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There the tailor blows the flute,

And the cobbler blows the horn, And the miner blows the bugle

Over mountain-gorge and bourn.”

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And then the landlord's daughter

Up to heaven raised her hand, And said, “ Ye may no more contend, —

There lies the happiest land !"

THE WAVE.

FROM THE GERMAN OP TIEDGE.

“WHITHER, thou turbid wave?

Whither, with so much haste,
As if a thief wert thou ?"

“I am the Wave of Life,
Stained with my margin's dust ;
From the struggle and the strife
Of the narrow stream I fly
To the Sea's immensity,
To wash from me the slime
Of the muddy banks of Time.”

THE DEAD.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KLOPSTOCK.

How they so softly rest,
All, all the holy dead,
Unto whose dwelling-place
Now doth my soul draw near!
How they so softly rest
All in their silent

graves, Deep to corruption Slowly down-sinking!

And they no longer weep, Here, where complaint is still ! And they no longer feel, Here, where all gladness flies ! And, by the cypresses Softly o'ershadowed, Until the Angel Calls them, they slumber!

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP.

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER.

“ THE rivers rush into the sea,

By castle and town they go ; The winds behind them merrily

Their noisy trumpets blow.

The clouds are passing far and high,

We little birds in them play ;
And every thing that can sing and fly

Goes with us, and far away.

I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither or whence,

With thy fluttering golden band ?”— “I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea

I haste from the narrow land.

Full and swollen is every sail;

I see no longer a hill,
I have trusted all to the sounding gale,

And it will not let me stand still.

And wilt thou, little bird, go with us ?

Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, For full to sinking is my house

With merry companions all.”—

“I need not and seek not company,

Bonny boat, I can sing all alone; For the mainmast tall too heavy am I,

Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.

High over the sails, high over the mast,

Who shall gainsay these joys ? When thy merry companions are still, at last,

Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.

Who neither may rest, nor listen may,

God bless them every one !
I dart away, in the bright blue day,

And the golden fields of the sun.

Thus do I sing my weary song,

Wherever the four winds blow;
And this same song, my whole life long,

Neither poet nor printer may know.”

WHITHER?

FROM THE GERMAN OP MÜLLER.

I HEARD a brooklet gushing

From its rocky fountain near,
Down into the valley rushing,

So fresh and wondrous clear.

I know not what came o'er me,

Nor who the counsel gave ; But I must hasten downward,

All with my pilgrim-stave;

Downward, and ever farther,

And ever the brook beside ; And ever fresher murmured,

And ever clearer, the tide.

Is this the way I was going ?

Whither, O brooklet, say!
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,

Murmured my senses away.

What do I

say

of a murmur? That can no murmur be; 'Tis the water-nymphs, that are singing

Their roundelays under me.

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur,

And wander merrily near ; The wheels of a mill are going

In every brooklet clear.

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