Even as the snow, among the living rafters Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds, And then, dissolving, filters through itself, Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, But, when I heard in those sweet melodies Compassion for me, more than had they said, "O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?" The ice, that was about my heart congealed, Confusion and dismay, together mingled, Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is discharged, So I gave way under this heavy burden, SPRING. FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D'ORLEANS XV. CENTURY. GENTLE Spring!-in sunshine clad, Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old, And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, And, snugly housed from the wind and weather Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky When thy merry step draws near THE CHILD ASLEEP. FROM THE FRENCH. SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father's face, Upon that tender eye, my little friend, Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend; "T is sweet to watch for thee,-alone for thee! His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow; His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm? Awake, my boy!-I tremble with affright! Sweet error!-he but slept,-I breathe again ;Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile! Oh! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, Beside me watch to see thy waking smile? THE GRAVE. FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. FOR thee was a house built For thee was a mould meant How long it shall be. Now I bring thee Where thou shalt be; Now I shall measure thee, And the mould afterwards. Thy house is not It is unhigh and low; The heel-ways are low, So thou shalt in mould Dwell full cold, Dimly and dark. Doorless is that house, And dark it is within; There thou art fast detained, And Death hath the key. Loathsome is that earth-house, And worms shall divide thee. Thus thou art laid, Who will come to thee, Who will ever see How that house pleaseth thee; Who will ever open The door for thee And descend after thee, For soon thou art loathsome And hateful to see. KING CHRISTIAN A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EVALD. KING Christian stood by the lofty mast His sword was hammering so fast, "Fly!" shouted they, "fly, he who can! Who braves of Denmark's Christian The stroke?" |