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And seem to say, poor child, what grief is thine ?
Knowest thou the house?

O! there, O! there,
I long with thee, my guardian, to repair.

Knowest thou the hill? Its pathway mid the clouds?
The journeying mules the mountain vapor shrouds ?
In caverns dwell the dragon's ancient brood;
The rock is rent, and o'er it pours the flood.
Knowest thou the hill?

O! there, O! there,
Our pathway leads, my father, haste, repair!

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 bird so merrily sings;

The song, that from the bosom flows,
Itself its guerdon brings.

'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.

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Ach! nur ein kleines Weilchen,
Bis mich das Liebchen abgepflückt,
Und an dem Busen matt gedrückt !
Ach nur, ach nur,

Ein Viertebstündchen lang!

Ach! aber ach! das Mädchen kam
Und nicht in Acht das Veilchen nahm,
Ertrat das arme Veilchen.

Es sank und starb und freut sich noch;
Und sterb' ich denn, so sterb' ich doch
Durch sie, durch sie,
Zu ihren Füssen doch.

'The Erl King' is of a

And might be pluck'd by that dear

And gently on her bosom laid,
Ah but, ah but,

A few dear moments long.

Alas! the maiden, as she pass'd,
No eye upon the violet cast;
She crush'd the poor, wee flower;
It sank, and dying heaved no sigh,
And if I die, at least I die
By her, by her,

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;
An angler near it lay,

And held his line in cool repose,
And watch'd his nibbling prey.
And as he watch'd in pensive mood,
The waves apart were flung;
Bright with the waters of the flood,
A glittering maid upsprung.

She spake, she sang in accents sweet;
Why lure my brood on high

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
A twofold lustre shed.

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;
Poor youth with him 'tis o'er;

Moved by her spell, he downwards fell,
And man ne'er saw him more.

'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.

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The Song of the Captive Count' connects, in a pleasing manner, the lively personification of natural objects with expressions of the purest affection.



A flower, that's wondrous fair I know,
My bosom holds it dear,

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,
And yet the flower-it is not thou,
Whom my still wishes mean.


The little rose has cause for pride,

And upwards aye will soar;
Yet am I held by many a bride
The rose's wreath before.
And beats thy bosom faithfully,
And art thou true, and pure as I,
Thou 'It prize the lily more.


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
Such watchful care would use;

A crowd of leaves encircling bloom!
And mine through life the sweet perfume,
And all the thousand hues!


The pink can no one justly slight,

The gard❜ner's favorite flower;
He sets it now beneath the light,

Now shields it from its power.

Yet 'tis not pomp, which o'er the rest
In splendor shines, can make me blest;
It is a still, small flower.


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,
Thy heart desires, thine, if I can,
My perfumes all I'll make.


The violet I esteem indeed,
So modest and so kind;

Its fragrance sweet, yet more I need,
To soothe my anguish'd mind.
To you the truth will I confess;
Here mid this rocky dreariness,
My love I ne'er shall find.

The truest wife by yonder brook

Will roam the mournful day,
And hither cast the anxious look,

Long as immured I stay.

Whene'er she breaks a small blue flower,

And says, Forget me not! the power
I feel, though far away.

Yes, e'en though far, I feel its might,
For true love joins us twain,

And therefore mid the dungeon's night
I still in life remain.

And sinks my heart at my hard lot,
I but exclaim; Forget me not!
And straight new life regain.

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

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