Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, The reader of this beautiful passage, who is familiar with Plato will hardly need to be referred to the sources whence much of it is drawn, particularly the Phædon, Chap. xxx., where Socrates, describing the condition of the soul of the sensualist after death, represents it as still contaminated by those gross and corporeal elements to which it has been so attached: "By which," he adds, "it is weighed down, and filled with dread of the unseen and spiritual world: it remains in the regions of sense, hovering about monuments and sepulchres, about which, you know, there are frequently seen shadowy apparitions of souls-images such as are presented by those souls that depart from the body not purified but partaking of the visible and grosser element." "But I prattle something too wildly." I did not intend to offer my reader a homily on Plato; though I do intend to do it ere the waning of many moons; but to treat myself, and I hope also my reader with a morceau or two from our old German friends Goethe and Schiller. It is now summer. "The leafy month of June," is once more in our midst, and "the Maiden from afar,' is once more among us, scattering not indeed her fruits but her flowers. By the way, who can explain Schiller's allegory? Who is represented by the Maiden from abroad? I might, but will not now, hazard a conjecture, but will translate the ballad and let the reader do his own guessing. THE MAIDEN FROM ABROAD. Within a vale, 'mid humble swains, Appeared, when spring first decked the glade, She was not in that valley reared; The region whence she came unknown; Joy followed where her form was seen, All free companionship forbade And fruits and flowers her hands convey, Her gifts with all she freely shared ; Here fruits, there flowers, her hand bestows; A welcome kind each guest receives; Speaking of flowers, reminds me of Goethe's sweet little ballad, "das Blümlein Wünderschön," in which the flowers are personified, and sustain their several parts with admirable propriety. They go through all gradations, from the queenly pride of the rose, to the unaffected and profound humility of the violet. The lover, whether of flowers or of poetry, must always read this ballad with fresh pleasure. Like most of Goethe's little pieces, it has an exquisite finish and charm of language, which no translator will have the vanity to dream of rivalling. The plastic hand of Goethe works his plastic language into forms of wondrous and inimitable beauty. Not slight the pangs my heart has felt From these high walls each weary hour, But from its steeps my darling flower And who shall bring it before my sight, Shall aye be my heart's best lover. THE ROSE. Beneath thy lattice, here blooming bright, The Queen of flowers must surely find COUNT. All praise beseems thy crimson dyes, Thou lendest a charm to the fairest face, THE LILY. The red rose flaunts, with haughty crest, Her sister flowerets over : Yet are the lily's charms confest, By many a tender lover. Who bears a heart from falsehood free, And is all chaste and pure like me, Will soon hold me the dearest. COUNT. And chaste and pure, methinks am I, THE PINK. That I, the pink, must surely be, With my circle of leaves in a beautiful throng, COUNT. The pink, one surely may not slight; THE VIOLET. Concealed and low my head I bow, Thou noble man, if I am thy flower COUNT. The violet sweet-I love it well, Yet more is needed to dispel My bitter melancholy; And now the truth I'll tell you here, But the truest wife on earth that dwells, And when she breaks a little blue flower, Yes, faithful love's mysterious tie Nor distance nor time may sever; Hence, though in the dungeon's gloom I lie, And e'en when my heart is breaking in twain, Schiller's "Knight Toggenburg," has been, I believe, several times translated, but it will bear another trial. Campbell has a somewhat different version of the story. The hero of his poem is Roland, which I believe is the name handed down by the legend. By what monstrous perversity of taste Schiller was led to adopt the barbarous soubriquet of "Toggenburg," it is difficult to imagine. The poem informs us that "the name of the Toggenburg frightened the Musselmen;" and in this the Musselmen showed their taste, if they did not their courage. However, abating the matter of the name, the ballad is a beautiful and tender one; and the following version, if it have no other merits, is at least, I think, sufficiently literal. KNIGHT TOGGENBURG. Knight, a sister's pure devotion Mute with grief her words he catches, Summons from their alpine legions All his vassal band; And to join the sacred regions, Many a mighty deed achieveth Still his helmet's plumage waveth Paynim bands, with terror quailing, Yet his heart its grief unfailing Thus for one long year he bore him, Peace, pursued, still flies before him, And he seeks the shore, Where a ship, with canvass swelling, Lies on Joppa's strand; Wafts him toward the loved one's dwelling ;- Where her castle-turrets meet him, List the pilgrim's knock; Oh, what dreadful tidings greet him, |