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Sweet error !—he but slept,-I breathe again ;

Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile! Oh! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain,

Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?

THE GRAVE.

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON.

For thee was a house built
Ere thou wast born,
For thee was a mould meant
Ere thou of mother camest.
But it is not made ready,
Nor its depth measured,
Nor is it seen
How long it shall be.
Now I bring thee
Where thou shalt be;
Now I shall measure thee,
And the mould afterwards.

Thy house is not
Highly timbered,
It is unhigh and low;
When thou art therein,
The heel-ways are low,

The side-ways unhigh.
The roof is built
Thy breast full nigh,
So thou shalt in mould
Dwell full cold,
Dimly and dark.

Doorless is that house, And dark it is within ; There thou art fast detained, And Death hath the key. Loathsome is that earth-house, And grim within to dwell. There thou shalt dwell, And worms shall divide thee.

Thus thou art laid, And leavest thy friends; Thou hast no friend, Who will come to thee, Who will ever see How that house pleaseth thee; Who will ever open The door for thee, And descend after thee; For soon thou art loathsome And hateful to see.

KING CHRISTIAN.

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK.

FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EVALD.

KING CHRISTIAN stood by the lofty mast

In mist and smoke;
His sword was hammering so fast,
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ;
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast,

In mist and smoke.
“Fly !" shouted they, “fly, he who can!
Who braves of Denmark's Christian

The stroke?

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar,

Now is the hour ! He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, And smote upon the foe full sore, And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar,

“Now is the hour !" “Fly!" shouted they, “for shelter fly! Of Denmark's Juel who can defy

The power ?"

North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent

Thy murky sky!
Then champions to thine arms were sent ;

Terror and Death glared where he went;
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent

Thy murky sky !
From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol,
Let each to Heaven commend his soul,

And fly!

Path of the Dane to fame and might !

Dark-rolling wave!
Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight,
Goes to meet danger with despite,
Proudly as thou the tempest's might,

Dark-rolling wave!
And amid pleasures and alarms,
And war and victory, be thine arms

My grave ! 45

THE HAPPIEST LAND.

FRAGMENT OF A MODERN BALLAD.

FROM THE GERMAN.

THERE sat one day in quiet,

By an alehouse on the Rhine,
Four hale and hearty fellows,

And drank the precious wine.

The landlord's daughter filled their cups,

Around the rustic board ;
Then sat they all so calm and still,

And spake not one rude word.

But when the maid departed,

A Swabian raised his hand,
And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,

"Long live the Swabian land !

The greatest kingdom upon earth
Cannot with that

compare ; With all the stout and hardy men

And the nut-brown maidens there."

“Ha!" cried a Saxon, laughing,

And dashed his beard with wine ; “I had rather live in Lapland,

Than that Swabian land of thine !

The goodliest land on all this earth,

It is the Saxon land !
There have I as many maidens

As fingers on this hand !”

"Hold your tongues, both Swabian and Saxon!"

A bold Bohemian cries ; “ If there's a heaven

upon

this earth, In Bohemia it lies!

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