Whilst to the fluttering Western gale
He carols forth his tender tale,
The hawk, swift messenger of death,
Stops at once his song and breath.
The forest's lord his foe espies,
And swift the trembling hunter flies;
Cover'd with fraud, a pit enthralls,
And down the noble victim falls.
He falls, he dies, without defence;
His foes yet trembling, death dispense.
-From Gonzalve de Cordova; translated in 1792.
THE KING AND THE TWO SHEPHERDS.
A certain king one day deplored the fate
Which wayward placed him in his lofty state;
"I wish, heaven knows, I wish my people blest,
And yet they groan by heaviest loads opprest;
Whilst nought to me so fair, so dear as truth,
By lies insidious they mislead my youth:
Thus made my subjects' wretched lot to see,
Heaven seems to spend its vengeance all on me.
Counsel I seek, but all my efforts vain,
Though still continued, but increase my pain."
Just at this hour, beneath a mountain's brow,
The prince beheld some wandering sheep below:
Meagre they were to see, while close-shorn plains
Small produce promis'd to the owner's pains.
Here, straggling lambs without a mother's care;
Yonder, the luckless ewes deserted bare;
All were dispers'd, confus'd; the rams forlorn,
With strength impaired, among the briers were torn.
He who presided o'er the rabble rout,
The foolish shepherd, hurried wild about,
Now to the wood a wand'ring ewe to find;
Now for a lamb he stopp'd, which lagg'd behind;
Now one, a favorite beyond the rest,
He stooping down with silly fondness prest.
But now a wolf the best among them tore,
Fled to forest, and was seen no more:
He left his lamb, which soon a bird of prey
Seiz'd with his rav'nous gripe, and bore away.
The wretched shepherd yielded to despair,
He beat his breast, and tore his streaming hair;
Then, sitting down in all the rage of grief,
He call'd on death, his last, his sole relief:
"How well," exclaimed the prince, "is here exprest
What passes now within my wretched breast!
Life, I behold, to untaught shepherds brings
All the keen anguish, all the woes of kings;
Why then should I unmanly thus repine?
The sight of others' woes might lessen mine."
Raising his eyes, the prince beheld again.
A numerous flock upon a smiling plain ;
Well fed, well fleec'd, they slowly graz'd along;
Rams, proud and fierce, in order led the throng;
Lambs, fair and vig'rous, frisk'd amidst the green,
Where the fat ewes with well-stor'd dugs were seen.
The shepherd careless at his ease was laid,
Now carol'd verses to some fav'rite maid,
Now made his flute in softer notes repeat
Sounds which pleas'd Echo in her secret seat.
"Ah!" said the king amaz'd, "this flock so fair
Soon shall the wolves and soon the vultures tear;
They, as in search of prey they famish'd rove,
But little heed the swain who sings of love;
He, when the choicest of his flock they gain,
Shall sing and play, and lift his flute in vain.
How should I laugh!" that moment as he spoke,
Forth from the wood a wolf enormous broke:
As soon a dog, with strong and vig'rous bound,
Flew on the thief and fix'd him to the ground.
Stunn'd at the noise, two sheep had scamper'd wide,
A dog soon brought them to his master's side;
Thus in a moment order was restor'd,
Whilst undisturb'd remain'd the rustic Lord:
At this the prince in haste the swain address'd,
Whilst rage and wonder fill'd his anxious breast:
"How canst thou thus at careless ease remain,
Whilst wolves and birds of prey molest the plain."
"Monarch!" the swain replied, in careless mood,
"My only secret's this-my dogs are good."
-Translated in 1797 for The Gentleman's Magazine.
FOLLEN, ADOLF LUDWIG, a German poet, brother of Charles Follen, born at Giessen, January 21, 1794; died at Bern, Switzerland, December 26, 1855. He was educated at Giessen, and subsequently became tutor in a noble family. In 1814 he entered the army as a volunteer, and served in the campaign against Napoleon. He then became editor of a newspaper at Elberfeld. In 1819 he became implicated in revolutionary movements, and was imprisoned at Berlin until 1821, when he was liberated, and took up his residence in Switzerland. He made excellent translations from Greek, Latin, and Italian, and wrote spirited German songs. A collection of his poems, Free Voices of Fresh Youth, appeared in 1819. In 1827 he put forth two volumes entitled Bildersaal Deutscher Dichtung.
Professor Karl Elze says of Follen that "his lyric poetry was particularly popular with students, whilst his translations from Homer, Tasso, and the Niebelungen earned the praises of scholars."
[Battle of the Katzbach, August, 1813.]
By the Katzbach, by the Katzbach, ha! there was a merry dance,
Wild and weird and whirling waltzes skipped ye through, ye knaves of France!
|