  THE OLD MAN. From Gesner. From the London Magazine, Oct. 1773. [Prose translation.] Royal Amer. Mag., p. 14, Jan. 1774, Boston. [Reprint from the London Mag., p. 437, Sept. 1773, London. Preceding the title: "For the London Magazine." Salomon Gessner, Palemon, Idyllen, Erste Folge. Concerning the prose translations from Gessner, cf. p. 16.] For the Pennsylvania Magazine. MIRTIL AND THIRSIS. A Pastoral. From the German. [Prose translation.] Penna. Mag., I-359, Aug. 1775, Phila. [S. Gessner, Myrtil. Thyrsis. Idyllen, Erste Folge.] Description (with an elegant Engraving) of the celebrated Tomb of Madame Langhans, executed by Mr. John Augustus Nahl, late Sculptor to the King of Prussia, and which is to be seen in the choir of the parish church of Hindlebanck, two leagues from Berne. As the inscription and verses of the Tombstone, which were written by the celebrated M. de Haller, could not with propriety be introduced in the engraving, we insert them here, in a free translation from the original German. Hark! the majestic sound! the trumpet hear! Oh God! my Savior! 'tis thy voice I hear! And with my child, I come t'eternal day, Awake my infant; open now thine eyes, Leave the corruption of thy mortal birth, Arise my child, to thy Redeemer rise, And taste at length the joy denied on earth, Before his face death must yield to life; Hope to real joy ... there, purged from sins, Serenety succeeds to grief and strife, Time flies... Eternity begins. In this blessed hope Boston Mag., I-56, Dec. 1783, Boston. THE BACCHANALIAN. (Translated from the German.) The thunder rolls dreadfully through the dark sky, To the cellar I quickly retire; Think not that I wish from the thunder to fly; No—'tis for the best wine to enquire. Universal Asylum and Columbian Mag., IV-253, Apr. 1790, Phila. LETTER LXI. OF THE SORROWS OF Though Homer fired my youthful breast, My tender fancy deep imprest, Ere grief had made me smart: Yet of him Ossian has ta'en place; His woe-fraught strains, with solemn grace, Now occupy my heart. To what a world of direful kind, The Bard illustrious leads my mind, 'Midst heaths and wilds to stray; Where the fierce whirlwinds sweep the plain; Where the moon feebly holds her reign; And ghosts elude the day. To hear from off the mountains steep, The plaintive sounds, from caverns deep, Of water's dismal roar: To hear the maiden's doleful cries, That on her warrior's tomb-stone dies, Who her did much adore. I meet this bard of silver hair, He wanders in the valley drear, Whilst grief his mind consumes: His father's footsteps tries to trace In vain, for time does them efface; He only finds their tombs. The pale moon sinks, amid the waves, He contemplates her as she laves Her tresses in the sea: Reflects on time for ever gone, When danger pleased and spurred him on, When he returned on evening grey, The moon shone on his Bark of prey, His trophies won, displayed: When by his countenance, I find Deep-rooted sorrow fill his mind, That youth so soon decayed. When I perceive that glory bright To fade so soon, to sink in night, And tottering to the grave: And when around he casts an eye On the cold earth, where he must die, The fate of e'en the brave.— The traveller will come, he cries, He'll come who saw my beauty rise, And anxiously enquire; Where is the bard and warrior gone, Where is Fingal's illustrious son, Whither does he retire. Then searching o'er the field and mead, He lightly on my tomb shall tread, But me he ne'er shall find: Then I, my friend, like a true knight, My sword shall draw, my prince to right, And ease his troubled mind. And this atchieved, with grief opprest, Could plunge it deep in my own breast, And eager for him bleed: To follow him now half divine, Hero of the Fingalian line, Who by my hand was freed. Universal Asylum and Columbian Mag., VI-50, Jan. 1791, Phila. [Goethe, Die Leiden des jungen Werthers. Letter dated Oct. 12, 1772.] AMYNTAS. [a]. A Pastoral Fragment. [Prose translation.] Mass. Mag., IV-351 June 1792, Boston. [S. Gessner, Amyntas. "Bei frÜhem Morgen kam der arme Amyntas...." Idyllen, Erste Folge.] Pastoral Eclogue. [Prose translation.] Mass. Mag., V-195, Apr. 1793, Boston. [S. Gessner, Thyrsis. New Idylles By Gessner. Trans. by W. Hooper, M.D., 1776, London. P. 25, Thyrsis.] AMYNTAS. A Pastoral Fragment from Gessner. N.Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos., IV-584, Oct 1793, N.Y. [Also in Mass. Mag., IV-351, June 1792, Boston.] THE MORNING. By Haller. The moon retires—Nature's dark veil no more obscures the air and earth—the twinkling stars disappear and the reviving warmth of the sun awakens all creatures. Already are the heavens adorned with its purple hues and its sparkling sapphires. Aurora, fair harbinger of the day, graciously dispenses smiles; and brightness of the roses which wreath her forehead dissipates the mists of night. The flaming of the world advances from the eastern gate, triumphantly treading on the shining splendours of the milky way; The roses open to salute the sun with genial dews; and the lilies exhale delicious odours from their sattin'd leaves. The vigilant hind flies to the labour-giving field; he guides with careful pleasure the earth-piercing plough; in the meantime his ears are delighted by the lightsome band of minstrels, which sweeten the air and the woods with their melodious notes. Thus doth benignant Heaven lighten the heavy pressure of toilful industry! O Creator! all that I see are the effects of thy power! thou art the soul of nature and doth actuate every part! the stated periods and glittering appearance of yon orbs, and the unquenched fires of the revolving sun, proceed from thy hands, and boast thy impression! Thou illumest the solemn moon to guide us amid darkness; thou dost lend wings to the unseen wind, and by night thou dost enrich the earth with fruitful dews. From the dust thou hast formed yon proud-topt mountain; from sand hast thou produced metals; thou hast spread yon firmament, and thou hast clothed it with clouds, that it may remain unpolluted by the exploring eye of man. Thou hast wonderfully formed the veins of that fish which causes rivers to overflow, and which makes whirlpools, and spreads devastation with the flappings of his tail. Thou hast built the elephant, and thou hast animated its enormous bulk, that it resembles a moving mountain. Thou supportest yon splendid arches of the heavens upon the vast void; and with thy word thou hast produced from chaos this wondrous universe, filling it with order, and giving it no other limit than its grandeur. Great God! created spirits are too insignificant to raise the glory of thy works! We lose ourselves in their immensity. To tell them one must resemble thyself on infinity. Humbly contented, I remain in my own prescribed circle. Incomprehensible Being! thy resplendent glories blind the presuming eye of man! and He from whom the earth receives its being, needs not the praises of a worm! N.Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos., IV-720, Dec. 1793, N.Y. [Albrecht von Haller, Morgen-Gedanken, Den. 25, Merz, 1725.] MORNING. From Haller. Phila. Minerva, I, May 30, 1795, Phila. [Also in N.Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos., IV-720, Dec. 1793, N.Y.] Translated Poetry. For the New-York Magazine. THE ZEPHYRS, AN IDYL. [a]. (Translated from the German of Gesner, by W. Dunlap.) [Prose translation.] N.Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos., VI-760, Dec. 1795, N.Y. [S. Gessner, Die Zephyre.] Translated Poetry. For the New-York Magazine. FIRST IDYL OF GESNER. (Translated from the German by Wm. Dunlap.) Daphne—Chloe. [Prose translation.] N.Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos., n.s., p. 49, Jan. 1796, N.Y. [S. Gessner, Daphne. Chloe. "Sieh, schon steigt der Mond hinter dem schwarzen Berg...." First idyl—Zweite Folge, 1772.] THE OLD MAN. Translated from the German of Gessner. Phila. Minerva, I, Jan. 16, 1796, Phila. [Also in The Royal Amer. Mag., p. 14, Jan. 1774, Boston.] FABLE Imitated from the German of Gellert. While a nightingale chanted in the midst of a forest, the neighbouring hills and vallies were delighted with her exquisite melody. Phila. Minerva, II, Apr. 23, 1796, Phila. [C.F. Gellert, Die Nachtigall and die Lerche. A FABLE Imitated from the German of Gellert. Clarine loved her husband with sincere affection—for he was a husband to her mind. Their desires and aversions were the same. It was Clarine's study to be agreeable, and by unwearied attention, to anticipate her husband's wishes. "Such a wife," says my male reader, who has thoughts of matrimony, "such a wife would I desire."—And such a wife mayst thou obtain.—Clarine's husband fell sick—a dangerous illness.—"No hope" said the physician, and shook his awful whig. Bitterly wept Clarine. "O death!" she cried, "O death! might I prefer a petition? Spare my husband; let me be the victim in his stead." Death heard, appeared, and "What," said the grim spectre, "is thy request?" "There," said Clarine sore dismayed, "There he lies; overcome with agony he implores thy speedy relief." The Nightingale, I-199, June 16, 1796, Boston. [C.F. Gellert, Die zÄrtliche Frau. The introductory stanza not translated.] THE LASS OF FAIR WONE. From the German of BÜrger. Phila. Minerva, II, Dec. 17, 1796, Phila. [G.A. BÜrger, Des Pfarrers Tochter von Taubenhain. VIRTUE REWARDED: A Pastoral Tale. (From the German of Gesner). [Prose translation.] Phila. Minerva, II, Dec. 17, 1796, Phila. [S. Gessner, Daphne. Miscellaneous. By Ferdinand Wallhime. THE WISH (in imitation of Matthison). Once more could I wish, ere yet my blest spirit Sunk in Elysium, peaceful mansion of shades! That spot t' revisit, where Infancy In dreams aerial, play'd 'round my brows. The shrub of my country, whose branches o'erspread The cool nest of the patridge, waves gentler my friend, Than all the gay forests of laurel O'er the dust of the world's mighty conq'rors. The streamlet of that mead, where in childhood I cull'd early violets, more musically murmurs 'Midst the alders once rear'd by my sire, The hill, on which swains, in bands youthful and gay Danc'd 'round the trunk of the sweet blossom'd poplar, With greater rapture inspir'd my heart, Than Alps dazzling heights in roset glimm'ring. Therefore could I wish, ere yet my blest spirit Sunk