III. TRANSLATIONS OF DUTCH, DANISH, NORWEGIAN AND ICELANDIC POETRY, AND ORIGINAL POEMS REFERRING TO THE GERMAN COUNTRIES. (continued 2)

Turn we, to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display; Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread, Yet still, e'en here, Content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut his feast though small, He sees his little lot, the lot of all; Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, Breathes the keen air, and carrols as he goes. At night returning, every labour sped, He sits him down, the monarch of his shed; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys, His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze; While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, Displays her cleanly platter on her board; And haply too, some pilgrim, hither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed.

Prussia. Still like a Bur she clings and sticks; To Russia tho she grins and kicks, Holds by the fur, which yet may fail, For bears, alas, have got no tail. Holland. Let Mynheer Vanderschoffeldt flout, And swear and rave for sour krout; Nay kick his frow with solemn phiz, To make her feel how goot it ish. Yet after he has gorg'd his maw With puttermilks and goot olt slaw, Let him remember times are such, The French have Holland, not the Dutch. Germany. With roaring blunderbuss and thunder All Germany is torn asunder; How num'rous circles near and far Encircl'd in the arms of war; Her Hessian bullies one and all, Pay homage to the spurious Gaul; And John Bull's farm, a goodly station, Makes soup to please the Gallic nation.

Helvetian vales! Where freedom fix'd her sway; And all the social virtues lov'd to stray; Soft blissful seats of undisturb'd repose, Rever'd for ages by contending foes, What envious demon, ranging to destroy, Has marr'd your sports, and clos'd your song of joy? What horrid yells the affrighted ear assail! What screams of terror load the passing gale! See ruffian hordes, with tiger rage advance, The shame of manhood, and the boast of France! See trampled, crush'd and torn in lustful strife The loathing virgin and indignant wife! While wanton carnage sweeps each crowded wood, And all the mountain torrents swell with blood! Lo! Where yon cliff projects its length of shade O'er fields of death, a wounded chief is laid! Around the desolated scene he throws A look, that speaks insufferable woes: Then starting from his trance of dumb despair, Thus vents his anguish to the fleeting air: "Dear native hills, amidst whose woodland maze, I pass'd the tranquil morning of my days, On whose green tops malignant planets scowl, Where hell hounds ravage, and the furies howl; Though chang'd, deform'd, still, still ye meet my view, Ye still are left to hear my last adieu! My friends, my children, gor'd with many a wound, Whose mangled bodies strew the ensanguin'd ground, To parch and stiffen in the blaze of day, Consign'd to vultures, and to wolves a prey, Your toils are past; no more ye wake to feel Lust's savage gripe, or rapine's reeking steel! And Thou, to whom my wedded faith was given, On earth my solace, and my hope in heaven, Approv'd in manhood, as in youth ador'd, Belov'd while living, as in death deplor'd, O stay thy flight! Around this dreary shore A moment hover, and we part no more— On thy poor corpse, thy bleeding husband hangs, Counts all thy wounds, and feels thy ling'ring pangs— O righteous fathers! Thou whose fostering care Sustains creation, hear my dying prayer! Look down, look down on this devoted land, O'er my poor country stretch thy saving hand! O let the blood that streaming to the skies, Still flows in torrents—let that blood suffice! To thee the dreadful recompense belongs— To thy just vengeance I consign my wrongs; O vindicate the rights of nation's sway, And sweep the monsters from the blushing day!"

I. I know a Song, the magick of whose power Can save the Warrior in destruction's hour; From the fierce foe his falling vengeance charm, And wrest the weapon from his nervous arm. II. I know a Song, which, when in bonds I lay, Broke from the grinding chain its links away. While the sweet notes their swelling numbers rolled, Back flew the bolts, the trembling gates unfold; Free as the breeze the elastic limbs advance, Course the far field, or braid the enlivening dance. III. I know a Song, to mend the heart design'd, Quenching the fiery passions of mankind; When lurking hate and deadly rage combine, To charm the serpent of revenge is mine; By heavenly verse the furious deed restrain, And bid the lost affections live again. IV. I know a Song, which when the wild winds blow To bend the monarchs of the forests low, If to the lay my warbling voice incline, Waking its various tones with skill divine, Hush'd are the gales, the spirit of the storm Calms his bleak breath, and smooths his furrow'd form, The day look up, the dripping hills serene Through the faint clouds exalt their sparkling green.

