English

A Night in March.

Hear! how roareth the storm and the rain-swoln stream in the darkness!
Feeling both awful and sweet! Beautiful Spring, thou art near!

Mother and Child.

" Look toward heaven, my child! there happily dwelleth thy brother,
Ne'er did he vex me, and now angels have borne him away! "
" May no angel approach, nor bear me away from thy bosom,
Mother, O tell me, I pray — how may I vex thee the most? "

Burial.

Scarce in the churchyard's soil had the just man's coffin been hidden,
Ere kind heaven thereon sprinkled its silvery snow.

The Ruins.

Wanderer! thee it behoveth to sleep in the city of ruins,
So may'st thou in thy dreams grandly upbuild it again.

Tell's Platte.

Here is the rock-formed slab, where Tell leapt out from the vessel;
Lo! an eternal sign here of the hero is seen.
Not yon chapel I mean, where yearly they sing for him masses,
No! 'tis the hero's self. See'st thou how noble he stands!
Now with the one firm foot on the soil — thence sacred — he treadeth,
Whilst with the other away thrusts he the tottering ship.
'Tis not of stone, this figure — nor brass, nor the labour of craftsmen,

Narcissus and Echo.

Strangely, O Love, thou sportest with men — Narcissus an echo
Loveth, the whilst with love pineth an echo for him .

This might comfort her still — the words of her timorous lover
Back to re-echo, but he , changed to a flower, is dumb.

Mournfully thought Narcissus — " O were I again but a stripling! "
E'en so Echo — " alas! were I a maiden again! "

This is thy sport, O Love! now calling to amorous Echo,

Achilles (2).

Far hence reigneth Achilles, a God, i' the land of the Blessed;
Waters embrace it, and thou, goddess of waters! a son!

Achilles (1).

Thou through the turmoil of battle didst pass on, alway in safety,
Oft from Scamander's stream didst thou in safety emerge;
'Twas when receiving the hand of thy bride in the temple of Concord
Thou, O hero divine, fell'st by the arrow of death.

To Apollo, the Butterfly.

God-like child of the Alps! unto these my songs be propitious!
Thou o'er the deep dark cleft flutterest, sporting in light.

The world is mine, to toil in and enjoy,
Is mine to love in and to weep.
Is mine to build upon but not destroy,
Is mine to labor in and sleep.
The world is mine, my heritage it is;
It is not mine alone;
Who 's born of woman, it is also his;
His title is my own.

'Tis more my own than were it given me
To hold in undisturbed repose.
For me alone, a desert it would be;
Men make it blossom like the rose.
And whoso will not for my title fight,
Must likewise his resign;