L.
27 November 1801.
_Port Folio_, I-400, Dec. 12, 1801, Phila.
[C. F. Gellert, _Der Tanzbaer_.]
BENEVOLENCE. A FABLE. Imitated from the German of Galleret.
_Balance and Columbian Repos._, I-132, Apr. 27, 1802, Hudson (N. Y.).
[Gellert, _Die Gutthat_. Also in _Amer. Universal Mag._, I-28, Jan. 2, 1797, Phila.]
AMINTA. An Idyl,--By Gessner.
[Prose translation.]
_Weekly Visitor or Ladies' Misc._, I-20, Oct. 23, 1802, N. Y.
[S. Gessner, _Daphne_. Mary Collyer, _Gessner's Idyls_, 1802, Liverpool. II-121, _Aminta_.]
INVITATION TO JOY. From the German.
Say, who could mope in joyless plight, While youth and spring bedeck the scene, And scorn the profer'd gay delight, With thankless heart and frowning mien? See Joy with becks and smiles appear, While roses strew the devious way; The feast of life she bids us share, Where'er our pilgrim footsteps stray.
And still the grove is cool and green, And clear the bubbling fountain flows, Still shines the night's resplendent queen, As erst in Paradise she rose: The grapes their purple nectar pour, To 'suage the heart that griefs oppress; And still the lonely ev'ning bow'r Invites and screens the stolen kiss.
Still Philomela's melting strain, Responsive to the dying gale, Beguiles the bosom's throbbing pain, And sweetly charms the list'ning vale; Creation's scene expanded lies:-- Blest scene! how wond'rous bright and fair! Till Death's cold hand shall close my eyes, Let me the lavish'd bounties share!
_Weekly Visitor or Ladies' Misc._, I-64, Nov. 27, 1802, N. Y.
ORIGINAL PAPERS.
For the Port Folio. THE AMERICAN LOUNGER. By SAMUEL SAUNTER, Esq. No. XLIII.
Et vos, O lauri, carpam, et te proxima myrtus, Sic positae, quoniam suaves miscetis odores.
--_Virgil._
To SAMUEL SAUNTER, _Esq._
Sir,
As I perceive your plan, like that of Coleman and Thornton, in the "Connoisseur," and like that of your relation, _Solomon_ Saunter, in "Literary Leisure," admits Poetry as well as Prose, which one may feed upon alternately, as we eat bread and cheese, I send you a translation, from the German of Lessing, and some fugitive originals.
I am, yours HARLEY.
I ask'd my fair, one happy day, What should I call her in my lay, By what sweet name, from Rome or Greece, Iphigenia, Clelia, Chloris, Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris, Dorimene or Lucrece?
Ah, replied my gentle fair, Beloved, what are names but air? Take thou whatever suits the line, Clelia, Iphigenia, Chloris, Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris-- But don't forget to call me--_thine_.
_Port Folio_, III-25, Jan. 1803, Phila.
[Lessing, _Die Namen_.]
THE NAVIGATION Translated from the French of Gessner.
It flies! the vessel flies, that bears away To distant shores my Daphne, fair as May. Guard her, ye loves! be lull'd each ruder gale; Let Zephyrs only fill the swelling sail; Ye waves flow gently by the vessel's side, While pensive she surveys you idly glide; Ah! softly glide, prolong her reverie, For then, ye Gods! 'tis then she thinks of me. When near the nodding groves that shade the shore, To her, ye birds, your sweetest warbling pour; No sounds be heard, but such as gently sooth, And be, O sea, thy azure surface smooth. Ne'er since thy daughters sought their liquid caves, A lovelier charge, was trusted to thy waves. Her clear, her bright unsullied beauty shews The lilly's white, and freshness of the rose. Not Venus had more charms, more beauteous bloom, When, rising from the sea's resplendent foam, She smiling mounted first her silver car, And shone effulgent as the morning star. The enchanted Tritons left their noisy sport, And nymphs cerulian in their crystal court; Regardless of their frowns, or jealous smiles, While beauty's queen each eager eye beguiles. They gaze, and held in most delightful trance, Pursue her moving o'er the smooth expanse.
H***T.
_Boston Weekly Mag._, 1-72, Feb. 19, 1803, Boston.
[S. Gessner, _La Navigation_. French translation of _Die Schiffahrt_.]
