THE HEMLOCK-TREE. FROM THE GERMAN. ( HEMLOCK-TREE! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches Green not alone in summer time, But in the winter's frost and rime! O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches! O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom ! And leave me in adversity! O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is thy bosom! The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example! So long as summer laughs she sings, But in the autumn spreads her wings. The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example! The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood! It flows so long as falls the rain, In drought its springs soon dry again. The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy falsehood! ANNIE OF THARAW. FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON DACH. ANNIE of Tharaw, my true love of old, Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, O my soul, my flesh and my blood! Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain, As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall, So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows, Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, The threads of our two lives are woven in one. Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand? Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife; Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love; Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen; It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; FORMS of saints and kings are standing The cathedral door above; Yet I saw but one among them Who hath soothed my soul with love. In his mantle,-wound about him, As their robes the sowers wind, Bore he swallows and their fledglings, And so stands he calm and childlike, I would be like him, a child! And my songs,-green leaves and blossoms,- THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. ON the cross the dying Saviour And by all the world forsaken, Sees he how with zealous care At the ruthless nail of iron A little bird is striving there. Stained with blood and never tiring, And the Saviour speaks in mildness: Bear, as token of this moment, Marks of blood and holy rood!" And that bird is called the crossbill; In the groves of pine it singeth Songs, like legends, strange to hear. THE sea hath its pearls, The heaven hath its stars; But my heart, my heart, My heart hath its love. Great are the sea and the heaven; Thou little, youthful maiden, Come unto my great heart; My heart, and the sea, and the heaven, Are melting away with love! |