Calm 'mid the billows' wildest commotion, I would defy on thy bosom the ocean, Or would attend thee to death with devotion: Translation of MRS. HowITT. CARL MICHAEL BELLMANN, 1740-1795. THE MORNING WALK. FROM THE DANISH. To the beech-grove, with so sweet an air, O Earth! that never the plowshare In their dark shelter the flowerets grew, Bright to the eye, And smiled, at my feet, on the cloudless blue O lovely field, and forest fair, Her bride-bed Freya everywhere The corn-flowers rose in azure bond From earthly cell; Naught else could I do but stop, and stand, "Welcome on earth's green breast again, In Spring how charming, 'mid the grain, Like stars 'midst lightning's yellow ray O how your Summer aspect gay 66 Delights my view!" O poet, poet, silence keep, God help thy case! Our owner holds us sadly cheap, And scorns our race; Each time he sees he calls us scum, Hell-weeds, that but to vex him come MORNING. "O wretched mortals! O wretched man! O wretched crowd! No pleasures ye pluck, no pleasures ye plan, Whose eyes are blind to the glories great And dream that the mouth is the nearest gate "Come, flowers! for we to each other belong, And around my lute in sympathy strong And quake as if moved by zephyr's wing, And a morning song with glee we'll sing Anonymous Translation. ADAM GOTTLOB OCHILENSHLAGER, 1779. DANISH MORNING SONG. From eastern quarters now The sun's up wandering; His rays on the rock's brow, And hill-side squandering. Be glad, my soul! and sing amid thy pleasure; Up with thy thanks, and burst To heaven's azure. O, countless as the grains Of sand so tiny- Deep waters briny ; God's mercy is which he upon me showeth ! A grace immeasurable To me down-poureth. Thou best does understand, And placed is in thy hand, And thou foreseest what is for me most fitting; To manage in the whole, May fruit the land array, And even for eating! May truth e'er make its way, With justice meeting! Give Thou to me my share with every other, Till down my staff I lay, And from this world away Wend to another! Translation of H. W. LONGFELLOW. THOMAS KINGO, 1634-1723. SUMMER MORNING SONG. FROM THE DUTCH. Up, sleeper! dreamer, up! for now There's gold upon the mountain's brow There's light on forests, lakes, and meadows; The dew-drops shine on floweret bells; The village clock of morning tells. Up! out! o'er furrow and o'er field! For morning's bliss and time is fleeter Up! to the fields! through shine and stour! So blest as this-the glad heart leaping, See earth rejoicing in its prime ! The winter, time for sleeping. O fool! to sleep such hours away, While blushing nature wakes to day, Or down through summer morning soaring! 'Tis meet for thee the winter long, When snows fall fast, and winds blow strong, The very beast that crops the flower Aurora smiles; her beckonings claim thee. We come-we come-our wanderings take And rugged paths, and woods pervaded Were we of feather, or of fin, How blest to dash the river in, Thread the rock-stream, as it advances- O thus to revel, thus to range, I'll yield the counter, bank, or 'Change- The seeds of care which harvests pains; The wealth for more which strains and strains, O, happy who the city's noise, Can quit for nature's quiet joys Quit worldly sin and worldly sorrow; No more 'midst prison walls abide, But in God's temple, vast and wide, Ask mercies every morrow! No seraph's flaming sword hath driven From earth's sweet smiles and winning features; For him by toils and troubles toss'd, But not for happy creatures! Come-though a glance it may be-come- For life strong urgencies must bind us! We'll leave in peace behind us! Anonymous Translation. H. TOLLENS, 1778. |