Mr. HOGAN;
The subjoined Pieces under the signature of Oscar, are the production of a gentleman residing in a distant part of the state. They were written solely with a view to amuse his leisure hours. If you think them worthy of publication, you are at liberty to insert them in the Repository.
--A SUBSCRIBER.
MORNING SONG OF PRAISE. From the German of Patzke. "Lobt den Herrn! Die morgensonne."
O praise the Lord! the morning sun, From sleep awakes the cheerful swain; And all creation's joys again, To us, in streams renewed, run.
O praise the Lord! ye sweetest flow'rs, To him your earliest fragrance yield; Ye birds exert your tuneful pow'rs; Praise him in meadow and in field.
O praise the Lord!--Ev'n from his den The desert's savage roars his praise; And, oh! my soul! how much more then, Should'st thou thy voice in Paeans raise?
--Oscar.
_Phila. Repos._, III-152, May 7, 1803, Phila.
ODE TO SPRING From the German. "Freude wirbelt in den Lueften."
Joy comes laughing with the breeze; Gladness spreads itself around; Songsters warble in the trees; Nature gaily decks the ground.
Heav'n unfolds its richest vesture, Sparkling stars--etherial blue; Fairies dance with antic gesture; Or sip, delighted, morning dew.
Gentle, smiling, Zephyrs, wander, Thro' the groves of verdant green; Toying with the lilac yonder-- Here, with the rose of blooming mien.
Humming bees, on wafer pinions, Careful, thro' the blossoms roam: Searching all their flow'r dominions, The nectar tribute gather home.
In th'embroider'd violet vale, Love, attended by the Graces, Tells his soft bewitching tale, While blushing fair ones hide their faces.
How beautiful is the creation, In this time of mirth and joy? All is life--all animation: Nought our pleasures to annoy.
--Oscar.
_Phila. Repos._, III-152, May 7, 1803, Phila.
[For introductory note, cf. the preceding.]
UNIVERSAL SONG OF PRAISE. A Sapphic Ode. From the German of Buerde. "Alles was odem hat, lobe den Herrn!"
All ye that live and breathe, O praise the Lord! With holy streams of joy, and exultation, Our souls are penetrated.
O taste and see, how great, how good He is! His love and mercy, his truth and grace alone, Leads us to joys eternal.
O ye enwraptur'd souls that serve the Lord Cherubim! Seraphim! Angels and Spirits! Love is your felicity.
Thirst on, our souls--thirst for the living streams; Bless'd and holy! and for ever love Him! Who us, in love, created.
Yes, we'll love and adore Him! yes, the dust Loves its Redeemer; and all our anxious tears Himself shall wipe away.
--Oscar.
_Phila. Repos._, III-152, May 7, 1803, Phila.
[For introductory note, cf. _Morning Song of Praise_, preceding.]
THE SHOE PINCHES. A Song of Shoe-maker, William. From Kotzebue.
Though idlers riot, eat and drink, And on soft downy pillows sink, They are not free from woe: For every man must have his share Of trouble, and must know best where _The shoe does pinch his toe_.
When rainy, wise men boots will wear, But shoes put on when all is fair, And take times as they go; No man that ever wore a shoe Will say if he be fair and true, _It never pinch'd his toe_.
_Balance and Columbian Repos._, II-288, Sept. 6, 1803, Hudson, (N. Y.).
BENEVOLENCE.--A FABLE. Imitated from the German of Gellert.
_Port Folio_, III-352, Oct. 29, 1803, Phila.
[Also in _Amer. Universal Mag._, I-28, Jan. 2, 1797, Phila.]
THE NOSEGAY.
[Prose translation.]
_Phila. Repos._, IV-4, Jan. 7, 1804, Phila.
[S. Gessner, _Der Blumenstrauss_. W. Hooper, _New Idylles_, p. 37.]
For the Philadelphia Repository. HOFFNUNG.
Wie des morgens helle licht Die dunkeln 'nachts durchbricht, Und die ganze welt erfrout Mit des tages herlichkeit
So wann grosse traurigkeit-- Laest den menschen keine freud, Wann verzweiflung angst und schmertze Fuelt das arme, banges hertze.
Geht die sonne _Hoffnungs_ auf, Und im traur'gem brust sein lauf Beginnt; dann flichtet traurigkeit, Und die brust ist voller freud.
Von verzweiflung, angst und schmertze Ist befreyt das bange hertze, O! es bringt die _Hoffnungs_ sonne, Seeligkeit, und grosse wonne.