in Elysium, peaceful mansion of shades That spot t' revisit, where infancy In dreams aerial, play'd 'round my brows. Then may death's smirking genius, of a sudden, Extinguish life's taper, well pleas'd I'll hasten To Xenophon and Plato's musing shade And to Anacreon's myrtle tufted bow'r. Lit. Museum, or Mo. Mag., p. 47, Jan. 1797, West-Chester. [F. Matthisson, Wunsch an Salis. "Noch einmal mÖcht' ich, eh in die Schattenwelt...."] BENEVOLENCE. A Fable. Imitated from the German of Gellert. O'er Howard's tomb soft Pity weeps, Bewailing still her favourite's fate; And thence the Muse invokes her aid Of kindred merit to relate. Like him to sympathize with woe, Like him to heal the broken mind; And rear Affliction's drooping head, Belinda's generous soul inclin'd. But want of fortune oft, too oft, Her charitable views withstood; For what, alas! avails the will, Without the power of doing good? Her uncle dies and leaves his niece A clear two thousand pounds per ann. "Ah! now," she cries, "I'm blest indeed, Scarce had she spoke, when, at her door An old decrepid wretch appears; Bent on his crutch he begs an alms, And moves her pity with his tears. Belinda felt for his distress, She heav'd a sigh and shook her head; Then to this aged son of woe Stretch'd forth a—crust of mouldy bread. Amer. Universal Mag., I-28, Jan. 2, 1797, Phila. [C.F. Gellert, Die Gutthat.] PRO PATRIA MORI From the German of BÜrger. For virtue, freedom, human rights, to fall, Beseems the brave: it is a Saviour's death. Of heroes only the most pure of all, Thus with their heart's blood tinge the battle-heath. And this proud death is seemliest in the man Who for a kindred race, a country bleeds: Three hundred Spartans from the shining van Of those, whom fame in this high triumph leads. Great is the death for a good prince incurr'd; Who wields the sceptre with benignant hand: Well may for him the noble bare his sword, Falling he earns the blessings of a land. Death for a friend, parent, child, or her we love, If not so great, is beauteous to behold: This the fine tumults of the hearts approve; It is the walk to death unbought of gold. But for mere majesty to meet a wound— Who holds that great or glorious, he mistakes: That is the fury of the pamper'd hound, And for a tyrant's sake to seek a jaunt To hell ——'s a death which only hell enjoys; Where such a hero falls—the gibbet plant, A murderer's trophy, and a plunderer's prize. Amer. Universal Mag., I-141, Jan. 23, 1797, Phila. [G.A. BÜrger, Die Tode.] THE LASS OF FAIR WONE. From the German of BÜrger. Amer. Universal Mag., I-211, Feb. 6, 1797, Phila. [Also in Phila. Minerva, II, Dec. 17, 1796, Phila.] THE BROKEN PITCHER. From the German of Gesner. [Prose translation.] The Key, I-69, Mar. 10, 1798, Frederick Town. [S. Gessner, Der zerbrochene Krug.] LEONORA. [a]. A Ballad from BÜrger. The following translation (made some years since) of a celebrated piece, of which other versions have appeared, and are now on the point of appearing, possesses so much peculiar charm and intrinsic merit, that we are happy in being permitted to present it to our readers. [The translation follows.] Weekly Mag., I-221, Mar. 17, 1798, Phila. [G.A. BÜrger, Lenore. The translation appeared anonymously in the above mentioned, but was afterwards printed with several changes under the title Ellenore in Taylor's Historic Survey of German Poetry, II-40. Also in Tales of Terror and Wonder, collected by M.G. Lewis. With an introduction by Henry Morley, 1887, London. Cf. Preface.] TO A LITTLE CHARMER. From the German of Lessing. Come kiss me, little Charmer, Nor suppose a kiss can harm you; Kisses given, kisses taken, Cannot now your fears awaken; Give me then a hundred kisses Number well those sweetest blisses, And, on my life, I tell you true, Tenfold I'll repay what's due, When to snatch a kiss is bolder And my fair one's ten years older. Weekly Mag., II-30, May 5, 1798, Phila. [G.E. Lessing, An eine kleine SchÖne.] For the Weekly Magazine. THE SWALLOW. A FABLE. (From the German of Lessing.) Believe me, my friend, the great world is not suited to philosophers or poets. We are insensible to their real worth; and they, alas! are often weak enough to exchange it for a mere nothing. In early ages the swallow was as tuneful and melodious a bird as the nightingale; but she soon became weary of residing in solitary groves to excite the admiration of none but the industrious peasant and the innocent shepherdess. She left her humble friends, and removed into town. What was the consequence? As the inhabitants of the city had not leisure to attend to her divine song, she gradually forgot it, and in its stead learned to—build. Weekly Mag., II-82, May 12, 1798, Phila. [G.E. Lessing, Die Schwalbe.] THE CHASE. By Gottfried Augustus BÜrger. Weekly Mag., II-413, July 28, 1798, Phila. [G.A. BÜrger, Der wilde JÄger. Sir Walter Scott, The Wild Huntsman. Published with William and Helen in 1796 and entitled The Chase. M.G. Lewis, Tales of Wonder. Entitled The Wild Huntsmen. By Walter Scott. Cf. note to Leonora, in the Weekly Mag., I-221, Mar. 17, 1798.] THE ERL-KING. (The Original is by GoËthe, Author of Werter.) Who is it that rides through the forest so fast, While night frowns around him, while chill roars the blast? The father, who holds his young son in his arm, And close in his mantle has wrapped him up warm. —"Why trembles my darling? Why shrinks he with fear?" "Oh father! my father! the Erl-king is near! The Erl-king, with his crown and his beard long and white!" —"Oh! thine eyes are deceived by the vapours of night." —"If you will, dear baby, with me go away, I will give you fine clothes; we will play a fine play; Fine flowers are growing, white, scarlet and blue, On the banks of yon river, and all are for you." —"Oh father! my father! and dost thou not hear What words the Erl-king whispers low in mine ear?"— —"Now hush thee, my darling, thy terrors appease: Thou hear'st 'midst the branches when murmurs the breeze." —"If you will, dear baby, with me go away, My daughter shall tend you so fair and so gay; My daughter, in purple and gold who is drest, —"Oh father! my father! and dost thou not see? The Erl-king and his daughter are waiting for me?" —"Now shame thee, my dearest! 'tis fear makes thee blind: Thou seest the dark willows which wave in the wind."— —"I love you! I dote on that face so divine! I must and will have you, and force makes you mine!" —"My father! my father! Oh hold me now fast! He pulls me! he hurts, and will have me at last!"— The father, he trembled; he doubled his speed: O'er hills and through forests he spurred his black steed: But when he arrived at his own castle-door, Life throbbed in the sweet baby's bosom no more. Weekly Mag., III-93, Aug. 18, 1798, Phila. [Goethe, ErlkÖnig. The above text, however, is taken from Lewis' Ambrosio, or the Monk (1795), which has several variants. The first Amer. reprint of The Monk was taken from the fourth British edition, 1798, Phila. Cf. Preface.] THE ERL-KING'S DAUGHTER. (The Original is Danish; but I read it in a German Translation.) Weekly Mag., III-94, Aug. 18, 1798, Phila. [J.G. Herder, ErlkÖnigs Tochter in the Fourth Book (Nordische Lieder) of Stimmen der VÖlker in Liedern. Trans. from the Danish. M.G. Lewis, Tales of Wonder and The Monk. Cf. note to The Erl-King. The original is in the Kiampe Viiser.] AMYNTAS, A PASTORAL TALE. [] (From the German of the celebrated Gessner.) [Prose translation.] Weekly Mag., III, 347, 358, Mar. 23, 30, 1799, Phila. [S. Gessner, Mycon. In the French version, entitled Amyntas. W. Hooper, New Idylles, p. 18.] FRIENDSHIP Translated from the German. Set to music by Russ. Phila. Repos., I, Appendix (Nov. 15, 1800-Nov. 7, 1801), Phila. [The above appeared in the Musical Appendix.] Original Poetry. LYCAS; OR THE INVENTIONS OF GARDENS. Attempted from the Idyls of Gessner. The stormy winter drives us from the green, Nor leaves a flower to decorate the scene; The winds arise—with sweep impetuous blow, And whirl around the flakes of fleecy snow; Yet shall imagination fondly rise The images that blooming spring pourtrays, The sweets that bask in summer's sultry rays, The rich and varied fruits of autumn's reign Shall ope their treasures, in a bounteous train; Of these the best, with choicest care display'd, Shall form a wreath, for thee, my lovely maid! So the fond shepherd, for his darling fair, Culls beauteous flowers to deck her flowing hair. The garden's rise shall grace my humble strains; If Daphne smiles 'twill well repay my pains! 'Twas, in the morn of youth, a shepherd found This happy art to decorate the ground; This is the spot, the enamour'd Lycas cries, Lycas the young, the gentle and the wise; Under this elm, fair Adelaide first gave The kiss of love to her devoted slave! Whilst he, in am'rous accents told his flame, With beating heart and agitated frame! Here faint and weak my charmer sank to rest, On the warm pillow of my panting breast! "Lycas," with interrupting sobs, she said, "Take the soft secret of an am'rous maid: Of all the swains that strive this heart to move, 'Tis Lycas only Adelaide can love! Ye peaceful groves—ye solitary springs— To you I oft confess'd my secret stings! And ye, sweet flowers bear witness to the truth Of the soft flame that prey'd upon my youth; Oft have your leaves that round me clust'ring grew, Drank my warm tears as drops of morning dew." My heart is full—what transport is my own! For, in my bosom, love has fixed his throne. Sacred to love this spot shall ever stand Deck'd with luxuriant beauties by my hands. Under this elm, the shadiest of the trees, The rose shall pour its odours on the breeze; Its white and purple flowers aloft in air. The treasures of the spring shall hither flow; The piony by the lily here shall blow. Over the hills, and through the meads I'll roam, And bring the blooming spoils in rapture home: The purple violet, the pink shall join, The od'rous shrubs shall all their sweets combine, Of these a grove of balmy sort shall rise, And, with its fragrant blossoms, scent the skies! Then round this little favour'd isle, I'll bring, With gentle windings, yonder silver spring; While eglantine and thorn shall interpose Their hedge, a rampart 'gainst invading foes— Lest sheep and rambling goats the place annoy, And spoil the promise of our future joy. Oh