User: Can you continue this poem for me?
  The present study is an extension of a thesis, presented to the
information accessible. As some of the translations and poems,
however, have been traced to Thomas Campbell, Sir Walter Scott,
William Wordsworth, Thomas Gray and others, whose works are to be
information about Germany in the same form in which readers of a
century ago received it. Mistakes are often interesting as
retained.
I am especially indebted to Professor Marion D. Learned, of the
University of Pennsylvania, at whose suggestion and under whose
inspiration the present investigation has been carried on.
The important influence which German literature has exercised on
form.
before 1790_, in the _Americana Germanica_, IV, No. 2.
Cf. also, Dr. Haney's monograph, _The German Influence on
American literature at this time was still subservient to that of
Cf. also, the remark of Francis Hopkinson, p. 194.]
appointed Professor of the French and German Languages, at
the University of Pennsylvania, which position he held for
twenty-one years. In 1780 a German Professorship of Philology
was established in the same institution. J. C. Kunze, the
first appointee, lectured in German on Latin and Greek. After
policy.
Before Edward Everett went abroad to study, however, American
Göttingen is described in the _Göttingische Anzeigen_ for
Sept. 13, 1766, which states that the session of the Royal
Society of Sciences held on the 19th of the preceding July
was more impressive than usual. "The two famous English
scholars, the royal physician, Mr. Pringle, and Mr. Benjamin
Franklin, from Pennsylvania, who happened to be at that time
in Göttingen on a trip through Germany, took their seats as
members of the society."
Cf. the account by Dr. E. J. James (_The Nation_, Apr. 18,
Influence upon Education in the United States_, published in
Cf. also, L. Viereck, _German Instruction in American
Silesia in July, 1800. This was in the form of twenty-nine
letters to his brother, written during the trip, and thirteen
more added after his return to Berlin. Although they were
private communications, the editor of the _Port Folio_
secured them for his magazine and printed them anonymously,
without suppressing personal references, as the author would
have done, had he known of the publication.
"Whether these passages ever came under the observation of
the persons affected is not certain. So long as they remained
confined to the columns of an American publication of that
day, the probabilities would favor the negative. But they
were not so confined. Again, without the knowledge or consent
of the author, an individual, unknown to him, but fully aware
of the facts in the case nevertheless took the collection
from the _Portfolio_ to London, and there had them printed
for his own benefit, in an octavo volume, in the year 1804.
From this copy they were rendered into German, and published
at Breslau the next year, with notes, by Frederick Albert
Zimmerman; and in 1807 a translation made into French, by J.
Dupuy, was published in Paris by Dentu.
"Thus it happened that these letters, originally intended as
purely familiar correspondence, obtained a free circulation
over a large part of Europe without the smallest agency on
the part of the author, or any opportunity to correct and
modify them as he certainly would have done had he ever
possessed the power."
The American publication began in the _Port Folio_, I-1, Jan.
Monthly Review or Literary Journal_, XLV-350, December, 1804,
A little later, in 1809, Alexander Hill Everett went to Russia as
while he was associated with John Quincy Adams in St.
Petersburg, where German influence was strong and the study
of the language and literature could be pursued under the
most favorable conditions. The _United States Magazine and
states that he studied at St. Petersburg, among other things,
the modern languages."
in America_ in the _Americana Germanica_, III, No. 2, p.
In America, likewise, German literature was made known to English
extracts, while on the other hand most of the lyric poems, being
short, could very easily be reprinted entire in translation. With
mentioned by Wilkens was in 1802, whereas single idyls had been
Bürger, _The Chase_ [Sir Walter Scott], Vol. II-413.
The last three, however, were also in Lewis' _Ambrosio or the
two from Goethe appeared in Lewis' collections, but no
editions of their poems exclusively were issued. Klopstock's
_Messiah_ was published three times before 1811, but not his
shorter poems.]
incidentally but no attempt has been made to investigate this
The scope of the present work comprises the American magazines
Canada. Periodicals in German, Spanish, French or other foreign
Newport, just three years before it was printed in _The Evening
Fireside_, II-165, Phila. This illustrates the importance of the
interesting information, and were carefully read by the general
The other type of publications, alluded to, is the miscellany. It
irrelevant publications, the field is a broad one and rich in
important material.
_A Book_, a periodical work, 1807, New York.
The investigator is moreover impeded in his progress by lack of
disappeared and left not a rack behind. The special student of
through the eyes of a more fortunate investigator." What is here
and their Contributors_, 1741-1850. Philadelphia, Robert M.
In spite of the difficulties just mentioned it has been possible,
possible for them to amass a fairly representative collection of
contemporaneous literature. On the other hand, more recent
institutions, like the Boston Public Library or the Library of
here included is based on a personal examination of about three
the beginning of Part V.]
In treating the German influence in the American magazines, it is
borrow. Then, too, books were expensive, because many had to be
imported from abroad, and those printed here could not be sold as
nowhere reached [an] advanced stage of effectiveness. In America,
important domestic news could be told in a few columns. All this
tended to keep the newspapers within moderate proportions, and
As far as can be learned, the magazine in this early period was
literature.'"
Tyler mentions the same conditions. "Our colonial journalism soon
periodicals in the development of American thought and culture is
All this is very pertinent to the subject. The importance of the
translations and poems, here reprinted, in bringing things German
interest here aroused was to increase many fold in the decades
immediately following.
The publication of translations of German poetry in the American
original, it is impossible to say, but these translators were
It may seem at first thought that relatively few poems have been
collected in proportion to the ground covered. There is a
discussed at a later time.
translations of German poetry and 10 duplicates; 68 original
duplicates.]
French in these magazines has been made, so that a numerical
comparison with those from the German is at present
impossible.]
There is another reason why these magazines did not contain more
influence was noticed also in England after 1810.]
translators. If the translator lived in England and his work was
simply reprinted in an American magazine, the literary activity
foreign poetry, the only difference being that the influence came
suppressed. In one instance an editor inserted a poem that had
subject has not been investigated with respect to the English
versions:
Another group of poems calling for some attention includes those
et Contes_ [trans. principally from the German of C. F.
Also, _Benevolence_, "A Fable from the German of Galleret"
No attempt is here made to discuss the critical estimate that the
considering the utility of the modern languages as opposed to the
Part IV, p. 194; also the remark of W. E. Channing, Part I,
letter entitled _Literary Industry of the Germans_, which decried
published, at Stettin, in Pomerania, a Prussian province, a
work, in English, on which he has laboured twenty-five years.
It contains _a view of all the English editions, translations
and illustrations of the ancient Greek and Latin authors_. In
the execution of this work, he has been at great expense,
being obliged to purchase and import a great number of
English books. This is a very curious specimen of learned
perseverance and labour. That a man should spend his life in
recounting the translations of ancient authors into a
language foreign to his own! It is one of the most difficult,
tiresome, unpopular, and unprofitable branches of the trade.
Germany, however, affords innumerable instances of this kind
of literary diligence. There is a press at Leipsic abundantly
supplied with editions and interpretations of Chinese,
Abyssinian, Coptic and Syriac productions."
"William Tell"_ is given in _The Constellation_, III-266,
imported from England, must have made Werter well known in this
possible for them to print translations of individual poems of an
through these poems in the magazines, or perhaps through imported
In England, likewise, the _Idyls_ were constantly on the
book-market and _The Death of Abel_ had 20 editions before
"Imitated rather than translated from a fragment introduced in
translations of prose works and by articles on German literature,
Description (with an elegant Engraving) of the celebrated Tomb of
parish church of Hindlebanck, two leagues from Berne.
Hark! the majestic sound! the trumpet hear!
See the astonish'd tombs give up their prey!
Oh God! my Savior! 'tis thy voice I hear!
And with my child, I come t'eternal day,
Awake my infant; open now thine eyes,
Leave the corruption of thy mortal birth,
Arise my child, to thy Redeemer rise,
And taste at length the joy denied on earth,
Before his face death must yield to life;
Hope to real joy ... there, purged from sins,
Serenety succeeds to grief and strife, Time flies...
Eternity begins.
(Translated from the German.)
The thunder rolls dreadfully through the dark sky,
To the cellar I quickly retire;
Think not that I wish from the thunder to fly;
No--'tis for the best wine to enquire.
Though Homer fired my youthful breast,
My tender fancy deep imprest,
Ere grief had made me smart:
Yet of him Ossian has ta'en place;
His woe-fraught strains, with solemn grace,
Now occupy my heart.
To what a world of direful kind,
The Bard illustrious leads my mind,
'Midst heaths and wilds to stray;
Where the fierce whirlwinds sweep the plain;
Where the moon feebly holds her reign;
And ghosts elude the day.
To hear from off the mountains steep,
The plaintive sounds, from caverns deep,
Of water's dismal roar:
To hear the maiden's doleful cries,
That on her warrior's tomb-stone dies,
Who her did much adore.
I meet this bard of silver hair,
He wanders in the valley drear,
Whilst grief his mind consumes:
His father's footsteps tries to trace
In vain, for time does them efface;
He only finds their tombs.
The pale moon sinks, amid the waves,
He contemplates her as she laves
Her tresses in the sea:
Reflects on time for ever gone,
When danger pleased and spurred him on,
Till every foe did flee.
When he returned on evening grey,
The moon shone on his Bark of prey,
His trophies won, displayed:
When by his countenance, I find
Deep-rooted sorrow fill his mind,
That youth so soon decayed.
When I perceive that glory bright
To fade so soon, to sink in night,
And tottering to the grave:
And when around he casts an eye
On the cold earth, where he must die,
The fate of e'en the brave.--
The traveller will come, he cries,
He'll come who saw my beauty rise,
And anxiously enquire;
Where is the bard and warrior gone,
Where is Fingal's illustrious son,
Whither does he retire.
Then searching o'er the field and mead,
He lightly on my tomb shall tread,
But me he ne'er shall find:
Then I, my friend, like a true knight,
My sword shall draw, my prince to right,
And ease his troubled mind.
And this atchieved, with grief opprest,
Could plunge it deep in my own breast,
And eager for him bleed:
To follow him now half divine,
Hero of the Fingalian line,
Who by my hand was freed.
_Universal Asylum and Columbian Mag._, VI-50, Jan. 1791, Phila.
A Pastoral Fragment from Gessner.
The moon retires--Nature's dark veil no more obscures the air and
dissipates the mists of night.
The roses open to salute the sun with genial dews; and the lilies
Thou hast wonderfully formed the veins of that fish which causes
rivers to overflow, and which makes whirlpools, and spreads
devastation with the flappings of his tail. Thou hast built the
(Translated from the German of Gesner, by W. Dunlap.)
(Translated from the German by Wm. Dunlap.)
Translated from the German of Gessner.
Imitated from the German of Gellert.
tarried behind the hill, attending to her musical cadences; and
Free translation of the first stanza; the second, containing the
application of the fable, omitted.]
Imitated from the German of Gellert.
Clarine's study to be agreeable, and by unwearied attention, to
overcome with agony he implores thy speedy relief."
(in imitation of Matthison).
Once more could I wish, ere yet my blest spirit
Sunk in Elysium, peaceful mansion of shades!
That spot t' revisit, where Infancy
In dreams aerial, play'd 'round my brows.
The shrub of my country, whose branches o'erspread
The cool nest of the patridge, waves gentler my friend,
Than all the gay forests of laurel
O'er the dust of the world's mighty conq'rors.
The streamlet of that mead, where in childhood
I cull'd early violets, more musically murmurs
'Midst the alders once rear'd by my sire,
Than the silver Blandusian fountain.
The hill, on which swains, in bands youthful and gay
Danc'd 'round the trunk of the sweet blossom'd poplar,
With greater rapture inspir'd my heart,
Than Alps dazzling heights in roset glimm'ring.
Therefore could I wish, ere yet my blest spirit
Sunk in Elysium, peaceful mansion of shades
That spot t' revisit, where infancy
In dreams aerial, play'd 'round my brows.
Then may death's smirking genius, of a sudden,
Extinguish life's taper, well pleas'd I'll hasten
To Xenophon and Plato's musing shade
And to Anacreon's myrtle tufted bow'r.
Imitated from the German of Gellert.
O'er Howard's tomb soft Pity weeps,
Bewailing still her favourite's fate;
And thence the Muse invokes her aid
Of kindred merit to relate.
Like him to sympathize with woe,
Like him to heal the broken mind;
And rear Affliction's drooping head,
Belinda's generous soul inclin'd.
But want of fortune oft, too oft,
Her charitable views withstood;
For what, alas! avails the will,
Without the power of doing good?
Her uncle dies and leaves his niece
A clear two thousand pounds per ann.
"Ah! now," she cries, "I'm blest indeed,
"I'll help the poor where'er I can."
Scarce had she spoke, when, at her door
An old decrepid wretch appears;
Bent on his crutch he begs an alms,
And moves her pity with his tears.
Belinda felt for his distress,
She heav'd a sigh and shook her head;
Then to this aged son of woe
Stretch'd forth a--crust of mouldy bread.
For virtue, freedom, human rights, to fall,
Beseems the brave: it is a Saviour's death.
Of heroes only the most pure of all,
Thus with their heart's blood tinge the battle-heath.
And this proud death is seemliest in the man
Who for a kindred race, a country bleeds:
Three hundred Spartans from the shining van
Of those, whom fame in this high triumph leads.
Great is the death for a good prince incurr'd;
Who wields the sceptre with benignant hand:
Well may for him the noble bare his sword,
Falling he earns the blessings of a land.
Death for a friend, parent, child, or her we love,
If not so great, is beauteous to behold:
This the fine tumults of the hearts approve;
It is the walk to death unbought of gold.
But for mere majesty to meet a wound--
Who holds that great or glorious, he mistakes:
That is the fury of the pamper'd hound,
Which envy, anger, or the whip, awakes.
And for a tyrant's sake to seek a jaunt
To hell ----'s a death which only hell enjoys;
Where such a hero falls--the gibbet plant,
A murderer's trophy, and a plunderer's prize.
A Ballad from Bürger.
The following translation (made some years since) of a celebrated
Come kiss me, little Charmer,
Nor suppose a kiss can harm you;
Kisses given, kisses taken,
Cannot now your fears awaken;
Give me then a hundred kisses
Number well those sweetest blisses,
And, on my life, I tell you true,
Tenfold I'll repay what's due,
When to snatch a kiss is bolder
And my fair one's ten years older.
Who is it that rides through the forest so fast,
While night frowns around him, while chill roars the blast?
The father, who holds his young son in his arm,
And close in his mantle has wrapped him up warm.
--"Why trembles my darling? Why shrinks he with fear?"
"Oh father! my father! the Erl-king is near!
The Erl-king, with his crown and his beard long and white!"
--"Oh! thine eyes are deceived by the vapours of night."
--"If you will, dear baby, with me go away,
I will give you fine clothes; we will play a fine play;
Fine flowers are growing, white, scarlet and blue,
On the banks of yon river, and all are for you."
--"Oh father! my father! and dost thou not hear
What words the Erl-king whispers low in mine ear?"--
--"Now hush thee, my darling, thy terrors appease:
Thou hear'st 'midst the branches when murmurs the breeze."
--"If you will, dear baby, with me go away,
My daughter shall tend you so fair and so gay;
My daughter, in purple and gold who is drest,
Shall nurse you, and kiss you, and sing you to rest."
--"Oh father! my father! and dost thou not see?
The Erl-king and his daughter are waiting for me?"
--"Now shame thee, my dearest! 'tis fear makes thee blind:
Thou seest the dark willows which wave in the wind."--
--"I love you! I dote on that face so divine!
I must and will have you, and force makes you mine!"
--"My father! my father! Oh hold me now fast!
He pulls me! he hurts, and will have me at last!"--
The father, he trembled; he doubled his speed:
O'er hills and through forests he spurred his black steed:
But when he arrived at his own castle-door,
Life throbbed in the sweet baby's bosom no more.
(The Original is Danish; but I read it in a German Translation.)
Cf. note to _The Erl-King_.
The original is in the _Kiampe Viiser_.]
(From the German of the celebrated Gessner.)
Translated from the German.
Set to music by Russ.
Sure not to life's short span confin'd,
Shall sacred friendship glow;
Beyond the grave the ardent mind,
Its best delights shall know.
Blest scenes! where ills no more annoy,
Where heav'n the flame approves;
Where beats the heart to nought but joy,
And ever lives and loves.
There friendship's matchless love shall shine,
(To hearts like ours so dear!)
There angels own its pow'r divine;
Its native home is there!
For here below, tho' friendship's charm
Its soft delights display;
Yet souls like ours, so touch'd, so warm,
Still pant for brighter day!
Attempted from the Idyls of Gessner.
The stormy winter drives us from the green,
Nor leaves a flower to decorate the scene;
The winds arise--with sweep impetuous blow,
And whirl around the flakes of fleecy snow;
Yet shall imagination fondly rise
And gather fair ideas as she flies:
The images that blooming spring pourtrays,
The sweets that bask in summer's sultry rays,
The rich and varied fruits of autumn's reign
Shall ope their treasures, in a bounteous train;
Of these the best, with choicest care display'd,
Shall form a wreath, for thee, my lovely maid!
So the fond shepherd, for his darling fair,
Culls beauteous flowers to deck her flowing hair.
The garden's rise shall grace my humble strains;
If Daphne smiles 'twill well repay my pains!
'Twas, in the morn of youth, a shepherd found
This happy art to decorate the ground;
This is the spot, the enamour'd Lycas cries,
Lycas the young, the gentle and the wise;
Under this elm, fair Adelaide first gave
The kiss of love to her devoted slave!
Whilst he, in am'rous accents told his flame,
With beating heart and agitated frame!
Here faint and weak my charmer sank to rest,
On the warm pillow of my panting breast!
"Lycas," with interrupting sobs, she said,
"Take the soft secret of an am'rous maid:
Of all the swains that strive this heart to move,
'Tis Lycas only Adelaide can love!
Ye peaceful groves--ye solitary springs--
To you I oft confess'd my secret stings!
And ye, sweet flowers bear witness to the truth
Of the soft flame that prey'd upon my youth;
Oft have your leaves that round me clust'ring grew,
Drank my warm tears as drops of morning dew."
My heart is full--what transport is my own!
For, in my bosom, love has fixed his throne.
Sacred to love this spot shall ever stand
Deck'd with luxuriant beauties by my hands.
Under this elm, the shadiest of the trees,
The rose shall pour its odours on the breeze;
Around its trunk the woodbine too shall rear
Its white and purple flowers aloft in air.
The treasures of the spring shall hither flow;
The piony by the lily here shall blow.
Over the hills, and through the meads I'll roam,
And bring the blooming spoils in rapture home:
The purple violet, the pink shall join,
The od'rous shrubs shall all their sweets combine,
Of these a grove of balmy sort shall rise,
And, with its fragrant blossoms, scent the skies!
Then round this little favour'd isle, I'll bring,
With gentle windings, yonder silver spring;
While eglantine and thorn shall interpose
Their hedge, a rampart 'gainst invading foes--
Lest sheep and rambling goats the place annoy,
And spoil the promise of our future joy.
Oh then approach, ye favour'd of the loves!
Come and dwell here ye gentle turtle doves!
On yonder spreading branches, perch'd on high,
With coos repeated greet the lover's sigh!
Then sportive sparrows round the roses play,
And sing, delighted, from the bending spray!
Ye butterflies, arrayed in coats of gold,
On beds of roses fluttering revels hold!
Here rest, upon the lily's waving stalk,
And add new beauty to the evening walk.
Then shall the shepherd passing, free from care,
When zephyr spreads the perfumes thro' the air,
Inhale the fragrance, and with transport cry,
What hallow'd place is this? what goddess nigh?
Does Venus own this gay, enchanted place?
Or has Diana, wearied in the chace,
Chosen a spot where choicest sweets abound,
To slumber on the consecrated ground?
An idyl, attempted from the German of Gessner.
At peaceful eve, Myrtillo sought the lake,
Whilst the moon's beams upon its bosom played;
The silent tract, illumin'd by its rays,
The nightingale's enchanting tender note,
Had held him bound in rapture's soothing trance.
At length, arous'd, he homeward took his steps,
And in the verdant bower, where clust'ring vines
Before his lonely dwelling formed a porch
Of simple structure, deeply slumbering found
His venerable parent--his grey head
Supported by his arm, while through the leaves
The moon-beams pour'd their lustre on his face.
