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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.”
And then the landlord's daughter
Up to heaven raised her hand, And said, “ Ye may no more contend, —
There lies the happiest land !"
FROM THE GERMAN OP TIEDGE.
“WHITHER, thou turbid wave?
Whither, with so much haste,
“I am the Wave of Life,
FROM THE GERMAN OF KLOPSTOCK.
How they so softly rest,
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 ;
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,
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 !
And the golden fields of the sun.
Thus do I sing my weary song,
Wherever the four winds blow;
Neither poet nor printer may know.”
FROM THE GERMAN OP MÜLLER.
I HEARD a brooklet gushing
From its rocky fountain near,
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!
Murmured my senses away.
What do I
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.