"; 
 For I have built my throne subUme 
 Upon the wreck of conquer'd Time. 
 
94 
 
 THE DIRGE OF LARRA. 
 
 [Boston Jliscellany, January, 1842.] 
 IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH OF ZOERILLA. 
 
 It was a dark evening- in the month of February. A funeral car passed 
 slowly through the streets of Madrid, followed by a long procession, 
 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 
 interwoven 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 Jos(5 Mariano de 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 ofl^ the connexion. 
 After using every eflbrt to dissuade her from this determination, Larra, at 
 the end of a long conversation on the subject, swore, in the passionate 
 excitement of the moment, that he would not survive the separation, and 
 that the hotir 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 of Larra as mere 
 bravado, ' for I assure you, whatever the results may be, that, with my 
 consent, we shall never meet again.' Larra retired from her presence, and 
 within a few minutes she heard the report of the pistol-shot that terminated 
 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 funeral 
 ceremonies were over, a friend of the deceased, Senor Roca de Togores, 
 pronounced a eulogy, inwhich he sketched with the eloquence of kindred 
 
THE DIRGE OF LARRA. 95 
 
 genius, the brilliant, ihougli stormy aiid disastrous career of the unfortunate 
 bard. 
 
 " The] impression produced by it," says an eye-witness, '•' was of the 
 
 deepest kind. The attachment we had felt for the deceased poet, our 
 
 sorrow at his melancholy death, — the imag:es of decay and raortahty with 
 
 which we were surrounded, — the sepulchre opening at our feet, the 
 
 starry sky above our heads, — the touching 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 
 inspiration, to our common feelings. 
 
 " At this moment there stepped forth from among us, and, as it were, 
 from within the sepulchre 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 over- 
 come by the excess 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 acknowledged. Our surprise was equal to our enthusiasm. 
 No sooner had we learned the name of the gifted mortal who had framed 
 these charming verses, than we saluted him with a sort of religious rever- 
 ence, and gave thanks to the Providence which had thus so manifestly 
 interfered 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 interesting scene seem to have 
 been fully realized. Zorrilla has been ever since regarded as the most dis- 
 tinguished of the Spanish living poets. His Elegy on Larra stands at the 
 opening of the collection of his poems, now composing six volumes. 
 The following free imitation vrill give some imperfect notion of the original, 
 the effect of which, on the first recitation, was probably somewhat height- 
 ened by the strange and affecting circumstances under which it was de- 
 livered. 
 
 On the breeze I hear the knell 
 Of the solemn, funeral bell, 
 Marshalling another guest 
 To the grave's unbroken rest. 
 9 
 
96 Everett's poems. 
 
 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 savv' the Futme 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 perish'd in his pride. 
 Like a fountain, summer-dried ; 
 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. 
 
 An ! the Poet's mystic measure 
 Is a rich but fatal treasure ; 
 Bliss to others, to the master 
 Full of bitterest disaster. 
 
 Poet I 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. 
 
THE DIRGE OF LARRa. 97 
 
 If beyond our mortal sight, 
 In some glorious realm of light, 
 Poets pass their happy hours, 
 Far from this cold world of ours, 
 Oh, 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. 
 
98 
 
 THE YOUNG AMERICAN. 
 
 CDemocratic Review, May, 1845.] 
 
 Scion of a mighty stock I 
 Hands of iron, — hearts of oak, — 
 Follow with unflinching tread 
 Where the noble fathers led ! 
 
 Craft and subtle treachery, 
 Gallant youth I are not for thee : 
 Follow thou in word and deeds 
 Where the God within ihee leads 
 
 Honesty with steady eye. 
 Truth and pure simplicity, 
 Love that gently winneth hearts, - 
 These shall be thy only arts 
 
 Prudent in the council train, 
 Davmtless on the battle plain. 
 Ready at the country's need 
 For her glorious cause to bleed. 
 
 Where the dews of night distil 
 Upon Vernon's holy hill ; 
 Where above it gleaming far 
 Freedom lights her guiding star : 
 
THE YOUNG AMERICAN. 99 
 
 Thither turn the steady eye, 
 Flashing with a purpose high I 
 Thither with devotion meet, 
 Often turn the pilgrim feet I 
 
 Let thy noble motto be 
 God, — the Country, — Liberty! 
 Planted on Religion's rock, 
 Thou shalt stand in every shock. 
 