then approach, ye favour'd of the loves! Come and dwell here ye gentle turtle doves! On yonder spreading branches, perch'd on high, With coos repeated greet the lover's sigh! Then sportive sparrows round the roses play, And sing, delighted, from the bending spray! Ye butterflies, arrayed in coats of gold, On beds of roses fluttering revels hold! Here rest, upon the lily's waving stalk, And add new beauty to the evening walk. Then shall the shepherd passing, free from care, When zephyr spreads the perfumes thro' the air, Inhale the fragrance, and with transport cry, What hallow'd place is this? what goddess nigh? Does Venus own this gay, enchanted place? Or has Diana, wearied in the chace, Chosen a spot where choicest sweets abound, To slumber on the consecrated ground? P.D. Port Folio, I-54, Feb. 14 1801, Phila. [S. Gessner, Lycas, oder die Erfindung der GÄrten.] For the Port Folio. MYRTILLO. An idyl, attempted from the German of Gessner. At peaceful eve, Myrtillo sought the lake, Whilst the moon's beams upon its bosom played; The silent tract, illumin'd by its rays, The nightingale's enchanting tender note, Had held him bound in rapture's soothing trance. At length, arous'd, he homeward took his steps, And in the verdant bower, where clust'ring vines Before his lonely dwelling formed a porch Of simple structure, deeply slumbering found His venerable parent—his grey head Supported by his arm, while through the leaves The moon-beams pour'd their lustre on his face. With arms enfolded, and with swelling heart, He stood before his father—long he stood, His pious eyes fix'd fondly on the sage, Then rais'd them, swimming with his filial tears, And thro' the illumin'd leaves look'd up to heaven, Whilst grateful drops roll'd down his moisten'd cheek. Oh thou! at length he cried, whom, next the gods, I reverence, my father—ah, how soft Thy peaceful slumbers! Of the just and good How placid is the sleep! Thy tottering steps Were, doubtless, hither bent, in silent prayer To spend the hour of eve; but, at thy task Of duty, slumber seiz'd thee, whilst, for me, Thy prayer of love was wing'd into the skies, How happy is my lot! the fav'ring gods Must hear thy fond petition; else, why stands Our cot secure, amid the branches, bent With ripening fruit? why, else, such blessings shower'd Upon our healthy, fast increasing herd? Upon the golden produce of our fields? When oft the tear of joy bedew'd thy cheek, To see me, anxious, cherish and support You turn'd your swimming eyes, and blest your son; Ah! then, what words his blessings could express! My bosom swell'd with transport, and the tears O'erflow'd my glowing cheeks— When yester morn, reclining on my arm, You left our cot to feel the quickening beams Of the warm sun, and saw about thee sport The frolic herd, the trees, with fruit o'ercharg'd, And all the fertile country blooming round, "My hairs grow grey in peace," were then thy words; "Fields of my youth, be ever, ever blest! "My eyes, grow dim, shall not much longer view "Your heart-delighting scenes, for happier plains "Must I exchange you—plains beyond the skies." Ah, father, best belov'd, must I so soon Lose thee! my nearest friend!—distressing thought! Close to thy tomb, with filial love, I'll raise A modest altar, and with ardour seek Each blest occasion to relieve the woes Of the oppressed and wretched; on each day, That gives the happy chance of doing good, I'll pour sweet milk upon a parent's grave, And strew with flowers the ever sacred spot— He paus'd but kept his eyes, suffus'd with tears, Fix'd on the good old man; then, sighing; said, How still he lies, and smiles amidst his slumbers! Some of his virtuous deeds must hover o'er, In peaceful dreams, and fill his cheerful soul; Whilst the moon pours her rays upon his bare And shining temples, and his silver beard; Oh may the breeze, and dewy damps of eve— Do thee no harm. Then gently did he kiss His aged forehead, gently wak'd him up, And led him to his cot, in lighter sleep, On softest furs, to slumber out the night. —P.D. Port Folio, I-70, Feb. 28, 1801, Phila. For the Port Folio. MYRTIL AND DAPHNE An Idyl. Attempted from Gessner. Myrtil. Whither so early sister, ere the sun, Has, from behind yon hill, his course begun? Scarce has the swallow to the morning ray, Ventur'd to modulate his twittering lay. The early cock, whom richest plumes adorn Has yet but faintly hail'd the golden morn; Whilst thou, to some unknown attraction true, With hasty footsteps brush the silv'ry dew! What festival to-day, do you prepare, For fill'd with flowers, your basket scents the air. Daphne. Welcome dear brother, whither points thy way, Amidst the chilly damps of early day? On what fair purpose from yon new form'd bower, Hast thou come forth at twilight's silent hour? For me—I've pluck'd the violet and the rose, And sought each flower that round our cottage grows. Whilst o'er our parents gentle slumbers spread Their wings, I'll strew them on their peaceful bed; Then when the sunbeams gild the glowing skies Midst fragrant scents, they'll ope their aged eyes; Their hearts shall then with pious joy rebound, To find the blooming flowers, clust'ring round. Myrtil. My best belov'd, not life itself can prove, Pleasing to me without a sister's love. For me, dear girl, when yester eve we met, Just as the sun had made a golden set, Whilst we with fond attention watch'd his will; "How sweet (he cried) on yonder spot to rear, A shady bower to rest in, free from care!" I heard his wish as though I heard it not, Yet kept my thoughts fix'd firmly on the spot, And ere her early beams Aurora sent, My hasty steps toward the hill I bent, And rear'd the bower and to its verdant side, The waving, hazle branches, closely tied; See, sister, see, the work at length is done; Betray me not till I've his blessing won, Till he himself shall thither bend his way; Ah, then, with joy we'll celebrate the day. Daphne. How grateful, brother, will be his surprize, When first the distant bower shall greet his eyes! But let me haste and gently o'er their bed, My morning offering of fragrance spread. Myrtil. When they shall wake amid the fragrant pile, They'll greet each other with a tender smile; And say, this is our Daphne's work, sweet child; Thus has our love the morning hours beguil'd. For our delight, how tender 'tis to keep A studious care whilst we were lock'd in sleep. Daphne. Yes, brother, when at his accustomed hour, Opening his casement he shall view thy bower, "Sure (he'll exclaim) I do not see aright, Or on yon hill an arbor greets my sight; Yes, that is Myrtil's work,—for this bereft Of his sweet sleep, his nightly couch he left: Such are the plans, his filial thoughts engage, And thus he soothes our fast declining age." With joy we'll celebrate the happy day, Each work to-day commenc'd shall prosper well, And peace and joy in every grove shall dwell. P.D. Port Folio, I-80, Mar. 7, 1801, Phila. [S. Gessner, Mirtil und Daphne.] TRANSLATION FROM THE IDYLS OF GESSNER. Delia! when in your lover's eyes, At your approach soft lustre rise, When with charm'd ear, from thy sweet tongue, He listens to the thrilling song, O'er saddest scenes delights you fling, And winter wears the smile of spring. When o'er the mead with you I stray, More fragrant is the new-mown hay, When gath'ring flow'rets at your side, The buds more vivid swell with pride, And bend, your snowy hand to meet, Or am'rous twine beneath your feet. But when within your arms you press me, When with a long, long kiss you bless me, Ah! then in vain, the fairest flow'rs Exert their balmy-breathing pow'rs; In vain her sweets does Nature bring, In vain she wears the smile of spring. Then Delia! nought on earth but thee, My ravish'd senses feel or see, With Love's wild frenzy then possessed, My trembling heart beats 'gainst thy breast, Then fondly sink, o'erpower'd with bliss, Only alive to Delia's kiss. Q.V. Port Folio, I-87, Mar. 14, 1801, Phila. LEONORA. []. A Tale, from the German. "Ah, William! art thou false or dead?" Cried Leonora from her bed. "I dreamt thou'dst ne'er return." William had fought in Frederick's host At Prague—and what his fate—if lost Or false, she could not learn. Hungaria's queen and Prussia's king, Wearied, at length with bickering, Resolv'd to end the strife; And homewards, then, their separate routs The armies took, with songs and shouts, With cymbals, drum and fife. As deck'd with boughs they march'd along, From every door, the old and young Rush'd forth the troops to greet. "Thank God," each child and parent cry'd, And "welcome, welcome," many a bride, As friends long parted meet. They joy'd, poor Leonora griev'd: No kiss she gave, no kiss receiv'd; Of William none could tell; She rung her hands, and tore her hair; Till left alone in deep despair, Bereft of sense, she fell. Swift to her aid her mother came, "Ah! say," cried she, "in mercy's name, "What means this frantic grief?" "Mother 'tis past—all hopes are fled, "God hath no mercy, William's dead, "My woe is past relief." "Pardon, O pardon, Lord above! "The Almighty never errs?" "O, mother! mother! idle prate, "Can he be anxious for my fate, "Who never heard my prayers?" "Be patient child, in God believe, "The good he can, and will relieve, "To trust his power endeavour." "O, mother! mother! all is vain, "What trust can bring to life again? "The past, is past for ever." "Who knows, but that he yet survives; "Perchance, far off from hence he lives, "And thinks no more of you. "Forget, forget, the faithless youth, "Away with grief, your sorrow soothe, "Since William proves untrue." "Mother, all hope has fled my mind, "The past, is past, our God's unkind; "Why did he give me breath? "Oh that this hated loathsome light "Would fade for ever from my sight, "Come, death, come, welcome death!" "Indulgent Father, spare my child, "Her agony hath made her wild, "She knows not what she does. "Daughter, forget thy earthly love, "Look up to him who reigns above, "Where joys succeed to woes." "Mother what now are joys to me? "With William, Hell a Heaven could be, "Without him, Heaven a Hell. "Fade, fade away, thou hated light, "Death bear me hence to endless night, Thus rashly, Leonora strove To doubt the truth of heavenly love. She wept, and beat her breast; She pray'd for death, until the moon With all the stars with silence shone, And sooth'd the world to rest. When, hark! without, what sudden sound! She hears a trampling o'er the ground, Some horseman must be near! He stops, he rings, Hark! as the noise Dies soft away, a well-known voice Thus greets her list'ning ear. "Wake, Leonora;—dost thou sleep, "Or thoughtless laugh, or constant weep, "Is William welcome home?" "Dear William, you!