—The blent, but soon selected, call
Of man, who loves and blesses all,
With kingly accent, sweet though high,
Completes the full-toned harmony.
Its thorns are in my breast—yet still
I love this Earth with all its ill!
Though lone and heartless in the strife,
I dread the long fatigue of life—
And none to whom 'twere sweet to say,
"These heavens how bright! this earth how gay!"
With meeting soul and kindred mood
Endear the charms of solitude—
Though every hour has on its wing
A sadder tear, a sharper sting—
And balm and blessing were in vain—
This friendless heart was formed for pain.
THE MERMAID.
From the German of Goethe.
1.
On lonely rock the Fisher lies,
In clear cool stream his hook he throws,
And views the bait with wistful eyes;
And as his silent task he plies,
Behold! the floods apart are flung,—
And where the circling eddies rise,
A Mermaid's form hath upward sprung!
2.
"O, Fisher! why my train decoy?
"With craft of man—still wise in wrong—
"Why seek to change to death their joy?
"O! wist thou here what tasks employ—
"What bliss the tribes of ocean know,—
"No more thy days should care annoy,
"But peace be sought these waves below!"
3.
"And beauteous moon, our watery rest?
"And springs not each, its course to run,
"Wave-wash'd, in tenfold glory drest?
"And charms not Thee in Ocean's breast
"This nether heaven of loveliest blue?—
"Charms not thine own fair form imprest
"In liquid limning soft and true?"
4.
At length around his feet is flung;—
He starts—the flame within him glows,
That erst on love's embraces hung!
And sweeter yet the sea-maid sung,
And sought, half-met, the charmed shore;
Her arms around her victim flung
And ne'er was seen that Fisher more!
J. F.
GREECE.
From the French of Ardans.
(Almanack des Muses, pour 1815.)
1.
The minstrel seeks Illissus' shore;
Like them inspired with holy rage
That Greece, erewhile so great and sage,
Greece, lovely still—his footsteps tread;
And, O!—though cold and silent now,
He feels that land still strong to bow
The pilgrim's heart with reverential dread!
2.
Whose deeds of fame that may not die,
Bade rise upon their native shore
The home of holy Liberty?—
O! rouse Ye at my voice of pain!
O! rise and look on Græcia now!
Reft of the gifts Ye gave—in vain,
The servile neck behold her bow,
And hug, with trembling hand, the chain
The Tartar binds around her brow!
3.
Greece to my pensive eye appears
—A widow desolate, with quenchless tears
Weeping her gods and all her heroes gone!
Alas! o'er all this lovely clime—
In heart and soul by slavery wrung,
The dastard sons of sires sublime
Scarce know the land whereon they sprung;
And feel—of all its glories gone,
Or weak regret—or memory none!
4.
And all that fired, and blessed, and bloomed,
Survive but in her ashes now!
And only strangers sorrow there
O'er ills—the deadliest—lands must bear
Where tyrants reign and bondsmen bow!
Yes! on these plains—of yore so blest,—
Where sleep in death's unbroken rest
The hearts with Sparta's king that bled,—
Their rankling chains a race of slaves
Drag o'er a thousand heroes' graves,
Nor ever dream what dust they tread!
5.
At length, Immortal Slumberers, waking,
Arise—arise!—whose mighty story
Shall live while nature's self endures!—
O come arrayed in all your glory,
And Greece may live and yet be yours!
And, hark! the slave hath burst his chain,
And Triumph's raptures shares again!
New-born, he feels a Spartan's soul sublime,
And thrusts the Tartar from his sacred clime!
6.
Is raised where all is desolate!
No answering sound affords relief
To hearts that wail the wrongs of fate;
Death broods o'er these abandoned plains,
And horror's frozen silence reigns!
Alas! the dream that soothed his soul
Too fleetly fled die minstrel mourns;—
Alas! when past th' infernal goal
No demigod to earth returns!
And hark! while here my voice of woe
Is raised around their dwellings low—
Repeating many a hero's name
With Sparta's linked—or Athens' fame,—
A turbaned Turk with sacrilegious blow
Lays the last column of Minerva low!
J. F.
