FROM the hill to the valley, the grove to the plain,
From the branch where thou never wilt blossom again,
Thy green beauties faded, sere, withered, and dying
Brown leaf of the forest! oh where art thou flying?
"I know not-I heed not-I go with the blast,
Which swept me away from the bough as it passed.
The storm-gust which shattered the oak where I hung,
Had ruth for the feeble, but none for the strong.
It has rent the tough branch, once my glory and stay,
And-the wind for my wild mate-I'm whirled away.
What rede I, or reck? On its cold bosom lying,
I haste to where all things in nature are hieing
And the sweet garden rose-leaf floats off with the breeze-
Where the zephyr wafts blossoms and buds from the trees,
So lightly I drive to my destiny too;
And it may be to glad me-it may be to rue
My companions the ilex, the ash, the bright laurel, And the beech, with its death-bloom, as ruddy as coral. Now read my sad riddle, Sir Seer! and its moral." -Anonymous.
My wealth is in a little cot,
Which stands upon a meadow floor
Close by a brook: the brook is small,
But cannot clearer be, I'm sure.
A tree stands near the little cot,
Which for its boughs is scarcely seen;
And against sun, and cold, and wind,
It shelters those that dwell therein.
And there a pretty nightingale
Sings on the tree so sweet a song,
That every passing traveller stands
To listen, ere he speeds along.
Thou little one, with sunny hair,
Who long hath blessed my humble lot-
I go-rough blows the stormy wind-
Wilt thou with me into my cot?
SPOKE Chidher the immortal, the ever young;
I passed by a city, a man stood near,
Plucking fruit that in a fair garden hung;
I asked, How long has the city been here?
He said, as the clustering fruit he caught,
There was always a city on this spot,
And so there will be till Time is not.
Five hundred years rolled by, before
I was standing upon that spot once more.
Not a trace of the city could be seen;
A shepherd lay piping his song alone,
His flocks were browsing the herbage green;
I asked, How long has the city been gone?
He said, while still on his pipe he played-
Fresh flowers spring up as the others fade;
Here I and my flocks have ever strayed.
Five hundred years rolled by, as before:
I was standing upon that spot once more.
I found there a sea, with billows crested;
A man was shooting his fishing-gear,
And as from the heavy draught he rested,
I asked, How long has the sea been here?
He smiled at my question, and thus he spoke :
As long as these waves in foam have broke,
It has been the haunt of us fisher folk.
Five hundred years rolled by, as before:
I was standing upon that spot once more.
A tall spreading forest there I found,
And a woodman old in its shadows drear;
The strokes of his axe broke the silence round:
I asked, How old is the forest here?
He said, All the days of my life I've known
This forest a forest, and dwelt alone
'Mong trees, that ever were growing or grown.
Five hundred years rolled by, as before:
I was standing upon that spot once more.
'Twas a city now, where the hum resounded
Of crowds on a festive holiday:
I asked, What time was the city founded?
The forest, and sea, and pipe, where are they?
They cried, of my question taking no thought,
'Twas always the same as now-this spot,
And so it will be till time is not.
And when five hundred years have rolled by, as before,
I'll be standing upon that spot once more.
AN arrow from a bow just shot,
Flew upwards to heaven's canopy,
And cried, with pompous self-conceit,
To the King Eagle, scornfully:-
"Look here I can as high as thou,
And, towards the sun, even higher sail!"
The eagle smiled, and said, "Oh fool,
What do thy borrowed plumes avail?
By others' strength thou dost ascend,
But by thyself dost-downward tend."
I THINK of thee when flies the gloom
Of night before the dawning gray,
And in my lonely, quiet room,
I kneel in morning light to pray:
While my devotion's early flame
Ascends to Heaven, from whence it came,
I think of thee, though far away.
I think of thee with still delight,
When, gazing on thy portrait here,
I give it, with creative might,
A life and soul: thy smile grows clear,
The eyes look meaningly and bright;
Again I have thee in my sight-
My heart beats high-I feel thee near.
I think of thee when round me throng
Our children dear, a gladsome band;
I see thy form their forms among;
And when they earnestly demand,
"When will our mother come again?"
I soften my awakening pain
With hope full soon to grasp thy hand.
I think of thee where'er I gaze-
The traces of thy hand I view;
I mark thy calm domestic ways;
In garden and in household too
I see the tokens of thy skill,
And everything around betrays
Thy spirit hovering o'er us still.
I think of thee in meadows green,
And on the mountain's summit too;
Along the brook of silver sheen,
'Mid all we have together seen.
In every place where we have been,
Thy lovely vision comes between
Mine eyes and everything they view!
I think of thee when in the west
The sun sinks down, and day's eye closes,
When darkness has our valleys dressed,
And all the earth in shade reposes;
Then, when my head lies down to rest,
Thy image o'er my pillow beams-
I see thee all night in my dreams!
COUNT EBERHARD.
FOUR counts together sat to dine,
And when the feast was done,
Each, pushing round the rosy wine,
To praise his land begun.
The Margrave talked of healthful springs,
Another praised his vines;
Bohemia spoke of precious things
In many darksome mines.
Count Eberhard sat silent there-
"Now, Würtemberg, begin!
There must be something good and fair
Your pleasant country in!"
"In healthful springs and purple wine,"
Count Eberhard replied—
"In costly gems, and gold to shine,
I cannot match your pride;
you shall hear a simple tale :One night I lost my way Within a wood, along a vale,
And down to sleep I lay.
And there I dreamed that I was dead,
And funeral lamps were shining
With solemn lustre round my head,
Within a vault reclining.
And men and women stood beside
My cold sepulchral bed;
And, shedding many tears, they cried,
'Count Eberhard is dead!'
A tear upon my face fell down,
And, waking with a start,
I found my head was resting on
A Würtembergian heart!
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