With arms enfolded, and with swelling heart,
He stood before his father--long he stood,
His pious eyes fix'd fondly on the sage,
Then rais'd them, swimming with his filial tears,
And thro' the illumin'd leaves look'd up to heaven,
Whilst grateful drops roll'd down his moisten'd cheek.
Oh thou! at length he cried, whom, next the gods,
I reverence, my father--ah, how soft
Thy peaceful slumbers! Of the just and good
How placid is the sleep! Thy tottering steps
Were, doubtless, hither bent, in silent prayer
To spend the hour of eve; but, at thy task
Of duty, slumber seiz'd thee, whilst, for me,
Thy prayer of love was wing'd into the skies,
How happy is my lot! the fav'ring gods
Must hear thy fond petition; else, why stands
Our cot secure, amid the branches, bent
With ripening fruit? why, else, such blessings shower'd
Upon our healthy, fast increasing herd?
Upon the golden produce of our fields?
When oft the tear of joy bedew'd thy cheek,
To see me, anxious, cherish and support
Thy feeble age; when, towards the vault of heaven,
You turn'd your swimming eyes, and blest your son;
Ah! then, what words his blessings could express!
My bosom swell'd with transport, and the tears
O'erflow'd my glowing cheeks--
When yester morn, reclining on my arm,
You left our cot to feel the quickening beams
Of the warm sun, and saw about thee sport
The frolic herd, the trees, with fruit o'ercharg'd,
And all the fertile country blooming round,
"My hairs grow grey in peace," were then thy words;
"Fields of my youth, be ever, ever blest!
"My eyes, grow dim, shall not much longer view
"Your heart-delighting scenes, for happier plains
"Must I exchange you--plains beyond the skies."
Ah, father, best belov'd, must I so soon
Lose thee! my nearest friend!--distressing thought!
Close to thy tomb, with filial love, I'll raise
A modest altar, and with ardour seek
Each blest occasion to relieve the woes
Of the oppressed and wretched; on each day,
That gives the happy chance of doing good,
I'll pour sweet milk upon a parent's grave,
And strew with flowers the ever sacred spot--
He paus'd but kept his eyes, suffus'd with tears,
Fix'd on the good old man; then, sighing; said,
How still he lies, and smiles amidst his slumbers!
Some of his virtuous deeds must hover o'er,
In peaceful dreams, and fill his cheerful soul;
Whilst the moon pours her rays upon his bare
And shining temples, and his silver beard;
Oh may the breeze, and dewy damps of eve--
Do thee no harm. Then gently did he kiss
His aged forehead, gently wak'd him up,
And led him to his cot, in lighter sleep,
On softest furs, to slumber out the night.
Attempted from Gessner.
Whither so early sister, ere the sun,
Has, from behind yon hill, his course begun?
Scarce has the swallow to the morning ray,
Ventur'd to modulate his twittering lay.
The early cock, whom richest plumes adorn
Has yet but faintly hail'd the golden morn;
Whilst thou, to some unknown attraction true,
With hasty footsteps brush the silv'ry dew!
What festival to-day, do you prepare,
For fill'd with flowers, your basket scents the air.
Welcome dear brother, whither points thy way,
Amidst the chilly damps of early day?
On what fair purpose from yon new form'd bower,
Hast thou come forth at twilight's silent hour?
For me--I've pluck'd the violet and the rose,
And sought each flower that round our cottage grows.
Whilst o'er our parents gentle slumbers spread
Their wings, I'll strew them on their peaceful bed;
Then when the sunbeams gild the glowing skies
Midst fragrant scents, they'll ope their aged eyes;
Their hearts shall then with pious joy rebound,
To find the blooming flowers, clust'ring round.
My best belov'd, not life itself can prove,
Pleasing to me without a sister's love.
For me, dear girl, when yester eve we met,
Just as the sun had made a golden set,
Our parent, resting on our fav'rite hill,
Whilst we with fond attention watch'd his will;
"How sweet (he cried) on yonder spot to rear,
A shady bower to rest in, free from care!"
I heard his wish as though I heard it not,
Yet kept my thoughts fix'd firmly on the spot,
And ere her early beams Aurora sent,
My hasty steps toward the hill I bent,
And rear'd the bower and to its verdant side,
The waving, hazle branches, closely tied;
See, sister, see, the work at length is done;
Betray me not till I've his blessing won,
Till he himself shall thither bend his way;
Ah, then, with joy we'll celebrate the day.
How grateful, brother, will be his surprize,
When first the distant bower shall greet his eyes!
But let me haste and gently o'er their bed,
My morning offering of fragrance spread.
When they shall wake amid the fragrant pile,
They'll greet each other with a tender smile;
And say, this is our Daphne's work, sweet child;
Thus has our love the morning hours beguil'd.
For our delight, how tender 'tis to keep
A studious care whilst we were lock'd in sleep.
Yes, brother, when at his accustomed hour,
Opening his casement he shall view thy bower,
"Sure (he'll exclaim) I do not see aright,
Or on yon hill an arbor greets my sight;
Yes, that is Myrtil's work,--for this bereft
Of his sweet sleep, his nightly couch he left:
Such are the plans, his filial thoughts engage,
And thus he soothes our fast declining age."
And when with joy we'll greet the morning ray,
With joy we'll celebrate the happy day,
Each work to-day commenc'd shall prosper well,
And peace and joy in every grove shall dwell.
Delia! when in your lover's eyes,
At your approach soft lustre rise,
When with charm'd ear, from thy sweet tongue,
He listens to the thrilling song,
O'er saddest scenes delights you fling,
And winter wears the smile of spring.
When o'er the mead with you I stray,
More fragrant is the new-mown hay,
When gath'ring flow'rets at your side,
The buds more vivid swell with pride,
And bend, your snowy hand to meet,
Or am'rous twine beneath your feet.
But when within your arms you press me,
When with a long, long kiss you bless me,
Ah! then in vain, the fairest flow'rs
Exert their balmy-breathing pow'rs;
In vain her sweets does Nature bring,
In vain she wears the smile of spring.
Then Delia! nought on earth but thee,
My ravish'd senses feel or see,
With Love's wild frenzy then possessed,
Assistant: Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  My trembling heart beats 'gainst thy breast,
Then fondly sink, o'erpower'd with bliss,
Only alive to Delia's kiss.
A Tale, from the German.
"Ah, William! art thou false or dead?"
Cried Leonora from her bed.
"I dreamt thou'dst ne'er return."
William had fought in Frederick's host
At Prague--and what his fate--if lost
Or false, she could not learn.
Hungaria's queen and Prussia's king,
Wearied, at length with bickering,
Resolv'd to end the strife;
And homewards, then, their separate routs
The armies took, with songs and shouts,
With cymbals, drum and fife.
As deck'd with boughs they march'd along,
From every door, the old and young
Rush'd forth the troops to greet.
"Thank God," each child and parent cry'd,
And "welcome, welcome," many a bride,
As friends long parted meet.
They joy'd, poor Leonora griev'd:
No kiss she gave, no kiss receiv'd;
Of William none could tell;
She rung her hands, and tore her hair;
Till left alone in deep despair,
Bereft of sense, she fell.
Swift to her aid her mother came,
"Ah! say," cried she, "in mercy's name,
"What means this frantic grief?"
"Mother 'tis past--all hopes are fled,
"God hath no mercy, William's dead,
"My woe is past relief."
"Pardon, O pardon, Lord above!
"My child, with pray'rs invoke his love,
"The Almighty never errs?"
"O, mother! mother! idle prate,
"Can he be anxious for my fate,
"Who never heard my prayers?"
"Be patient child, in God believe,
"The good he can, and will relieve,
"To trust his power endeavour."
"O, mother! mother! all is vain,
"What trust can bring to life again?
"The past, is past for ever."
"Who knows, but that he yet survives;
"Perchance, far off from hence he lives,
"And thinks no more of you.
"Forget, forget, the faithless youth,
"Away with grief, your sorrow soothe,
"Since William proves untrue."
"Mother, all hope has fled my mind,
"The past, is past, our God's unkind;
"Why did he give me breath?
"Oh that this hated loathsome light
"Would fade for ever from my sight,
"Come, death, come, welcome death!"
"Indulgent Father, spare my child,
"Her agony hath made her wild,
"She knows not what she does.
"Daughter, forget thy earthly love,
"Look up to him who reigns above,
"Where joys succeed to woes."
"Mother what now are joys to me?
"With William, Hell a Heaven could be,
"Without him, Heaven a Hell.
"Fade, fade away, thou hated light,
"Death bear me hence to endless night,
"With love all hope farewell."
Thus rashly, Leonora strove
To doubt the truth of heavenly love.
She wept, and beat her breast;
She pray'd for death, until the moon
With all the stars with silence shone,
And sooth'd the world to rest.
When, hark! without, what sudden sound!
She hears a trampling o'er the ground,
Some horseman must be near!
He stops, he rings, Hark! as the noise
Dies soft away, a well-known voice
Thus greets her list'ning ear.
"Wake, Leonora;--dost thou sleep,
"Or thoughtless laugh, or constant weep,
"Is William welcome home?"
"Dear William, you!--return'd, and well!
"I've wak'd and wept--but why, ah! tell,
"So late--at night you come?"
"At midnight only dare we roam,
"For thee from Prague, though late, I come."
"For me!--stay here and rest;
"The wild winds whistle o'er the waste,
"Ah, dear William! why such haste?
"First warm thee in my breast."
"Let the winds whistle o'er the waste,
"My duty bids me be in haste;
"Quick, mount upon my steed:
"Let the winds whistle far and wide,
"Ere morn, two hundred leagues we'll ride,
"To reach our marriage bed."
"What, William! for a bridal room,
"Travel to night so far from home?"
"Leonora, 'tis decreed.
"Look round thee, love, the moon shines clear,
"The dead ride swiftly; never fear,
"We'll reach our marriage bed."
"Ah, William! whither would'st thou speed,
"What! where! this distant marriage bed?"
"Leonora, no delay.
"'Tis far from hence; still--cold--and small:
"Six planks, no more, compose it all;
"Our guests await, away!"
She lightly on the courser sprung,
And her white arms round William flung,
Like to a lily wreath.
In swiftest gallop off they go,
The stones and sparks around them throw,
And pant the way for breath.
The objects fly on every side,
The bridges thunder as they ride;
"Art thou my love afraid?
"Death swiftly rides, the moon shines clear,
"The dead doth Leonora fear?"
"Ah, no! why name the dead?"
Hark! as their rapid course they urge,
A passing bell, a solemn dirge;
Hoarse ravens join the strain.
They see a coffin on a bier,
A priest and mourners too appear,
Slow moving o'er the plain.
And sad was heard the funeral lay;
"What the Lord gives, he takes away;
"Life's but a fleeting shade.
"A tale that's told,--a flower that falls;
"Death, when the least expected, calls,
"And bears us to his bed."
"Forbear;"--imperious William cry'd
"I carry home, a beauteous bride,
"Come, to our marriage feast;
"Mourners, away, we want your song;
"And as we swiftly haste along,
"Give us your blessing, priest.
"Sing on, that life is like a shade;
"A tale that's told, or flowers which fade:
"Such strains will yield delight.
"And, when we to our chamber go,
"Bury your dead, with wail and woe;
"The service suits the night."
While William speaks, they silent stand,
Then run obedient to command,
But, on with furious bound,
The foaming courser forward flew,
Fire and stones his heels pursue,
Like whirlwinds dash'd around.
On right and left, on left and right,
Trees, hills, and towns flew past their sight,
As on they breathless prest;
"With the bright moon, like death we speed,
"Doth Leonora fear the dead?"
"Ah! leave the dead at rest."
Behold, where in the moon's pale beam,
As wheels and gibbets faintly gleam,
Join'd hand in hand, a crowd
Of imps and spectres hover nigh,
Or round a wasted wretch they fly,
When William calls aloud:
"Hither, ye airy rabble, come,
"And follow till I reach my home;
"We want a marriage dance."
As when the leaves on wither'd trees,
Are rustled by an edying breeze,
The muttering sprites advance.
But, soon with hurried steps, the crew
Rush'd prattling on, for William flew,
Clasp'd by the frighted fair:
Swifter than shafts, or than the wind,
While struck from earth fire flash'd behind,
Like lightnings through the air.
Not only flew the landscape by,
The clouds and stars appear'd to fly.
"Thus over hills and heath
"We ride like death; say, lovely maid,
"By moon-light dost thou fear the dead?"
"Ah! speak no more of death."
"The cock hath crow'd--Away! away!
"The sand ebbs out: I scent the day.
"On! on! away from here!
"Soon must our destin'd course be run,
"The dead ride swift,--hurrah! 'tis done,
"The marriage bed is near."
High grated iron doors, in vain
Barr'd their way.--With loosened rein
Whil'st William urg'd the steed,
He struck the bolts;--they open flew,
A churchyard drear appear'd in view;
Their path was o'er the dead.
As now, half veil'd by clouds, the moon
With feebler ray, o'er objects shone,
Where tombstones faint appear,
A grave new dug arrests the pair,
Cry'd William, and embrac'd the fair,
"Our marriage bed is here."
Scarce had he spoke, when, dire to tell,
His flesh like touchwood from him fell,
His eyes forsook his head.
A skull, and naked bones alone,
Supply the place of William gone,
'Twas Death that clasp'd the maid.
Wild, snorting fire, the courser rear'd,
As wrapp'd in smoke he disappear'd,
Poor Leonora fell;
The hideous spectres hover round,
Deep groans she hears from under ground,
And fiends ascend from hell.
They dance, and say, in dreadful howl,
"She asks no mercy for her soul;
"Her earthly course is done.
"When mortals, rash and impious! dare
"Contend with God, and court despair,
"We claim them as our own."
"Yet," thus was heard, in milder strains,
"Call on the Lord, while life remains,
"Unite your heart to his;
"When man repents and is resign'd,
"God loves to soothe his suff'ring mind,
"And grant him future bliss."
"We claim as ours, who impious dare
"Contend with God, and court despair;"
Again the spectres cry'd.
"Fate threats in vain, when man's resign'd,
"God loves to soothe the suff'ring mind,"
The gentler voice reply'd.
Leonora, e'er her sense was gone,
Thus faint exclaim'd,--"thy Will be done,
"Lord, let thy anger cease."
Soft on the wind was borne the pray'r;
The spectres vanish'd into air,
And all was hush'd in peace.
Now redd'ning tints the skies adorn,
And streaks of gold, proclaim the morn;
The night is chas'd away.
The sun ascends, new warmth he gives,
New hope, new joy; all nature lives,
And hails the glorious day.
No more are dreadful fantoms near;
Love and his smiling train, appear;
They cull each sweetest flow'r,
To scatter o'er the path of youth,
To deck the bridal bed, when Truth
And Beauty own their pow'r.
Ah,--could your pow'r avert the blast
Which threatens Bliss!--could passion last!
Ye dear enchanters tell;
What purer joy could Heaven bestow,
Than when with shar'd affection's glow
Our panting bosoms swell?
Sweet spirits wave the airy wand,
Two faithful hearts your care demand;
Lo! bounding o'er the plain,
Led by your charm, a youth returns;
With hope, his breast impatient burns;
Hope is not always vain.
"Wake, Leonora!--wake to Love!
For thee, his choicest wreath he wove;"
Death vainly aim'd his Dart.
The Past was all a dream; she woke--
He lives;--'twas William's self who spoke,
And clasp'd her to his Heart.
Your sincere well-wisher,
Attempted from Gessner.
The gloomy tempest, Daphne, has blown o'er,
The thunder's awful voice is heard no more;
Tremble not then, my girl, the lightning's blaze
Through the dark cloud, no longer darts its rays.
Let us this arbour leave, the blue sky greet,
For, see, the sheep that sought this safe retreat,
Now from their fleeces shake the drops of rain,
And spread them o'er the bright'ning mead again,
Let us then leave this fav'rite shelt'ring bower,
To taste the beauties of this balmy hour;
To view the sunbeams gild the moisten'd ground,
And throw their rich and radiant glory round.
As from the grotto, hand in hand they past,
The gentle Daphne on her partner cast
Her swimming eyes, pressing his honest hand.
How lovely looks the gay, the smiling land,
She said; while through the scattering cloud appears
The blue sky, dissipating all our fears.
The clouds, as through the air they quickly pass,
Hurry their shadows o'er the glist'ning grass.
See, Damon, now, o'er yonder hill they throw
Their shade o'er herds and cottages, and lo!
They're flown, and while o'er flowery meads they run,
The hill's again illumin'd by the sun.
The rainbow view, from hill to hill expand,
Its radiant arches o'er the laughing land;
'Midst the grey cloud, a happy omen shows;
With peace and safety every colour glows:
The quiet valley smiles beneath its beams,
And owns its beauties in her gliding streams.
Daphne with gentle arm embrac'd her swain;
And cried;
See balmy zephyrs breathe again;
More cheerful with the flowers they sport and play,
Dress'd by the drops of rain and light of day.
The butterflies, in richest coats array'd,
And fluttering insects joy to leave the shade,
Their velvet wings in quick vibrations shake,
While on the surface of the neighbouring lake,
Of shrubs and willows, wash'd from every stain,
The trembling branches glitter once again;
Again the peasant in its bosom sees
The heaven's blue concave and the spreading trees.
Daphne, embrace me with thy circling arms,
What sacred joy my swelling bosom warms,
Where'er we turn what glories meet our eyes,
What unexhausted springs of rapture rise.
From the least plant to the bright star of day,
That kindles nature with its quickening ray,
All, all, our admiration ought to raise,
And tune our voices to the notes of praise!
How my heart swells, when from yon mountain's brow,
I view the spreading country stretch'd below.
Or, when amid the grass, in rural ease,
Laying my limbs beneath the branching trees,
I contemplate the various flowers and plants,
And their minutely fine inhabitants.
Or when amid the solemn hours of night,
I view the stars adorn the heavens with light;
The grateful changes of the seasons trace,
The progress of the vegetable race.
When all these wonders thro' my senses roll,
They fill with purest awe my swelling soul;
Thoughts urge on thoughts in quick successive birth,
Weeping, I kneel to him who made the earth;
To him, my admiration I confess,
Father of light, of life, of every bliss:
Nought then my soul with equal joy can move,
Save the delight to know my Daphne's love.
Damon, around me also wonders rise,
And fill my bosom with a sweet surprize.
Oh let us then, lock'd in a soft embrace,
When Morn approaching lifts her ruddy face,
When gentle Eve her milder beauties shows,
Or moonlight through the air its radiance throws,
Thus let our thoughts upon such objects rest,
Whilst to each others beating bosoms prest,
In broken accents we our wonder own,
And turn our minds tow'rds heaven's eternal throne.
How inexpressible is the delight,
When transports such as these, with tend'rest love unite.
That insects think, as well as speak,
Needs, at this day, small eloquence to show;
Esop, whom even children prize in Greek,
Affirm'd as much, some thousand years ago.
Fontaine, in French, asserted just the same;
Who then shall dare deny the reptile claim
To faculties, the world esteems so low,
As scarce to notice, if you think or no?
Within a temple, where the builder's art,
Grandeur and elegance at once had join'd;
While due proportion, reign'd in every part,
And simple grace, with solid strength combin'd.
In such a temple's wall, sat perch'd on high,
A solemn, thoughtful, philosophic fly.
For flies, an air so grave, of wisdom take,
And on one leg, the head will often hold,
And into wrinkles, oft the forehead fold,
Only because they deep reflection's make;
And to the bottom dive to know,
The source of all things here below.
Thus then, involv'd in contemplation deep,
With half a dozen wrinkles on his brow,
This fly began, around himself to peep,
And question whence the building rose, and how?
No _maker_ of this work can I perceive,
Quoth he--and that there is one, scarce believe;
For who should such a maker be?
"Art," said a spider sage. "Art built the work you see,
For, wheresoever turns your eye,
Fix'd laws, and order you descry;
And hence, a fair conclusion grows,
That from the hand of Art, the building rose."
At this the fly, in his conceptions proud,
Laugh'd out aloud,
And with a sneer of scorn, replied--
"Most learned sir, I oft have tried,
At this same Art to get a sight,
But never on him yet could light;
And now, the more I think, the more I find,
Your Art is but a fiction of the mind.
Now learn from me how this same temple grew:
Once on a time, it so by chance befel
That pebbles numberless together flew,
And settling, form'd this hollow shell,
Where you, and I, friend spider, dwell;
Say, what can be more evidently true?"