 Laugh at danger far or near I 
 Spurn at baseness, — spurn at fear ! 
 Still with persevering might. 
 Speak the truth, and do the right I 
 
 So shall Peace, a charming guest, 
 Dove-like in thy bosoni rest. 
 So shall Honors steady blaze 
 Beam upon thy closing days. 
 
 Happy if celestial fJavor 
 Smile upon the high endeavor : 
 Happy if it be thy call 
 In the holy cause to fall. 
 
100 
 
 THE FUNERAL OF GOETHE. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF HARRO HARRING. 
 [Democratic Review, BTovembcr, 1842.] 
 
 The Poem of which a translation is here presented, exhibits one of the 
 various lights under which the character of Goethe has been viewed by his 
 countrymen and the literary world. It is curious to contrast the extreme 
 bitterness of the censure here expressed, with the tone of admiration. — I 
 may almost say, adoration, — with which he has been held up by Carlyle, not 
 merely as the first poet of his day, but as the great moral and religious 
 regenerator of modern times. There is a downright, straightforward, busi- 
 ness-like air in these stanzas, which gives a favorable impression in regard 
 to the author's sincerity, though the excessive acrimony of the satire may 
 throw some doubts upon his discretion. It is not to be denied, however, 
 that the friends of improvement and liberty in Germany have no small 
 ground for complaint in the total indifl'erence shown by their favorite poet 
 to the fortunes of his country at the most trying moment of her history. 
 
 Sleep well beneath thy lordly funeral stole, 
 
 While envying lords are crowding round thy hearse, 
 
 Bard of the lofty rhyme and little soul I 
 
 Thou star-bedizen'd, courtly King of verse I 
 
 Sublime and sweet, I own, was every line 
 That ever flow'd from thy prolific pen ; 
 
 But never did one German thought of thine, 
 In the long course of thy most varied strain, 
 E'er reach the German hearts of thy true countrymen. 
 
 n. 
 In all thy works, — the more than fifty tomes, — 
 
 I seek in vain to find a single place, 
 
 ■^ 
 
THE FUNERAI. OF GOETHE. 101 
 
 Wherein a word of kindly counsel comes 
 
 In earnest love to thy own German race. 
 The people hung upon thy lips : — they took 
 
 With eager, open mouth Avhatever came ; 
 But thou, poor, selfish soul ! could'st never look 
 
 Beyond thyself. It was a sin and shame 
 
 That thy own Fatherland for thee was but a name. 
 
 God gave the gified bard his breathing thought 
 
 And burning word, — for what ? — that he might raise 
 
 The people to his level, — upward brought, 
 Electrified, by his inspiring lays. 
 
 His lofty aim should soar beyond, above 
 The present time, to higher, holier things; 
 
 His verse a sword of truth, a charm of love, 
 To cut the root of Falsehood's fatal stings, 
 To thrill with ravishing tones the multitude's 
 heart-strings. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But thou ! — what hast thou done with all the powers 
 Which lavish Nature wasted on thy soul ? 
 
 What object hadst thou in thy happiest hours 
 Of inspiration, but the paltry goal. 
 
 Thyself? — What hast thou brought to pass for truth, 
 For man's improvement, country, liberty? 
 
 Did thy cold bosom, from thy earliest youth. 
 Throughout thy long career of eighty-three 
 Long years, bestow pne throb on suffering Germany? 
 
 V. 
 
 Tliou boastedst thou couldst understand the ways 
 Of God himself; — say, didst thou understand 
 
 What God had wrought beneath thy proper gaze 
 Miraculously in that neighboring land? 
 
102 EVEFxETT S POEMS. 
 
 When Falsehood thron'J was put, to open shame, 
 Didst thou approve or hold thy peace ? Ah no I 
 
 Thou spak'dst of that most holy cause with blame ; 
 Thou call'dst it, " insurrection of the low," 
 And " lawful jrovernment's unlawful overthrow." 
 
 What was it? Was it not the grand affair. 
 
 At which three centuries our Germany 
 Had wrought with heart and hand? The holy v/ar 
 
 Of Truth with Lies, — of Man with Mockery ? 
 Didst thou as such regard it, — thou, whose eye 
 
 For everything beside was passing bright ? 
 Ah me ! amidst his courtly mummery 
 
 What cares a rhyming, courtly Parasite, 
 
 Though millions all around are bleeding for the right ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 A word from thee, and Germany had canght 
 Some glimpses of what Germany should be. 
 