The wind whistled loud! farmer Dobbin's wheat stack Fell down! The rain beat 'gainst his door! As he sat by the fire he heard the roof crack! The cat 'gan to mew and to put up her back! And the candle burnt—just as before! The farmer exclaimed with a piteous sigh, "To get rid of this curs'd noise and rout, "Wife gi'e us some ale." His dame straight did cry, Hemed and coughed three times three, then made this reply— "I can't mun! Why? 'cause the cask's out!" By the side of the fire sat Roger Gee-ho Who had finished his daily vocation, With Cicely, whose eyes were as black as a Sloe, A damsel indeed who had never said No, And because she ne'er had an occasion! All these were alarmed by the loud piercing cries, And were thrown in a terrible state, Till open the door, with wide staring eyes, They found to their joy, no less than surprise, "'Twas the old sow fast stuck in a gate!"

O when shall I visit the land of my birth, The loveliest land on the face of the earth? When shall I those scenes of affection explore, Our forests, our fountains, Our hamlets, our mountains, With the pride of our mountains, the maid I adore? O when shall I dance on the daisy white mead, In the shade of an elm, to the sound of the reed? When shall I return to thy lowly retreat, Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet? The lambs and the heifers that follow my call; My father, my mother, My sister, my brother, And dear Isabella, the joy of them all? O when shall I visit the land of my birth? 'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.

An Englishman invited once A German friend to dine On plain pot luck,—for such his phrase— And drink some good port wine. Mein Herr repaired at proper time With stomach for the treat: The viands on the table placed, Von Schlemmer took his seat. Soup, turkey, beef, by turns were serv'd, Mein Herr declin'd each one: Fowls, turtle, sauce, they follow'd next, Von Schlemmer tasted none. His host at length, by kindness urged, Press'd him to taste some duck: "Ach nein!" with groans Von Schlemmer said, "I vait for de Pot Luck."

"Forget me not," nor yet the song, Its plaintive notes our tears beguiling, The fatal words died on my tongue, And as you touch'd the trembling keys along, Through lucid gems I saw you sadly smiling. "Forget me not," ah! song of wo! For never more our joys uniting, With Sorrow's sigh no more to glow; No more shall Pity's tear together flow, Our love, our hopes, our joys forever blighting. "Forget me not," oh! ever dear, Let thrilling mem'ry o'er my fancy stealing, As next you sing "Forget me not," a tear Shall gently fall, my beating heart to cheer; I'll never thee forget while I have life and feeling.

In the vallies yet lingered the shadows of night, Though red on the glaciers the morning sun shone, When our moss-covered church-tower first broke on my sight, As I cross'd the vast oak o'er the cataract thrown. For beyond that old church-tower, embosomed in pines, Was the spot which contained all the bliss of my life, Near yon grey granite rock, where the red ash reclines, Stood the cottage where dwelt my loved children and wife. Long since did the blasts of the war-trumpet cease, The drum slept in silence, the colours were furled, Serene over France rose the day-star of Peace, And the beams of its splendour gave light to the world. When near to the land of my fathers I drew, And the drawn light her features of grandeur unveiled, As I caught the first glimpse of her ice-mountains blue, Our old native Alps with what rapture I hailed. "Oh! soon, I exclaimed, will those mountains be passed, And soon shall I stop at my own cottage door, There my children's caresses will greet me at last, And the arms of my wife will enfold me once more. "While the fulness of joy leaves me powerless to speak, Emotions which language can never define, When her sweet tears of transport drop warm on my cheek, And I feel her fond heart beat once more against mine. "Then my boy, when our tumults of rapture subside, Will anxiously ask how our soldiers have sped, Will flourish my bay'net with infantile pride, And exultingly place my plumed cap on his head. "Then my sweet girl will boast how her chamois has grown; And make him repeat all his antics with glee, Then she'll haste to the vine that she claims as her own, And fondly select its ripe clusters for me. "And when round our fire we assemble at night, With what interest they'll list to my tale of the war, How our shining arms gleamed on St. Bernard's vast height, While the clouds in white billows rolled under us far. "Then I'll tell how the legions of Austria we braved, How we fought on Marengo's victorious day, When the colours of conquest dejectedly wave Where streamed the last blood of the gallant Dessaix." 'Twas thus in fond fancy my bosom beat light As I crossed the rude bridge where the wild waters roll, When each well-known scene crowded fast on my sight, And Hope's glowing visions came warm to my soul. Through the pine-grove I hastened with footsteps of air Already my lov'd ones I felt in embrace, When I came—of my cot not a vestige was there— But a hilloc of snow was heap'd high in its place. The heart-rending story too soon did I hear— An avalanche, loosed from the near mountain's side, Our cottage o'erwhelmed in its thundering career, And beneath it my wife and my children had died.

