Not everywhere the vine bedecks our border,
As well the mountains show,

That harbor in their bosoms foul disorder;
Not worth their room below.

Thuringia's hills, for instance, are aspiring
To rear a juice like wine;

But that is all; nor mirth nor song inspiring,
It breathes not of the vine.

And other hills, with buried treasures glowing,
For wine are far too cold;

Though iron ores and cobalt there are growing,
And 'chance some paltry gold.

The Rhine, the Rhine,- there grow the gay plantations!
Oh, hallowed be the Rhine!

Upon his banks are brewed the rich potations
Of this consoling wine.

Drink to the Rhine! and every coming morrow
Be mirth and music thine!

And when we meet a child of care and sorrow,
We'll send him to the Rhine.

Warm sounds he hates, and all warm things
Most heartily despises.

But when the fox's bark is loud;

When the bright hearth is snapping;
When children round the chimney crowd,
All shivering and clapping;-

When stone and bone with frost do break,
And pond and lake are cracking,
Then you may see his old sides shake,
Such glee his frame is racking.

Near the North Pole, upon the strand,
He has an icy tower;

Likewise in lovely Switzerland

He keeps a summer bower.

So up and down- now here- now there

His regiments manoeuvre;

When he goes by, we stand and stare,
And cannot choose but shiver.

NIGHT SONG

HE moon is up in splendor,

THE

And golden stars attend her;

The heavens are calm and bright;

Trees cast a deepening shadow;
And slowly off the meadow

A mist is rising silver-white.

Night's curtains now are closing
Round half a world, reposing

In calm and holy trust;
All seems one vast, still chamber,
Where weary hearts remember

No more the sorrows of the dust.

Translations of Charles T. Brooks.

WINTER.

Photogravure from a painting by L. Munthe.