Here, by thy door at midnight, A tale of sorrow cherished Of wrong from love the flatterer Twice, o'er this vale, the seasons The genial wind of May; Yet still my plaint is uttered, I saw, from this fair region, While winter seized the streamlets The truant murmurers bound. I saw that to the forest The nightingales had flown, And every sweet-voiced fountain Had hushed its silver tone. The maniac winds, divorcing Now May, with life and music, For all the little rills. The minstrel bird of evening And deep within the forest The rugged trees are mingling To clasp the boughs above. They change-but thou, Lisena, Should spring return in vain? 19 A NORTHERN LEGEND. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. THERE sits a lovely maiden, The ocean murmuring nigh; A ring, with a red jewel, And flings it from the land. Uprises from the water Uprises from the bottom A young and handsome knight; The maid is pale with terror 66 'Nay, Knight of Ocean, nay, "Ah, maiden, not to fishes The bait of gold is thrown ; THE PARADISE OF TEARS. FROM THE GERMAN OF N. MÜELLER. BESIDE the River of Tears, with branches low, And bitter leaves, the weeping-willows grow; The branches stream like the dishevelled hair Of women in the sadness of despair. On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh; The rocks moan wildly as it passes by; Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand, And not a flower adorns the dreary land. Then comes a child, whose face is like the sun, Where fall the tears of love the rose appears, And where the ground is bright with friendship's tears, Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue, Spring, glittering with the cheerful drops like dew. The souls of mourners, all whose tears are dried, There every heart rejoins its kindred heart; THE LADY OF CASTLE WINDECK. FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO. REIN in thy snorting charger! Now, where the mouldering turrets The knight gazed over the ruins Where the stag was lost to his eyes. The sun shone hot above him; The castle was still as death; He wiped the sweat from his forehead, "Who now will bring me a beaker The careless words had scarcely He saw the glorious maiden In her snow-white drapery stand, The bunch of keys at her girdle, The beaker high in her hand. He quaffed that rich old vintage; With an eager lip he quaffed; But he took into his bosom A fire with the grateful draught. Her eyes' unfathomed brightness! The flowing gold of her hair! He folded his hands in homage, And murmured a lover's prayer. She gave him a look of pity, And ever, from that moment, Ghost-like and pale he wandered, "Tis said that the lady met him, |