Oaks cast their shadows; near the other
Palm-trees were waving in evening splendors.

At home in contest, stepped she of Albion
Out on the arena,-proudly as when of old
So matched with Grecian muse and Roman,
She trod the hot sand for the prize of glory.

There stood the youthful, trembling combatant;
With manly emotion she trembled, and fiery
Flaming blushes, victory's omens,

Streamed o'er her cheek, and her golden hair flew.

E'en now, with labor, fast in her heaving breast

She holds the breath down; bent on the goal she hangs;

She seems to see the herald's trumpet

Rise to his lips,- and her drunken eye swims.

Proud of her rival, prouder of herself, then

Spake the lofty Britoness, and measured with noble mien

Thee, Thuiscona: - "Yes, by the Bards, I

Grew up with thee in the ancient oak grove.

"But Fame had told me thou wert not living now.

O Muse, forgive me, if thou immortal art,

Forgive, that now so late I learn it;

But at the goal must it yet be taught me!

"Lo, there it stands! But mark'st thou the crowned one

So far beyond it? Maiden, this proud reserve —

This self-command-this glance of fire

Downward to earth cast-I know its meaning.

"Yet weigh, one moment, ere, big with danger, sounds Yon herald's trumpet! Was it not I who once Measured the ground with her of Thermopylæ,

And with the famed of the seven hills too?»

She spake. The herald drew nearer, and with him came
Swift the decisive moment.-"I love thee!"
With flaming look quick spake Teutona:
"Britoness, yea, I do wildly love thee;

"Yet more, far more I love immortality
And yonder palms! Then touch, if thy genius
So wills it, touch them first; yet the moment
When thou shalt seize it, the crown is mine too.

"And, oh, how I tremble! O ye immortals,

Haply I may reach the proud goal before thee.
Then, oh, then may I feel thy hot breath

Stir my loose locks as thou pantest after."

The trumpet rang. They flew as on eagles' wings.

Far along the race-ground boiled up the clouds of dust.
I looked: beyond the oak yet thicker

Rolled the dark mass, and my eye had lost them.

PROPHECY

ROM the charger's glances, the hoof's uplifting,
Stamping of hoofs, neighing, snorting, and bound,
The bards foretold fate; I too see,

And my eye pierces the future.

Will it gall forever? Thy yoke, Germania,
Soon it will fall: one more century yet,
And then it is done; then the rule

Of the sword yields to the reason.

For with curving neck through the forest rushed he,
Bounded along, tossed his mane to the wind,—

The steed, as an omen, with scorn

For the storm's rage and the stream's rage.

On the meadow stood he, and stamped and neighing

Lifted his eyes; careless grazed he, and proud,

Nor looked on the rider who lay

In his blood, dead by the merestone.

Translated for A Library of the World's Best Literature' by Francis J.

Lange

FROM THE SPRING FESTIVAL'

OULD that I might praise thee, O Lord, as my soul thirsts!
Ever more gloriously dost thou reveal thyself!

WOU

Ever darker grows the night around thee

And more replete with blessings.

Do ye see the witness of his presence, the sudden flash?
Do ye hear Jehovah's thunder?
Hear ye his voice,

The convulsing thunder of the Lord?

Lord! Lord! God!
Merciful and kind!

Adored and praised

Be thy glorious name!

And the blasts of the tempest? They carry the thunder! How they roar! How they surge through the forest with resounding

waves!

And now they are silent! Slowly wanders

The sombre cloud.

Do ye see the new witness of his presence, the winged flash? Hear ye high in the clouds the thunder of the Lord?

He shouts - Jehovah! Jehovah!

And the shattered woods reek.

But not our hut!

Our Father commanded

His destroyer

To pass by our hut!

But the kind and copious rain

Resounds across the fields.

The thirsting earth is refreshed

And heaven unburdened of its blessings.

And lo! Jehovah comes no more in the tempest!
In the softly whispering gentle breezes
Jehovah comes,

And beneath Him bends the bow of peace.

Translated for A Library of the World's Best Literature by Francis J.

Lange

D

TO YOUNG

IE, aged prophet! Lo, thy crown of palms
Has long been springing, and the tear of joy
Quivers on angel-lids

Astart to welcome thee!

Why linger? Hast thou not already built
Above the clouds thy lasting monument?
Over thy Night Thoughts,' too,
The pale free-thinkers watch,

And feel there's prophecy amid the song
When of the dead-awakening trump it speaks,

Of coming final doom.

And the wise will of Heaven.

Die! Thou hast taught me that the name of death
Is to the just a glorious sound of joy!

But be my teacher still;

Become my genius there!

Translation of W. Taylor.

R

MY RECOVERY

ECOVERY,- daughter of Creation too,
Though not for immortality designed,—
The Lord of life and death

Sent thee from heaven to me!

Had I not heard thy gentle tread approach,
Not heard the whisper of thy welcome voice,
Death had with iron foot

My chilly forehead pressed.

'Tis true, I then had wandered where the earths
Roll around suns; had strayed along the path
Where the maned comet soars
Beyond the armèd eye;

And with the rapturous, eager greet had hailed
The inmates of those earths and of those suns;
Had hailed the countless host

That throng the comet's disk;

Had asked the novice questions, and obtained
Such answers as a sage vouchsafes to youth;
Had learned in hours far more

Than ages here unfold!

But I had then not ended here below
What, in the enterprising bloom of life,
Fate with no light behest
Required me to begin.

Recovery, daughter of Creation too,
Though not for immortality designed,-
The Lord of life and death

Sent thee from heaven to me!

Translation of W. Taylor.

D

THE CHOIRS

EAR dream which I must ne'er behold fulfilled,
Thou beamy form, more fair than orient day,
Float back, and hover yet

Before my swimming sight!

Do they wear crowns in vain, that they forbear
To realize the heavenly portraiture?

Shall marble hearse them all,

Ere the bright change be wrought?

Hail, chosen ruler of a freer world!

For thee shall bloom the never-fading song,
Who bidd'st it be,-to thee
Religion's honors rise.

Yes! could the grave allow, of thee I'd sing:
For once would inspiration string the lyre,—
The streaming tide of joy,

My pledge for loftier verse.

Great is thy deed, my wish. He has not known
What 'tis to melt in bliss, who never felt

Devotion's raptures rise

On sacred Music's wing;

Ne'er sweetly trembled, when adoring choirs.
Mingle their hallowed songs of solemn praise,
And at each awful pause

The unseen choirs above.

Long float around my forehead, blissful dream!

I hear a Christian people hymn their God,

And thousands kneel at once,

Jehovah, Lord, to thee!