A fly, for such a system, we forgive;
But if great geniuses should live,
Who deem this world's well-order'd frame,
Sprung from blind accident alone,
And chance, as author of their lives proclaim,
Rather than bow to God's eternal throne,
The sole excuse a creed, like this admits,
Is, that its votaries have lost their wits.
Oh, youth, from what I now relate,
While gentle tears bedew your eyes,
Lament the lover's hapless fate,
And learn, what woes from love arise.
A youth of exemplary worth,
The comfort of his aged sire,
Whose virtues, early bursting forth,
The fairest hopes might well inspire.
By beauty's potent charms subdued,
For Chloe felt a tender pain;
Her equal love with ardour sued,
But found his fond entreaties vain.
While at her feet he pleads his flame,
The cruel Chloe bids him fly;
Yes! cried he, yes! insulting dame,
You never more shall hear me sigh.
Then, on his sword, his hand he lays,
While wild despair his gestures breathe;
Draws it--the deadly point surveys,
And thrusts it--_back into its sheath_.
While yon enlivening orb of day
To William yields its light,
He to no other lass will stray
Nor faithful Anna slight.
Thus Will to Nance, with ardour, said;
And kept his word, I ween,
Nor, till the sun had gone to bed,
Met Sophy on the green.
A bear, who long had danced for bread,
One morning from his keeper fled;
Back to his native woods retreated,
And, by his brother brutes, was kindly greeted:
Their joy to see him made the forest roar,
They lick'd his chaps, they stroak'd him with the paw;
And when each bear his neighbour saw,
Their news was, So!--Our Bruin's here once more.
Straightway the travell'd youth went on
All his adventures to relate,
And whatsoever he had seen, or done,
Or heard, in foreign parts to state.
And when it came the turn to tell
His dancing deeds, to capering he fell,
As though his former master's chain
Were fasten'd round his neck again.
Bears of the woods are seldom trained to dance;
Yet, seeing Bruin throw his limbs about,
The fancy seiz'd them all, themselves to prance,
And strive, with clumsy aim, his motions to make out.
Scarce one of all the brood but quickly trip'd,
And stumbling, staggering, fell his whole length down;
The more they fail'd, the brisker Bruin skip'd,
To show their skill at fault and prove his own.
But now, their fury kindles at his play;
Away! Begone, you tumbling fool! they bawl;
Must you, forsooth, be wiser than us all?
And straight, with one accord, they hooted him away.
Your neighbour's hatred would you shun?
His talents to surpass beware!
And still the higher your attainments run,
Conceal them still with greater care.
For though, at first, the voice of fame
Shall sound your praises to the sky:
Anon shall Envy blast your name,
And turn your fairest arts to crimes of deepest dye.
Imitated from the German of Galleret.
Say, who could mope in joyless plight,
While youth and spring bedeck the scene,
And scorn the profer'd gay delight,
With thankless heart and frowning mien?
See Joy with becks and smiles appear,
While roses strew the devious way;
The feast of life she bids us share,
Where'er our pilgrim footsteps stray.
And still the grove is cool and green,
And clear the bubbling fountain flows,
Still shines the night's resplendent queen,
As erst in Paradise she rose:
The grapes their purple nectar pour,
To 'suage the heart that griefs oppress;
And still the lonely ev'ning bow'r
Invites and screens the stolen kiss.
Still Philomela's melting strain,
Responsive to the dying gale,
Beguiles the bosom's throbbing pain,
And sweetly charms the list'ning vale;
Creation's scene expanded lies:--
Blest scene! how wond'rous bright and fair!
Till Death's cold hand shall close my eyes,
Let me the lavish'd bounties share!
Et vos, O lauri, carpam, et te proxima myrtus,
Sic positae, quoniam suaves miscetis odores.
I am, yours
I ask'd my fair, one happy day,
What should I call her in my lay,
By what sweet name, from Rome or Greece,
Ah, replied my gentle fair,
Beloved, what are names but air?
Take thou whatever suits the line,
But don't forget to call me--_thine_.
Translated from the French of Gessner.
It flies! the vessel flies, that bears away
To distant shores my Daphne, fair as May.
Guard her, ye loves! be lull'd each ruder gale;
Let Zephyrs only fill the swelling sail;
Ye waves flow gently by the vessel's side,
While pensive she surveys you idly glide;
Ah! softly glide, prolong her reverie,
For then, ye Gods! 'tis then she thinks of me.
When near the nodding groves that shade the shore,
To her, ye birds, your sweetest warbling pour;
No sounds be heard, but such as gently sooth,
And be, O sea, thy azure surface smooth.
Ne'er since thy daughters sought their liquid caves,
A lovelier charge, was trusted to thy waves.
Her clear, her bright unsullied beauty shews
The lilly's white, and freshness of the rose.
Not Venus had more charms, more beauteous bloom,
When, rising from the sea's resplendent foam,
She smiling mounted first her silver car,
And shone effulgent as the morning star.
The enchanted Tritons left their noisy sport,
And nymphs cerulian in their crystal court;
Regardless of their frowns, or jealous smiles,
While beauty's queen each eager eye beguiles.
They gaze, and held in most delightful trance,
Pursue her moving o'er the smooth expanse.
"Lobt den Herrn! Die morgensonne."
O praise the Lord! the morning sun,
From sleep awakes the cheerful swain;
And all creation's joys again,
To us, in streams renewed, run.
O praise the Lord! ye sweetest flow'rs,
To him your earliest fragrance yield;
Ye birds exert your tuneful pow'rs;
Praise him in meadow and in field.
O praise the Lord!--Ev'n from his den
The desert's savage roars his praise;
And, oh! my soul! how much more then,
Should'st thou thy voice in Paeans raise?
"Freude wirbelt in den Lüften."
Joy comes laughing with the breeze;
Gladness spreads itself around;
Songsters warble in the trees;
Nature gaily decks the ground.
Heav'n unfolds its richest vesture,
Sparkling stars--etherial blue;
Fairies dance with antic gesture;
Or sip, delighted, morning dew.
Gentle, smiling, Zephyrs, wander,
Thro' the groves of verdant green;
Toying with the lilac yonder--
Here, with the rose of blooming mien.
Humming bees, on wafer pinions,
Careful, thro' the blossoms roam:
Searching all their flow'r dominions,
The nectar tribute gather home.
In th'embroider'd violet vale,
Love, attended by the Graces,
Tells his soft bewitching tale,
While blushing fair ones hide their faces.
How beautiful is the creation,
In this time of mirth and joy?
All is life--all animation:
Nought our pleasures to annoy.
"Alles was odem hat, lobe den Herrn!"
All ye that live and breathe, O praise the Lord!
With holy streams of joy, and exultation,
Our souls are penetrated.
O taste and see, how great, how good He is!
His love and mercy, his truth and grace alone,
Leads us to joys eternal.
O ye enwraptur'd souls that serve the Lord
Love is your felicity.
Thirst on, our souls--thirst for the living streams;
Bless'd and holy! and for ever love Him!
Who us, in love, created.
Yes, we'll love and adore Him! yes, the dust
Loves its Redeemer; and all our anxious tears
Himself shall wipe away.
A Song of Shoe-maker, William.
Though idlers riot, eat and drink,
And on soft downy pillows sink,
They are not free from woe:
For every man must have his share
Of trouble, and must know best where
_The shoe does pinch his toe_.
When rainy, wise men boots will wear,
But shoes put on when all is fair,
And take times as they go;
No man that ever wore a shoe
Will say if he be fair and true,
_It never pinch'd his toe_.
Imitated from the German of Gellert.
Wie des morgens helle licht
Die dunkeln 'nachts durchbricht,
Und die ganze welt erfrout
Mit des tages herlichkeit
So wann grosse traurigkeit--
Laest den menschen keine freud,
Wann verzweiflung angst und schmertze
Fuelt das arme, banges hertze.
Geht die sonne _Hoffnungs_ auf,
Und im traur'gem brust sein lauf
Beginnt; dann flichtet traurigkeit,
Und die brust ist voller freud.
Von verzweiflung, angst und schmertze
Ist befreyt das bange hertze,
O! es bringt die _Hoffnungs_ sonne,
Seeligkeit, und grosse wonne.
* * *A poetical translation is requested.
Of Adelio's German Lines in last Repository.
As does the morn's resplendent light
Dispel the gloomy shades of night,
And the whole universe delight,
With the day's illustrious sight--
So when the adverse fates decree
Nothing to man but misery,
When they despair and pain impart
To the keen agonized heart--
Then does his course, _Hope's_ sun from rest
Take thro' the troubled heaving breast;
Then disappears adversity,
And leaves behind felicity.
Exempt from horror is the breast,
Despair and pain sink into rest;
The sun of _Hope_ affords delight,
And happiness supremely bright.
So at the midnight hour draws nigh to the slumbering city
Over wine not unhallow'd, in shelter of odorous bowers,
Pouncing over them, over them spread; in a day of moaning and
Furious curses the day on which she bore, and was born ... when
Weary with hollower eye, amid the carcases totter
Even the buriers ... till the sent Death-angel, descending,
Thoughtful on thunder-clouds, beholds all lonesome and silent,
Gazes the wide desolation, and long broods over the graves, fixt.
Klopstock can be naturalized without strangeness, and his
peculiarities retained without affectation; that quaintness, the
unavoidable companion of neologism, is as needless to genius, as
orderliness of sound; and that its cantering capricious movement
opposes the grave march of solemn majesty, and better suits the
ordinary scenery of Theocritus than the empyreal visions of
From "Criticism on Klopstock's Messiah."
Whene'er day-light's parting gleam
A smiling form salutes my love,
And loiters near the murm'ring stream,
And glides beneath the conscious grove:
Ah! then my Henry's spirit see:
Soft joy and peace it brings to thee.
And when at moon-light's sober ray
Thou dream'st perchance of love and me,
As thro' the pines the breezes play,
And whisper dying melody--
When tender bodings prompt the sigh--
Thy Henry's spirit hovers nigh.
When o'er the mind soft musings steal,
As thou the pleasing past hast scann'd;
Should'st thou a gentle pressure feel,
Like zephyr's kiss o'er lip and hand;--
And should the glimmering taper fade--
Then near thee 'bides thy lover's shade.
And when at midnights' solemn tide,
As soft the rolling planets shine--
Like Aeol's harp, thy couch beside,
Thou hear'st the words--'forever thine!'
Then slumber sweet, my spirit's there,
And peace and joy it brings my fair.
translation are given.
J. T. Stanley, _Leonora_. Trans. freely from the German; 2nd ed.,
Translated from Jacobi.
Tell me where's the vi'let fled
Late so gaily blowing;
Springing 'neath fair Flora's tread,
Choicest sweets bestowing?
Swains the vernal scene is o'er,
And the vi'let blooms no more.
Say where hides the blushing rose,
Pride of fragrant morning;
Garland meet for beauty's brows,
Hill and dale adorning?
Gentle maid the summer's fled
And the hopeless Rose is dead!
Bear me then to yonder rill,
Late so freely flowing;
Wat'ring many a daffodil,
On its margin glowing--
Sun and wind exhaust its store:
Yonder riv'let glides no more!
Lead me to the bow'ry shade,
Late with roses flaunting;
Lov'd resort of youth and maid,
Am'rous ditty chanting--
Hail and storm with fury show'rs,
Leafless mourn with rifled bow'rs!
Say where hides the village maid,
Late yon cot adorning;
Oft I've met her in the glade,
Fair and fresh as morning?
Swain how short is beauty's bloom,
Seek her in the grassy tomb!
Whither roves the tuneful swain
Who of rural pleasures,
Rose and vi'let, rill and plain,
Sung in deftest measures?
Maiden, swift life's vision flies,
Death has clos'd the Poet's eyes.
Bekranzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher,
Und trinkt ihn frölich leer;
In ganz Europa, ihr herren recher,
Ist solch ein wein nicht mehr.
Ihn bringt das vatterland aus seiner fülle,
Wie war er sonst so gut?
Wie war er sonst so edel stille,
Und doch voll kraft und muth?
Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben;
Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben
Uns diesen lieben wein.
So trinkt hin dann, and last uns alle wege
Uns freun und frölich seyn;
Und, wisten wir wo jemand traurig läge,
Wir gäben ihm den wein.
The brimful goblet crown with wines,
And drink the cordial juice,
Europe itself can't boast such vines
As these bless'd hills produce.
Yes, Germany's the copious source
Of wines that all excel;
So mild, so generous, full of force,
None cheer the heart so well.
Rhingau alone such grapes can boast,
Huzza! here's to the Rhine!
And may the wretch, who slights the toast,
Forget the taste of wine.
Come, drink about, and let's be gay,
With nectar so divine,
Is any man to grief a prey?
We'll comfort him with wine.
Adam awhile in Paradise
Enjoy'd his novel life:
He was caught napping; in a thrice
His rib was made a wife.
Poor father Adam, what a guest!
This most unlucky dose
Made the first minute of thy rest
The last of thy repose.
But one bad woman at a time
On earth arises.
That every one should think he has her,
I own--surprises.
A long way off--Lucinda strikes the men.
As she draws near,
And one see clear,
A long way off--one wishes her again.
Komm, stiller abend, neider,
Auf unsre kleine flur;
Dir tönen unsre lieder,
Wie schön bist du, natur!
Schon steigt die abendröthe
Herab ins kühle thal;
Bald glantz in sanfter röthe
Der sonne letzter strahl.
All uberal herrscht schweigen
Nur schwingt der vogel chor
Hoch aus den dunkeln zweigen
Den nacht gesang empor.
Komm, lieber abend, neider
Auf unsre kleine flur;
Dir tönen unsre lieder,
Wie schön bist du natur.
Come, silent Eve, return again,
Our homely cottage view,
And hear us sing a cheerful strain,
To thee, and nature due.
The sun retires yon hills behind,
And sinks into the sea,
Glancing his rays both mild and kind,
Oh, blushing maid, on thee.
To thee he yields the soothing sway,
Inviting all to rest;
The birds conclude the happy day
With singing on thy breast.
Come, silent Eve, return again,
Our homely cottage view,
And hear us sing a cheerful strain,
To thee and nature due.
Ah! why am I so transient, ask'd of Jupiter, Beauty?
Only the transient is fair, smiling answer'd the God!
Love, and Youth, and the Spring, and the Flow'rs, and the Dew,
they all heard it;
Slowly they turn'd away, weeping from Jupiter's throne!
Scarce sixteen summers had I seen,
And rov'd my native bow'rs;
Nor stray'd my thoughts beyond the green,
Bedew'd with shrubs and flow'rs.
When late a stranger youth appear'd;
I neither wish'd nor sought him;
He came, but whence I never heard,
And spake what love had taught him.
His hair in graceful ringlets play'd,
All eyes are charm'd that view them,
And o'er his comely shoulders stray'd,
Where wanton zephyrs blew them.
His speaking eye of azure hue
Seem'd ever softly suing,
And such an eye, so clear and blue,
Ne'er shone for maid's undoing.
His face was fair, his cheek was red,
With blushes ever burning;
And all he spoke was deftly said,
Though far beyond my learning.
Where'er I stray'd, the youth was nigh,
His look soft sorrows speaking;
Sweet maid! he'd say, then gaze and sigh,
As if his heart were breaking.
And once, as low his head he hung,
I fain would ask the meaning;
When round my neck his arms he flung,
Soft tears his grief explaining.
Such freedom ne'er was ta'en till now,
And now 'twas unoffending;
Shame spread my cheek with ruddy glow,
My eyes kept downward bending.
Nor aught I spoke, my looks he read,
As if with anger burning;
No--not one word--away he sped,
Ah! would he were returning.
From Gessner's "New Idyls."
From Gessner's "New Idylles."
Imitated from Klopstock's ode to his future mistress. By Thomas
Campbell, Esq., author of Pleasures of Hope.
Altered from a German air, in the opera of "Die Zauberlôte."
A CARELESS whistling lad am I,
On sky-lark wings my moments fly;
There's not a _Fowler_ more renown'd
In all the world--for ten miles round!
Ah! who like me can spread the net?
Or tune the merry flageolet?
Then why--O why should I repine,
Since all the roving birds are mine?
The thrush and linnet in the vale,
The sweet sequester'd nightingale,
The bulfinch, wren, and wood-lark, all
Obey my summons when I call:
O! could I form some cunning snare
To catch the coy, coquetting fair,
In _Cupid's_ filmy web so fine,
The pretty girls should all be mine!
When all were mine--among the rest,
I'd choose the Lass I lik'd the best;
And should my charming mate be kind;
And smile, and kiss me to my mind,
With her I'd tie the nuptial knot,
Make _Hymen's_ cage of my poor cot,
And love away this fleeting life,
Like Robin Redbreast and his wife!
In the third number of the Port Folio we inserted a very humorous
criticks in the German Language that the original is eminently
The following charming
is translated from the German by Mr. Herbert.
"Hail, orient sun, auspicious light!
Hail, new-born orb of day!
Lo, from behind the wood-crown'd height,
Breaks forth thy glittering ray.
Behold it sparkle in the stream,
And on the dew drop shine!
O, may sweet joy's enlivening beam
Mix his pure rays with thine!
The Zephyrs now, with frolic wing,
Their rosy beds forsake;
And, shedding round the sweets of spring,
Their drowsy comrades wake.
Soft sleep and all his airy forms
Fly from the dawning day:
Like little loves O may their swarms
On Chloe's bosom play!
Ye Zephyrs haste; from every flower
The sweetest perfumes take;
And bear them hence to Chloe's bower;
For soon the maid must wake!
And, hovering round her fragrant bed,
In breezes call my fair;
Go, frolic round her graceful head,
And scent her golden hair!
Then gently whisper in her ear,
That ere the sun gan rise,
By the soft murmuring fountain here
I breath'd her name in sighs."
Ah! woods forever dear! whose branches spread
Their verdant arch o'er Hasel's breezy head,
When shall I once again, supinely laid,
Hear Philomela charm your list'ning shade?
When shall I stretch my careless limbs again,
Where, gently rising from the velvet plain,
O'er the green hills, in easy curve that bend,
The mossy carpet Nature's hands extend?
Where all is silent! save the gales that move
The leafy umbrage of the whisp'ring grove;
Or the soft murmurs of the rivulet's wave,
Whose chearing streams the lonely meadows lave.
O Heav'n! when shall once more these eyes be cast
On scenes where all my spring of life was pass'd;
Where, oft responsive to the falling rill,
Sylvia and love my artless lays would fill?
While Zephyr's fragrant breeze, soft breathing, stole
A pleasing sadness o'er my pensive soul:
Care, and her ghastly train, were far away;     }
While calm, beneath the sheltering woods I lay  }
Mid shades, impervious to the beams of day.     }
Here--sad reverse!--from scenes of pleasure far,
I wage with sorrow unremitting war:
Oppress'd with grief, my ling'ring moments flow,
Nor aught of joy, or aught of quiet, know.
Far from the scenes that gave my being birth,
From parents far, an outcast of the earth!
In youth's warm hours, from each restriction free,
Left to myself in dangerous liberty.
Ah! scenes of earthly joy! ah, much-lov'd shades!
Soon may my footsteps tread your vernal glades.
Ah! should kind Heav'n permit me to explore
Your seats of still tranquillity once more!
E'en now to Fancy's visionary eye,
Hope shews the flattering hour of transport nigh,
Blue shines the aether, when the storm is past;
And calm repose succeeds to sorrow's blast.
Flourished, ye scenes of every new delight!
Wave wide your branches to my raptur'd sight!
While, ne'er to roam again, my wearied feet
Seek the kind refuge of your calm retreat.
Now pale disease shoots thro' my languid frame,
And checks the zeal for wisdom and for fame.
Now droops fond hope, by Disappointment cross'd;
Chill'd by neglect, each sanguine wish is lost.
O'er the weak mound stern Ocean's billows ride,
And waft destruction in with every tide;
While Mars, descending from his crimson car,
Fans with fierce hands the kindling flames of war.
Her gentle aid let Consolation lend;
All human evils hasten to their end.
The storm abates at every gust it blows;
Past ills enhance the comforts of repose.
He who ne'er felt the pressure of distress,
Ne'er felt returning pleasure's keen excess.
Time who Affliction bore on rapid wing,
My panting heart to happiness may bring;
I, on my native hills, may yet inhale
The purer influence of the ambient gale.