—return'd, and well! "I've wak'd and wept—but why, ah! tell, "So late—at night you come?" "At midnight only dare we roam, "For thee from Prague, though late, I come." "For me!—stay here and rest; "The wild winds whistle o'er the waste, "Ah, dear William! why such haste? "First warm thee in my breast." "Let the winds whistle o'er the waste, "My duty bids me be in haste; "Quick, mount upon my steed: "Let the winds whistle far and wide, "Ere morn, two hundred leagues we'll ride, "To reach our marriage bed." "What, William! for a bridal room, "Travel to night so far from home?" "Leonora, 'tis decreed. "Look round thee, love, the moon shines clear, "The dead ride swiftly; never fear, "Ah, William! whither would'st thou speed, "What! where! this distant marriage bed?" "Leonora, no delay. "'Tis far from hence; still—cold—and small: "Six planks, no more, compose it all; "Our guests await, away!" She lightly on the courser sprung, And her white arms round William flung, Like to a lily wreath. In swiftest gallop off they go, The stones and sparks around them throw, And pant the way for breath. The objects fly on every side, The bridges thunder as they ride; "Art thou my love afraid? "Death swiftly rides, the moon shines clear, "The dead doth Leonora fear?" "Ah, no! why name the dead?" Hark! as their rapid course they urge, A passing bell, a solemn dirge; Hoarse ravens join the strain. They see a coffin on a bier, A priest and mourners too appear, Slow moving o'er the plain. And sad was heard the funeral lay; "What the Lord gives, he takes away; "Life's but a fleeting shade. "A tale that's told,—a flower that falls; "Death, when the least expected, calls, "And bears us to his bed." "Forbear;"—imperious William cry'd "I carry home, a beauteous bride, "Come, to our marriage feast; "Mourners, away, we want your song; "And as we swiftly haste along, "Sing on, that life is like a shade; "A tale that's told, or flowers which fade: "Such strains will yield delight. "And, when we to our chamber go, "Bury your dead, with wail and woe; "The service suits the night." While William speaks, they silent stand, Then run obedient to command, But, on with furious bound, The foaming courser forward flew, Fire and stones his heels pursue, Like whirlwinds dash'd around. On right and left, on left and right, Trees, hills, and towns flew past their sight, As on they breathless prest; "With the bright moon, like death we speed, "Doth Leonora fear the dead?" "Ah! leave the dead at rest." Behold, where in the moon's pale beam, As wheels and gibbets faintly gleam, Join'd hand in hand, a crowd Of imps and spectres hover nigh, Or round a wasted wretch they fly, When William calls aloud: "Hither, ye airy rabble, come, "And follow till I reach my home; "We want a marriage dance." As when the leaves on wither'd trees, Are rustled by an edying breeze, The muttering sprites advance. But, soon with hurried steps, the crew Rush'd prattling on, for William flew, Clasp'd by the frighted fair: Swifter than shafts, or than the wind, While struck from earth fire flash'd behind, Not only flew the landscape by, The clouds and stars appear'd to fly. "Thus over hills and heath "We ride like death; say, lovely maid, "By moon-light dost thou fear the dead?" "Ah! speak no more of death." "The cock hath crow'd—Away! away! "The sand ebbs out: I scent the day. "On! on! away from here! "Soon must our destin'd course be run, "The dead ride swift,—hurrah! 'tis done, "The marriage bed is near." High grated iron doors, in vain Barr'd their way.—With loosened rein Whil'st William urg'd the steed, He struck the bolts;—they open flew, A churchyard drear appear'd in view; Their path was o'er the dead. As now, half veil'd by clouds, the moon With feebler ray, o'er objects shone, Where tombstones faint appear, A grave new dug arrests the pair, Cry'd William, and embrac'd the fair, "Our marriage bed is here." Scarce had he spoke, when, dire to tell, His flesh like touchwood from him fell, His eyes forsook his head. A skull, and naked bones alone, Supply the place of William gone, 'Twas Death that clasp'd the maid. Wild, snorting fire, the courser rear'd, As wrapp'd in smoke he disappear'd, Poor Leonora fell; The hideous spectres hover round, Deep groans she hears from under ground, They dance, and say, in dreadful howl, "She asks no mercy for her soul; "Her earthly course is done. "When mortals, rash and impious! dare "Contend with God, and court despair, "We claim them as our own." "Yet," thus was heard, in milder strains, "Call on the Lord, while life remains, "Unite your heart to his; "When man repents and is resign'd, "God loves to soothe his suff'ring mind, "And grant him future bliss." "We claim as ours, who impious dare "Contend with God, and court despair;" Again the spectres cry'd. "Fate threats in vain, when man's resign'd, "God loves to soothe the suff'ring mind," The gentler voice reply'd. Leonora, e'er her sense was gone, Thus faint exclaim'd,—"thy Will be done, "Lord, let thy anger cease." Soft on the wind was borne the pray'r; The spectres vanish'd into air, And all was hush'd in peace. Now redd'ning tints the skies adorn, And streaks of gold, proclaim the morn; The night is chas'd away. The sun ascends, new warmth he gives, New hope, new joy; all nature lives, And hails the glorious day. No more are dreadful fantoms near; Love and his smiling train, appear; They cull each sweetest flow'r, To scatter o'er the path of youth, To deck the bridal bed, when Truth Ah,—could your pow'r avert the blast Which threatens Bliss!—could passion last! Ye dear enchanters tell; What purer joy could Heaven bestow, Than when with shar'd affection's glow Our panting bosoms swell? Sweet spirits wave the airy wand, Two faithful hearts your care demand; Lo! bounding o'er the plain, Led by your charm, a youth returns; With hope, his breast impatient burns; Hope is not always vain. "Wake, Leonora!—wake to Love! For thee, his choicest wreath he wove;" Death vainly aim'd his Dart. The Past was all a dream; she woke— He lives;—'twas William's self who spoke, And clasp'd her to his Heart. Balto. Weekly Mag., I-280, Apr. 29, 1801, Balto. [G.A. BÜrger, Lenore. The last eight stanzas are an invention of the translator.] For the Portfolio. Mr. Old School, If you permit a truant to peep into your literary seminary, he will venture to present you with the inclosed hastily written lines, as a peace offering; but shall not be irritated beyond measure, should you choose to convert it into a burnt offering, as a just punishment for time misspent. At any rate, the sentence you shall pass, shall not be appealed from. Your sincere well-wisher, DAMON AND DAPHNE, AN IDYLL, (Matrimonial,) Attempted from Gessner. Damon. The gloomy tempest, Daphne, has blown o'er, Tremble not then, my girl, the lightning's blaze Through the dark cloud, no longer darts its rays. Let us this arbour leave, the blue sky greet, For, see, the sheep that sought this safe retreat, Now from their fleeces shake the drops of rain, And spread them o'er the bright'ning mead again, Let us then leave this fav'rite shelt'ring bower, To taste the beauties of this balmy hour; To view the sunbeams gild the moisten'd ground, And throw their rich and radiant glory round. As from the grotto, hand in hand they past, The gentle Daphne on her partner cast Her swimming eyes, pressing his honest hand. Daphne. How lovely looks the gay, the smiling land, She said; while through the scattering cloud appears The blue sky, dissipating all our fears. The clouds, as through the air they quickly pass, Hurry their shadows o'er the glist'ning grass. See, Damon, now, o'er yonder hill they throw Their shade o'er herds and cottages, and lo! They're flown, and while o'er flowery meads they run, The hill's again illumin'd by the sun. Damon. The rainbow view, from hill to hill expand, Its radiant arches o'er the laughing land; 'Midst the grey cloud, a happy omen shows; With peace and safety every colour glows: The quiet valley smiles beneath its beams, And owns its beauties in her gliding streams. Daphne with gentle arm embrac'd her swain; And cried; Daphne. See balmy zephyrs breathe again; More cheerful with the flowers they sport and play, Dress'd by the drops of rain and light of day. And fluttering insects joy to leave the shade, Their velvet wings in quick vibrations shake, While on the surface of the neighbouring lake, Of shrubs and willows, wash'd from every stain, The trembling branches glitter once again; Again the peasant in its bosom sees The heaven's blue concave and the spreading trees. Damon. Daphne, embrace me with thy circling arms, What sacred joy my swelling bosom warms, Where'er we turn what glories meet our eyes, What unexhausted springs of rapture rise. From the least plant to the bright star of day, That kindles nature with its quickening ray, All, all, our admiration ought to raise, And tune our voices to the notes of praise! How my heart swells, when from yon mountain's brow, I view the spreading country stretch'd below. Or, when amid the grass, in rural ease, Laying my limbs beneath the branching trees, I contemplate the various flowers and plants, And their minutely fine inhabitants. Or when amid the solemn hours of night, I view the stars adorn the heavens with light; The grateful changes of the seasons trace, The progress of the vegetable race. When all these wonders thro' my senses roll, They fill with purest awe my swelling soul; Thoughts urge on thoughts in quick successive birth, Weeping, I kneel to him who made the earth; To him, my admiration I confess, Father of light, of life, of every bliss: Nought then my soul with equal joy can move, Save the delight to know my Daphne's love. Daphne. Damon, around me also wonders rise, Oh let us then, lock'd in a soft embrace, When Morn approaching lifts her ruddy face, When gentle Eve her milder beauties shows, Or moonlight through the air its radiance throws, Thus let our thoughts upon such