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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.

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 holsted 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!

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,

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 fill'd 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. “There the tailor blows the flute,

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

Over mountain gorge and bourn.

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!

And then the landlord's daughter

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

There lies the happiest land !”

WHITHER?
FROM THE GERMAN OF 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.

THE WAVE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF 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."

Say! how canst thou mourn? How canst thou rejoice?

Thou art but metal dull ! And yet all our sorrowings, And all our rejoicings,

Thou dost feel them all! God hath wonders many, Which we cannot fathom,

Placed within thy form! When the heart is sinking, Thou alone canst raise it,

Trembling in the storm!

BEWARE!

FROM THE GERMAN.
I KNOW a maiden fair to see,

Take care !
She can both false and friendly be,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!
She has two eyes, so soft and brown,

Take care !
She gives a side-glance and looks down,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!
And she has hair of a golden hue,

Take care !
And what she says, it is not true,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!
She has a bosom as white as snow,

Take care !
She knows how much it is best to show,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!
She gives thee a garland woven fair,

Take care !
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear,

Beware! Beware!

Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

THE CASTLE BY THE SEA.

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. “Hast thou seen that lordly castle,

That Castle by the Sea ? Golden and red above it

The clouds float gorgeously. And fain it would stoop downward

To the mirrored wave below; And fain it would soar upward

In the evening's crimson glow.” “ Well have I seen that castle,

That Castle by the Sea,
And the moon above it standing,

And the mist rise solemnly.”
“The winds and the waves of ocean,

Had they a merry chime? Didst thou hear, from those lofty cham

bers, The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?” “The winds and the waves of ocean,

They rested quietly; But I heard on the gale a sound of wail,

And tears came to mine eye.” “And sawest thou on the turrets

The King and his royal bride? And the wave of their crimson mantles?

And the golden crown of pride? “Led they not forth, in rapture,

A beauteous maiden there? Resplendent as the morning sun,

Beaming with golden hair?“Well saw I the ancient parents,

Without the crown of pride;
They were moving slow, in weeds of

woe,
No maiden was by their side!”

SONG OF THE BELL.

FROM THE GERMAN. Bell! thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party,

To the church doth hie!
Bell! thou soundest solemnly
When, on Sabbath morning,

Fields deserted lie!
Bell! thou soundest merrily;
Tellest thou at evening,

Bed-time draweth nigh!
Bell! thou soundest mournfully;
Tellest thou the bitter

Parting hath gone by!

ness.

Pale the children both did look,
But the guest a beaker took ;

“Golden wine will make you whole!" The children drank, Gave many a courteous thank;

“Oh, that draught was very cool!" Each the father's breast embraces, Son and daughter; and their faces

Colourless grow utterly.
Whichever way
Looks the fear-struck father gray,

He beholds his children die.
“Woe! the blessed children both
Takest thou in the joy of youth;

Take me, too, the joyless father!” Spake the grim Guest, From his hollow, cavernous breast,

“Roses in the spring I gather!”

THE BLACK KNIGHT. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 'Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, When woods and fields put off all sad

Thus began the King and spake; “So from the halls Of ancient Hofburg's walls,

A luxuriant Spring shall break.” Drums and trumpets echo loudly, Wave the crimson banners proudly.

From balcony the King looked on; In the play of spears, Fell all the cavaliers,

Before the monarch's stalwart son. To the barrier of the fight Rode at last a sable Knight. “Sir Knight! your name and scut

cheon, say!” “Should I speak it here, Ye would stand aghast with fear;

I am a Prince of mighty sway!”
When he rode into the lists,
The arch of heaven grew black with

mists,
And the castle 'gan to rock.
At the first blow,
Fell the youth from saddle-bow,

Hardly rises from the shock.
Pipe and viol call the dances,
Torch-light through the high hall

glances;
Waves a mighty shadow in;
With manner bland
Doth ask the maiden's hand,

Doth with her the dance begin;
Danced in sable iron sark,
Danced a measure weird and dark,

Coldly clasped her limbs around.
From breast and hair
Down fall from her the fair

Flowerets, faded, to the ground.
To the sumptuous banquet came
Every Knight and every Dame.
'Twixt son and daughter all dis-

traught, With mournful mind The ancient King reclined,

Gazed at them in silent thought.

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS. INTO the Silent Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly

gath And shattered wrecks lie thicker on-the

strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, O thither, Into the Silent Land? Into the Silent Land ! To you, ye boundless regions Of all perfection! Tender morning

visions Of beauteous souls ! The Future's

pledge and band !
Who in Life's battle firm doth stand,
Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms
Into the Silent Land !
O Land! O Land!
For all the broken-hearted
The mildest herald by our fate allotted,
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth

stand
To lead us with a gentle hand
Into the land of the great Departed,
Into the Silent Land!

THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER.
FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGNÉR.

PREFATORY REMARKS. This Idyl, from the original of Bishop Tegnér, descriptive of scenes of village life in Sweden, enjoys a well-merited reputation in the North of Europe, from its beauty and simplicity as well as from the pure and elevated tone of the writer.

There is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life in Sweden, combined with an almost primeval simplicity, an almost primeval solitude, which renders it a fit theme for song. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir, with their long, fan-like branches; while under foot is spread a carpet yellow leaves. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream; and anon come forth into a pleasant land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. The gates are opened by troops of children, and the peasants take off their hats as you pass. The houses in the villages and smaller towns are built of hewn timber, and are generally painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with the fragrant tips of fir-boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible; and she brings you curdled milk from the pan, with oaten cakes baked some months before. Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the plough, and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travellers come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them are smoking pipes, and have hanging around their necks in front a leather wallet in which they carry tobacco, and the great bank-notes of the country: You meet, also, groups of barefooted Dalekarlian peasant women, travelling in pursuit of work, carrying in their hands their shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of the foot, and soles of birch bark.

Frequent, too, are the village churches, standing by the road-side. In the churchyard are a few flowers, and much green grass. The gravestones are flat, large, low, and perhaps sunken, like the roofs of old houses; the tenants all sleeping with their heads to the westward. Each held a lighted taper in his hand when he died; and in his coffin were placed his little heart-treasures, and a piece of money for his last journey. Babes that came lifeless into the world were carried in the arms of gray-haired old men to the only cradle they ever slept in; and in the shroud of the dead mother were laid the little garments of the child that lived and died in her bosom. Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, with a sloping roof over it, fastened to a post by iron bands, and secured by a padlock. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the church-steps and con their psalm-books. Others are coming down the road, listening to their beloved pastor. He is their patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both priest and king, though he has no other throne than the church-pulpit. The women carry psalm-books in their hands, wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen devoutly to the good man's words. But the young men, like Gallio, care for none of these things. They are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant girls, their number being an indication of the wearer's wealth.

I will endeavour to describe a village wedding in Sweden. It shall be in summer time, that the early song of the lark and of chanticleer may be heard mingling in the clear morning air, just after sunrise. In the yard there is a sound of voices and trampling of hoofs. The steed is led forth that is to bear the bridegroom, with a bunch of flowers upon his forehead, and a garland of corn-flowers around his neck. Friends from the neighbouring farms come riding in, and the happy bridegroom, with a whip in his hand, and a monstrous nosegay in the breast of his

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