This tale is imitated rather than translated from a fragment
extremely rude state; and who, after some material improvement,
published it in his "Tales of Wonder."
Hail, Morning, to thy rising beam
That gilds with light the mountain's brow,
And shines and glitters in the stream
That winds along the vale below!
Joy, and health, and glad delight
Await thy steps, thy march pursue;
The Zephyr now that slept the night
In flowers that weep beneath the dew,
His plumes with new-born vigour tries,
And lifts him from his balmy bed;
And dreams that round the wearied eyes
Of mortals hover'd, now are fled.
Haste, ye Gales, and thro' the air
Waft the sweets from every flower,
And wave your wings around my Fair,
What slumbers in yon rosy bower;
Paint o'er her lips and cheek's bright hues,
And heave upon her heaving breast,
And when yo've chas'd Sleep's balmy dews,
And gently burst the bonds of rest,
Oh whisper to her list'ning ear,
That e'er bright Morn had deck'd the sky,
These streams beheld me shed the tear,
And heard me pour for her the sigh!
(Morgenlied) from the German of Gesner.
Welcome, early orb of morn!
Welcome, infant day!
O'er the wood-top'd mountain borne,
Mark its coming ray!
Now o'er babbling brooks it beams;
Sips from each flower its _dew_;
Now with glorious gladdening gleams
Wakes the world anew.
Zephyrs first, o'er flowers that slumber'd,
Quit their couch, and play;
Breathe o'er flowers in sighs unnumber'd,
Breathe the scent of day.
Fancy now her reign gives o'er,
Every vision flies;
Chloe's cheek is wan no more,
Cupids round it rise.
Hasten, Zephyr, waft from roses
All their loveliest bloom!
Haste where Chloe now reposes,
Wake her from her tomb!
To the fairest's couch repair,
Wanton round her pillow;
O'er her lip and bosom fair
Bathe thy blandest billow!
She wakes the whispers to the gale,
Wakes from her morning dream;
Whilst so the stream, and thro' the vale,
I er'st have breathed her name.
Belov'd of my bosom, alas my fond heart
Does weep for the fate of my heart-rending lot;
To range the wide world, now from me you depart,
Yet remember me ever, "forget me not."
If moving in circles of beauty and love,
Perchance to adore some sweet maid, be your lot,
O! then may my spirit thy wav'rings reprove,
And whisper thee gently, "forget me not."
If hap'ly hard fate should you e'er from me sever,
How drearily mournful would be my sad lot,
In sorrow's dark path I would wander forever,
Nor smile more with joy, then "forget me not."
If in the fresh bloom of my life's early blossom,
To leave you my dear, and this world, be my lot,
Thine be the last sigh that escapes from my bosom,
Then think how I love you; "O! forget me not."
Yet tho' we now part, in the bless'd realms above,
We will meet soon again, free from life's woeful lot;
We will meet to dear joy, we will meet to sweet love,
Then no more need I say "O! forget me not."
Vrom Grouter gruder grout gropstock, Zordur zoop, &c.
All gloomy and sorrowful Beelzebub sat,
With his imps and his devils around,
When the thundering knocker of Hell's outer grate
Rang a peal so terrifick and loud on the gate,
That all Erebus echoed the sound.
Full swift to the portal the young devils flew,
And the long gloomy passage unbarr'd;
When a lanthorn-jaw'd monster stood forth to their view,
So meagre his figure, so pale was his hue,
That the devils all trembled and star'd.
All green were his eyes in their sockets decay'd,
His nose was projecting and wide,
In a dusty frock-coat was his carcase array'd,
On his scull he a three-corner'd scraper display'd,
And two volumes he bore at his side.
So foul were his breath and the words that he said,
That his teeth had long rotted away--
And now to the devils a signal he made,
To show him their master, the devils obey'd,
And brought him where Beelzebub lay.
Old Beelzebub rose, as the monster came in,
And stood for a moment in dread,
For they look'd like each other enough to be kin,
Save that one had whole feet and a light-colour'd skin,
And the other had horns on his head.
'Whence art thou?' said Beelzebub; 'stranger, proclaim,
For if Satan can rightly divine,
Thou art surely some hero of throat-cutting fame,
For ne'er to these regions a spirit there came,
With figure so hellish as thine.'
'No throats have I cut,' the lank goblin replied,
With voice that was hollow and shrill;
'I have cheated, and bullied, and swindled, and lied,
Sedition and falsehood I've spread far and wide,
And in mischief I never was still.
Than Beelzebub rose with a grin;
He embrac'd the foul monster, who also display'd
His joy at the meeting; and both of them made
All Hell echo round with their din.
volumes were. There is a short note in the German, which
implies that they were entitled Dulder Soudth.]
Loud, loud the baron winds his horn;
And, see, a lordly train
On horse, on foot, with deafening din,
Comes scouring o'er the plain.
O'er heath, o'er field, the yelping pack
Dash swift, from couples freed;
O'er heath, o'er field, close on their track,
Loud neighs the fiery steed.
And now the Sabbath's holy dawn
Beam'd high with purple ray,
And bright each hallowed temple's dome
Reflected back the day.
Now deep and clear the pealing bells
Struck on the list'ning ear,
And heaven-ward rose from many a voice
The hymn of praise and prayer.
Swift, swift along the crossway, still
They speed with eager cry:
See! right and left, two horsemen strange
Their rapid coursers ply.
Who were the horsemen right and left?
That may I guess full well:
Who were the horsemen right and left?
That may I never tell.
The right, of fair and beauteous mien,
A milk-white steed bestrode;
Mild as the vernal skies, his face
With heavenly radiance glow'd.
The left spurr'd fast his fiery barb,
Red as the furnace flame;
Sullen he loured, and from his eyes
The death-like lightning came.
'Right welcome to our noble sport;'
The baron greets them fair;
'For well I wot ye hold it good
To banish moping care.
'No pleasure equal to the chase,
Or earth, or heaven can yield;'
He spoke,--he waved his cap in air,
And foremost rushed afield.
'Turn thee!' the milder horseman cries;
'Turn thee from horns and hounds!
Hear'st not the bells, hear'st not the quire,
Mingle their sacred sounds?
'They drown the clamor of the chase;
Oh! hunt not then to-day,
Nor let a fiend's advice destroy
Thy better angel's sway.'
'Hunt on, hunt on,' his comrade cries,
What is the bawling quire to us?
Or what the jangling bell?
'Well may the chase delight thee more;
And well may'st learn from me,
How brave, how princely is our sport,
From bigot terrors free.'
'Well said! well said! in thee I own
A hero's kindled fire;
These pious fool'ries move not us,
We reck nor priest, nor quire.
'And thou, believe me, saintlike dolt,
Thy bigot rage is vain;
From prayers and beadrolls, what delight
Can sportsmen hope to gain?'
Still hurry, hurry, on they speed
O'er valley, hill and plain;
And ever at the baron's side
Attend the horsemen twain.
See, panting, see, a milk-white hart
Up-springs from yonder thorn:
'Now swiftly ply both horse and foot;
Now louder wind the horn!'
See, falls a huntsman! see, his limbs
The pangs of death distort!
'Lay there and rot: no caitiff's death
Shall mar our princely sport.'
Light bounds with deftest speed the hart,
Wide o'er the country borne;
Now closer prest a refuge seeks
Where waves the ripening corn.
See, the poor owner of the field
Approach with tearful eyes;
'O pity, pity, good my lords!'
Alas! in vain he cries.
'O spare what little store the poor
By bitter sweat can earn!'
Now soft the milder horseman warns
The baron to return.
Not so persuades his stern compeer,
Best pleas'd with darkest deeds;
Tis his to sway the baron's heart,
Reckless what mercy pleads.
'Away!' the imperious noble cries;
'Away, and leave us free!
Off! or by all the powers of hell,
Thou too shalt hunted be!
'Here, fellows! let this villain prove
My threats were not in vain:
Loud lash around his piteous face
The whips of all my train.'
Tis said, tis done: swift o'er the fence
The baron foremost springs;
Swift follow hound, and horse, and man,
And loud the welkin rings.
Loud rings the welkin with their shouts,
While man, and horse, and hound,
Ruthless tread down each ripening ear,
Wide o'er the smoking ground.
O'er heath and field, o'er hill and dale,
Scared by the approaching cries,
Still close pursued, yet still unreach'd,
Their destin'd victim flies.
Now mid the lowing herds that graze
Along yon verdant plain,
He hopes, concealed from every eye,
A safe retreat to gain.
In vain, for now the savage train
Press ravening on his heels:
See, prostrate at the baron's feet
The affrighted herdsman kneels.
Fear for the safety of his charge
Inspires his faltering tongue;
'O spare,' he cries, 'these harmless beasts,
Nor work an orphan's wrong.
'Think, here thy fury would destroy
A friendless widow's all!'
He spoke:--the gentle stranger strove
To enforce soft pity's call.
Not so persuades his sullen frere,
But pleas'd with darkest deeds;
Tis his to sway the baron's heart,
Reckless what mercy pleads.
'Away, audacious hound!' he cries;
'Twould do my heart's-blood good,
Might I but see thee transform'd to beasts
Thee and thy beggar brood.
'Then, to the very gates of heaven,
Who dare to say me nay!
With joy I'd hunt the losel fry;
Come fellows, no delay!'
See, far and wide the murderous throng
Deal many a deadly wound;
Mid slaughter'd numbers, see, the hart
Sinks bleeding on the ground.
Yet still he summons all his strength
For one poor effort more,
Staggering he flies; his silver sides
Drop mingled sweat and gore.
And now he seeks a last retreat
Deep in the darkling dell,
Where stands, amidst embowering oaks,
A hermit's holy cell.
E'en here the madly eager train
Rush swift with impious rage,
When, lo! persuasion on his tongue,
Steps forth the reverend sage.
'O cease thy chase! nor thus invade
Religion's free abode;
For know, the tortur'd creature's groans
E'en now have reach'd his god.
'They cry at heaven's high mercy seat,
For vengeance on thy head;
O turn, repentant turn, ere yet
The avenging bolt is sped.'
Once more religion's cause in vain
The gentle stranger pleads;
Once more, alas! his sullen frere
A willing victim leads.
'Dash on!' the harden'd sinner cries;
'Shalt thou disturb our sport?
No! boldly would I urge the chase
In heaven's own inmost court.
'What reck I then thy pious rage?
No mortal man I fear:
Not god in all his terrors arm'd
Should stay my fix'd career.'
He cracks his whip, he winds his horn,
He calls his vassal-crew;
Lo! horse and hound, and sage and cell,
All vanish from his view.
All, all, are gone!--no single rack
His eager eye can trace;
And silence, still as death, has hush'd
The clamors of the chase.
In vain he spurs his courser's sides,
Nor back nor forward borne;
He winds his horn, he calls aloud,
But hears no sound return.
And now inclos'd in deepest night,
Dark as the silent grave,
He hears the sullen tempest roar,
As roars the distant wave.
Loud and louder still the storm
Howls through the troubled air;
Ten thousand thunders from on high
The voice of judgment bear.
Accursed before god and man,
Unmoved by threat or prayer;
Creator, nor created, aught
Thy frantic rage would spare.
'Think not in vain creation's lord
Has heard his creature's groan;
E'en now the torch of vengeance flames
High by his awful throne.
'Now, hear thy doom! to aftertimes
A dread example given,
For ever urge thy wild career,
By fiendish hell-hounds driven.'
The voice had ceased; the sulphurous flash
Shot swift from either pole;
Sore shook the grove; cold horror seized
The trembling miscreant's soul.
Again the rising tempest roars,
Again the lightnings play;
And every limb, and every nerve
Is frozen with dismay.
He sees a giant's swarthy arm
Start from the yawning ground;
He feels a demon grasp his head,
And rudely wrench it round.
In torrents now from every side,
Pours fast a fiery flood;
On each o'erwhelming wave upborne,
Loud howls the hellish brood.
Sullen and grisly gleams the light,
Now red, now green, now blue;
Whilst o'er the gulf the fiendish train
Their destined prey pursue.
In vain he shrieks with wild despair,
In vain he strives to fly;
Still at his back the hell-born crew
Their cursed business ply.
By day, full many a fathom deep
Below earth's smiling face;
By night, high through the troubled air,
They speed their endless chase.
In vain to turn his eyes aside
He strives with wild affright;
So never may those maddening scenes
Escape his tortured sight.
Still must he see those dogs of hell
Close hovering on his track;
Still must he see the avenging scourge
Uplighted at his back.
Now this is the wild baron's hunt;
And many a village youth,
And many a sportsman (dare they speak)
Could vouch the awful truth.
For oft benighted midst the wilds
The fiendish troop they hear,
Now shrieking shrill, now cursing loud,
Come thundering through the air.
No hand shall stay those dogs of hell
Or quench that sea of fire,
Till god's own dreadful day of doom
Shall bid the world expire!
Whilst to relieve a generous Queen's Distress,
Whom proud, ambitious Potentates oppress:
Our king pursues the most effectual Ways,
Sooths some to Peace, and there the Storm allays;
And against others, who're more loath to yield,
He leads his _Britons_ to the _German_ Field:
Where to his Cost th' insulting Foe has found
What 'tis with _Britons_ to dispute the Ground:
We still enjoying Peace in this cold Clime,
With innocent diversions pass our Time, &c.
By the same [_i. e._, Annandius].
The twelfth stanza:
Thrice happy they! but why my muse,
To rural pastimes so profuse?
The crouded city surely yields,
More joy than ice and snowy fields?
Here folks are witty and well dress'd,
And blooming beauty is caress'd
In ev'ry form art can devise--       }
With soothing flattery solemn lies,  }
And all that nymphs deluded prize    }
Here fashions reign, and modes prevail,
And in twelve moons again grow stale,
Thus ever vary, ever change,
Yet ever please--a thing most strange!
And here each thing is told that's new   }
What _Loundoun_ or what _Richlieu_ do,   }
Each secret expedition too--             }
And then great FREDERICK'S _noble_ feats,
When he th' imperial forces beats.
Such themes the lazy hours beguile;
There's nothing else that's worth our while.
character; for if it remains with me it must live and die in
obscurity.
Philadelphia, February 25th.
'Tis he! 'tis he! I hear him from afar,
Thundering like the God of War;
To Rosbach's plains, in dread array,
The god-like hero bends his way!
Hark! the rattling rumbling noise of drums!
He comes, he comes!
See, _Prussia's_ awful king's at hand!
He speaks, he speaks! attentive stand!
His well known voice, the gallant warriours hear,
And bend their wide-extended wings both front and rear,
Which half enclose him round.
Stern as the face of war, and yet serene,  }
With grace attractive, and majestic mein,  }
Was the mighty monarch seen.               }
With martial rage each bosom glow'd,
While from his lips those moving accents flow'd--
'My valiant troops, my dear and trusty friends,
'The hour at last is come, in which depends
'What ever is, or should to us be dear,
'Upon the sword-unsheath'd, and glitt'ring spear.
'For PROTESTANTS-_unborn_ you fight: Your cause is good,
'Which you have yet maintain'd, thro' seas of richest blood.
'And, bear me witness, that your Prince thus far,
'Hath shar'd each danger in this glorious war;
'Nor shall it e'er by envious tongue be told
'Your leader shrunk from watching, hunger, cold,
'And left the burden to his vet'rans bold
'Oh! no; my faithful bands!
'With you your FRED'RICK stands,
'For _Freedom_ ready to impart
'Those crimson drops that roll around his heart'--
He spoke: And acclamations loud,
Like thunder bursting from a cloud,
Struck th' approaching foe with awe;
And the madly-floating sound
Fill'd the wide extended plains around,
With the wild _Huzza_.
Each warrior, big with rage,
Stands panting to engage;
And now the voice of furious Joy
Again bursts forth into the vaulted sky;
And the rude rocks rebound
The warlike trumpet's solemn sound--
"Destroy! destroy! destroy!"
As water roaring from a mountain's side
Tears down whole rocks with its impetuous tide;
And rolling through the plains with furious sweep, }
Bears off the shepherd's cottage, and his sheep,   }
Into the surging of th' astonish'd deep;           }
So each band,
Sword in hand,
Pour'd on the foe;
Thund'ring, flashing,
Fiercely clashing
Glory's Charms,
Fir'd each breast with martial glow,
Ah, see what piteous scenes appear.
When warriors yield their breath;
Now dying groans invade the ear,
They sink in glorious death.
_Prussian_ rage the foe confounds,
Some stagger, fall, are slain,
Some cover'd o'er with blood and wounds,
Lie weltring on the plain,
Surpriz'd and confounded,
With horror surrounded,
And pale fear half dead,
They're vanquish'd and fled.
Hark! hark! the trumpet's sound
A shout for _Victory_ spreads around;
And _Victory_ the vales,
And _Victory_ the dales,
And _Victory_ the tufted hills rebound!
When muttering thunders roll along the sky.
You may have seen the winged lightnings fly;
Quick as thought, the flashes glance
Thro' th' immensurable wide expanse--
So nimble warriours flew,
When they gave their foes the rout,
With this universal shout,
"Pursue! pursue! pursue!"
O'er carcasses of heroes slain,
The mighty victors rode,
Where shiver'd armour strew'd the plain
Empurpled o'er with blood;
Now thund'ring on their broken rear,
He spreads destruction, death and fear,
Till day forsakes him, and the sullen night,
In thickest gloom of hov'ring shades, descends
To the assistance of her ghastly friends,
And screens the _vanquish'd_ from the _victor's_ sight!
small alterations here, which we flatter ourselves the
ingenious author's judgment will approve of and excuse, as
they do not affect the sense.]
By the same [_i. e._, Annandius].
Hail matchless monarch! prince renown'd!
Long be thy head with laurels crown'd,
By victories obtained!
For liberty long hast thou stood,
In crimson fields of war and blood
That peace may be regain'd.
When Austria and aspiring Gaul
Determin'd kingdoms to enthral,
Lo Prussia's pow'rful prince!
With watchful eye and warlike hand,
Makes them aghast and trembling stand,
Rais'd up by providence.
As when a Lion rears his head,
The forest wide is fill'd with dread,
Each creature seeks his den;
Or when Leviathan the great
Displays himself in finny state
He terrifies the main.
In fair record shall long remain
The DAY, when on _Thuringia's_ plain
SOUBISE before him fled;
When HILBOURGHAUSEN'S num'rous band
'Gainst Prussian valor could not stand,
With terror almost dead.
With haste they fled, and bless'd the night,
Which hid them from the victor's sight,
And favoured their retreat.
Near Freybourg walls, the _Unstrut_ pass'd.
On hills of Eckersberg harras'd,
They mourn'd their adverse fate.
O glorious prince! O warlike train!
Who hunger, cold and toil sustain
With brave unyielding mind!
To you proud Austria shall submit,
And LOUIS lovingly shall greet
The _Prussian_ as his friend.
In characters of purest gold
Thy speech deserves to be enroll'd,
Before the battle made;
Each Soldier stil'd great FRED'RICK'S friend,
Who can his country's rights defend
When her fierce foes invade.
Who would, in battle lag behind,
That serves a prince so great, so kind,
In every danger near?
When monarchs' lives are laid at stake,
What subject would his king forsake?
What room is left for fear?
Europe on thee has fix'd her eye,
Great monarch! All on thee rely
Her balance just to keep.
May this great end thy labours crown,
Be sempiternal thy renown,
When thou in dust shall sleep.
The same worthy motives that induced the author to send us the
My muse! again attempt the lyre;
Rouse! rouse! thy whole poetic fire!
Great FREDRICK'S deeds do still require
More ample praise.
Let his great acts the verse inspire,
And tuneful be thy lays.
Illustrious HANNIBAL of old,
CAESAR the brave and SCIPIO bold,
For battles won stand high enroll'd
In hist'ry's page!
Let Fred'rick's name with theirs be told,
The HERO of his age!
_Rosbach!_ thy plain the VICTOR owns!
'Twas fill'd with shrieks and dying groans,
And mangled limbs and shatter'd bones--
In heaps they lay!
The vanquished _Gaul_ as yet bemoans
That inauspicious day.
Yea FRED'RICK bent on conquests new,
Doth ALEXANDER-like pursue,
As if the world he would subdue--
Undaunted prince!
That thou 'rt a _Hero_ great and true
Each action doth evince.