objects rest, Whilst to each others beating bosoms prest, In broken accents we our wonder own, And turn our minds tow'rds heaven's eternal throne. How inexpressible is the delight, When transports such as these, with tend'rest love unite. P.D. Port Folio, I-171, May 30, 1801, Phila. [S. Gessner, Damon. Daphne.] For the Port Folio. THE FLY, A FABLE. From the German of Gellert. That insects think, as well as speak, Needs, at this day, small eloquence to show; Esop, whom even children prize in Greek, Affirm'd as much, some thousand years ago. Fontaine, in French, asserted just the same; Who then shall dare deny the reptile claim To faculties, the world esteems so low, As scarce to notice, if you think or no? Within a temple, where the builder's art, Grandeur and elegance at once had join'd; While due proportion, reign'd in every part, And simple grace, with solid strength combin'd. In such a temple's wall, sat perch'd on high, A solemn, thoughtful, philosophic fly. For flies, an air so grave, of wisdom take, And on one leg, the head will often hold, And into wrinkles, oft the forehead fold, Only because they deep reflection's make; And to the bottom dive to know, Thus then, involv'd in contemplation deep, With half a dozen wrinkles on his brow, This fly began, around himself to peep, And question whence the building rose, and how? No maker of this work can I perceive, Quoth he—and that there is one, scarce believe; For who should such a maker be? "Art," said a spider sage. "Art built the work you see, For, wheresoever turns your eye, Fix'd laws, and order you descry; And hence, a fair conclusion grows, That from the hand of Art, the building rose." At this the fly, in his conceptions proud, Laugh'd out aloud, And with a sneer of scorn, replied— "Most learned sir, I oft have tried, At this same Art to get a sight, But never on him yet could light; And now, the more I think, the more I find, Your Art is but a fiction of the mind. Now learn from me how this same temple grew: Once on a time, it so by chance befel That pebbles numberless together flew, And settling, form'd this hollow shell, Where you, and I, friend spider, dwell; Say, what can be more evidently true?" A fly, for such a system, we forgive; But if great geniuses should live, Who deem this world's well-order'd frame, Sprung from blind accident alone, And chance, as author of their lives proclaim, Rather than bow to God's eternal throne, The sole excuse a creed, like this admits, Is, that its votaries have lost their wits. L. Port Folio, I-192, June 13, 1801, Phila. [C.F. Gellert, Die Fliege.] For the Port Folio. THE SUICIDE. From the German of Gellert. U. Port Folio, I-192, June 13, 1801, Phila. [C.F. Gellert, Der Selbstmord.] FROM THE GERMAN. While yon enlivening orb of day To William yields its light, He to no other lass will stray Thus Will to Nance, with ardour, said; And kept his word, I ween, Nor, till the sun had gone to bed, Met Sophy on the green. Port Folio, I-280, Aug. 29, 1801, Phila. For the Port Folio. From the German of Gellert. THE DANCING BEAR A Fable. A bear, who long had danced for bread, One morning from his keeper fled; Back to his native woods retreated, And, by his brother brutes, was kindly greeted: Their joy to see him made the forest roar, They lick'd his chaps, they stroak'd him with the paw; And when each bear his neighbour saw, Their news was, So!—Our Bruin's here once more. Straightway the travell'd youth went on All his adventures to relate, And whatsoever he had seen, or done, Or heard, in foreign parts to state. And when it came the turn to tell His dancing deeds, to capering he fell, As though his former master's chain Were fasten'd round his neck again. Bears of the woods are seldom trained to dance; Yet, seeing Bruin throw his limbs about, The fancy seiz'd them all, themselves to prance, And strive, with clumsy aim, his motions to make out. Scarce one of all the brood but quickly trip'd, And stumbling, staggering, fell his whole length down; The more they fail'd, the brisker Bruin skip'd, To show their skill at fault and prove his own. Away! Begone, you tumbling fool! they bawl; Must you, forsooth, be wiser than us all? And straight, with one accord, they hooted him away. Your neighbour's hatred would you shun? His talents to surpass beware! And still the higher your attainments run, Conceal them still with greater care. For though, at first, the voice of fame Shall sound your praises to the sky: Anon shall Envy blast your name, And turn your fairest arts to crimes of deepest dye. L. 27 November 1801. Port Folio, I-400, Dec. 12, 1801, Phila. [C.F. Gellert, Der TanzbÄr.] BENEVOLENCE. A FABLE. Imitated from the German of Galleret. Balance and Columbian Repos., I-132, Apr. 27, 1802, Hudson (N.Y.). [Gellert, Die Gutthat. Also in Amer. Universal Mag., I-28, Jan. 2, 1797, Phila.] AMINTA. An Idyl,—By Gessner. [Prose translation.] Weekly Visitor or Ladies' Misc., I-20, Oct. 23, 1802, N.Y. [S. Gessner, Daphne. INVITATION TO JOY. From the German. Say, who could mope in joyless plight, While youth and spring bedeck the scene, And scorn the profer'd gay delight, With thankless heart and frowning mien? See Joy with becks and smiles appear, While roses strew the devious way; The feast of life she bids us share, Where'er our pilgrim footsteps stray. And still the grove is cool and green, And clear the bubbling fountain flows, Still shines the night's resplendent queen, As erst in Paradise she rose: The grapes their purple nectar pour, To 'suage the heart that griefs oppress; And still the lonely ev'ning bow'r Invites and screens the stolen kiss. Still Philomela's melting strain, Responsive to the dying gale, Beguiles the bosom's throbbing pain, And sweetly charms the list'ning vale; Creation's scene expanded lies:— Blest scene! how wond'rous bright and fair! Till Death's cold hand shall close my eyes, Let me the lavish'd bounties share! Weekly Visitor or Ladies' Misc., I-64, Nov. 27, 1802, N.Y. Original Papers. For the Port Folio. THE AMERICAN LOUNGER. By Samuel Saunter, Esq. No. XLIII. Et vos, O lauri, carpam, et te proxima myrtus, Sic positae, quoniam suaves miscetis odores. —Virgil. To Samuel Saunter, Esq. Sir, As I perceive your plan, like that of Coleman and Thornton, in the "Connoisseur," and like that of your relation, Solomon Saunter, in "Literary Leisure," admits Poetry as well as Prose, which one may feed upon alternately, as we eat bread and cheese, I send you a translation, from the German of Lessing, and some fugitive originals. I am, yours I ask'd my fair, one happy day, What should I call her in my lay, By what sweet name, from Rome or Greece, Iphigenia, Clelia, Chloris, Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris, Dorimene or Lucrece? Ah, replied my gentle fair, Beloved, what are names but air? Take thou whatever suits the line, Clelia, Iphigenia, Chloris, Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris— But don't forget to call me—thine. Port Folio, III-25, Jan. 1803, Phila. [Lessing, Die Namen.] THE NAVIGATION Translated from the French of Gessner. It flies! the vessel flies, that bears away To distant shores my Daphne, fair as May. Guard her, ye loves! be lull'd each ruder gale; Let Zephyrs only fill the swelling sail; Ye waves flow gently by the vessel's side, While pensive she surveys you idly glide; Ah! softly glide, prolong her reverie, For then, ye Gods! 'tis then she thinks of me. When near the nodding groves that shade the shore, To her, ye birds, your sweetest warbling pour; No sounds be heard, but such as gently sooth, And be, O sea, thy azure surface smooth. Ne'er since thy daughters sought their liquid caves, A lovelier charge, was trusted to thy waves. Her clear, her bright unsullied beauty shews The lilly's white, and freshness of the rose. Not Venus had more charms, more beauteous bloom, When, rising from the sea's resplendent foam, She smiling mounted first her silver car, And shone effulgent as the morning star. The enchanted Tritons left their noisy sport, And nymphs cerulian in their crystal court; Regardless of their frowns, or jealous smiles, While beauty's queen each eager eye beguiles. They gaze, and held in most delightful trance, Pursue her moving o'er the smooth expanse. H***T. Boston Weekly Mag., 1-72, Feb. 19, 1803, Boston. [S. Gessner, La Navigation. Mr. Hogan; The subjoined Pieces under the signature of Oscar, are the production of a gentleman residing in a distant part of the state. They were written solely with a view to amuse his leisure hours. If you think them worthy of publication, you are at liberty to insert them in the Repository. —A Subscriber. MORNING SONG OF PRAISE. From the German of Patzke. "Lobt den Herrn! Die morgensonne." O praise the Lord! the morning sun, From sleep awakes the cheerful swain; And all creation's joys again, To us, in streams renewed, run. O praise the Lord! ye sweetest flow'rs, To him your earliest fragrance yield; Ye birds exert your tuneful pow'rs; Praise him in meadow and in field. O praise the Lord!—Ev'n from his den The desert's savage roars his praise; And, oh! my soul! how much more then, Should'st thou thy voice in Paeans raise? —Oscar. Phila. Repos., III-152, May 7, 1803, Phila. ODE TO SPRING From the German. "Freude wirbelt in den LÜften." Joy comes laughing with the breeze; Gladness spreads itself around; Songsters warble in the trees; Nature gaily decks the ground. Heav'n unfolds its richest vesture, Fairies dance with antic gesture; Or sip, delighted, morning dew. Gentle, smiling, Zephyrs, wander, Thro' the groves of verdant green; Toying with the lilac yonder— Here, with the rose of blooming mien. Humming bees, on wafer pinions, Careful, thro' the blossoms roam: Searching all their flow'r dominions, The nectar tribute gather home. In th'embroider'd violet vale, Love, attended by the Graces, Tells his soft bewitching tale, While blushing fair ones hide their faces. How beautiful is the creation, In this time of mirth and joy? All is life—all animation: Nought our pleasures to annoy. —Oscar. Phila. Repos., III-152, May 7, 1803, Phila. [For introductory note, cf. the preceding.] UNIVERSAL SONG OF PRAISE. A Sapphic Ode. From the German of BÜrde. "Alles was odem hat, lobe den Herrn!" All ye that live and breathe, O praise the Lord! With holy streams of joy, and exultation, Our souls are penetrated. O taste and see, how great, how good He is! His love and mercy, his truth and grace alone, O ye enwraptur'd souls that serve the Lord Cherubim! Seraphim! Angels and Spirits! Love is your felicity. Thirst on, our souls—thirst for the living streams; Bless'd and holy! and for ever love Him! Who us, in love, created. Yes, we'll love and adore Him! yes, the dust Loves its Redeemer; and all our anxious tears Himself shall wipe away. —Oscar. Phila. Repos., III-152, May 7, 1803, Phila. [For introductory note, cf. Morning Song of Praise, preceding.] THE SHOE PINCHES. A Song of Shoe-maker, William. From Kotzebue. Though idlers riot, eat and drink, And on soft downy pillows sink, They are not free from woe: For every man must have his share Of trouble, and must know best where The shoe does pinch his toe. When rainy, wise men boots will wear, But shoes put on when all is fair, And take times as they go; No man that ever wore a shoe Will say if he be fair and true, It never pinch'd his toe. Balance and Columbian Repos., II-288, Sept. 6, 1803, Hudson, (N.Y.). BENEVOLENCE.