Even as the snow, among the living rafters
Upon the back of Italy, congeals,
Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds,

And then, dissolving, filters through itself,
Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes,
Like as a taper melts before a fire,

Even such I was, without a sigh or tear,
Before the song of those who chime for ever
After the chiming of the eternal spheres ;

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,
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish,
Through lips and eyes came gushing from my breast

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Confusion and dismay, together mingled,
Forced such a feeble “Yes !” out of my mouth,
To understand it one had need of sight.

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is discharged, Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, And with less force the arrow hits the mark;

So I gave way under this heavy burden,
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs,
And the roice, fainting, flagged upon its passage



GENTLE Spring !—in sunshine clad,

Well dost thou thy power display! For Winter maketh the light heart sad,

And thou— thou makest the sad heart gay. He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain; And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,

When thy merry step draws near.

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,

Their beards of icicles and snow;
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,

We must cower over the embers low;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather
Mope like birds that are changing feather
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,

When thy merry step draws near.


Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky

Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud; But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;

Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, Who has toiled for nought both late and early, Is banished afar by the new-born year,

When thy merry step draws near



Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's face,

Sleep on the bosom, that thy lips have pressed ! Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place

Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.

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!

Awake, and chase this fatal thought !— Unclose Thine eye but for one moment on the light!

Even at the price of thine, give me repose !

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 ?



FOR thee was a house built
Ere thou wast born,
For thee was a mould meant
Ere thou of mother camest.
But it is not made ready,
Nor its depth measured,
Nor is it seen
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
Highly timbered,
It is unhigh and low;
When thou art therein,
The heel-ways are low,
The side-ways unhigh.
The roof is built
Thy breast full nigh,
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 grim within to dwell.
There thou shalt dwell,
And worms shall divide thee.

Thus thou art laid,
And leavest thy friends;
Thou hast no friend,
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 stood by the lofty mast

In mist and smoke; His sword was hammering so fast, Through Gothic helm and brain it passed , Then sank each hostile hulk and mast,

In mist and smoke. “Fly!” shouted they, “fly, he who cari! Who braves of Denmark's Christian

The stroke?”

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