_Silesia_ first demands relief,
His losses there augment his grief;
Thitherward the _Prussians_ and their CHIEF,
Make hasty marches; and in brief
Their parts they nobly play'd.
See! see! the godlike MAN proceed!
And vet'ran bands to battle lead,
Inur'd to toil, and warlike deed,
A hardy race!
Such troops are princes' friends indeed,
And do their LEADER grace.
The trumpet's sound, and loudest noise
Of martial drums, increase their joys;
Not by compulsion led, but choice,
And bold to fight,
Their _Country's_ cause in mind they poise;
_War! War!_ is their delight!
Now they engage with furious shout;
And join in battle fierce and stout,
Th' invet'rate _Foe_ at length they rout;
And loud they cry--
O! matchless _Prussians_! ne'er give out;
Pursue! Cut off! Destroy!
Th' intrepid victors far and near
Spread fierce destruction on the rear,
Their enemies with trembling fear
Their arms lay down;
Who whilom haughty and severe,
Had deem'd the field their own.
See them triumphant bear away
Th' imperial standards waving gay!
A thousand trophies line the way;
As they return,
Beneath their feet, a hapless prey,
The vanquish'd mourn.
Behold the blood impurpled plain,
And shiver'd armour of the slain!
Their dreams of honour, ah! how vain?
Gasping they lie!
Now of their wounds complain,
Now sink and faint and die.
Such is th' event of human things,
The fates of emp'rors and of kings;
Death in the rear disaster brings,
Dreadful to see!
Such as great POPE or HOMER sings,
Strains far too high for me.
But CHARLES and valiant DAUN retreat,
Who lately led an army great--
At _Breslau_ now in shatter'd state
They rendezvous:
And there bemoan their adverse fate,
And dismal overthrow.
The _Prussian Chief_ pursues with speed,
At his approach they're fill'd with dread,
From whose terrific arm, dismay'd,
So late they flew!
O FREDRICK! matchless prince, proceed,
Thy glorious course pursue!
To him those _Heros_ yield the town,
And him a _greater Hero_ own;
Who soon its walls could batter down,
And lay them low.
Long may he wear the _Prussian Crown_,
And curb each haughty _Foe_.
Oh God! all powerful God!
Invincible, unknown!
Creator, father of all;
Whom every nation implores;
Whom the Barbarian worships in the wind.
By what name will it please thee
That I shall address thee? Oh infinite,
All wise, and eternal spirit!
At the foot of thy sacred throne I most humbly bow my head.
Forsaken by my only friends,
In a strange country,
Where winter was near killing us;
The enraged enemy on every side,
With their savage instruments,
The sword and fire consuming,
As if sacrificers,
They came with their deadly rage,
And hasten'd to destroy us with cries of triumph.
But in thy penetrating view,
How vain are powerful troops!
I, still intrepid, dare the combat;
My buckler and my lance being my cause:
And behold the armies meet;
They turn their backs, we following to punish:
Victorious each of my soldiers
Seems to carry of war
The most terrible thunder;
And every arm is a thousand in the fury of the combat.
Then I owe thee success
To fortune! why so?
Justice succoured me;
From on high she cast down her eyes;
And when she perceived the contending parties,
She lifted up her hand to weigh
The right of each side,
And as she found the balance incline, she employ'd her sword.
indefatigable in business; and by method overlooks and directs
Look down, O God! regard my cry!
On thee my hopes depend:
I'm close beset, without ally;
Be thou my shield and friend.
Confed'rate kings and princes league,
On ev'ry side attack
To perpetrate the black intrigue
But thou canst drive them back,
Long did I fear their wink and nod;
In close cabals they cry'd,
_There is no help for him in God_;
His kingdom we'll divide.
Amid their army's dreadful glare
Thou gav'st me inward might,
Teaching my arm the art of war,
My fingers how to fight.
Tho' vet'ran troops my camp invest,
Expert in war's alarms,
Calmly I lay me down to rest
In thy protecting arms.
Nor will I fear their empty boasts,
Tho' thousands thousands join;
Since thou art stil'd _the God of hosts_,
And victory is thine.
Arise, O God, and plead my cause,
O! save me by thy pow'r;
If e'er I reverenc'd thy laws,
Guide this important hour!
'Tis done!--they shudder with dismay;
My troops maintain their ground:
Lo! their embattl'd lines give way,
And we are victors crown'd!
Success, ye kings, is not your gift;
To heav'n it does belong:
The race not always to the swift
Nor battle to the strong.
To injured troops thus gallant BRUNSWICK spoke;
'Shall we with tameness bear the _Gallic_ yoke!
'Will ye, O Veterans, inur'd to pains
'And toils of War, drag ignominious chains?
'Turn and behold! behold where hostile bands
'Seize on your properties, lay waste your lands,
'Your daughters, wives, snatch'd forcibly away,
'Slaves to proud _Gallia's_ sons, to best a prey!
'Hark! how with piercing Cries, the tender Maid,
'By force subdu'd, implores her father's aid;
'In agonies repeats her brother's name,
'To flay the ruffians and preserve her fame!
'Rouze! GERMANS! rouze! a glorious vengeance take;
'Religion, honour, freedom, all's at stake!'
... "Enough," they cry'd, "let FERDINAND proceed,
"We dare to follow, where he dares to lead."
Fir'd by their country's wrongs, to arms they fly,
Resolv'd to save her, or resolved to die.
Lewis, the winter harsh, and climate rough,
To each of his nice captains, sends a muff,
Knowing his troops too tender to resist
The foe, without a furr to guard his wrist;
For who could prime his gun, or pistol hold,
Whose aching fingers were benumbed with cold.
_Prussia_, a different scheme in war approves;
Whose hardy veterans charge without their gloves.
Defy the rigour of the chilling air,
And fight, and conquer with their knuckles bare.
_Bourbon!_ if wreathes and triumphs are thy aim,
Think of some wiser way to purchase fame:
Some other arts thy rival to subdue,
Soft muffs, without keen swords, will never do;
Thy shivering troops would act a better part,
Would'st thou send something that could warm their heart;
Less for their valour than their heels admir'd
With fighting oft' ... with flying seldom tir'd,
Success thy arms would never fail to meet,
Were battles to be won by nimble feet.
Father of all! all pow'rful Lord!
Infinitely unknown!
By heathen, and by saint ador'd,
Tho' differently, yet one;
By what great name shall I address
Thee everlasting king?
Oh! how my gratitude express?
Oh! how thy praises sing?
But, O great God! omniscient ever just,
Permit towards thy throne to bow, a particle of dust.
By friends forsaken ev'ry where,
Alone, the brunt to stand,
Winter's inclement cold to bear,
And in a foreign Land;
The foe, enrag'd on ev'ry side,
Dire implements of war
In various shapes and forms provide,
And doom them for our share.
Heav'ns! with what fury to the charge they fly;
Forestal the vict'ry, but forget that man was born to die!
Yet he who frequently has said,
That numbers don't avail,
Inspir'd us not to be dismay'd,
But stand, fight, and prevail:
The battle join'd, the foe gave way,
Superior valour own'd,
And left to us a glorious day,
With spoils and honours crown'd:
Each single _Prussian_ arm the hero play'd,
Dealt round an hundred deaths, an hundred conquests made.
Is it to fortune then I owe
This unthought for success?
Fortune is blind, it can't be so,
I must some other guess:
JUSTICE, bright heav'nly maid, beheld
The dire contention rise,
Saw, and her sacred beam she held
Suspended in the skies:
The _Austrian_ scale kick'd up, by our's weigh'd down,
Justice approv'd, and straight ordain'd the field to be our own.
Love by _Hope_ is still sustain'd,
_Zeal_ by the _Reward_ that's gain'd;
In _Pow'r_, _Authority_ begins,
_Weakness_ strength from _Prudence_ wins;
_Honesty_ is _Credit's_ wealth,
_Temp'rance_ the support of _Health_;
_Wit_ from calm _Contentment_ springs,
_Content_ 'tis _Competence_ that brings,
_Competence_, as all may see,
Springs from good _Oeconomy_.
Maids, to fan a lover's fire,
_Sweetness_ more than charms require;
_Authors_ more from _Truth_ may gain
Than from tropes that please in vain;
_Arts_ will less than _Virtues_ tend
_Happiness_ and _Life_ to blend;
He that _Happiness_ wou'd get
_Prudence_ more must prize than _Wit_,
More than _Riches_ rosy _Health_,
Blameless _Quiet_ more than _Wealth_.
Nought to _owe_, and nought to _hoard_,
Little _Land_ and little _Board_,
Little _Fav'rite_, true and kind,
These are blessings to my mind.
I, when winter comes, desire
Little _Room_ but plenteous _Fire_,
Temp'rate _Glasses_, gen'rous _Wine_,
_Dishes few_ whene'er I dine.
Yes, my sober thoughts are such,
Man must never have _too_ much;
_Not too much_ ... What solid sense.
Three such little words dispense!
Too much _Rest_ benumbs the mind;
Too much _Strife_ distracts mankind;
Too much _Negligence_ is _Sloth_;
Too much _Zeal_ is _Folly's_ growth;
Too much _Love_ our peace annoys,
Too much _Physic_ life destroys;
Too much _Cunning's_ fraudful art,
Too much _Firmness_ want of heart
Too much _sparing_ makes a knave;
Those are _rash_ that are _too_ brave;
Too much _Wealth_ like weight oppresses;
Too much _Fame_ with care distresses;
Too much _Pleasure_ death will bring,
Too much _Wit's_ a dang'rous thing;
Too much _Trust_ is folly's guide,
Too much _Spirit_ is but pride;
He's a dupe that is _too free_,
Too much _Bounty_ weak must be;
Too much _Complaisance_ a knave,
Too much _Zeal to please_ a slave.
This TOO MUCH, tho' bad it seem,
Chang'd with ease to good you deem;
But in this you err my friend,
For on _Trifles_ all depend.
Trifles great effects produce,
Both of pleasure and of use;
Trifles often turn the scale,
When in love or law we fail;
Trifles to the great commend,
Trifles make proud beauty bend;
Trifles prompt the poet's strain,
Trifles oft distract the brain;
Trifles, trifles more or less,
Give us, or withhold success;
Trifles, when we _hope_, can cheer,
Trifles smite us when we fear:
All the flames that lovers know,
Trifles quench and trifles blow.
No more let haughty _Austrians_ cry,
"_Fred'rick_ our foe, has no ally."
The _British_ fair are on his side,
And for the next campaign provide;
Their fortunes to his chests transfer ...
Money the sinews is of war.
For him they plead, and much can say,
For him they grow devout and pray!
For him their martial ardours rise,
And arm afresh their killing eyes;
Those shining warriors ne'er were beat,
But gain a conquest by retreat.
Mistaken astronomers, gaze not so high:
The _Comet_ foretold is not _yet_ in the sky.
It shines here on earth, tho' deputed from Heav'n;
And remarkably flam'd last year--_Fifty sev'n_.
In _Wodon's_ bold figure, three thousand years past,
O'er ancient Germania its lustre it cast.
Next, wearing _Arminius_, thy form, it return'd;
And, fatal to _Rome's_ blasted legions, it burn'd.
Now, attended with all the thunders of war,
Our _Prussia's_ great _Frederick_ is that _Blazing Star_!
Heav'ns proxy to nations opprest; but a _Sign_
To tyrants he comes of a vengeance divine.
Eccentric and rapid the north saw him rowl:
(For heroes and stars seem most bright near the pole)
To _Britain_ propitious he sheds forth his rays;
While _Babel's_ lewd _Harlot_, his terrors amaze.
The fierce _Russian Bear_ his splendors affright;
And _Austria's_ proud _Eagle_ now shrinks from his light.
While freedom's glad sons with due warmth he inspires;
The _Lillies_ of _France_ are all scorch'd in his fires.
False _Stockholm_ shall find the _Baltic_ no bar is.
Now at _Vienna_, he'll soon be at _Paris_.
O'er _Ocean_ from _Europe_ his influence hurl'd
Shall animate here, O _George_, thy new world.
Our laws, our religion, our rights he befriends,
And conquest o'er savage invaders portends;
O'er christians miscall'd, who their nature disgrace,
Bely human form, and god's image deface.
Hail, _Living Effulgence_, whose all honour'd name
Shall grace, first of mortals, the annals of fame!
Whose glory shall spread, thro' each age and each clime,
To the final extent of space and of time!
Who the Virtues _Trajan_ and _Titus_ unite;
The victor of empires, and _Mankind's Delight_!
Hail, radiance auspicious, from light's fountain born
Each dark hemisphere to relume and adorn!
To whom if compar'd, other kings all appear,
Like little dim _Sparklers_, round _Cynthia's_ bright sphere.
The wonder of monarchs, a patriot imperial,
Endow'd with a spirit of vigour aetherial!
For worth, less than your's in pale envy's despite,
Old chiefs claim'd to honours celestial a right!
From their funeral piles in flames eagles soar'd;
Earth's heroes grew gods, and dead kings were ador'd.
Defensive, fair justice, he fights in thy cause,
And his sword, lightning pointed, reluctant he draws,
His courage on aggregate perils still grows;
And his triumphs increase from multiply'd foes.
Ye _Cæsars_, ye _Bourbons_, ye scourges of God,
Ye saw on the wings of the wind how he rode:
Revere then heav'ns champion, who, charg'd with your doom,
Shall quell the leagu'd hosts of _Gaul_, _Satan_ and _Rome_!
When earth's giant crew, each with manifold hands,
Assaulted _Jove's_ seat, in confederate bands;
Thus _Evius_ asserted the throne of his sire,
And heap'd o'er th' aggressors a mountain of fire!
Ye numberless suns, his kindred, on high,
For six thousand years whom cou'd ye descry;
Whom, like him, have seen of meer mortal birth;
Tho _Alfred_ and _Edward_ once dignify'd earth?
Blush, blush, scepter'd pirates, who trail your faint fire:
Ye meteors, that transiently dazzling expire!
Whose lust of vain pow'r stains the page of your story:
What glow worms ye look, and how lost in his glory?
Blush, butchers, whose banners red massacre shames,
That _Honest_ and _Great_ should bear different names!
Go waste the creation for empire and pelf:
The globe you may win, but _he_ conquers himself!
To spare he subdues; as he sought to defend;
Dire war's his forc'd mean: but fair peace his lov'd end.
Tho' trophies in battles o'er your's he can raise;
Yet these he accounts but a second rate praise.
Who by victories plum'd ne'er thinks it disgrace,
To sigh that they're earn'd by the blood of his race.
The public's first servant, and humble in station;
He found his firm glory on wise legislation.
His country's great father, in blessings most blest,
Who loses his own for the world's peace and rest!
Still only ambitious of fair-won renown,
And olives with laurels to wreath in his crown.
Say poet, philosopher, critick, divine,
What art thou?--Since all, but omniscience is thine.
Self-taught, tho' a king! and now destin'd to prove,
That _Minerva_, like thee, sprang perfect from _Jove_.
Like thee, fam'd for wisdom; like thee for alarms:
The goddess of science, and goddess of arms!
In his words, in his deeds, we read his great heart;
Too gen'rous for fraud, and too wise for mean art.
With aw still reflecting whence all grandeur springs;
And only dependent on thee, King of Kings!
The mate of his vet'rans in each noble feat;
The first in the charge, and the last in retreat,
A statesman and monarch, yet true to his word;
A soldier with honour, more bright than his sword.
Whom pow'r ne'er corrupted; whom learning adorns:
Who, ev'n in idea, court-turpitude scorns:
--Yet why should we wonder, that _this_ he disdains;
When the blood of good _George_ flows rich in his veins?
nation, to whom after his deification the fourth day of our
week was consecrated, now contracted from Wodon's day to
against the Roman invasions, who cut to pieces three legions
commanded by _Quintilius Varus_ in the reign of _Augustus
Kind Prince! whom the admiring world must own
By truth and nature form'd to grace a throne:
Whose dawn of empire like the solar ray,
Chears half the _North_ with hopes of lasting day;
Receive the homage which the Muses send,
Their fav'rite thou! their guardian! and their friend!
ARE you enthron'd?... And does your goodness deign
To own your poet, and regard his strain?
O blissful moment! dear auspicious grace!
Does FRED'RICK'S smile my wand'ring steps embrace?
Does his great soul possess'd of wisdom's balm,
(Ever benevolent, and ever calm!)
Leave all the dignity of state behind,
To meet the humble lover of mankind?
And can your hand the royal gift impart
To style me friend of your _distinguish'd_ heart?
Fame says of old, that _Phoebus_ heavenly bright,
O'er the wide world who spreads the living light,
So _Jove_ ordain'd ... his splendid carr resign'd,
To live below and humanize mankind:
No more his brows their wonted rays reveal'd,
A shepherd's form the exil'd god conceal'd;
In _Phrygian_ wilds to an unletter'd race,
He sung with such divinely-pleasing grace,
The savage nation in their softened hearts,
Receiv'd the love of virtue and of arts!
The rudest breasts the strong persuasion felt,
Were taught to think, to reason, and to melt!
Themselves to know, the social tye to own,
And learn they were not made to live alone!
Then every useful science sprung to birth,
And peaceful labour blest the smiling earth:
Men now united lost their antient rage,
Nature rejoic'd and blest her _golden age_;
An _age_ by heav'n design'd for man no more,
Unless a FREDERICK shall _that_ age restore!
It chanc'd as thro' the wood _Apollo_ stray'd,
Ere gathering numbers peopled half the shade;
As near the cooling stream he pass'd the day
And wak'd the golden lyre to wisdom's lay!
Attentive to the sound a _stranger swain_,
His reed attun'd to imitate the strain;
The god well-pleas'd the rustic genius spy'd,
Approv'd his aim, and deign'd to be his guide!
Aided his trembling hands to touch the string,
Whisper'd the words, and shew'd him how to sing!
The swain improving blest the care bestow'd,
Nor in the _master_ yet perceiv'd the _god_:
Nor knew the immortal flame his bosom fir'd,
But like a shepherd lov'd him, and admir'd!
In me, _great prince_, the image stands renew'd,
I feel myself with kindred warmth indu'd;
As to thy praise I tune the conscious lyre,
I ask whence draws my breast the noble fire?
Tell what inspires me, happy people tell?
Beneath my Fred'rick's orient sway who dwell:
From rapid _Rhine_ to silver-streaming _Meine_,
The peaceful subjects of his placid reign?
Or ye on _Prussia's_ amber yielding shore,
Who bless his name, and hail his guardian power!
Yes ... let consenting lands his virtues raise,
And fame with all her tongues repeat his praise!
Whose scepter shall _Astrea's_ rule restore,
And bid dejected MERIT sigh no more.
As once directed by the voice of fame
To _wisdom's King_ the _southern princess_ came;
At FREDERICK'S call ... see ravish'd to obey,
The sons of learning take their chearful way;
To hear _that_ sense which still attention draws;
And bless _that_ goodness which directs his laws;
Close by his throne _Philosophy_ shall smile,
To view her prince approve her children's toil!
While _Science_ joys to see his kind regards
Inspire the muse, his bounty still rewards;
Not distant far, calm _Charity_ shall stand,
Stretching to _Piety_ her social hand:
_Justice_ shall banish _arbitrary might_,
And _Commerce_ chearful _Plenty_ shall invite:
But _Goodness_ chief ... in form angelic drest,
(Such as she lives in FREDERICK'S royal breast!)
Beneath her wings shall bid the worthy find
A shelter from the storms that vex mankind;
The friend of truth, by fraud or malice hurl'd
Through all the mazes of a faithless world.
Whom envy persecutes and bigots hate,
Shall here enjoy an undisturb'd retreat;
With HIM, who scorns the empty pride or blood,
But shares his grandeur with the _wise_ and _good_!
What tho' his prudence guards the chance of war,
His mildness eyes the mischief from afar!
What tho' his arms might _Cæsar's_ laurels find,
The peaceful olive suits his greater mind:
Yet safe in all events the storm he views,
In peace or war ... the darling of the Muse!
In either state, alike insur'd success,
Since all his aim is to defend and bless!
Yet while impending clouds their darkness spread,
He arms for war ... but arms without a dread!
No _giant forms_ compose a vain parade,
No glittering _figures_ of the _warrior-trade_:
Valour he courts without the pomp of art,
And rises on the service of the heart:
He boasts it all his glory to be just
(A pride beyond the title of _August_!)
Which time secures, the most impartial friend,
And guards his _name_ till nature fells her end!