—A FABLE. Imitated from the German of Gellert. Port Folio, III-352, Oct. 29, 1803, Phila. [Also in Amer. Universal Mag., I-28, Jan. 2, 1797, Phila.] THE NOSEGAY. [Prose translation.] Phila. Repos., IV-4, Jan. 7, 1804, Phila. [S. Gessner, Der Blumenstrauss. For the Philadelphia Repository. HOFFNUNG. Wie des morgens helle licht Die dunkeln 'nachts durchbricht, Und die ganze welt erfrout Mit des tages herlichkeit So wann grosse traurigkeit— Laest den menschen keine freud, Wann verzweiflung angst und schmertze Fuelt das arme, banges hertze. Geht die sonne Hoffnungs auf, Und im traur'gem brust sein lauf Beginnt; dann flichtet traurigkeit, Und die brust ist voller freud. Von verzweiflung, angst und schmertze Ist befreyt das bange hertze, O! es bringt die Hoffnungs sonne, Seeligkeit, und grosse wonne. —Adelio. ? A poetical translation is requested. Phila. Repos., IV-56, Feb. 18, 1804, Phila. For the Philadelphia Repository. Translation Of Adelio's German Lines in last Repository. HOPE. As does the morn's resplendent light Dispel the gloomy shades of night, And the whole universe delight, With the day's illustrious sight— So when the adverse fates decree Nothing to man but misery, When they despair and pain impart To the keen agonized heart— Then does his course, Hope's sun from rest Take thro' the troubled heaving breast; Then disappears adversity, And leaves behind felicity. Exempt from horror is the breast, Despair and pain sink into rest; The sun of Hope affords delight, And happiness supremely bright. Translator. Phila. Repos., IV-64, Feb. 25, 1804, Phila. PASSAGE FROM KLOPSTOCK'S MESSIAH. So at the midnight hour draws nigh to the slumbering city Pestilence. Couch'd on his broad spread wings lurks under the rampart Death, bale-breathing. As yet unalarmed are the peaceable dwellers; Close to his nightly-lamp the sage yet watches; and high friends Over wine not unhallow'd, in shelter of odorous bowers, But too soon shall frightful Death, in a day of affliction Pouncing over them, over them spread; in a day of moaning and anguish.... When with wringing of hands the bride for the bridegroom loud wails; When, now of all her children bereft, the desperate mother Furious curses the day on which she bore, and was born ... when Weary with hollower eye, amid the carcases totter Even the buriers ... till the sent Death-angel, descending, Thoughtful on thunder-clouds, beholds all lonesome and silent, Gazes the wide desolation, and long broods over the graves, fixt. "Perhaps some other writer will throw this fine picture into blank verse so well, as to convince the public, that the beauties of Klopstock can be naturalized without strangeness, and his peculiarities retained without affectation; that quaintness, the unavoidable companion of neologism, is as needless to genius, as hostile to grace; the hexameter, until it is familiar, must repel, and, when it is familiar, may annoy; that it wants a musical orderliness of sound; and that its cantering capricious movement opposes the grave march of solemn majesty, and better suits the ordinary scenery of Theocritus than the empyreal visions of Klopstock." Lit. Mag. and Amer. Reg., I-468, Mar. 1804, Phila. [F.G. Klopstock, Messias.] THE GUARDIAN SPIRIT. From the German of Matthison. Whene'er day-light's parting gleam A smiling form salutes my love, And loiters near the murm'ring stream, And glides beneath the conscious grove: Ah! then my Henry's spirit see: Soft joy and peace it brings to thee. And when at moon-light's sober ray Thou dream'st perchance of love and me, And whisper dying melody— When tender bodings prompt the sigh— Thy Henry's spirit hovers nigh. When o'er the mind soft musings steal, As thou the pleasing past hast scann'd; Should'st thou a gentle pressure feel, Like zephyr's kiss o'er lip and hand;— And should the glimmering taper fade— Then near thee 'bides thy lover's shade. And when at midnights' solemn tide, As soft the rolling planets shine— Like Aeol's harp, thy couch beside, Thou hear'st the words—'forever thine!' Then slumber sweet, my spirit's there, And peace and joy it brings my fair. Phila. Repos., IV-160, May 19, 1804, Phila. [Friedrich Matthisson, Lied aus der Ferne.] BÜRGER'S LEONORA. [?]. [In an article on BÜrger's Lenore, three eight-lined stanzas of Spencer's translation, and two six-lined stanzas of Stanley's translation are given. W.R. Spencer, Leonora. Trans. from the German of G.A. BÜrgher. London, 1796. J.T. Stanley, Leonora. Trans. freely from the German; 2nd ed., London, 1796.] Port Folio, IV-167, May 26, 1804, Phila. A SONNET Translated from Jacobi. Tell me where's the vi'let fled Late so gaily blowing; Choicest sweets bestowing? Swains the vernal scene is o'er, And the vi'let blooms no more. Say where hides the blushing rose, Pride of fragrant morning; Garland meet for beauty's brows, Hill and dale adorning? Gentle maid the summer's fled And the hopeless Rose is dead! Bear me then to yonder rill, Late so freely flowing; Wat'ring many a daffodil, On its margin glowing— Sun and wind exhaust its store: Yonder riv'let glides no more! Lead me to the bow'ry shade, Late with roses flaunting; Lov'd resort of youth and maid, Am'rous ditty chanting— Hail and storm with fury show'rs, Leafless mourn with rifled bow'rs! Say where hides the village maid, Late yon cot adorning; Oft I've met her in the glade, Fair and fresh as morning? Swain how short is beauty's bloom, Seek her in the grassy tomb! Whither roves the tuneful swain Who of rural pleasures, Rose and vi'let, rill and plain, Sung in deftest measures? Maiden, swift life's vision flies, Death has clos'd the Poet's eyes. Companion and Weekly Misc., I-104, Jan. 26, 1805, Balto. [J.G. Jacobi, VergÄnglichkeit. The following is a German drinking song, popular in the Rhingau, and probably the inspiration of the old Hock, which it celebrates. Und trinkt ihn frÖlich leer; In ganz Europa, ihr herren recher, Ist solch ein wein nicht mehr. Ihn bringt das vatterland aus seiner fÜlle, Wie war er sonst so gut? Wie war er sonst so edel stille, Und doch voll kraft und muth? Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben; Gesegnet sey der Rhein! Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben Uns diesen lieben wein. So trinkt hin dann, and last uns alle wege Uns freun und frÖlich seyn; Und, wisten wir wo jemand traurig lÄge, Wir gÄben ihm den wein. Translation. The brimful goblet crown with wines, And drink the cordial juice, Europe itself can't boast such vines As these bless'd hills produce. Yes, Germany's the copious source Of wines that all excel; So mild, so generous, full of force, None cheer the heart so well. Rhingau alone such grapes can boast, Huzza! here's to the Rhine! And may the wretch, who slights the toast, Forget the taste of wine. Come, drink about, and let's be gay, Is any man to grief a prey? We'll comfort him with wine. Port Folio, V-110, Apr. 13, 1805, Phila. EPIGRAMS. From the German of G.E. Lessing. Adam awhile in Paradise Enjoy'd his novel life: He was caught napping; in a thrice His rib was made a wife. Poor father Adam, what a guest! This most unlucky dose Made the first minute of thy rest The last of thy repose. But one bad woman at a time On earth arises. That every one should think he has her, I own—surprises. A long way off—Lucinda strikes the men. As she draws near, And one see clear, A long way off—one wishes her again. Phila. Repos., V-128, Apr. 20, 1805, Phila. In Dr. Cogan's amusing and Shandean Travels on the Rhine, he has preserved a German Ode to Evening. They, who are curious to behold the Teutonic Muse, in the character of a pensive minstrel, may here be gratified. Komm, stiller abend, neider, Auf unsre kleine flur; Dir tÖnen unsre lieder, Schon steigt die abendrÖthe Herab ins kÜhle thal; Bald glantz in sanfter rÖthe Der sonne letzter strahl. All uberal herrscht schweigen Nur schwingt der vogel chor Hoch aus den dunkeln zweigen Den nacht gesang empor. Komm, lieber abend, neider Auf unsre kleine flur; Dir tÖnen unsre lieder, Wie schÖn bist du natur. Translation. Come, silent Eve, return again, Our homely cottage view, And hear us sing a cheerful strain, To thee, and nature due. The sun retires yon hills behind, And sinks into the sea, Glancing his rays both mild and kind, Oh, blushing maid, on thee. To thee he yields the soothing sway, Inviting all to rest; The birds conclude the happy day With singing on thy breast. Come, silent Eve, return again, Our homely cottage view, And hear us sing a cheerful strain, To thee and nature due. Port Folio, V-149, May 18, 1805, Phila. FROM THE GERMAN OF LESSING. Ah! why am I so transient, ask'd of Jupiter, Beauty? Only the transient is fair, smiling answer'd the God! Love, and Youth, and the Spring, and the Flow'rs, and the Dew, they all heard it; Slowly they turn'd away, weeping from Jupiter's throne! Port Folio, I-40, Jan. 25, 1806, Phila. THE WOODEN LEG. [a]. An Helvetick Tale. From the German of Solomon Gessner. [Prose translation.] Polyanthos, I-192, Feb., 1806, Boston. [S. Gessner, Das hÖlzerne Bein. It is but seldom that the Muses of the North sing more sweetly than in the following strain: SONG—FROM THE GERMAN. Scarce sixteen summers had I seen, And rov'd my native bow'rs; Nor stray'd