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 Pa.s.sAGE.

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 gra.s.sy earth, and the ocean's deep blue; There tempests and frequent disasters arise, Whilst free and untroubled we wend through the skies.

Lo, high among mountains a meadow lies spread, And there we alight, and get ready our bed; There hatch we our eggs, and beneath the chill pole We wait while the summer months over us roll.

No hunter, desirous to make us his prey, Invades our lone valley by night or by day; But green-mantled fairies their merry routs hold, And fearless the pigmy {f:34} there hammers its gold.

But when pallid winter, again on the rocks Shakes down in a shower the snow from his locks, Then comes the desire for heat, in full force, And Southward our phalanx bends swiftly its course.

To the verdant Savannah, and palm-shaded plain, Where the Nile rolls his water, we hurry again; There rest we till summer's sun, waxing too hot, Makes us wish for our native, our hill-girded spot.

THE BROKEN HARP.

O thou, who, 'mid the forest trees, With thy harmonious trembling strain, Could'st change at once to soothing ease, My love-sick bosom's cruel pain: Thou droop'st in dreary silence now, With shiver'd frame, and broken string, While here, unhelp'd, beneath the bough I sit, and feebly strive to sing.

The moon no more illumes the ground; In night and vapour dies my lay; For with thy sweet and melting sound Fled, all at once, her silver ray: O soon, O soon, shall this sad heart, Which beats so low, and bleeds so free, O'ercome by its fell load of smart, Be broke, O ruin'd harp, like thee!

SCENES.

Observe ye not yon high cliff's brow, Up which a wanderer clambers slow, 'T is by a h.o.a.ry ruin crown'd, Which rocks when shrill winds whistle round; That is an ancient knightly hold,-- Alas! it droops, deserted, cold; And sad and cheerless seems to gaze, Back, back, to yon heroic days, When youthful Kemps, {f:35} completely arm'd, And lovely maids around it swarm'd.

You, in the tower, a hole may see; A window there has ceas'd to be.

From that once lean'd a damsel bright, In evening's red and fading light, And star'd intently down the way, Up which should come her lover gay: But, time it flies on rapid wing-- Far off a church is towering, Within it stand two marble stones, That rest above the lovers' bones.

But see, the wanderer, with pain, Has reach'd the pile he wish'd to gain; Whilst Sol, behind the ruin'd walls, Down into sacred nature falls.

See, there, two hostile n.o.bles fight, With tiger-rage and giant-might.

There's seen no smoke, there's heard no shot, For guns and powder yet were not.

'T was custom then, when foemen warr'd, To win or lose with spear and sword: A wild heroic song they yell, And each the other seeks to fell.

Oft, oft, her ownself to destroy, Her own hand nature does employ.

There casts the hill up fire-flakes, And Earth's gigantic body quakes: There, lightnings through the high blue flash, And ocean's billows wildly dash: There, men 'gainst men their muscles strain, And deal out death, and wounds, and pain.

O Nature! to thyself show less Of hate, and more of tenderness.

How dusky is the air around; We are no more above the ground; But, down we wend within the hill, Whose springs our ears with hissings fill.

See, there, how rich the ruddy gold Winds snakeways, 'midst the clammy mould And hard green stone. By torches' ray, The harvest there men mow away.

But, see ye not yon gath'ring cloud, Which 'gainst them cometh paley proud; That holds the spirit of the hill, Who brings death in its hand so chill: If down they do not quickly fall, Most certainly 't will slay them all; For sorely wrathful is its mood, Because they break its solitude: Because its treasure off they bear, And fling light o'er its gloomy lair.

'T is white, and Kobbold is the name Which it from oldest days does claim.

Now, back at once into time we go, For many a hundred years, I trow.

A gothic chamber salutes your sight: A taper gleams feebly through the night; A ghostly man by the board you see, With his hand to his temples muses he: Parchments, with age discolour'd and dun; Ancient shields all written upon; Tree-bark, bearing ciphers half defac'd; Stones with Runes and characters grac'd; Things of more worth than ye are aware, On the mighty table are pil'd up there.