So when beneath the curs'd _Cæsarian_ race
_Rome_ felt the horrors of her first disgrace;
Great _Trajan_ rose with every virtue blest,
To give the weary world the sweets of rest:
No blood, no conquest mark'd his spotless reign,
'Twas goodness form'd th' inviolable chain;
E'en _India's_ Kings receiv'd the willing yoke,
For goodness is a band no savage broke!
Not _Salem's_ walls defil'd with wilful blood,
A crime, her victor's clemency withstood:
Not all her honours levell'd with the dust,
Styl'd _Titus good_, or _merciful_, or _just_:
Love knit the charm on which his greatness rose,
A charm! not worlds united can oppose!
Behold the glorious pattern marks your rise!
Nor quit the steps by which he gain'd the skies:
Try to surpass! (but heav'n his _fate_ refuse!)
_He wept a day!_ ... which YOU _will never lose_!
Prussian Majesty, the badge of which is a gold medal with
this inscription, For Merit.]
the tall soldiers his father forced into his service.]
Voltaire, believe me, were I now
In private life's calm station plac'd,
Yet heav'n for nature's wants allow,
With cold indifference would I view
Departing fortune's winged haste,
And at the goddess laugh like you.
Th' insipid farce of tedious state,
Imperial duty's real weight,
The faithless courtier's supple bow,
The fickle multitude's caress,
And flatt'rers wordy emptiness,
By long experience well I know;
And, tho' a prince and poet born,
Vain blandishments of glory scorn.
For when the ruthless sheers of fate
Have cut my life's precarious thread,
And rank me with th' unconscious dead,
What will't avail that _I was_ great,
Or that th' uncertain tongue of fame
In mem'ry's temple chants my name?
One blissful moment whilst we live
Weighs more than ages of renown;
What then do potentates receive
Of good peculiarly their own?
Sweet ease, and unaffected joy,
Domestic peace, and sportive pleasure,
The regal throne and palace fly,
And, born for liberty, prefer
Soft silent scenes of lovely leisure
To what we monarchs buy so dear,
The thorny pomp of scepter'd care.
My pain or bliss shall ne'er depend
On fickle fortune's casual flight,
For, whether she's my foe or friend,
In calm repose I'll pass the night;
And ne'er by watchful homage own
I court her smile, nor fear her frown.
But from our stations we derive
Unerring precepts how to live,
And certain deeds each rank calls forth
By which is measur'd human worth.
_Voltaire_, within his private cell,
In realms where ancient honesty
Is patrimonial property,
And sacred freedom loves to dwell,
May give up all _his_ peaceful mind,
Guided by _Plato's_ deathless page,
In silent solitude resigned
To the mild virtues of a sage;
But I 'gainst whom wild whirlwinds wage
Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing,
Must be to face the tempest's rage,
In thought, in life, in death a king.
Fire, water, woman, are man's ruin
Says wise Professor Vander Brüin
By flames a house I hir'd was lost
Last year; and I must pay the cost.
This spring the rains o'erflow'd my ground;
And my best Flanders mare was drown'd.
A slave I am to Clara's eyes:
The gipsy knows her power and flies.
Fire, water, woman, are my ruin:
And great thy wisdom Vander Brüin.
Yet a few years or days perhaps,
Or moments pass with silent lapse,
And time to me shall be no more;
No more the sun these eyes shall view,
Earth o'er these limbs her dust shall strew,
And life's fantastick dream be o'er.
Alas! I touch the dreadful brink,
From nature's verge impell'd I sink,
And endless darkness wraps me round!
Yes, Death, is ever at my hand,
Fast by my bed he takes his stand,
And constant at my board is found.
Earth, air and fire, and water join
Against this fleeting life of mine,
And where for succour can I fly?
If art with flattering wiles pretend
To shield me like a guardian friend,
By Art, ere Nature bids, I die.
I see this tyrant of the mind,
This idol Flesh to dust consigned,
Once call'd from dust by power divine:
Its features change, 'tis pale, 'tis cold--
Hence dreadful spectre! to behold
Thy aspect, is to make it mine.
And can I then with guilty pride,
Which fear nor shame can quell or hide,
This flesh still pamper and adorn?
Thus viewing what I soon shall be,
Can what I am demand the knee,
Or look on aught around with scorn?
But then this spark that warms, that guides,
That lives, that thinks, what fate betides?
Can this be dust, a kneaded clod!
This yield to death! the soul, the mind,
That measures heaven, and mounts the wind,
That knows at once itself and God?
Great Cause of all, above, below,
Who knows thee must forever know,
Immortal and divine!
Thy image on my soul imprest,
Of endless being is the test,
And bids Eternity be mine.
Transporting thought!--but I am sure
That endless life will joy secure?
Joys only to the just decreed!
The guilty wretch expiring goes,
Where vengeance endless life bestows,
That endless mis'ry may succeed.
Great God, how awful is the scene!
A breath, a transient breath between;
And can I jest, and laugh and play?
To earth, alas! too firmly bound,
Trees, deeply rooted in the ground,
Are shiver'd when they're torn away.
Vain joys, which envy'd greatness gains,
How do ye bind with silken claims,
Which ask Herculean strength to break!
How with new terrours have ye arm'd
The power whose slightest glance alarm'd!
How many deaths of one ye make!
Man's thoughtless race in errour bold,
Forget or scorn, the laws of death;
With these no projects coincide,
Nor vows nor toils, nor hopes they guide,
Each thinks he draws immortal breath.
Each blind to fate's approaching hour,
Intrigues, or fights for wealth or power,
And slumb'ring dangers dare provoke:
And he who tott'ring scarce sustains
A century's age, plans future gains,
And feels an unexpected stroke.
Go on, unbridled desp'rate band,
Scorn rocks, gulfs, winds, search sea and land,
And spoil new worlds wherever found.
Seize, haste to seize the glittering prize,
And sighs, and tears and prayers despise,
Nor spare the temple's holy ground.
They go, succeed, but look again,
The desperate hand you seek in vain,
Now trod in dust the peasant's scorn.
But who, that saw their treasures swell,
That heard th' insatiate rebel,
Would e'er have thought them mortal born?
See the world's victor mount his car,
Blood marks his progress wide and far,
Sure he shall reign while ages fly;
No, vanish'd like a morning cloud,
The hero was but just allow'd
To fight, to conquer, and to die.
And is it true, I ask with dread,
That nations heap'd on nations bled
Beneath his chariot's fervid wheel,
With trophies to adorn the spot,
Where his pale corse was left to rot,
And doom'd the hungry reptile's meal?
Yes, fortune weary'd with her play,
Her toy, this hero, casts away,
And scarce the form of man is seen:
Awe chills my breast, my eyes o'erflow,
Around my brows no roses glow,
The cypress mine, funereal green.
Yet in this hour of grief and fears,
When awful Truth unveil'd appears,
Some power unknown usurps my breast;
Back to the world my thoughts are led,
My feet in folly's labyrinth tread,
And Fancy dreams that life is blest.
How weak an empress is the mind,
Whom Pleasure's flowery wreaths can bind,
And captive to her altars lead!
Weak Reason yields to Frenzy's rage,
And all the world is Folly's stage,
And all that act are fools indeed.
And yet this strange and sudden flight,
From gloomy cares to gay delight,
This fickleness so light and vain,
In life's delusive transient dream,
Where men nor things are what they seem,
Is all the real good we gain.
Perhaps, like Werter, pensive in the shade,
I mourn in vain, and curse relentless fate
Or while I love the sympathetic maid,
Adversity's black clouds around me wait.
By the late doctor Ladd.
Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so?
I wander through the gloom:
And with the tears of silent woe,
Each night bedew thy tomb.
Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so?
Thy friends, thy kindred flee?
Dost thou no longer Charlotte know?
Have friends no charms for thee?
Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so,
All lonely, full of fears?
Behold thy friends are left to woe,
And Charlotte left in tears.
Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so,
To wander round thy tomb?
Alas! presentiments of woe
Foretold thy fatal doom.
Why Werter didst thou leave me so,
In terrible despair?
Those pistols did thy fate foreknow:
Ah! why was Charlotte there!
Why, Werter, didst thou leave me so?
Alas! thou wrong'dst my love,
To leave me weeping here below,
While thou art blest above.
Werter, thou shalt not leave me so:
We must not parted be:
I quit the world--to heav'n I go!
Werter, I fly to thee.
And say, did Charlotte's hand these pistols give?
Come, ye dear pledges, sacred to my love--
Since giv'n by her, 'twould be a crime to live--
No; come ye pistols; all your death I prove.
But first one kiss, for there did Charlotte touch,
Ye sacred relics, now are ye most dear;
Tho' o'er your deeds will Charlotte sorrow much,
And even Albert drop a pitying tear.
May heav'n forgive the unconsider'd deed!
It gave me passions, nor could I controul:
But if, poor Werter, 'tis a crime to bleed,
The God of heav'n have mercy on thy soul.
Charlotte I go!--my pistols have their load:
My last, my dying thoughts are fix'd on you!
I go! I go thro' death's untrodden road;
Once, and for ever, Charlotte--Oh! adieu!
Stranger! whoe'er thou art, that from below
This grass-green hill, with steady steps dost press;
Shed sympathetic tears; for stranger know,
Here lies the son of sorrow and distress.
Although his soul with ev'ry virtue mov'd,
Tho' at his birth deceitful fortune smil'd,
In one sad hour, too fatally he lov'd;
False fortune frown'd, and he was sorrow's child.
Heav'n gave him passions, as she virtue gave,
But gave not pow'r those passions to suppress:
By them subdu'd he slumbers in the grave--
The soul's last refuge from terrene distress.
Around his tomb, the sweetest grass shall spring;
And annual flowers shall ever blossom here;
Here fairy forms their loveliest gifts shall bring,
And passing strangers shed the pitying tear.
Still on those plains their num'rous race survive,
And, born to labour, still are found to thrive;
Through rain and sunshine, toiling for their heirs,
They hold no nation on this earth like theirs.
Where'er they fix, all nature smiles around--
Groves bend with fruit, and plenty clothes the ground;
No barren trees to shade their domes, are seen;
Trees must be fertile, and their dwellings clean;
No idle fancy dares its whims apply,
Or hope attention from the master's eye.
All tends to something that must pelf produce,
All for some end, and ev'ry thing its use.
Eternal scow'rings keep their floors afloat,
Neat as the outside of the Sunday coat.
The wheel, the loom, the female band employ,--
These all their pleasure, these their darling joy.
The strong-ribb'd lass no idle passions move,
No nice ideas of romantic love;
He to her heart the readiest path can find,
Who comes with gold, and courts her to be kind.
She heeds not valour, learning, wit, or birth,
Minds not the swain--but asks him, what he's worth?
No female fears in her firm breast prevail,
The helm she governs, and she trims the sail;
In some small barque the way to market finds,
Hauls aft the sheet, or veers it to the winds:
While, lac'd ahead, subservient to her will,
Hans smokes his pipe, and wonders at her skill.
Health to their toils--thus may they still go on--
Curse on my pen! what virtues have I drawn!
Is this the gen'ral taste? No--truth replies--
If fond of beauty, guiltless of disguise,
See (where the social circle meant to grace)
The handsome Yorker shades her lovely face;
She, early led to happier talks at home,
Prefers the labours that her sex become;
Remote from view, directs some fav'rite art,
And leaves to hardier man the ruder part.
Mistaken youth! thy love, to frenzy wrought,
Spurn'd calm reflection and each sober thought.
A little time had shewn e'en Charlotte's charms
Had shrunk and faded in a Werter's arms:
For guilt and meanness ne'er could dwell with thee;
And virtuous friendship soon had set thee free.
But hadst thou triumph'd o'er the fair one's fall,
Thou then, as now, hadst met the fatal ball;
Still keener anguish had attack'd thy mind
Than e'en now dying thy stung soul did find.
None dare say Mercy wont extend its aid;      }
But who of that would not have been afraid,   }
If with a kiss thou Charlotte hadst betray'd. }
By the late Dr. Ladd.
History says that Sivard, King of Sweden, entered Norway with a
Between Norwegian hills wide spreads a plain,
By nature form'd for sport;
The Vet'ran warrior here, and hardy swain,
To annual games resort.
High o'er their heads was hung the hoary brow,
Which cast an ample shade;
From thence these words majestic seem'd to flow--
"Fierce foes your sports invade!"
They upward gaze--a warrior struck their sight;
He bore aloft his lance,
All sheath'd in arms, unsufferably bright,
Where beamy splendors dance.
The western sun-beam round his helmit flies,
He more than man appears;
And more than mortal seem'd to sound the voice
That rang upon their ears.
"Ye sons of Norway! harken to my tale,
"Your rural games oh cease;
"Sivard is marching thro' Dulvellon's vale,
"Break off the sports of peace!
"The bloody Sivard leads his conqu'ring Swedes,
"He riots in our shame;
"The man, the matron, and the infant bleeds--
"Norway is but a name!
"The husband sees--curse on the tyrant's lust--
"He sees his beauteous bride--
"Her virtue, worth, and honor in the dust--
"Oh where is Norway's pride!
"Rouse! rouse Norwegians! take your arms amain,
"Let helms o'ershade each brow;
"Let's meet these Swedish dæmons in the plain,
"And lay their triumphs low.
"O had you seen what these poor eyes have seen!
"'Twas Sivard done the deed--
"Our hoary monarch, and our helpless queen,
"I--yes, I saw them bleed.
"Their daughter Ella--no, I will not tell!
"Norwegians ne'er enquire--
"Ne'er hear it--what the royal maid befel;
"I see your souls on fire.
"Oh seize your swords, your spears, helms, and shields!
"Oh vindicate your fame!
"Sivard and Sweden glare on Norway's fields;
"Remember Norway's name."
He said--tears flow apace, fierce glow the swains,
Rage fills each honest breast;
In Swedish blood to wipe away their stains,
Was ev'ry thought address'd.
Then red-hair'd Rollo, fierce advancing cri'd,--
"Who'er thou art, come down,
"We live on hills, to ev'ry toil we're tri'd,
"And war is all our own.
"Let Sivard come, we'll meet the tyrant here:
"But stranger come thou down."
He came--Old Athold gaz'd with look severe;--
He gaz'd--but ceas'd to frown.
"Or Athold has forgot his monarch's face,
"Or sure thou art his son!
"Eric, of mighty Norway's royal race!"--
Full quick the tidings run.
With shouts they press to see the beauteous chief;
The aged kiss his hand:
On either side, fast roll'd the marks of grief,
Then Athold spoke the band--
"Ye sons of Norway, to your homes repair,
"There seize the sword and shield,
"And ere the morning's purple streaks the air,
"Meet Eric in the field.
"Oh prince! do you with aged Athold go,
"And take refreshing sleep;
"Athold will sing and soothe the rising woe,
"Or break his harp and weep!"
'Twas night--in Athold's hall each took his place;
Of other times he sung;
Fast stream'd the tears adown the hero's face,
And groans responsive rung.
Bright came the morn; and bright in batter'd arms,
The rustic vet'rans came:
And many a youth, untri'd in rough alarms,
Now hop'd a patriot's name.
They heard from far the hum of Sivard's host;
Young Eric struck his shield;
Then high in air his heavy spear he tost,
And blaz'd along the field.
Next aged Athold follow'd; Rollo strong;
Black Calmar lifts his mace;
Culullin, Marco, Streno, rush along,
And all the rugged race.
Fierce came the Swede;--in strength of numbers proud;
He scorn'd his feeble foe;
But soon the voice of battle roar'd aloud,
And many a Swede lay low.
Strong Rollo struck the tow'ring Olaus dead,
Full fifteen bleed beside:
Old Athold cleft the brave Adolphus head,
In all his youthful pride.
But Eric! Eric! rang'd the field around,
On Sivard still he cri'd;
The gasping Swedes lay heap'd upon the ground--
Sivard! the hills repli'd.
In fury Sivard seiz'd his shining shield,
His mail, his helm, and spear;
He mounts his car, and thunders o'er the field;
Now Norway knows no fear.
Great Rollo falls beneath his dreadful arm,
His steeds are stain'd with blood;
Young Eric smil'd to hear the loud alarm,
And flew to stop the flood.
He rag'd, he foam'd--fierce flew the thirsty spear,
Down fell the foremost steed:
Astonish'd Sivard felt unusual fear,
"Tyrant thou'rt doom'd to bleed!"
Up sprang the youth--deep fell the sword,
Sunk in the tyrant's brow:
Fast fly the Swedes, and leave their hated lord,
His mighty pride laid low.
Now Norway's sons their great deliv'rer hail,
But lo! he bleeds! he falls!
Old Athold strips the helm and beamy mail,
And on his Gods he calls.
He lifts the helm, and down the snowy neck
Fast falls the silky hair--
And could those limbs, the conq'ring Sivard check!
Oh pow'r of great despair!
Life ebbs apace--she lifts her languid head,
She strives her hand to wave;
Confess to all, the beauteous Ella said--
"Thanks, thanks companions brave:
"Freedom rewards you--naught can Ella give,
"Low, low poor Ella lies;
"Sivard is dead! and Ella wou'd not live."
She bleeds--she faints--she dies!
Where cliffs arise by Winter crown'd,
And through dark groves of pine around,
Down the deep chasms, the snowed torrents foam,
Within some hollow, shelter'd from the storms,
The PEASANT of the ALPS his cottage forms,
And builds his humble, happy home.
Unenvied is the rich domain,
That far beneath him on the plain,
Waves its wide harvests and its olive groves;
More dear to him his hut, with plantain thatch'd,
Where long his unambitious heart attach'd,
Finds all he wishes, all he loves.
There dwells the mistress of his heart,
And _Love_ who teaches ev'ry art,
Has bid him dress the spot with fondest care;
When borrowing from the vale its fertile soil,
He climbs the precipice with patient toil,
To plant her fav'rite flow'rets there.
With native shrubs, a hardy race,
There the green myrtle finds a place,
And roses there, the dewy leaves decline;
While from the crags' abrupt and tangled steeps,
With bloom and fruit the Alpine berry peeps,
And, blushing, mingles with the vine.
His garden's simple produce stor'd,
Prepared for him by hands ador'd
Is all the little luxury he knows:
And by the same dear hands are softly spread,
The Chamois' velvet spoil that forms the bed,
Where in her arms he finds repose.
But absent from the calm abode
Dark thunder gathers round his road,
Wild raves the wind, the arrowy light'nings flash,
Returning quick the murmuring rocks among,
His faint heart trembling as he winds along;
Alarm'd he listens to the crash.
Of rifted ice!--Oh, man of woe!
O'er his dear cot--a mass of snow,
By the storm sever'd from the cliff above,
Has fall'n--and buried in its marble breast,
All that for him--lost wretch--the world possest,
His home, his happiness, his love!
Aghast the heartstruck mourner stands!
Glaz'd are his eyes--convuls'd his hands,
O'erwhelming anguish checks his labouring breath;
Crush'd by Despair's intolerable weight,
Frantic he seeks the mountain's giddiest height,
And headlong seeks relief in death.
A fate too similar is mine,
But I--in ling'ring pain repine,
And still my last felicity deplore;
Cold, cold to me is that dear breast become,
Where this poor heart had fondly fix'd its home,
And love and happiness are mine no more.
But to return to our Alps. Here, savage rocks of an inaccessible
The gay train,
Of fog, thick roll'd into romantic shape,
Now all's at rest--and ere the wearied swain
Rise to his labour on the upland lawn,
Shall not the muse from nature catch a strain,
To wake, and greet him at the morning dawn?
Oh! let her tell him that the feeling heart,
Oft to the mountain side by memory led,
Shall seek those blessings wealth can ne'er impart,
And wish to share the quiet of his shed:
Where ev'ry sordid passion lull'd to rest,
Man knows each gift of nature how to prize:
Flies from the storm unto his fair one's breast,
And there reposing waits serener skies.
Say, ye proud sons of fortune and of power,
Can aught the joys you feel, with these compare?
Can the full triumph of ambition's hour,
When tempests threaten, sooth your anxious care?
Or shall the tenant of yon lonely cot,
That smiles with pity on your pageant state,
Pleas'd with his poor but independent lot,
Expose the wretchedness of being great?
Unknown to you, the houseless child of woe,
The friendless pilgrim, or the hungry poor;
Unleft the good ye carelessly bestow,
The hand that feeds them, drives them from your door.