my thoughts beyond the green, Bedew'd with shrubs and flow'rs. When late a stranger youth appear'd; I neither wish'd nor sought him; He came, but whence I never heard, And spake what love had taught him. His hair in graceful ringlets play'd, And o'er his comely shoulders stray'd, Where wanton zephyrs blew them. His speaking eye of azure hue Seem'd ever softly suing, And such an eye, so clear and blue, Ne'er shone for maid's undoing. His face was fair, his cheek was red, With blushes ever burning; And all he spoke was deftly said, Though far beyond my learning. Where'er I stray'd, the youth was nigh, His look soft sorrows speaking; Sweet maid! he'd say, then gaze and sigh, As if his heart were breaking. And once, as low his head he hung, I fain would ask the meaning; When round my neck his arms he flung, Soft tears his grief explaining. Such freedom ne'er was ta'en till now, And now 'twas unoffending; Shame spread my cheek with ruddy glow, My eyes kept downward bending. Nor aught I spoke, my looks he read, As if with anger burning; No—not one word—away he sped, Ah! would he were returning. Port Folio, I-189, Mar. 29, 1806, Phila. Pastoral Poetry. From Gessner's "New Idyls." THE ZEPHYRS. []. [Prose translation.] Weekly Visitant, I-158, May 17, 1806, Salem. [S. Gessner, Die Zephyre. From Gessner's "New Idylles." [Prose translation.] Weekly Visitant, I-159, May 17, 1806, Salem. [S. Gessner, Die Nelke. THE NAME UNKNOWN. Imitated from Klopstock's ode to his future mistress. By Thomas Campbell, Esq., author of Pleasures of Hope. Evening Fire-Side or Lit. Misc., II-165, May 24, 1806, Phila. [F.G. Klopstock, Die kÜnftige Geliebte. The above imitation appeared first in a newspaper, Newport Mercury, No. 2160, Aug. 30, 1803, Newport.] THE FOWLER—A SONG. Altered from a German air, in the opera of "Die ZauberlÔte." A Careless whistling lad am I, On sky-lark wings my moments fly; There's not a Fowler more renown'd In all the world—for ten miles round! Ah! who like me can spread the net? Then why—O why should I repine, Since all the roving birds are mine? The thrush and linnet in the vale, The sweet sequester'd nightingale, The bulfinch, wren, and wood-lark, all Obey my summons when I call: O! could I form some cunning snare To catch the coy, coquetting fair, In Cupid's filmy web so fine, The pretty girls should all be mine! When all were mine—among the rest, I'd choose the Lass I lik'd the best; And should my charming mate be kind; And smile, and kiss me to my mind, With her I'd tie the nuptial knot, Make Hymen's cage of my poor cot, And love away this fleeting life, Like Robin Redbreast and his wife! Mo. Anthology and Boston Rev., III-591, Nov. 1806, Boston. [E. Schickaneder, Die ZauberflÖte. Oper in zwei AufzÜgen von Mozart. Dichtung nach Ludwig Giesecke von E. Schickaneder. James Montgomery, The Wanderer of Switzerland and Other Poems, London, 1806. First Amer. ed. from second London ed., N.Y., 1807. P. 93.] THE CHASE. In the third number [The translation by Scott follows.] Port Folio, III-100, Feb. 14, 1807, Phila. [Also in Weekly Mag., II-413, July 28, 1798, Phila.] The following charming Observer, I-352, May 30, 1807, Balto. Selected Poetry. THE POEM OF HALLER VERSIFIED. By Henry James Pye, Esq., P.L. Ah! woods forever dear! whose branches spread Their verdant arch o'er Hasel's breezy head, When shall I once again, supinely laid, Hear Philomela charm your list'ning shade? When shall I stretch my careless limbs again, Where, gently rising from the velvet plain, O'er the green hills, in easy curve that bend, The mossy carpet Nature's hands extend? Where all is silent! save the gales that move The leafy umbrage of the whisp'ring grove; Or the soft murmurs of the rivulet's wave, Whose chearing streams the lonely meadows lave. O Heav'n! when shall once more these eyes be cast On scenes where all my spring of life was pass'd; Where, oft responsive to the falling rill, Sylvia and love my artless lays would fill? While Zephyr's fragrant breeze, soft breathing, stole A pleasing sadness o'er my pensive soul: Care, and her ghastly train, were far away; While calm, beneath the sheltering woods I lay Mid shades, impervious to the beams of day. Here—sad reverse!—from scenes of pleasure far, I wage with sorrow unremitting war: Oppress'd with grief, my ling'ring moments flow, Nor aught of joy, or aught of quiet, know. Far from the scenes that gave my being birth, From parents far, an outcast of the earth! In youth's warm hours, from each restriction free, Left to myself in dangerous liberty. Ah! scenes of earthly joy! ah, much-lov'd shades! Soon may my footsteps tread your vernal glades. Ah! should kind Heav'n permit me to explore E'en now to Fancy's visionary eye, Hope shews the flattering hour of transport nigh, Blue shines the aether, when the storm is past; And calm repose succeeds to sorrow's blast. Flourished, ye scenes of every new delight! Wave wide your branches to my raptur'd sight! While, ne'er to roam again, my wearied feet Seek the kind refuge of your calm retreat. Now pale disease shoots thro' my languid frame, And checks the zeal for wisdom and for fame. Now droops fond hope, by Disappointment cross'd; Chill'd by neglect, each sanguine wish is lost. O'er the weak mound stern Ocean's billows ride, And waft destruction in with every tide; While Mars, descending from his crimson car, Fans with fierce hands the kindling flames of war. Her gentle aid let Consolation lend; All human evils hasten to their end. The storm abates at every gust it blows; Past ills enhance the comforts of repose. He who ne'er felt the pressure of distress, Ne'er felt returning pleasure's keen excess. Time who Affliction bore on rapid wing, My panting heart to happiness may bring; I, on my native hills, may yet inhale The purer influence of the ambient gale. Observer, II-95, Aug. 8, 1807, Balto. Walter Scott, Esq., whose honoured name is now perfectly familiar to every FREDERICK AND ALICE. This tale is imitated rather than translated from a fragment introduced in Goethe's "Claudina von Villa Bella," where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti to engage the attention of the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess to my friend Mr. Lewis, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state; and who, after some material improvement, published it in his "Tales of Wonder." [The poem follows.] Port Folio, IV-134, Aug. 29, 1807, Phila. [Goethe, Claudine von Villa Bella, Act II. Song by "Rugantino" (Karlos von Castellvecchio). M.G. Lewis, Tales of Wonder.] THE LASS OF FAIR WONE. From the German of Buerger. Charms of Lit., p. 103, 1808, Trenton. [Also in Phila. Minerva, II, Dec. 17, 1796, Phila.] THE WOODEN LEG. []. A Swiss Idyll. By Gessner. [Prose translation.] Charms of Lit., p. 401, 1808, Trenton. [S. Gessner, Das hÖlzerne Bein.] FROM THE GERMAN OF GESNER. Hail, Morning, to thy rising beam That gilds with light the mountain's brow, And shines and glitters in the stream That winds along the vale below! Joy, and health, and glad delight Await thy steps, thy march pursue; The Zephyr now that slept the night In flowers that weep beneath the dew, His plumes with new-born vigour tries, And lifts him from his balmy bed; And dreams that round the wearied eyes Of mortals hover'd, now are fled. Haste, ye Gales, and thro' the air Waft the sweets from every flower, And wave your wings around my Fair, What slumbers in yon rosy bower; Paint o'er her lips and cheek's bright hues, And heave upon her heaving breast, And when yo've chas'd Sleep's balmy dews, And gently burst the bonds of rest, Oh whisper to her list'ning ear, That e'er bright Morn had deck'd the sky, These streams beheld me shed the tear, And heard me pour for her the sigh! Lady's Weekly Misc., VII-112, June 11, 1808, N.Y. [S. Gessner, Morgenlied.] MORNING SONG. (Morgenlied) from the German of Gesner. Welcome, early orb of morn! Welcome, infant day! O'er the wood-top'd mountain borne, Now o'er babbling brooks it beams; Sips from each flower its dew; Now with glorious gladdening gleams Wakes the world anew. Zephyrs first, o'er flowers that slumber'd, Quit their couch, and play; Breathe o'er flowers in sighs unnumber'd, Breathe the scent of day. Fancy now her reign gives o'er, Every vision flies; Chloe's cheek is wan no more, Cupids round it rise. Hasten, Zephyr, waft from roses All their loveliest bloom! Haste where Chloe now reposes, Wake her from her tomb! To the fairest's couch repair, Wanton round her pillow; O'er her lip and bosom fair Bathe thy blandest billow! She wakes the whispers to the gale, Wakes from her morning dream; Whilst so the stream, and thro' the vale, I er'st have breathed her name. Emerald, n.s., I-562, Sept. 10, 1808, Boston. [S. Gessner, Morgenlied.] TRANSLATION OF SHELLER'S (From the German.) Belov'd of my bosom, alas my fond heart Does weep for the fate of my heart-rending lot; To range the wide world, now from me you depart, If moving in circles of beauty and love, Perchance to adore some sweet maid, be your lot, O! then may my spirit thy wav'rings reprove, And whisper thee gently, "forget me not." If hap'ly hard fate should you e'er from me sever, How drearily mournful would be my sad lot, In sorrow's dark path I would wander forever, Nor smile more with joy, then "forget me not." If in the fresh bloom of my life's early blossom, To leave you my dear, and this world, be my lot, Thine be the last sigh that escapes from my bosom, Then think how I love you; "O! forget me not." Yet tho' we now part, in the bless'd realms above, We will meet soon again, free from life's woeful lot; We will meet to dear joy, we will meet to sweet love, Then no more need I say "O! forget me not." Z. Gleaner, I-325, Mar. 1809, Lancaster (Penn.). TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN. Whoever has perused the prophetick metrical compositions of Van Vander Horderclogeth must surely remember the poem on the 3697 fol. of which the following is a translation; it commences thus— Vrom Grouter gruder grout gropstock, Zordur zoop, &c. All gloomy and sorrowful Beelzebub sat, With his imps and his devils around, When the thundering knocker of Hell's outer grate Rang a peal so terrifick and loud on the gate, That all Erebus echoed the sound. Full swift to the portal the young devils flew, And the long gloomy passage unbarr'd; When a lanthorn-jaw'd monster stood forth to their view, So meagre his figure, so pale was his hue, All green were his eyes in their sockets decay'd, His nose was projecting and wide, In a dusty frock-coat was his carcase array'd, On his scull he a three-corner'd scraper display'd, And two volumes So foul were his breath and the words that he said, That his teeth had long rotted away— And now to the devils a signal he made, To show him their master, the devils obey'd, And brought him where Beelzebub lay. Old Beelzebub rose, as the monster came in, And stood for a moment in dread, For they look'd like each other enough to be kin, Save that one had whole feet and a light-colour'd skin, And the other had horns on his head. 