--ADELIO.
* * *A poetical translation is requested.
_Phila. Repos._, IV-56, Feb. 18, 1804, Phila.
For the Philadelphia Repository. TRANSLATION Of Adelio's German Lines in last Repository.
HOPE.
As does the morn's resplendent light Dispel the gloomy shades of night, And the whole universe delight, With the day's illustrious sight--
So when the adverse fates decree Nothing to man but misery, When they despair and pain impart To the keen agonized heart--
Then does his course, _Hope's_ sun from rest Take thro' the troubled heaving breast; Then disappears adversity, And leaves behind felicity.
Exempt from horror is the breast, Despair and pain sink into rest; The sun of _Hope_ affords delight, And happiness supremely bright.
Translator.
_Phila. Repos._, IV-64, Feb. 25, 1804, Phila.
PASSAGE FROM KLOPSTOCK'S MESSIAH.
So at the midnight hour draws nigh to the slumbering city Pestilence. Couch'd on his broad spread wings lurks under the rampart Death, bale-breathing. As yet unalarmed are the peaceable dwellers; Close to his nightly-lamp the sage yet watches; and high friends Over wine not unhallow'd, in shelter of odorous bowers, Talk of the soul and of friendship, and weigh their immortal duration. But too soon shall frightful Death, in a day of affliction Pouncing over them, over them spread; in a day of moaning and anguish.... When with wringing of hands the bride for the bridegroom loud wails; When, now of all her children bereft, the desperate mother Furious curses the day on which she bore, and was born ... when Weary with hollower eye, amid the carcases totter Even the buriers ... till the sent Death-angel, descending, Thoughtful on thunder-clouds, beholds all lonesome and silent, Gazes the wide desolation, and long broods over the graves, fixt.
"Perhaps some other writer will throw this fine picture into blank verse so well, as to convince the public, that the beauties of Klopstock can be naturalized without strangeness, and his peculiarities retained without affectation; that quaintness, the unavoidable companion of neologism, is as needless to genius, as hostile to grace; the hexameter, until it is familiar, must repel, and, when it is familiar, may annoy; that it wants a musical orderliness of sound; and that its cantering capricious movement opposes the grave march of solemn majesty, and better suits the ordinary scenery of Theocritus than the empyreal visions of Klopstock."
From "Criticism on Klopstock's Messiah."
_Lit. Mag. and Amer. Reg._, I-468, Mar. 1804, Phila.
[F. G. Klopstock, _Messias_.]
THE GUARDIAN SPIRIT. From the German of Matthison.
Whene'er day-light's parting gleam A smiling form salutes my love, And loiters near the murm'ring stream, And glides beneath the conscious grove: Ah! then my Henry's spirit see: Soft joy and peace it brings to thee.
And when at moon-light's sober ray Thou dream'st perchance of love and me, As thro' the pines the breezes play, And whisper dying melody-- When tender bodings prompt the sigh-- Thy Henry's spirit hovers nigh.
When o'er the mind soft musings steal, As thou the pleasing past hast scann'd; Should'st thou a gentle pressure feel, Like zephyr's kiss o'er lip and hand;-- And should the glimmering taper fade-- Then near thee 'bides thy lover's shade.
And when at midnights' solemn tide, As soft the rolling planets shine-- Like Aeol's harp, thy couch beside, Thou hear'st the words--'forever thine!' Then slumber sweet, my spirit's there, And peace and joy it brings my fair.
_Phila. Repos._, IV-160, May 19, 1804, Phila.
[Friedrich Matthisson, _Lied aus der Ferne_.]
BUeRGER'S LEONORA. [g].
[In an article on Buerger's _Lenore_, three eight-lined stanzas of Spencer's translation, and two six-lined stanzas of Stanley's translation are given.
W. R. Spencer, _Leonora_. Trans. from the German of G. A. Buergher. London, 1796.
J. T. Stanley, _Leonora_. Trans. freely from the German; 2nd ed., London, 1796.]
_Port Folio_, IV-167, May 26, 1804, Phila.
A SONNET Translated from Jacobi.
Tell me where's the vi'let fled Late so gaily blowing; Springing 'neath fair Flora's tread, Choicest sweets bestowing? Swains the vernal scene is o'er, And the vi'let blooms no more.
Say where hides the blushing rose, Pride of fragrant morning; Garland meet for beauty's brows, Hill and dale adorning? Gentle maid the summer's fled And the hopeless Rose is dead!
