Calm 'mid the billows' wildest commotion,

I would defy on thy bosom the ocean,

Or would attend thee to death with devotion:
Sing, O ye sirens, and mimic my strain!

Translation of MRS. HowITT.

CARL MICHAEL BELLMANN, 1740-1795.

THE MORNING WALK.

FROM THE DANISH.

To the beech-grove, with so sweet an air,
It beckoned me;

O Earth! that never the plowshare
Had furrowed thee!

In their dark shelter the flowerets grew,

Bright to the eye,

And smiled, at my feet, on the cloudless blue
Which decked the sky.

O lovely field, and forest fair,
And meads grass-clad !

Her bride-bed Freya everywhere
Enameled had;

The corn-flowers rose in azure bond

From earthly cell;

Naught else could I do but stop, and stand,
And greet them well.

"Welcome on earth's green breast again,
Ye flowerets dear!

In Spring how charming, 'mid the grain,
Your heads ye rear!

Like stars 'midst lightning's yellow ray
Ye shine red, blue:

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,
Or worthless tares,

Hell-weeds, that but to vex him come
'Midst his corn-ears."

MORNING.

"O wretched mortals! O wretched man!

O wretched crowd!

No pleasures ye pluck, no pleasures ye plan,
In life's lone road-

Whose eyes are blind to the glories great
Of the works of God,

And dream that the mouth is the nearest gate
To joy's abode !

"Come, flowers! for we to each other belong,
Come, graceful elf,

And around my lute in sympathy strong
Now wind thyself;

And quake as if moved by zephyr's wing,
'Neath the clang of the chord;

And a morning song with glee we'll sing
To our Maker and Lord."

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;
Fly from the house of dust,

Up with thy thanks, and burst

To heaven's azure.

O, countless as the grains

Of sand so tiny-
Measureless as the main's

Deep waters briny ;

God's mercy is which he upon me showeth !
Each morning in my shell,

A grace immeasurable

To me down-poureth.

Thou best does understand,
Lord God! my needing,

And placed is in thy hand,
My fortune's speeding.

And thou foreseest what is for me most fitting;
Be still, then, O my soul!

To manage in the whole,
Thy God permitting!

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, man! Out, cattle! for the dells
And dingles teem with shadows.

Up! out! o'er furrow and o'er field!
The claims of toil some moments yield,

For morning's bliss and time is fleeter
Than thought; so out! 'tis dawning yet;
Why twilight's lovely hour forget?
For sweet though be the workman's sweat,
The wanderer's sweat is sweeter.

Up! to the fields! through shine and stour!
What hath the dull and drowsy hour

So blest as this-the glad heart leaping,
To hear morn's early song sublime?

See earth rejoicing in its prime !
The summer is the waking time,

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,
To waste the night amid the throng,
Their vinous poisons pouring.

The very beast that crops the flower
Hath welcome for the dawning hour:

Aurora smiles; her beckonings claim thee.
Listen! look round! the chirp, the hum,
Song, low, and bleat-there's nothing dumb-
All love, all life! Come slumberer, come!
The meanest thing shall shame thee.

We come-we come-our wanderings take
Through dewy field, by misty lake,

And rugged paths, and woods pervaded
By branches o'er, by flowers beneath,
Making earth odorous with their breath;
Or through the shadeless gold-gorze heath,
Or 'neath the poplars shaded.

Were we of feather, or of fin,

How blest to dash the river in,

Thread the rock-stream, as it advances-
Or, better, like the birds above,
Rise to the greenest of the grove,
And sing the matin song of love,
Amid the highest branches!

O thus to revel, thus to range,

I'll yield the counter, bank, or 'Change-
The busier crowds all peace destroying :
The toil with snow that roofs our brains,

The seeds of care which harvests pains;

The wealth for more which strains and strains,
Still less and less enjoying!

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,
Pour praises every eventide,

Ask mercies every morrow!

No seraph's flaming sword hath driven
That man from Eden or from Heaven-

From earth's sweet smiles and winning features;

For him by toils and troubles toss'd,
By wealth and wearying cares engross'd,
For him a Paradise is lost,

But not for happy creatures!

Come-though a glance it may be-come-
Enjoy, improve; then hurry home,

For life strong urgencies must bind us!
Yet mourn not; morn shall wake anew,
And we shall wake to bless it new.
Homewards! the herds that shake the dew,

We'll leave in peace behind us!

Anonymous Translation.

H. TOLLENS, 1778.