'Whence art thou?' said Beelzebub; 'stranger, proclaim, For if Satan can rightly divine, Thou art surely some hero of throat-cutting fame, For ne'er to these regions a spirit there came, With figure so hellish as thine.' 'No throats have I cut,' the lank goblin replied, With voice that was hollow and shrill; 'I have cheated, and bullied, and swindled, and lied, Sedition and falsehood I've spread far and wide, And in mischief I never was still. 'My name is —— ——;' no sooner said he, Than Beelzebub rose with a grin; He embrac'd the foul monster, who also display'd His joy at the meeting; and both of them made All Hell echo round with their din. Ordeal, I-157, Mar. 11, 1809, Boston. THE FOWLER. A Song. Altered from a German air, in the opera of "Dizauberlote." Gleaner, I-374, Apr. 1809, Lancaster (Penn.). [Also in Mo. Anthology and Boston Rev., III-591, Nov. 1806, Boston.] TO CHLOE. From the German of Gesner. [Prose translation.] Visitor, I-154, Nov. 4, 1809, Richmond. [S. Gessner, An Chloen.] SONG. From the German of Jacobi. Boston Mirror, II-88, Dec. 30, 1809, Boston. [Same as, A Sonnet, by Jacobi, in Companion and Weekly Misc., I-104, Jan. 26, 1805, Balto.] I publish the following new translation of "The Wild Hunter," first on account of its superiority over every other, and secondly because it is my intention in a future number to notice particularly this chef d'oeuvre of the German poet. THE WILD HUNTER. Loud, loud the baron winds his horn; And, see, a lordly train On horse, on foot, with deafening din, Comes scouring o'er the plain. O'er heath, o'er field, the yelping pack Dash swift, from couples freed; O'er heath, o'er field, close on their track, And now the Sabbath's holy dawn Beam'd high with purple ray, And bright each hallowed temple's dome Reflected back the day. Now deep and clear the pealing bells Struck on the list'ning ear, And heaven-ward rose from many a voice The hymn of praise and prayer. Swift, swift along the crossway, still They speed with eager cry: See! right and left, two horsemen strange Their rapid coursers ply. Who were the horsemen right and left? That may I guess full well: Who were the horsemen right and left? That may I never tell. The right, of fair and beauteous mien, A milk-white steed bestrode; Mild as the vernal skies, his face With heavenly radiance glow'd. The left spurr'd fast his fiery barb, Red as the furnace flame; Sullen he loured, and from his eyes The death-like lightning came. 'Right welcome to our noble sport;' The baron greets them fair; 'For well I wot ye hold it good To banish moping care. 'No pleasure equal to the chase, Or earth, or heaven can yield;' He spoke,—he waved his cap in air, 'Turn thee!' the milder horseman cries; 'Turn thee from horns and hounds! Hear'st not the bells, hear'st not the quire, Mingle their sacred sounds? 'They drown the clamor of the chase; Oh! hunt not then to-day, Nor let a fiend's advice destroy Thy better angel's sway.' 'Hunt on, hunt on,' his comrade cries, 'Nor heed yon dotard's spell; What is the bawling quire to us? Or what the jangling bell? 'Well may the chase delight thee more; And well may'st learn from me, How brave, how princely is our sport, From bigot terrors free.' 'Well said! well said! in thee I own A hero's kindled fire; These pious fool'ries move not us, We reck nor priest, nor quire. 'And thou, believe me, saintlike dolt, Thy bigot rage is vain; From prayers and beadrolls, what delight Can sportsmen hope to gain?' Still hurry, hurry, on they speed O'er valley, hill and plain; And ever at the baron's side Attend the horsemen twain. See, panting, see, a milk-white hart Up-springs from yonder thorn: 'Now swiftly ply both horse and foot; See, falls a huntsman! see, his limbs The pangs of death distort! 'Lay there and rot: no caitiff's death Shall mar our princely sport.' Light bounds with deftest speed the hart, Wide o'er the country borne; Now closer prest a refuge seeks Where waves the ripening corn. See, the poor owner of the field Approach with tearful eyes; 'O pity, pity, good my lords!' Alas! in vain he cries. 'O spare what little store the poor By bitter sweat can earn!' Now soft the milder horseman warns The baron to return. Not so persuades his stern compeer, Best pleas'd with darkest deeds; Tis his to sway the baron's heart, Reckless what mercy pleads. 'Away!' the imperious noble cries; 'Away, and leave us free! Off! or by all the powers of hell, Thou too shalt hunted be! 'Here, fellows! let this villain prove My threats were not in vain: Loud lash around his piteous face The whips of all my train.' Tis said, tis done: swift o'er the fence The baron foremost springs; Swift follow hound, and horse, and man, Loud rings the welkin with their shouts, While man, and horse, and hound, Ruthless tread down each ripening ear, Wide o'er the smoking ground. O'er heath and field, o'er hill and dale, Scared by the approaching cries, Still close pursued, yet still unreach'd, Their destin'd victim flies. Now mid the lowing herds that graze Along yon verdant plain, He hopes, concealed from every eye, A safe retreat to gain. In vain, for now the savage train Press ravening on his heels: See, prostrate at the baron's feet The affrighted herdsman kneels. Fear for the safety of his charge Inspires his faltering tongue; 'O spare,' he cries, 'these harmless beasts, Nor work an orphan's wrong. 'Think, here thy fury would destroy A friendless widow's all!' He spoke:—the gentle stranger strove To enforce soft pity's call. Not so persuades his sullen frere, But pleas'd with darkest deeds; Tis his to sway the baron's heart, Reckless what mercy pleads. 'Away, audacious hound!' he cries; 'Twould do my heart's-blood good, Might I but see thee transform'd to beasts 'Then, to the very gates of heaven, Who dare to say me nay! With joy I'd hunt the losel fry; Come fellows, no delay!' See, far and wide the murderous throng Deal many a deadly wound; Mid slaughter'd numbers, see, the hart Sinks bleeding on the ground. Yet still he summons all his strength For one poor effort more, Staggering he flies; his silver sides Drop mingled sweat and gore. And now he seeks a last retreat Deep in the darkling dell, Where stands, amidst embowering oaks, A hermit's holy cell. E'en here the madly eager train Rush swift with impious rage, When, lo! persuasion on his tongue, Steps forth the reverend sage. 'O cease thy chase! nor thus invade Religion's free abode; For know, the tortur'd creature's groans E'en now have reach'd his god. 'They cry at heaven's high mercy seat, For vengeance on thy head; O turn, repentant turn, ere yet The avenging bolt is sped.' Once more religion's cause in vain The gentle stranger pleads; Once more, alas! his sullen frere 'Dash on!' the harden'd sinner cries; 'Shalt thou disturb our sport? No! boldly would I urge the chase In heaven's own inmost court. 'What reck I then thy pious rage? No mortal man I fear: Not god in all his terrors arm'd Should stay my fix'd career.' He cracks his whip, he winds his horn, He calls his vassal-crew; Lo! horse and hound, and sage and cell, All vanish from his view. All, all, are gone!—no single rack His eager eye can trace; And silence, still as death, has hush'd The clamors of the chase. In vain he spurs his courser's sides, Nor back nor forward borne; He winds his horn, he calls aloud, But hears no sound return. And now inclos'd in deepest night, Dark as the silent grave, He hears the sullen tempest roar, As roars the distant wave. Loud and louder still the storm Howls through the troubled air; Ten thousand thunders from on high The voice of judgment bear. Accursed before god and man, Unmoved by threat or prayer; Creator, nor created, aught 'Think not in vain creation's lord Has heard his creature's groan; E'en now the torch of vengeance flames High by his awful throne. 'Now, hear thy doom! to aftertimes A dread example given, For ever urge thy wild career, By fiendish hell-hounds driven.' The voice had ceased; the sulphurous flash Shot swift from either pole; Sore shook the grove; cold horror seized The trembling miscreant's soul. Again the rising tempest roars, Again the lightnings play; And every limb, and every nerve Is frozen with dismay. He sees a giant's swarthy arm Start from the yawning ground; He feels a demon grasp his head, And rudely wrench it round. In torrents now from every side, Pours fast a fiery flood; On each o'erwhelming wave upborne, Loud howls the hellish brood. Sullen and grisly gleams the light, Now red, now green, now blue; Whilst o'er the gulf the fiendish train Their destined prey pursue. In vain he shrieks with wild despair, In vain he strives to fly; Still at his back the hell-born crew By day, full many a fathom deep Below earth's smiling face; By night, high through the troubled air, They speed their endless chase. In vain to turn his eyes aside He strives with wild affright; So never may those maddening scenes Escape his tortured sight. Still must he see those dogs of hell Close hovering on his track; Still must he see the avenging scourge Uplighted at his back. Now this is the wild baron's hunt; And many a village youth, And many a sportsman (dare they speak) Could vouch the awful truth. For oft benighted midst the wilds The fiendish troop they hear, Now shrieking shrill, now cursing loud, Come thundering through the air. No hand shall stay those dogs of hell Or quench that sea of fire, Till god's own dreadful day of doom Shall bid the world expire! Rambler's Mag., I-137, [1809], N.Y. [G.A. BÜrger, Der wilde JÄger.] FOOTNOTES: |
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