Bear me then to yonder rill, Late so freely flowing; Wat'ring many a daffodil, On its margin glowing-- Sun and wind exhaust its store: Yonder riv'let glides no more!
Lead me to the bow'ry shade, Late with roses flaunting; Lov'd resort of youth and maid, Am'rous ditty chanting-- Hail and storm with fury show'rs, Leafless mourn with rifled bow'rs!
Say where hides the village maid, Late yon cot adorning; Oft I've met her in the glade, Fair and fresh as morning? Swain how short is beauty's bloom, Seek her in the grassy tomb!
Whither roves the tuneful swain Who of rural pleasures, Rose and vi'let, rill and plain, Sung in deftest measures? Maiden, swift life's vision flies, Death has clos'd the Poet's eyes.
_Companion and Weekly Misc._, I-104, Jan. 26, 1805, Balto.
[J. G. Jacobi, _Vergaenglichkeit_. W. Taylor of Norwich, _op. cit._ II-106, _Elegy_. (Variants in stanza V).]
The following is a German drinking song, popular in the Rhingau, and probably the inspiration of the _old Hock_, which it celebrates.
Bekranzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher, Und trinkt ihn froelich leer; In ganz Europa, ihr herren recher, Ist solch ein wein nicht mehr.
Ihn bringt das vatterland aus seiner fuelle, Wie war er sonst so gut? Wie war er sonst so edel stille, Und doch voll kraft und muth?
Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben; Gesegnet sey der Rhein! Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben Uns diesen lieben wein.
So trinkt hin dann, and last uns alle wege Uns freun und froelich seyn; Und, wisten wir wo jemand traurig laege, Wir gaeben ihm den wein.
TRANSLATION.
The brimful goblet crown with wines, And drink the cordial juice, Europe itself can't boast such vines As these bless'd hills produce.
Yes, Germany's the copious source Of wines that all excel; So mild, so generous, full of force, None cheer the heart so well.
Rhingau alone such grapes can boast, Huzza! here's to the Rhine! And may the wretch, who slights the toast, Forget the taste of wine.
Come, drink about, and let's be gay, With nectar so divine, Is any man to grief a prey? We'll comfort him with wine.
_Port Folio_, V-110, Apr. 13, 1805, Phila.
EPIGRAMS. From the German of G. E. Lessing.
Adam awhile in Paradise Enjoy'd his novel life: He was caught napping; in a thrice His rib was made a wife.
Poor father Adam, what a guest! This most unlucky dose Made the first minute of thy rest The last of thy repose.
* * * * *
But one bad woman at a time On earth arises. That every one should think he has her, I own--surprises.
* * * * *
A long way off--Lucinda strikes the men. As she draws near, And one see clear, A long way off--one wishes her again.
_Phila. Repos._, V-128, Apr. 20, 1805, Phila.
In Dr. Cogan's amusing and _Shandean_ Travels on the Rhine, he has preserved a _German_ Ode to Evening. They, who are curious to behold the _Teutonic_ Muse, in the character of a pensive minstrel, may here be gratified.
Komm, stiller abend, neider, Auf unsre kleine flur; Dir toenen unsre lieder, Wie schoen bist du, natur!
Schon steigt die abendroethe Herab ins kuehle thal; Bald glantz in sanfter roethe Der sonne letzter strahl.
All uberal herrscht schweigen Nur schwingt der vogel chor Hoch aus den dunkeln zweigen Den nacht gesang empor.
Komm, lieber abend, neider Auf unsre kleine flur; Dir toenen unsre lieder, Wie schoen bist du natur.
TRANSLATION.
Come, silent Eve, return again, Our homely cottage view, And hear us sing a cheerful strain, To thee, and nature due.
The sun retires yon hills behind, And sinks into the sea, Glancing his rays both mild and kind, Oh, blushing maid, on thee.
To thee he yields the soothing sway, Inviting all to rest; The birds conclude the happy day With singing on thy breast.
Come, silent Eve, return again, Our homely cottage view, And hear us sing a cheerful strain, To thee and nature due.
_Port Folio_, V-149, May 18, 1805, Phila.
FROM THE GERMAN OF LESSING.
Ah! why am I so transient, ask'd of Jupiter, Beauty? Only the transient is fair, smiling answer'd the God! Love, and Youth, and the Spring, and the Flow'rs, and the Dew, they all heard it; Slowly they turn'd away, weeping from Jupiter's throne!