Here cruel charity no off'ring makes,
That whilst it aids, insults the big distress,
The heart that welcomes, ev'ry grief partakes,
And only pities where it can't redress.
imaginary poet sets out with
Sublimi seriens sidera vertice.
Ever your's.
"The Days of Chivalry are gone."
Burke's Letter on the French Revolution.
See! now the landscape fades away,
As westward flies the orb of day:
See the solemn night appear,
With silence her sedate compeer.
Hark! the surgy shore resounds,
As from the rocks the wave rebounds:
Rocks, on whose o'er-hanging brows,
The ragged surf-fed samphire grows.
Lo! the beacon's distant rays
O'er the waste of water plays,
Friendly to the port-bound bark,
On his watch, the seaman's mark.
Mark! yon dreary Gothic pile,
--Where murder oft did glut and smile,--
Dungeons dire of vanquish'd hosts,
--Hark! the screams of wandering ghosts!--
Now a double gloom is spread
O'er each turret's murky head,
While from th' Owlet's dismal cry
Intruding joys affrighted fly.
Ye vengeful walls for ruin built!
Scenes accurs'd of hell-born guilt!
Direful were your fierce alarms--
Hist! the sentry calls--"To arms!"
How many barons here were slain,
In coats of armour lock'd in vain!--
How many feudal vassals dy'd,
Ebbing here life's crimson tide!
What secret woes lay close immur'd!
What anguish wretches erst endur'd!
When in your sable cells confin'd
Oppression's chosen victims pin'd.
How sullen stands yon rugged tow'r!
Seems it not on the cot to low'r?
As it looks, with proud disdain,
O'er the wide-extended plain.
Here the feudal times I trace;
The lordling's power--the poor's disgrace--
Here while it moulders, all may see
Many inquiries have been made respecting the elementary monarchs
M. G. Lewis, _The Monk_ and _Tales of Wonder_. Cf. note to _The
"Sunt lacrimae rerum; et mentem mortalia tangunt."
The conflict's o'er--ah! lovely maid, adieu!
Before these sad, these parting lines, you view;
Before the fields with early dawn shall bloom,
Your Werter rests beneath the silent tomb:
No more to view the beauties of the day,
No more to listen to thy heavenly lay,
To sit, in transport, and to hear thee talk,
Or with thee wander, in an ev'ning walk,
Along the margin of the winding flood,
Thro' the green fields, or in the shady wood.
O! Charlotte! when you see the floods arise,
And wintry storms descending from the skies,
The wat'ry gloom that fills the plain below,
And all around one dreary waste of snow;
Will you not then, a sigh in sorrow heave,
For the lost pleasures of a summer's eve,
Recall the time when you so oft have seen
Thy hapless lover on the verdant green,
Or thro' the vale approaching from the grove,
To view thy charms and pine in hopeless love,
Gaze on thy angel form, for without she,
The world appear'd a boundless blank to me.
As when to seamen, from the midnight skies
The moon's bright beams in brilliant glory rise,
To guide them wand'ring thro' the wat'ry plain,
Or land them on their native shores again;
Thus, Charlotte, I no other joy could see,
Than pass the vacant day, and gaze on thee,
Live in thy joys, or in thy sorrows die,
"And drink delicious poison from thine eye,"
As the lost insect round the taper flies,
And courts the fatal flame by which it dies.
But, Charlotte, now those fleeting joys are fled,
And Werter sinks among the silent dead
From the bright hopes of life forever gone,
His mem'ry lost, and e'en his name unknown,
The time shall come, when in the vacant mind,
The fondest friend no trace of me shall find;
When e'en my kindred my sad fate shall hear,
And view my mould'ring grave without a tear,
Think on the light impressions of the mind,
Which flee as midnight dreams, and leave no trace behind.
This eve I wander'd thro' each beauteous scene,
Each fertile valley, and each level green,
Pensive and sad I view'd the foaming flood;
And the wild winds disturb the silent wood.
Beheld the sun's great orb, in glory bright,
Descend behind the western surge in night;
While on the hill to see its beams, I stood,
And view'd it sinking in the briny flood,
I felt my heart with double sorrows prest,
And life's last hope desert my throbbing breast;
The world's vast scene forever clos'd from sight,
And all involv'd in one eternal night.
Ah! shall I ne'er again thy image know,
In these sad realms of misery and woe,
Or is there yet a place in heaven design'd,
For hapless mortals by th' eternal mind,
Some winding valley, or some shady grove,
Some blissful mansions in the realms above,
Where Charlotte's shade and mine may one day meet,
Our suff'rings ended and our bliss complete,
In the bright regions of eternal light,
Where all is perfect joy and pure delight.
When in the summer's eve you chance to stray
Thro' the low vale, or on the broad highway,
Or in the churchyard, thro' the shady trees,
You hear the whistling of the midnight breeze,
Wave high the grass, in solitary gloom,
Around the heap that shews thy lover's tomb--
Ah, then will you not one sad thought bestow,
On him who could no greater blessing know
Than pass the hour with fleeting joys with thee,
Gaze on thy charms and watch thy wand'ring eye,
Observe the beauteous image of thy mind,
Disclose a soul for heaven alone design'd,
Or view thy distant form amidst the trees,
And thy white tresses floating in the breeze;
Or see thy fingers strike, with tender lays,
Such notes as bards in heaven alone can raise;
Such notes as Orpheus' self might lean to hear,
And force from Pluto's soul the melting tear.
Yes, Charlotte's self, my sad remains shall see,
And Charlotte's tender heart will heave a sigh for me.
The following burlesque on the style, in which most of the German
Cold blows the blast:--the night's obscure:
The sun had sunk:--and all the moor,
Like ev'ry other moor--was black.
Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,
The lovely Molly Dumpling sat,
Much did she fear, and much admire,
What Thomas, gard'ner could be at.
Listening, her hand supports her chin,
But, ah! no foot is heard to stir:
He comes not, from the garden, in;
Nor he, nor little Bobtail cur.
They cannot come, sweet maid, to thee!
Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass!
And what's impossible, can't be;
And never, never, comes to pass!
She paces through the hall antique,
To call her Thomas from his toil;
Opes the huge door;--the hinges creak,--
Because the hinges wanted oil.
Thrice on the threshold of the hall,
She "Thomas" cried, with many a sob;
And thrice on Bobtail did she call,
Exclaiming sweetly--"Bob! Bob! Bob!"
Vain maid! a gard'ners corpse, 'tis said
In answers can but ill succeed;
And, dogs that hear when they are dead
Are very cunning dogs, indeed!
Back through the hall she bent her way,
All, all was solitude around!
The candle shed a feeble ray--
Though a large mould of four to th' pound.
Full closely to the fire she drew;
Adown her cheek a salt tear stole,
When, lo! a coffin out there flew,
And in her apron burnt a hole!
Spiders their busy death watch tick'd;
A certain sign that fate will frown;
The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click'd;
A certain sign it was not down.
More strong and strong her terrors rose;--
Her shadow did the maid appal;--
She trembled at her lovely nose--
It look'd so long against the wall.
Up to her chamber, damp and cold,
She clim'd lord Hoppergallop's stair;--
Three stories high, long, dull and old--
As great lords' stories often are.
All Nature now appear'd to pause;
And "o'er the one half world seem'd dead;"
No "curtain'd sleep" had she;--because
She had no curtains to her bed.
Listening she lay;--with iron din,
The clock struck twelve; the door flew wide;
When Thomas grimly glided in,
With little Bobtail by his side.
Tall, like the poplar, was his size;
Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks,
Red, red as beet root, were his eyes;
And, pale, as turnips, were his cheeks!
Soon as the spectre she espied,
The fear struck damsel faintly said,
"What would my Thomas?"--he replied,
"O! Molly Dumpling! I am dead."
"All in the flower of youth I fell,
Cut off with health's full blossom crown'd;
I was not ill--but in the well
I tumbled backwards, and was drown'd.
"Four fathom deep thy love doth lie;
His faithful dog his fate doth share;
We're friends;--this is not he and I;
We are not here--for we are there.
"Yes;--two foul water fiends are we;
Maid of the moor! attend us now!
Thy hour's at hand;--we come for thee!
The little fiend cur said "bow wow!"
"To wind her in her cold grave,
A Holland sheet a maiden likes;
A sheet of water thou shalt have;
The fiends approach; the maid did shrink;
Swift through the night's foul air they spin;
They took her to the green well's brink,
And, with a souse, they plump'd her in.
From the shop of Messrs. Colon and Spondee.
Terror_." This is partly intended as a burlesque of the various
successful in parody, has, in some of his "_Tales of Terror_"
An Old Woman's Tale.
Veteres avias tibi de pulmone revello           _Persius_.
The birds they sung, the morning smil'd
The mother kiss'd her darling child,
And carry to your grandmummie."
The pretty maid had on her head
A little riding hood of red,
And as she pass'd the lonely wood,
They call'd her small red riding hood.
Her basket on her arm she hung,
And as she went thus artless sung:
"A lady lived beneath a hill,
Who if not gone, resides there still."
The wolf king saw her pass along,
This evening shall my supper be!"
Now swift the maid pursu'd her way,
And heedless trill'd her plaintive lay;
Nor had she pass'd the murky wood,
When lo! the wolf king near her stood.
"Oh! stop my pretty child so gay!
Oh! whither do you bend your way?"
Are going to my grandmummie."
"While you by yonder mountain go,
On which the azure blue bells grow,
I'll take this road; then haste thee, dear,
Or I before you will be there.
"And when our racing shall be done,
A kiss you forfeit, if I've won;
Your prize shall be, if first you come,
Some barley sugar and a plumb."
"Oh! thank you, good sir Wolf," said she,
And dropt a pretty courtesie:
The little maid then onward hied,
And sought the blue bell mountain side.
The wolf sped on o'er marsh and moor,
And faintly tapp'd at granny's door:
"Oh! let me in, grandmummy good,
For I am small red riding hood."
"The bobbin pull (the grandam cried),
The door will then fly open wide."
The crafty wolf the bobbin drew,
And straight the door wide open flew.
He pac'd the bed room eight times four,
And utter'd thrice a hideous roar;
He pac'd the bed room nine times three,
And then devour'd poor grandmummie.
He dash'd her brains out on the stones,
He gnaw'd her sinews, crack'd her bones;
He munch'd her heart, he quaff'd her gore,
And up her lights and liver tore.!!!!
Grandmummy's bed he straight got in,
Her night-cap tied beneath his chin;
And, waiting for his destin'd prey,
All snug between the sheets he lay.
Now at the door a voice heard he,
Oh! let me in, grandmummy good,
For I am small red riding hood."
"The bobbin pull (the wolf king cried),
The door will then fly open wide."
The little dear the bobbin drew,
And straight the door wide open flew.
And sigh'd ... "I wish I'd brought you _four_.
I'm very tir'd, dear grandmummie;
Oh! may I come to bed to thee?"
"Oh come! (the wolf king softly cried),
And lie, my sweet one, by my side:"
Ah! little thought the child so gay
The cruel wolf king near her lay!
"Oh! tell me, tell me, granny dear,
Why does your _voice_ so gruff appear?"
"Oh! hush, sweetheart (the wolf king said),
I've got a small cold in my head!"
"Oh! tell me, grandmummie so kind,
Why you've a _tail_ grows out _behind_?"
"Oh! hush thee, hush thee, pretty dear,
My pincushion I hang on there!"
"Why do your _eyes_ so glare on me?"
"They are your pretty face to see."
"Why do your _ears_ so long appear?"
"They are your pretty voice to hear."
"Oh! tell me, granny, why to-night
Your teeth appear so long and white?"
Then, growling, cried the wolf so grim,
"They are to tear you limb from limb!"
His hungry teeth the wolf king gnash'd,
His sparkling eyes with fury flash'd,
He op'd his jaws all sprent with blood,
And fell on small red riding hood.
He tore her bowels out one and two,
"Little maid, I will eat you!"
But when he tore out three and four,
The little maid she was no more!
Take warning hence, ye children fair;
Of wolves' insidious arts beware;
And, as you pass each lonely wood,
Ah! think of small red riding hood!
Nor gather blue bells as you go;
Get not to bed with grandmummie,
Lest she a ravenous wolf should be!
sanguinary description in a German ballad by Professor Von
Spluttbach, called Skulth den Balch, or Sour Mthltz; in
English, as far as a translation can convey an idea of the
horror of the original, "The Bloody Banquet, or the Gulph of
Ghosts!!!" a very terrible and meritorious production.]
remember that she set out with only _three_, consequently her
wish that another had been added, arose from a motive purely
affectionate and characteristic. This benevolent trait,
ingeniously insinuated, excites the interest of the reader
for her, and adds horror to the catastrophe.]
astonishment; not only the _length_, but the _whiteness_ of
her grandmother's teeth excites her wonder and suspicion.]
Mine Cot, vat vose does Hans se feel,
Vile lufly Notchie is avay,
Vat is de matter, vat de deel,
Does make you zo vorever stay.
I sleep none in de day, nor nite,
Mit such impashuns I duz burn,
Zo, when de shell drake vings hur vlite,
Pore Frow she mornes vor his return.
Zo owls will hoot, und cats will mew,
Und dogs will howl; und storms will ney,
Und zhall not I more anguish sho,
Vile lufly Notchie is avay.
A shacket I has lately bot,
Und brokenbrooks zo zoft as zilk,
Stripd as your under petticote,
Und vite as any buttermilk.
Make hase, mine dere, und quikly cum,
Mine vaders goin to di, you zee,
Und Yacups cot his viddle home,
Und we shall haf a daring bee.
I feres zum Yanky vull uv art,
More cunnin, as de ferry dele,
Vill git away yorn little hart,
Zo as da will our horshes stele.
If any wun yore hart shool blunder,
Mine horshes Ill do vaggon yoke,
Und ghase him quickly by mine dunder,
I vly zo zwift as any zpoke.
Vhen yonk Vontoofen, my coot frend
Zhall cum to zee you vhare you be,
Dese skarlet carters I zhall zend,
O die dem on, und dink on me.
(voelen) is not reflexive in Dutch. In stanzas III and VI "mill"
vice-consul at Philadelphia.]
Translated from a Danish Inscription.
Hail, deadly Autumn, and thy fading leaf,
I love thee, drear and gloomy as thou art;
Not joyful Spring, like thee can soften grief,
Nor gaudy Summer soothe the aching heart;
But in thy cheerless, solitary bower,
Beneath the varied shade, I love to lie,
When dusky Evening's melancholy hour
With boding clouds obscures the low'ring sky,
And tuneless birds and fading flowers appear
In grief to hang their heads, and mourn the parting year.
'Tis not the gloomy sky, the parting year,
'Tis not the Winter's dreary reign I mourn,
But absent friends--and _one_ than life more dear,
And joys departed, never to return!
O gentle Hope, that 'mid Siberia's snows,
Can cheer the wretched exile's lingering year,
And where the sun on curs'd Oppression glows,
Can check the sigh, and wipe the falling tear,
Thy gentle care--thy succour I implore;
O raise thy heavenly voice, and bid me weep no more.
Thou hears't my prayer--I feel thy holy flame--
And future joys in bright succession rise,
And mutual love and friendship--sacred name!
And home and all the blessings that I prize.
Thou, Memory, lendst thy aid, and to my view
Each friend I love, and every scene most dear,
In forms more bright than ever painter drew,
Fresh from thy pencil's magic tint appear.
Roll on, ye lingering hours, that lie between,
Till Truth shall realize, and Virtue bless, the scene.
Nocturnus occurram furor. Hor.
To melt the soul, to captivate the ear,
(Angels such melody might deign to hear,)
To anticipate on earth the joys of heav'n,
'Twas Handel's task: to him that pow'r was giv'n.
Ah, when he late attuned Messiah's praise,
With sound celestial, with melodious lays:
A last farewell, his languid looks express'd,
And thus, methinks, th' enraptur'd crowd addrest.
"Adieu, my dearest friend, and also you,
"Joint sons of sacred harmony, adieu!
"Apollo whispering, prompts me to retire,
"And bids me join the bright seraphic choir:
"Oh! for Elijah's car!" great Handel cry'd:
Messiah heard his voice, and Handel died.
"The Reader must be apprised, that the stoves in North Germany
'A fig for your languages, German and Norse,
Let me have the song of the _kettle_
In scorn of writers, Faustus still doth hold,
Nought is now said, but hath been said of old;
Well, Faustus, say my wits are gross and dull,
If for that word I give thee not a Gull:
Thus then I prove thou holdst a false position;
I say thou art a man of fair condition,
A man true of thy word, tall of thy hands,
Of high descent and left good store of lands;
Thou with false dice and cards hast never play'd,
Corrupted never widow, wife or maid,
And, as for swearing, none in all this realm,
Doth seldomer in speech curse or blaspheme.
In fine, your virtues are so rare and ample,
For all our Song thou mayst be made a sample.
This, I dare swear, _none ever said before_,
This, I may swear, _none ever will say more_.
commit suicide."
Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objets de mon amour?
Nos claires ruisseaux,
Nos couteaux [_sic_],
Nos hameaux,
Nos montagnes,
Et l'ornament de nos campagnes,
La si gentille Isabeau?
A l'ombre d'un ormeau,
Quand danserai-je au son du chalumeau?
Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objects de mon amour?
Mon père,
Ma mère,
Mon frère
Ma soeur,
Mes agneaux
Mes troupeaux,
Ma bergère?
Quand reverrai-je, en un jour,
Tous les objet de mon amour?
When shall I behold again, in one day, all pleasing objects of my
From midst the dusty fields of war
To realms beyond the northern star,
To loud Valhalla's echoing halls,
I bear the hero ere he falls;
The valiant dwell in those abodes,
And sit amid carousing gods;
Not goblets rich, nor flasks of gold,
But skulls of mantling mead they hold;
The coward while he gasps for breath,
Sinks darkling to Hela beneath.
O be it mine, from conflict borne,
To reach the realms of endless morn;
At Odin's board my lips I'll lave
In the foam'd bev'rage of the brave.
Who breaks the dusty fields of war,
Death travels by his clattering car;
Perch'd on the whirlwind's thund'ring tower,
On comes the sable tempest's power;
Ye warriors rise, ye chiefs give room,
A godlike guest in youthful bloom,
Harold from fields of battle see,
Begin th' immortal revelry.
Ye Gods! from whom each favour'd bard
Receives those talents verse requires,
O teach them truth! for sure 'tis hard
They should be all such wicked liars.
The sun-beams streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain's brow;
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roebuck through the snow.
From rock to rock, with giant-bound,
High on their iron poles they pass;
Mute, lest the air, convuls'd by sound,
Rend from above a frozen mass.
The goats wind slow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude;
Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning cloud,
Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high.
In the following exquisite Parody, the sentiments are not less
scholar.
A Parody of Gray's Ode to Adversity.
Daughter of night, chaotic Queen!
Thou fruitful source of modern lays,
Whose turbid plot, and tedious scene,
The monarch spurn, the robber raise.
Bound in thy necromantic spell
The audience taste the joys of hell,
And Briton's sons indignant grown
With pangs unfelt before, at crimes before unknown.
When first, to make the nation stare,
Folly her painted mask display'd,
Schiller sublimely mad was there,
And Kotz'bue lent his leaden aid.
Gigantic pair! their lofty soul
Disdaining reason's weak control,
On changeful Britain sped the blow,
Who, thoughtless of her own, embraced fictitious woe.
Aw'd by thy scowl tremendous, fly
Fair Comedy's theatric brood,
Light satire, wit, and harmless joy,
And leave us dungeons, chains and blood.
Swift they disperse, and with them go,
Mild Otway, sentimental Rowe;
Congreve averts the indignant eye,
And Shakespeare mourns to view the exotic prodigy.
Ruffians, in regal mantle dight,
Maidens immers'd in thoughts profound,
Spectres, that haunt the shades of night,
And spread a waste of ruin round.
These form thy never-varying theme,
While, buried in thy Stygian stream,
Religion mourns her wasted fires
And Hymen's sacred torch low hisses, and expires.
O mildly on the British stage,
Great Anarch! spread thy sable wings;
Not fired with all the frantic rage,
With which thou hurl'st thy darts at kings.
As thou in native garb art seen,
With scattered tresses, haggard mien,
Sepulchral chains and hideous cry
By despot arts immur'd in ghastly poverty.
In specious form, dread Queen! appear;
Let falsehood fill the dreary waste;
Thy democratic rant be here,
To fire the brain, corrupt the taste.