Sweet, regretted, native shore; Shall I e'er behold thee more, And all the objects of my love: Thy streams so clear, Thy hills so dear, The mountain's brow, And cots below, Where once my feet were wont to rove? There with Isabella fair, Light of foot, and free from care, Shall I to the tabor bound? Or at eve, beneath the dale, Whisper soft my artless tale, And blissful tread on fairy ground? Oh! when shall I behold again My lowly cot and native plain, And every object dear; My father, and my mother, My sister and my brother, And calm their anxious fear.

With sorrow of heart I draw near, The tomb where my Werter's at rest, Soft pity oh, give me a tear I will lighten the woes of my breast. Sleep on thou dear shade, rest in peace, Undisturbed by the woes of my breast, For sure the soft slumber would cease If with grief you know me opprest. The meadow, the valley, the field, Recesses that once gave delight, Alas now how changed! for they yield Nothing gayful or joyous to sight. On the terrace I often remain, And the loss of my Werter deplore, While by the pale moon I complain, Her beams, his loved image restore. It was here the fond hope was inspired, That with gladness enlivens my heart That when this dull life is expired We shall meet again never to part. Yes, Werter, thy presage was just; To cherish the hope be my care, For should it forsake me, how must I combat with grief and despair.

Fair Ellen, was once the delight of the young; No damsel could with her compare; Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue, And bards without number in extacies sung The beauties of Ellen, the Fair. But Ellen, though lovers in regiments threw The darts of their eyes at her heart, From the sorrow no pitying sympathy knew; For, cold as an icicle-shower, they drew Not a drop from that petrified part. Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore A something that could not be found; Like a sailor it seem'd on a desolate shore, With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound, but the roar Of breakers high-dashing around. From object to object, still, still would she stray Yet nothing, alas! could she find; Through Novelty's mazes she rambled all day, And even at midnight, so restless, they say, In sleep would run after the wind. Nay, rather than sit like a statue so still, When the rain made her mansion a pound, Up and down would she go like the sails of a mill, And pat every stair, like a wood-pecker's bill, From the tiles of the roof to the ground. One morn, as the maid from her casement reclin'd, Pass'd a youth with a frame in his hand. The casement she clos'd; not the eye of her mind; For do all she could, no, she could not be blind; Still before her she saw the youth stand. "And what can he do," said the maid with a sigh, "Ah! what with that frame can he do? I wish I could know it." When suddenly by The youth pass'd again; and again did her eye The frame, and a sweet picture view. "Oh! sweet, lovely picture!" the fair Ellen sigh'd, "I must see thee again or I die;" Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied, And after the youth and the picture she hied, Till the youth, looking back, met her eye. "Fair damsel," said he (and he chuckled the while), "This picture, I see, you admire; Then take it, I beg you, perhaps 'twill beguile Some moments of sorrow: (pray pardon my smile) Or, at least, keep you home by the fire." Then Ellen the gift, with delight and surprise, From the cunning young stripling receiv'd. But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes, When beaming with rapture they gazed on her prize: Yet thus was fair Ellen deceiv'd! 'Twas a youth o'er the form of a statue inclin'd; And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone; Yet he languish'd, as though for its beauty he pin'd, And gaz'd, as the eyes of the statue so blind Reflected the beams of his own. 'Twas the tale of the sculptor, Pygmalion of old; Fair Ellen remember'd and sigh'd, "Ah! could'st thou but lift from that marble so cold, Thine eyes so enchanting, thy arms should enfold, And press me this day as thy bride." She said: when, behold, from the canvass arose The youth ... and he stepp'd from the frame; With a furious joy, his arms did enclose The love-plighted Ellen; and, clasping, he froze The blood of the maid with his flame! She turn'd and beheld on each shoulder a wing "Oh! heaven!" cried she, "who art thou?" From the roof to the ground did his fierce answer ring, When frowning, he thunder'd, "I am the Paint-King! And mine, lovely maid, thou art now!" Then high from the ground did the grim monster lift The loud-screaming maid, like a blast; And he sped through the air, like a meteor swift, While the clouds, wand'ring by him, did fearfully drift To the right and the left as he pass'd. Now, suddenly sloping his hurricane flight, With an eddying whirl he descends; The air all below him becomes black as night, And the ground