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And seem to say, poor child, what grief is thine ?
O! there, O! there,
Knowest thou the hill? Its pathway mid the clouds?
O! there, O! there,
The bard is called into the presence of his sovereign, and delights the beauty and chivalry of the court by his lyre and his verse. A chain of gold is offered him by the monarch. in reward of his skill. He regards it with indifference, and rejecting the golden compensation, asks but for a cup of
He sings, as mid the verdant boughs
The song, that from the bosom flows,
'The Violet' first appeared in Erwin and Elmira, a melodrame of no great interest or beauty. But the song is at once tender and delicate, and the German critics describe it as a light effusion of fancy, possessing a magic charm to interest the feelings. It is not perhaps every one, who will consent to find the wizard's power in so airy a trifle. It must be a powerful enchanter, whose spells are obeyed by every spirit, and the amulet, which preserves the faithful, may be to others but a useless bauble. For the rest the ballad may speak for itself.
Ach! nur ein kleines Weilchen,
Ein Viertebstündchen lang!
Ach! aber ach! das Mädchen kam
Es sank und starb und freut sich noch;
'The Erl King' is of a
And might be pluck'd by that dear
And gently on her bosom laid,
A few dear moments long.
Alas! the maiden, as she pass'd,
Beneath her feet I die.
higher character, vigorous, tragic,
and exquisitely finished. The little poem, which follows, is a popular German superstition
in like manner founded on
The water purl'd; the water rose;
And held his line in cool repose,
She spake, she sang in accents sweet;
With human skill and fell deceit
In day's hot air to die?
Ah! couldst thou know, how cheerly live
The fish upon the ground,
Deep in the waves thou too wouldst dive,
Where health and rest are found.
The glorious sun his visage laves,
The moon, in ocean's bed;
And round their brows the spangling waves
Behold the heavens profound and clear,
In moist, reflected blue;
And lo! thine imaged features here,
Deep in the eternal dew.
The water purl'd; the water rose,
And wet his naked feet;
With fond desire his heart o'erflows,
As when true lovers meet.
She spake to him; she sang to him;
Moved by her spell, he downwards fell,
'The King in Thule' is found in Faust, but is also inserted in the collection of Goethe's ballads. He is far too respectable a character to be trifled with, and as an English dress does not become him, let him remain undisturbed in his original dignity.
The Song of the Captive Count' connects, in a pleasing manner, the lively personification of natural objects with expressions of the purest affection.
SONG OF THE CAPTIVE COUNT.
A flower, that's wondrous fair I know,
To seek that flower I long to go,
But am imprison'd here.
"Tis no light grief oppresses me;
For in the days my steps were free,
I had it always near.
Far round the tower I send mine eye,
The tower so steep and tall;
But nowhere can the flower descry
From this high castle wall;
And him who'll bring me my desire,
Or be he knight, or be he squire,
My dearest friend I'll call.
My blossoms near thee I disclose,
And hear thy wretched plight;
Thou meanest me, no doubt, the rose,
Thou noble, hapless knight.
A lofty mind in thee is seen,
And in thy bosom reigns the queen
Of flowers, as is her right.
Thy crimson bud I duly prize
In outer robe of green;
For this thou 'rt dear in maiden's eyes,
As gold and jewels sheen,
Thy wreath adorns the fairest brow,
The little rose has cause for pride,
And upwards aye will soar;
I call myself both chaste and pure, And pure from passions low;
And yet these walls my limbs immure
In loneliness and wo.
Though thou dost seem, in white array'd, Like many a pure and beauteous maid, One dearer thing I know.
And dearer I, the pink, must be,
And me thou sure dost choose,
Or else the gard❜ner ne'er for me
A crowd of leaves encircling bloom!
The pink can no one justly slight,
The gard❜ner's favorite flower;
Now shields it from its power.
Yet 'tis not pomp, which o'er the rest
I stand conceal'd, and bending low,
And do not love to speak;
Yet will I, as 'tis fitting now,
My wonted silence break.
For if 'tis I, thou gallant man,
The violet I esteem indeed,
Its fragrance sweet, yet more I need,
The truest wife by yonder brook
Will roam the mournful day,
Long as immured I stay.
Whene'er she breaks a small blue flower,
And says, Forget me not! the power
Yes, e'en though far, I feel its might,
And therefore mid the dungeon's night
And sinks my heart at my hard lot,
Tales of sorrow are no longer in vogue; yet the German inventions on supernatural subjects have exercised a strong and continuing influence on some of the greatest English poets of the present age. Perhaps the world is indebted for Manfred to the intimate acquaintance of Monk Lewis with the German literature. Lord Byron was himself no proficient in the German language, but in his early youth received of Lewis an outline of Goethe's Faust, and this may have been, probably was, the germ of that English tragedy.
Time and opportunity would fail, should it be attempted to transfer to the English all that is original, or beautiful in the shorter poems of Goethe. Many of them are distinguished for their truth, gravity, elegance, and are specimens of the finest moral poetry of his country. But they are in many points so peculiar, that an intimate acquaintance with them can alone make their worth understood. The poet's views