He gazes now in exstatic trance Through the cas.e.m.e.nt, out into nature's expanse.

Whene'er we sit at the lone midnight, And stare out into the dubious light, Whilst the pallid moon is peering o'er Ruin'd cloister and crumbling tower, Feelings so wondrous strange come o'er us; The past, and the future, arise before us; The present fadeth, unmark'd, away In the garb of insignificancy.

He gazes up into nature's height, The n.o.ble man with his eye so bright; He gazes up to the starry skies, Whither, sooner or later, we hope to rise; And now he takes in haste the pen, And the spirit of Oldom flows from it amain; The scatter'd Goth-songs he changes unto An Epic which maketh each bosom to glow.

Thanks to the old Monk, toiling thus-- They call him Saxo Grammaticus.

An open field before you lies, A wind-burst o'er its bosom sighs, Now all is still, all seems asleep; 'Midst of the field there stands a heap, Upon the heap stand Runic stones, Thereunder rest gigantic bones.

From Arild's time, that heap stands there, But now 't is till'd with utmost care, In order that its owner may Thereoff reap golden corn one day.

Oft has he tried, the n.i.g.g.ard soul, The mighty stones away to roll, As useless burdens of his ground; But they for that too big were found.

See, see! the moon through cloud and rack Looks down upon the letters black: And when the ghost its form uprears He shines upon its bursting tears-- For oh! the moon's an ancient man, Describe him, mortal tongue ne'er can, He shines alike, serene and bright, At midmost hour of witching night, Upon the spot of love and glee, And on the gloomy gallows-tree.

Upon each Rune behold him stare, While off he hastes through fields of air; He understands those signs, I'll gage, Whose meaning lies in sunken age; And if he were in speaking state, No doubt the old man could relate Strange things that have on earth occurr'd, Of which fame ne'er has said a word; But since with look, with look alone, He cannot those events make known, He waketh from his height sublime Mere longing for the dark gone time.

THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE.

FROM THE GERMAN.

This piece is not translated for the sentiments which it contains, but for its poetical beauties. Although the path of human life is rough and th.o.r.n.y, the mind may always receive consolation by looking forward to the world to come. The mind which rejects a future state has to thank itself for its utter misery and hopelessness.

The evening shadows fall upon the grave On which I sit; it is no common heap,-- Below its turf are laid the bones of one, Who, sick of life and misery, did quench The vital spark which in his bosom burn'd.

The shadows deepen, and the ruddy tinge Which lately flooded all the western sky Has now diminish'd to a single streak, And here I sit, alone, and listen to The noise of forests, and the hum of groves.

This is the time to think of nature's G.o.d, When birds and fountains, streams and woods, unite Their various-sounding voices in his praise: Shall man alone refuse to sing it--yes, For man, alone, has nought to thank him for.

There's not a joy he gives to us on earth That is not dash'd with bitterness and gall, Only when youth is past, and age comes on, Do we find quiet--quiet is not bliss, Then tell me, G.o.d, what I've to thank thee for.

But to recur to him who rests beneath-- He had a heart enthusiastic, warm, And form'd for love--no prejudice dwelt there; He roam'd about the world to find a heart Which felt with his, he sought, and found it not.

Or if he found it, providence stepp'd in, And tore the cherish'd object from his sight, Or fill'd its mind with visions weak and vain-- Could he survive all this? ah, no! he died,-- Died by the hand which injur'd none but him.

And did he die unpitied and unwept,-- Most probably, for there are fools who think 'T is crime in man to take what is his own-- And 't was on account they laid him here, Within this sweet, unconsecrated, spot.

There comes a troop of maidens and of youths Home from their labour--hark! they cease their song, And, pointing to the grave, with trembling hands, They make a circuit, thinking that in me The ghost of the self-murderer they view-- Which, fame says, wanders here.

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