The fair, by vicious love misled,
Teach me to cherish and to wed,
To low-born arrogance to bend,
Establish'd order spurn, and call each outcast friend.
From Carr's Northern Summer.
Here, far from all the pomp ambition seeks,
Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais'd,
Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks,
Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais'd.
On a gay rock it stands, whose fretted base
The distant cataract's murm'ring waters lave;
Whilst, o'er its grassy roof, with varying grace,
The slender branches of the white birch wave.
Behind, the forest fir is heard to sigh,
On which the pensive ear delights to dwell;
And, as the gazing stranger passes by,
The grazing goat looks up and rings his bell.
Oh! in my native land, ere life's decline,
May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine!
flowing.
A wolf, while Julia slept, had made
Her favorite lamb his prize;
Young Casper flew to give his aid,
Who heard the trembler's cries.
He drove the wolf from off the green,
But claim'd a kiss for pay.
Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been,
Had Casper staid away.
While grateful feelings warm'd her breast,
She own'd she loved the swain;
The youth eternal love professed,
And kiss'd and kiss'd again.
A fonder pair was never seen;
They lov'd the live long day:
Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been,
Had Casper staid away.
At length, the sun his beams withdrew,
And night inviting sleep,
Fond Julia rose and bade adieu,
Then homeward drove her sheep.
Alas! her thoughts were chang'd, I ween,
For thus I heard her say;
Ah! Julia, better 'twould have been,
Had Casper staid away.
Extracts from Parts VI and I respectively. Cf. Preface.]
Son of Angrym, warrior bold,
Stay thy travel o'er the wold;
Stop, Havardur, stop thy steed;
Thy death, thy bloody death's decreed.
She, Coronzon's lovely maid,
Whom thy wizard wiles betray'd,
Glides along the darken'd coast,
A frantic, pale, enshrouded ghost.
Where the fisher dries his net,
Rebel waves her body beat;
Seduc'd by thee, she toss'd her form
To the wild fury of the storm.
Know thou feeble child of dust,
Odin's brave, and Odin's just;
From the Golden Hall I come
To pronounce thy fatal doom;
Never shall thou pass the scull
Of rich metheglin deep and full:
Late I left the giant throng,
Yelling loud thy funeral song;
Imprecating deep and dread
Curses on thy guilty head.
Soon with Lok, thy tortur'd soul,
Must in boiling billows roll;
Till the God's eternal light
Bursts athwart thy gloom of night;
Till Surtur gallops from afar,
To burn this breathing world of war.
Bold to brave the spear of death,
Heroes hurry o'er the heath:
Hasten to the smoking feast--
Welcome every helmed guest,
Listen hymns of sweet renown,
Battles by thy fathers won;
Frame thy face in wreathed smiles,
Mirth the moodiest mind beguiles.--
Yet I hover always nigh,
Bid thee think,--and bid thee sigh;
Yet I goad thy rankling breast;--
Never, never, shalt thou rest.
What avails thy bossy shield?
What the guard thy gauntlets yield?
What the morion on thy brow?
Or the hauberk's rings below?
If to live in anguish fear,
Danger always threatening near:
Lift on high thy biting mace,
See him glaring in thy face;
Turn--yet meet him, madd'ning fly,
Curse thy coward soul, and die.
Not upon the field of fight
Hela seals thy lips in night;
A brother, of infernal brood,
Bathes him in thy heart's hot blood;
Twice two hundred vassals bend,
Hail him as their guardian friend;
Mock thee writhing with the wound,
Bid thee bite the dusty ground;
Leave thee suffering, scorn'd alone,
To die unpitied and unknown.
Be thy nacked carcase strew'd,
To give the famish'd eagles food;
Sea-mews screaming on the shore,
Dip their beaks, and drink thy gore.
Be thy fiend-fir'd spirit borne,
Wreck'd upon the fiery tide,
An age of agony abide.
But soft, the morning-bell beats one,
The glow-worm fades; and, see, the sun
Flashes his torch behind yon hill.
At night, when wearied nature's still,
And horror stalks along the plain,
Remember--we must meet again.
Bürger's beautiful ballad,
Earl Walter winds his bugle horn,
To horse! to horse! halloo! halloo!.
has given rise in England to a very humorous
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
Earl Walter kicks the waiter's rump,
Down stairs! down stairs! halloo, halloo!
They sally forth, they wheel, they jump,
And fast the scampering watch pursue.
The jolly bucks from tavern freed,
Dash fearless on through thick and thin,
While answering alleys, as they speed,
Loudly re-echo to their din.
Saint Dunstan's arm, with massy stroke
The solemn midnight peal had rung,
And bawling out, "Past twelve o'clock,"
Loud, long and deep the watchman sung.
The clamorous Earl Walter guides,
Huzza, Huzza, my merry men,
When, puffing, holding both their sides,
Two strangers haste to join his train.
The right-hand stranger's locks were grey,
But who he was I cannot tell;
The left was debonnair and gay,
A dashing blood I know full well.
He wav'd his beaver hat on high,
Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord!
What joys can earth, or sea, or sky,
To match our midnight sports afford?"
"Methinks," the other said, "'twere best
To leave, my friends, your frantick joys,
And for the balmy sweets of rest,
Exchange such rude discordant noise."
But still Earl Walter onward hies,
And dashing forward, on they go,
Huzza, huzza, each toper cries,
"Hark forward, forward, hollo ho!"
The jovial band Earl Walter guides,
And puffing, holding both their sides,
His boon companions follow still.
From yonder winding lane out springs
A phantom, white as snow,
And louder still Earl Walter sings,
"Hark forward, forward, hollo, ho!"
A quaker prim has crossed the way,
He sprawls their nimble feet below,
But what care they for _yea_-and-_nay_,
Still forward, forward, on they go.
See, at the corner of yon street,
A humble stall, with apples crown'd!
See, scatter'd by Earl Walter's feet,
The woman's apples rolling round.
"O Lord! have mercy on my stall,
Spare the hard earnings of the poor,
The helpless widow's little all,
The fruit of many a watchful hour."
Earnest the right hand stranger pleads,
The left still pointing to the prey,
The impatient Earl no warning heeds,
But furious holds the onward way.
"Away, thou poor old wither'd witch,
Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!"
Then loud he sung and wav'd his switch,
"Hark forward, forward, hollo ho!"
So said, so done; one single bound
Clears the _green grocer's_ humble stall;
While through the apples scatter'd round,
They hurry, hurry, one and all.
And now behold the tim'rous prey,
Beyond the reach of Comus' crew,
Still lightly trip along the way,
Unconscious who her steps pursue.
Again they wheel, their nimble feet
The devious way still quickly trace,
Down Ludgate-Hill, along the Fleet,
The unwearied Earl pursues the chase.
The watch now muster strong and dare
Dispute the empire of the field;
They wave their cudgels high in air,
"Now yield thee, noble Baron yield."
"Unmanner'd vagabonds! in vain
You strive to mar our nightly game;
Come on! come on! my merry men,
The raggamuffins we can tame."
In heaps the victims bite the dust,
Down sinks Earl Walter on the ground,
Now run who can, and lie who must,
For loud the _watchmen's rattles_ sound.
Now to the justice borne along,
In sullen majesty they go;
The place receives the motley throng,
And echoes to their hollo ho!
All mild amid the rout profane,
The _justice_ solemn thus began:
"Forebear your knighthood thus to stain,
Revere the dignity of man.
The meanest trull has rights to plead,
Which wrong'd by cruelty or pride,
Draw vengeance on thy guilty head,
Howe'er by titles dignified."
Cold drops of sweat in many a trill,
Adown Earl Walter's temples fall,
And louder, louder, louder still,
The surly watch for vengeance call.
The right-hand stranger anxious pleads;
The clamours of the mob increase,
The _riot act_ the justice reads,
And binds the Earl to keep the peace.
The court broke up, they sally out,
And raise a loud, a last huzza;
Then sneak'd away and hung his snout,
Each disappointed dog of law.
Muttering full many a curse, and fast
Homeward to slumber now they go;
Yet spite of all that now has passed,
You'll hear next night their hollo ho!
This is the Earl, and this his train,
That oft the awaken'd _Cockney_ hears;
With rage he glows in every vein
When the wild din invades his ears.
The dreaming maid sighs sad and oft,
That she her visions must forego,
When waken'd from her slumbers soft,
She hears the cry of hollo ho!
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.
By C. LEFTLY, Esq.
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.
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.
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:
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!"
Imitated in English verse.
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.
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.
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.
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."
country.
"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.
A tale imitated from the German.
Fire-King," etc., the following burlesque ballad may afford some
amusement.
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 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!
liberty, for the sake of the metre, to alter the word
prismatick, as above!]
A tale imitated from the German.
News from Germany.
observations on the Hamburghers, and other Germans, &c.
Stockholm in Sweden, Denmark, etc.]
their enemies.
inserted as an agreeable amusement.
Cancer. By M. I. Soultzer, first Physician to his Royal
preached at the opening of the Provincial Congress of
Georgia. With an appendix giving a concise account of the
struggles of Swisserland, to recover their Liberty. By John
J. Zubly, D.D. (Select passages from new British
Emperor of Germany. Trans. from the Journal Historique &
Alexis, the unfortunate son of the Czar Peter the Great. By
tomb of Madame Langhans, executed by Mr. John Augustus Nahl,
late sculptor to the King of Prussia, and which is to be seen
in the choir of the parish church of Hindlebanck 2 leagues
from Berne, [Prose article containing a trans. of a German
poem from Haller. Cf. p. 21.]
of vol. III are misnumbered after p. 72.]
I--First week in Apr.--third week in Aug. 1786.
King of Prussia's Campaigns.
appeared in Germany under the title of "Joseph Gebetbux"
is extracted.
Dunkards to a Lady of the Penn Family, with her Answer.
King of Prussia," published at Paris and Strassburg in the
summer of 1788, and now translating in Philadelphia.
Trans. from the German.
Duties of Kings. By the late King of Prussia. Sent, in 1781,
to his Secretary of State, de Hertsberg; but written in 1776,
or 1777, as appears from his Letters to Voltaire.
present King of Sweden when a young man, with the
superintendents of his education.
lady, in the Electorate of Hanover, who was thought worthy of
the highest academical honours in the University of
Gottengen, at the Grand Jubilee, in the year 1787.
magazine.
Sweden, etc. [Con. from V of _Columbian Mag._]
Island of Amsterdam. (From Mortimer's Observations, during a
voyage from Canton to the northwest coast of America and back
Customs of the Swedes. (From Catteau's "General view of
the King of Prussia raised from the ranks to be a General
Hopkinson, and delivered by a young gentleman at a public
commencement in the University of Pennsylvania. [Against the
study of Latin and Greek.... "It is not necessary to search
antiquity for a means of a reciprocal communication of ideas,
because languages most in use, are, in truth, the most useful
to be known."]
Communicated by a British officer to the editor of the
in the 11th cent., taken from Mallet's Northern Antiquities.
the ministers and elders of the German Reformed congregations
in the United States, at their general meeting, held at
paragraph.]
the Dutch church, New York.
Gilbert Stuart, LL.D.
political survey of the present state of Europe.
for corn, at Hamburg, Bremen, etc.
By the Shepherd his Majesty means himself.
of the celebrated Gellert.
Swedenborg. Written by himself.
(By the late celebrated Mr. Howard.)
Pennsylvania. (From Capt. Aubrey's Travels through the
interior parts of America.)
candour and justice.]
Holland, in 1784, by an American," just published.)
Electorate of Hanover who received academical honors in the
references to the German drama. "Goëthé," Lessing, Schiller,
Leisewitz, "Garstenberg," Unzer and Klinger mentioned; also,
"the dramatic poems of Klopstock."]
Campbell's journey overland to India.
=The Christian's, Scholar's, and Farmer's
---- From a German divine, a doctor of Divinity. [Unnumbered
page following 656 with heading "To Subscribers."]
work just published.
addressed to the Editor of the Edinburgh Mag.
Luthern Church at the Anniversary meeting of the German
Travels through Germany.)
assassination of Gustavus III, King of Sweden.
affecting anecdote. (From "Observations on Denmark, etc.")
Select Orations and Paper's relative to the Swedish Academy.)
Russia, Austria and Prussia; which, according to the ideas of
the Marquis of Lansdowne, if the present combination against
France succeeds, will swallow up the other governments of
Character of the Tyrolese. (From Travels through the Rhaetian
Alps, in the year 1786, from Italy to Germany through Tyrol;
France. (From "The late Picture of Paris.")
Horrebow's Natural History of that Island.)
Interesting Fragment, found among the Papers of Count
of this work.]
Wollstoncraft's Letters.)
Mountain. (From Coxe's Travels in Switzerland.)
(From a work of that name by the late Baron Haller.)
Owen's Travels.)
(From Dutton's Translation of Nicolai's Nothanker.)
=Lady's Mag. and Repos. of Entertaining Knowledge.=--Phila.
affecting anecdote. [Containing a poem. Cf. p. 136.]
=Curiosities of Literature.=--London printed;
the Diet of Ratisbon, a sketch of the German Constitution,
and of its military forces, cannot be unacceptable to the
generality of our readers.) [The article follows.]
tour on the continent.
Countries in the East. Trans. into English by Robert Heron.
German by J. W. von Goëthe. Printed at Norwich; sold by
Johnson, London. [Extracts from the metrical trans. given. By
into the Nature of Prophecies, by Konynenburg (Prof. in
of Fiesco, &c. [Book notice.]
Michaelis late Prof. in the University of Gottingen, &c.
Trans. from the 4th ed. of the German and considerably
augmented with Notes, explanatory and supplemental. By
Herbert Marsh, B.D. Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge.
June 20--Anecdote of Count Cagliostro.--Letter from Tuscofee,
l'Europe," publ. in London.
Feb. 6, 1796--Curious Contest between two Rival Lovers. A
June 18--The Hermit of the Alps. A Fragment. [A continued
Feb. 6--Military Courtship. A curious old Danish Anecdote.
May 28--Curious Contest between Two Rival Lovers. A German
Nov. 19--of the Late King of Prussia.
d'Archenholz, Captain in the Prussian Service. Trans. from
Prisoner at Varmiza, near Bender.
Charles XII, King of Sweden, by the late King of Prussia.
of Prussia, Frederic the Great. [Trans. from the German.]
Century, in which the Proceedings of the Secret Tribunal
under the Emperors Winceslaus and Sigismund are delineated.
Lecturer on Natural History. Trans. from the Swedish.
over Land to India.)
Wollstoncraft's Letters during a residence in Sweden, Norway
the largest in the world.
Holland in the last century.
German peasant.
Translator of Goethe's Iphigenia in Tauris.
published at Zurich.
Germany, Switzerland, Italy and Sicily. A late Publication.)
Gottingen. Trans. from the Latin by Archibald Maclaine, D.D.
Officer, who served under him in Poland.
Beckmann, public Professor of Economy, in the Univ. of
Gottingen. Trans. from the German by Wm. Johnston. 3 vols.
North America, described by D. von Bülow. 2 vols. [Notice.]
of Berlin with the King of Prussia.]
stanzas given.]
notes of a German.)
Note: Engel has made this anecdote the subject of a little
drama, entitled "The Page."
types of foreign literature. [Frederick the Great and
Gellert, a dialogue.]
compared. Trans. from the German of Gentz.
James Montgomery. [For quotations, cf. p. 163.]
entitled "Memoirs of Anacreon, Translated from the Greek by
Charles Sedley, Esq." [In the review of the above is the
translation: "On the Power of Beauty."]
Compare also Weisse Scherz. Lieder lib iii der Soldat, Gail,
=Lady's Mag. and Musical Repos.=--N. Y.
A Dramatic Anecdote, from the miscellaneous works of
(From Travels into Sweden, Norway and Denmark.)
and extensive work, which has lately appeared in the form of
letters, at Berlin.
traveller who visited that city in July, 1799.
Austrians. From a German publication.
P. A. Nimnich, LL.D., of Hamburg.
Messiah and other Poems. [Summary.]
Commander-in-Chief of the Army of Prussia.
reference made to the characters: Moor, Francis, Amelia, the
infamous Charles and Kozinski].
their Emancipation from the House of Austria.
regarding the change from Protestantism to Catholicism.
Germany. Extracted from a Gottingen Journal. [The Brocken in
with France.
Montgomery, containing extracts. Cf. p. 169.]
quoted. Critique of the play.]
termination.
emigrant hussars, under Prince Conde, on the night of the
battle of Kamlach. Scene--Banks of the Danube.
which took place on the second of September 1806.
occurrence in the Rhaetian Alps, with the general character
and excellent Musaeus. By his pupil Kotzebue. [Continued from
poem, continued from number to number. Cf. p. 175.]
No. 14--[Mention of Klopstock's use of hexameters in his
No. 50--A Comparison of "The Wanderer of Switzerland" with a
poem called Tid Re I.
presented a much admired Tragedy in three acts, called
"Werter; or the Fatal Attachment." Taken from the popular
German tale called Charlotte and Werter, and performed at
Covent Garden Theatre, London, with great applause. [The cast
follows.]
general Field Marshal in the service of Russia. A free trans.
from the German of Gerard Anthoine de Halem.--Paris. [Book
(into French) from the German with notes by H. L. C. 3 vols.
to the Salt Mines of Salzburg and of Reichenall, and through
=Quarterly Rev.=--London printed; N. Y. reprinted.
Tindal Palmer. 4 vols. London. [Critique.]
lies in the town of Weimar, and the neighbourhood of the
abbey of Quedlinburgh. Time, from the 12th to the present
century." [In the next number this play is referred to as
"the imitation of the German drama, which we presented in our
last number."]
---- Emilia Galotti, a Tragedy. Trans. from the German of G.
Inskeep, Phila., 1810. [The translation bound at end of Jan.
which will appear in a future number.
this number, by Thomas Holcroft.
=The Quarterly Rev.=--London printed; N. Y. reprinted.
of France, with a View to illustrate the Rise and Progress of
Florian, &c. Trans. from the French. By Wm. B. Hewetson.
Tindal Palmer. 4 vols. London. [Critique.]
Public Library, the Atheneum Library and the library of the
Books relating to America_, I-142.]
=The Boston Mag.=, containing a collection of instructive and
entertaining essays.--Boston.
treatises on general redemption."]
London printed; Phila. reprinted and sold. 1793. [A
miscellany.]
=The Lady and Gentleman's Pocket Mag.= of Literary and Polite
Twenty-seven numbers were published. Cf. _Hist. Mag._,
=The Gleaner=, a miscellaneous production in three volumes. By
I, Nos. 1-4, 23rd year of American Independence.
II, No. 5, 24th year of Amer. Independence; no place of publ.
No. 8, no place of publ., and no date.
=Child of Pallas.= Devoted mostly to Belles Lettres.--Balto.
Feb. 25, 1800--Proposals for printing the Ladies' Museum.
=The Lady's Mag. and Musical Repository.=--N. Y.
=Holcombe's Georgia Analytical Repository.=--Savannah.
=The Panoplist, or the Christian's Armory.=--Boston.
=The Lady's Weekly Miscellany.=--N. Y.
=The Rambler's Mag.= and N. Y. Theatrical Register for the Season
=The Quarterly Review.=--London printed; N. Y. reprinted.
=The Phila. Repertory=, devoted to Literature and useful
A General View of Switzerland, etc., =136=
A literal translation of the King of Prussia's Ode, 18, =105=
A Sketch of the Alps, etc., =158=
Carr's Northern Summer, =161=
Characteristic Sketch, etc., =128=
Cogan's, Dr., Travels on the Rhine, =71=
Die Leiden des jungen Werthers (Goethe), 19, =24=
Leiden, Die, des jungen Werthers (Goethe), cf. Werter.
On a Cargo of French Muffs, etc., =108=
On reading in the publick Papers, etc., 18, =112=
On Singing Mozart's "Vergiss Me Nicht," =178=
Parson's Daughter, The (Bürger), cf. Lass of Fair Wone, The.
Passage from Klopstock's Messiah, =66=
Sabin, cf. Dictionary of Books, etc.
Song, trans. by Mr. Herbert, =77=
Speech of the Prince of Brunswick, etc., =107=
Trans. from Lessing, =60=
Trans. from the German, =83=
Voltaire's letter, cf. Mr. Voltaire's letter.
Werter's Farewell to Charlotte, 19, =141=