"Then would vanish not as now

"Tones which from the bosom stream, "But would beam

"Fair as thou,

"Blowing,

"Glowing,

"Balmy odours round it flowing,

"Yes, a rose in music's stead,

"Every tone a rose-leaf red.

"Hence I love thee, Rose, sincerely, "O so dearly!"

Perfume breathing like a bride,

Thus in whispers Rose replied,

"Ah! how sweetly, Philomel,

"Rings thy song in grove and dell! "Heart o'er-filling,

"Love instilling,

"Sweetly through the bosom thrilling.

"That which swells my heart with might,

"And my breast with fond delight,
"Lives in perfume, but anon,
"Wafting rapture through the skies,

"Gently flees

"On the breeze

"And, dissolving, dies.

"Joys that dwell not in a tone,
"Soon forgotten, swiftly flown!
“Ah! the joys that in me throng,
"Could I of their rapture sing,
'It would ring

"Like thy song,
“Heart o'er-filling,

"Love instilling,

"Sweetly through the bosom thrilling,

Düfte

Nachtigallgesang,

Jeder Athemzug ein Klang!

Nachtigall, ich liebe dich
Inniglich!"

DINGELSTEDT.

WANDERLIED.

Wie es ob dem tiefen Strom
Durch den grünen Wald,
Orgelklang in Gottes Dom,

Braus't und klingt und schallt!

Echo ist im stillen Thal,

Ist im Berge wach,

Fern und nah und hundertmal

Tönt ihr Athem nach.

Nur wenn ich im süssen Weh

Antwort suchen will,

Ist im Thal und auf der Höh

Echo immer still.

Dann wird keine Stimme wach,

Die mir Antwort giebt,

Und kein Herz ruft meinem nach,

Keines, das mich liebt.

"Breathing music's magic spell!
"I love thee, Philomel, sincerely,
"O so dearly!"

DINGELSTEDT.

THE WANDERER'S SONG.

How o'er the stream, how through the wood
The voice of Nature sounds,

As when beneath the dome of God

The organ's peal resounds.

Sweet Echo in the valley dwells,
And wakes the mountain height,
A hundred times her music swells,
And wings its distant flight.

But when in sadness I invite

Her answer's sweet salute,

Then in the vale, then on the height

Is Echo ever mute.

Then wakes no voice in Echo's shrine,

No answer greets the dell,

And not a heart responds to mine,

Not one that loves me well.

The Poetry of Germany.

WINTERS AHNUNG.

Sieh' ihn auf den Wolken ziehen
Stürmisch schnell und schwarz geballt,
Hör' ihn seufzen in den Eichen,
Raschelnd durch die Blätter schleichen,
Brausen durch den bangen Wald.

Letzte Blume schmückt die Erde,
Letzte Sonne wärmt sie mild,
An der dürren Rebenlaube
Zittert die vergess'ne Traube,
Und die Wellen strömen wild.

Rasch das letzte Lied gesungen,
Eh' das Leben ganz entwich,
Eh' in grauen Dämmerungen
Winter alles kalt verschlungen,
Blumen, Lieder, Herbst und mich.

KINKEL.

TROST DER NACHT.

Es heilt die Nacht des Tages Wunden,
Wenn mit der Sterne buntem Schein
Das königliche Haupt umwunden
Sie still und mächtig tritt herein.
Die milden leisen Hauche kommen,
Der Farben grelle Pracht erblasst ;
In weicher Linie ruht verschwommen
Des scharfen Zackenfelsen Last.

THE FOREBODING OF WINTER.

On the clouds behold him riding
Black, tempestuous, and rude!
Hear the sighing beech and oak,
As they groan beneath his yoke,
Wailing in the trembling wood!

Earth is decked by the last flower,
Warmed by the last sunbeam mild,
On the vine-tree's withered shape
Trembles the forgotten grape,
Swiftly rush the billows wild.

Sing the parting song, sing quickly,

Ere our life for ever flee,

Ere in twilight's sombre gray

Winter snatches all away,

Flowers, autumn, songs and me!

KINKEL.

CONSOLATION OF NIGHT.

The wounds of day are healed by night,
When, o'er queenly forehead bound
A starry wreath of silver light,
She comes with silent glory crowned.
Soft breezes waft athwart the skies,
The golden tints of evening wane,
In outlines faint dissolving, rise
The towering crags of yon dark chain.