where he treads, as if mov'd with affright, Like the surge of the Caspian bends. "I am here!" said the fiend, and he thundering knock'd At the gates of a mountainous cave: The gates open'd wide, as by magick unlock'd, While the peaks of the mount, reeling to and fro, rock'd, Like an island of ice on the wave. "Oh! mercy!" cried Ellen, and swoon'd in his arms. But the Paint-King, he scoff'd at her pain. "Prithee, love," said the monster, "what mean these alarms?" She hears not, she sees not the terrible charms That wake her to horror again. She opens her lids; but no longer her eyes Behold the fair youth she would woo: Now appears the Paint-King in his natural guise; His face, like a palette of villainous dies, Black and white, red and yellow, and blue. On a bright polish'd throne, of prismatical[47] spar, Sat the mosaick fiend like a clod; While he rear'd in his mouth a gigantick cigar Twice as big as the light-house, though seen from afar, On the coast of the stormy Cape Cod. And anon, as he puff'd the vast volumes, were seen, In horrid festoons on the wall, Legs and arms, head and bodies, emerging between; Like the drawing room grim of the Scotch Sawney Beane, By the Devil dress'd out for a ball. "Ah me!" cried the damsel, and fell at his feet, "Must I hang on these walls to be dried?" "Oh, no!" said the fiend, while he sprung from his seat, "A far nobler fortune thy person shall meet; Into paint will I grind thee, my bride!" Then, seizing the maid by her dark auburn hair, An oil-jug he plung'd her within. Seven days, seven nights, with the shrieks of despair Did Ellen in torment convulse the dim air, All cover'd with oil to the chin. On the morn of the eighth on a huge sable stone Then Ellen, all reeking, he laid; With a rock for his muller, he crush'd every bone; But though ground to jelly, still, still did she groan; For life had forsook not the maid. Now reaching his palette with masterly care, Each tint on the surface he spread; The blue of her eyes, and the brown of her hair, The pearl and the white of her forehead so fair And her lips' and her cheeks' rosy red. Then stamping his foot, did the monster exclaim, "Now I brave, cruel Fairy, thy scorn!" When lo! from a chasm unfathom'd there came A small tiny chariot of rose-colour'd flame, By a team of ten glowworms upborne. Enthron'd in the midst on an emerald bright, Fair Geraldine sat without peer; Her robe was the gleam of the first blush of light, And her mantle the fleece of a noon-cloud white, And a beam of the moon was her spear. In a voice that stole on the still charmed air, Like the first gentle accent of Eve, Thus spake from her chariot the Fairy so fair: "I come at thy call ... but, oh Paint-King! beware, Beware if again you deceive." "'Tis true," said the monster, "thou queen of my heart! Thy portrait I oft have essay'd; Yet ne'er to the canvass could I with my art The least of thy wonderful beauties impart; And my failure with scorn you repaid. "Now I swear, by the light of the Comet-King's tail!" And he tower'd with pride as he spoke, "If again with these magical colours I fail, The crater of Etna shall hence be my jail, And my food shall be sulphur and smoke. "But if I succeed, then, oh! fair Geraldine! Thy promise with rapture, I claim, And thou, queen of Fairies, shalt ever be mine The bride of my bed; and thy portrait divine Shall fill all the earth with my fame." He spake; when, behold the fair Geraldine's form On the canvass enchantingly glow'd; His touches, they flew like the leaves in a storm; And the pure, pearly white, and the carnation warm, Contending in harmony, flow'd. And now did the portrait a twin-sister seem To the figure of Geraldine fair: With the same sweet expression did faithfully teem Each muscle, each feature; in short, not a gleam Was lost of her beautiful hair. 'Twas the Fairy herself! but, alas! her blue eyes Still a pupil did ruefully lack; And who shall describe the terrifick surprise That seized the Paint-King, when, behold, he descries Not a speck on his palette of black. "I am lost!" said the fiend, and he shook like a leaf; When, casting his eyes to the ground, He saw the lost pupils of Ellen with grief In the jaws of a mouse, and the sly little thief Whisk away from his sight with a bound. "I am lost!" said the fiend, and he fell like a stone: Then rising the Fairy in ire, With a touch of her finger she loosen'd her zone, (While the limbs on the wall gave a terrible groan!) And she swell'd to a column of fire. Her spear now a thunder-bolt flash'd in the air, And sulphur the vault fill'd around: She smote the grim monster; and now by the hair High lifting, she hurl'd him in speechless despair Down the depths of the chasm profound. Then waving, with smiles, o'er the picture her spear, "Come forth!" said the good Geraldine; When, behold, from the canvass fair Ellen appear! In feature, in person more lovely than e'er, With grace more than ever divine!