Part 24

"Death should only strike the hoary, Yet, my Louis, thou shalt die, When the stars again in glory, Shine upon the midnight sky."

Tears bedeck'd her long eyelashes, While she kiss'd my features wan; Then, like flame that dies o'er ashes, All at once the maid was gone.

Therefore, pluck I painted violets, Which shall strew my lifeless clay, When, to night, the stars have call'd me Unto joys that last for aye.

ODE TO A MOUNTAIN-TORRENT. FROM THE GERMAN OF STOLBERG.

How lovely art thou in thy tresses of foam, And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill, When yelling thou rollest thee down from thy home, 'Mid the boom of the echoing forest and hill.

The pine-trees are shaken--they yield to thy shocks, And spread their vast ruin wide over the ground, The rocks fly before thee--thou seizest the rocks, And whirl'st them like pebbles contemptuously round.

The sun-beams have cloth'd thee in glorious dyes, They streak with the tints of the heavenly bow Those hovering columns of vapour that rise Forth from the bubbling cauldron below.

But why art thou seeking the ocean's dark brine? If grandeur makes happiness, sure it is found, When forth from the depths of the rock-girdled mine Thou boundest, and all gives response to thy sound.

Beware thee, O torrent, of yonder dark sea, For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod, Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,-- Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a god.

True, it is pleasant, at eve or at noon, To gaze on the sea and its far-winding bays, When ting'd with the light of the wandering moon, Or red with the gold of the midsummer rays.

But, torrent, what is it? what is it?--behold That lustre as nought but a bait and a snare, What is the summer sun's purple and gold To him who breathes not in pure freedom the air.

Abandon, abandon, thy headlong career-- But downward thou rushest--my words are in vain, Bethink thee that oft-changing winds domineer On the billowy breast of the time-serving main.

Then haste not, O torrent, to yonder dark sea, For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod; Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,-- Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a god.

RUNIC VERSES.

O the force of Runic verses, O the mighty strength of song Cannot baffle all the curses Which to mortal state belong.

Slaughter'd chiefs, that buried under Heaps of marble, long have lain, Song can rend your tomb asunder, Give ye life and strength again.

When around his dying capture, Fierce, the serpent draws his fold, Song can make him, wild with rapture, Straight uncoil, and bite the mould.

When from keep and battled tower, Flames to heaven upward strain, Song has o'er them greater power, Than the vapours dropping rain.

It can quench the conflagration Striding o'er the works of art; But nor song nor incantation Can appease love's cruel smart.

O the force of Runic verses, O the mighty strength of song Cannot baffle all the curses Which to mortal state belong.

THOUGHTS ON DEATH. FROM THE SWEDISH OF C. LOHMAN.

Perhaps 't is folly, but still I feel My heart-strings quiver, my senses reel, Thinking how like a fast stream we range Nearer and nearer to yon dread change, When soul and spirit filter away, And leave nothing better than senseless clay.

Yield, beauty, yield; for the grave does gape, And horribly alter'd reflects thy shape,-- For ah! think not those childish charms Will rest unrifled in its cold arms, And think not there, that the rose of love Will bloom on thy features as here above.

Let him who roams at vanity fair, In robes that rival the tulip's glare, Think on the chaplet of leaves which round His fading forehead will soon be bound; Think on each dirge the priests will say When his cold corse is borne away.

Let him who seeketh for wealth uncheck'd By fear of labour--let him reflect, The gold he wins will brightly shine, When he has perish'd with all his line. Though man may rave and vainly boast, We are but ashes when at the most.

BIRDS OF PASSAGE. FROM THE SWEDISH.

So hot shines the sun upon Nile's yellow stream, That the palm-trees can save us no more from his beam; Now comes the desire for home, in full force, And Northward our phalanx bends swiftly its course.

Now dim underneath us, through distance we view The green grassy earth, and the ocean's deep blue; There tempests and frequent disasters arise, Whilst free and untroubled we wend through the skies.