 A word from thee had fir'd the people's thought 
 To ecstacy, — to madness. — Germany, 
 
 Storm-shatter'd, blasted by oppression's blow. 
 Poor Germany perhaps had now been free. 
 
 That saving word thou didst not speak: — but know 
 To whom much has been trusted, much shall be 
 From him requir'd again : — 'tis God's declar'd decree. 
 
 VllI, 
 
 And much to thee was trusted : Nature's care 
 Most bounteously her rarest gifts allow'd. 
 
 Dispensing to thee for thy single share 
 
 What ten well-gifted minds had well endow'd. 
 
 But thou these matchless powers didst basely hide. 
 And thy young heart's uncounted treasure sell 
 
THE FUNERAL OF GOETHE. 103 
 
 For worthless toys, — intent on worldly pride 
 And sensual pleasure only, — to the weal 
 Of country, human kind, through life insensible. 
 
 Thy busy thought explor'd all sciences 
 
 And arts ; — thy busy pen explain'd the whole, 
 
 Save one : — one only that most searching gaze 
 Passed unobserv'd, — the science of the soul. 
 
 Thou, to whom nothing else remain'd unknown, 
 Wert still a stranger to the better part 
 
 Of thy own nature ; — never breath'dst a tone, 
 With all thy mastery in thy minstrel art. 
 That told of Love to Man, deep-rooted in thy heart 
 
 X. 
 
 German in this alone, if nought beside, 
 
 It was thy ruling passion to possess 
 The gift, — at once our nation's curse and pride, — 
 
 The boasted, fatal Manysidecbiess. 
 The German roams with satchel in his hand, 
 
 And brings in pomp laborious nothings home 
 From every field of learning, while the land 
 
 He calls his own is crush'd beneath the doom 
 
 Of thirty tyrannies, — the scorn of Christendom 
 
 XI. 
 
 Germans hke thee know all things thoroughly, 
 Excepting this, that they are German-born : 
 
 Heroes with pen in hand, they calmly see 
 Their native Germany to fragments torn. 
 
 And never stir a finger : — poorly vain 
 
 Of useless lore, they want the generous glow 
 
 Of the true spirit, and with fond disdain 
 
 View from their fancied heights, as quite below 
 Their notice, the great scene of human weal and woe. 
 
104 Everett's poems. 
 
 So great and yet so little ! — Born a king, 
 la Mind's unbounded empire, thou must be 
 
 A minister at Weimar I — born to fling 
 The fetters of thy mighty minstrelsy 
 
 O'er charmed Europe, thou must condescend 
 To play the menial ; — never satisfied 
 
 That thou wert noble, till thy august friend, 
 His Most Transparent Highness,* certified 
 The fact and round thy neck two yards of ribbon tied. 
 
 Then rest in peace beneath thy princely pall I 
 And Germany shall weep beside the bier ; — 
 
 Weep for what thou hast been, and weep for all 
 
 Thou might'st have been, with many a scalding tear. 
 
 Thou wert the Crcesus of the realm of mind. 
 Who wouldst not to thy suffering land allow 
 
 A mite : — for this the Germans leave behind 
 Their kindly homes, and as they wandering go 
 To climes afar, on thee the bitter curse bestow. 
 
 For this I hold thee up to public scorn 
 
 Before the world in all thy littleness, — 
 Greater than thee, however lowly born, 
 
 In that I feel, in joy and in distress. 
 My brotherhood with man. With cheerful heart 
 
 I own thy genius, — own the potent charm 
 So oft thrown o'er me by thy minstrel art ; 
 
 But neither Rank nor Glory shall disarm 
 
 The steadfast voice of Truth, whome'er it may alarm. 
 
 * The barbarous term, Diirchlaiicht , which is used in Germany as the 
 official style of the reigning princes of the Ducal order, and which is com- 
 monly translated Most Serene Highness, means literally Transparency. 
 I have accordingly rendered it Most Transparent Higliness. 
 
THE FUNERAL OF GOETHE. 105 
 
 Therefore it is, all-gifted as thou wert 
 
 With GocVs best gifts of genius and of grace, 
 
 That I pronounce thee recreant at heart, 
 False to thyself, thy country and thy race. 
 
 Alike to me the lordly and the low, 
 
 I view them by the same impartial light. 
 
 But one unflinching rule for all I know, — 
 Content that others should to me requite 
 What I mete out to them, — the honest Rule of Right. 
 
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