_Port Folio_, I-40, Jan. 25, 1806, Phila.
THE WOODEN LEG. [a]. An Helvetick Tale. From the German of Solomon Gessner.
[Prose translation.]
_Polyanthos_, I-192, Feb., 1806, Boston.
[S. Gessner, _Das hoelzerne Bein_. W. Hooper, _New Idylles_, p. 78.]
It is but seldom that the Muses of the North sing more sweetly than in the following strain:
SONG--FROM THE GERMAN.
Scarce sixteen summers had I seen, And rov'd my native bow'rs; Nor stray'd my thoughts beyond the green, Bedew'd with shrubs and flow'rs.
When late a stranger youth appear'd; I neither wish'd nor sought him; He came, but whence I never heard, And spake what love had taught him.
His hair in graceful ringlets play'd, All eyes are charm'd that view them, And o'er his comely shoulders stray'd, Where wanton zephyrs blew them.
His speaking eye of azure hue Seem'd ever softly suing, And such an eye, so clear and blue, Ne'er shone for maid's undoing.
His face was fair, his cheek was red, With blushes ever burning; And all he spoke was deftly said, Though far beyond my learning.
Where'er I stray'd, the youth was nigh, His look soft sorrows speaking; Sweet maid! he'd say, then gaze and sigh, As if his heart were breaking.
And once, as low his head he hung, I fain would ask the meaning; When round my neck his arms he flung, Soft tears his grief explaining.
Such freedom ne'er was ta'en till now, And now 'twas unoffending; Shame spread my cheek with ruddy glow, My eyes kept downward bending.
Nor aught I spoke, my looks he read, As if with anger burning; No--not one word--away he sped, Ah! would he were returning.
_Port Folio_, I-189, Mar. 29, 1806, Phila.
PASTORAL POETRY.
From Gessner's "New Idyls." THE ZEPHYRS. [b].
[Prose translation.] _Weekly Visitant_, I-158, May 17, 1806, Salem.
[S. Gessner, _Die Zephyre_. W. Hooper, _New Idylles_, p. 16.]
From Gessner's "New Idylles." THE CARNATION.
[Prose translation.] _Weekly Visitant_, I-159, May 17, 1806, Salem.
[S. Gessner, _Die Nelke_. W. Hooper, _New Idylles_, p. 7.]
THE NAME UNKNOWN.
Imitated from Klopstock's ode to his future mistress. By Thomas Campbell, Esq., author of Pleasures of Hope.
_Evening Fire-Side or Lit. Misc._, II-165, May 24, 1806, Phila.
[F. G. Klopstock, _Die kuenftige Geliebte_.
The above imitation appeared first in a newspaper, _Newport Mercury_, No. 2160, Aug. 30, 1803, Newport.]
THE FOWLER--A SONG. Altered from a German air, in the opera of "Die Zauberlote."
A CARELESS whistling lad am I, On sky-lark wings my moments fly; There's not a _Fowler_ more renown'd In all the world--for ten miles round! Ah! who like me can spread the net? Or tune the merry flageolet?
Then why--O why should I repine, Since all the roving birds are mine? The thrush and linnet in the vale, The sweet sequester'd nightingale, The bulfinch, wren, and wood-lark, all Obey my summons when I call: O! could I form some cunning snare To catch the coy, coquetting fair, In _Cupid's_ filmy web so fine, The pretty girls should all be mine!
When all were mine--among the rest, I'd choose the Lass I lik'd the best; And should my charming mate be kind; And smile, and kiss me to my mind, With her I'd tie the nuptial knot, Make _Hymen's_ cage of my poor cot, And love away this fleeting life, Like Robin Redbreast and his wife!
_Mo. Anthology and Boston Rev._, III-591, Nov. 1806, Boston.
[E. Schickaneder, _Die Zauberfloete_. Oper in zwei Aufzuegen von Mozart. Dichtung nach Ludwig Giesecke von E. Schickaneder.
James Montgomery, _The Wanderer of Switzerland and Other Poems_, London, 1806. First Amer. ed. from second London ed., N. Y., 1807. P. 93.]
THE CHASE.
In the third number[33] of the Port Folio we inserted a very humorous parody of the following ballad of Buerger. We understand from the criticks in the German Language that the original is eminently beautiful. Its merit was once so highly appreciated in England that a host of translators started at once in the race for public favor. The ensuing version which is, we believe, by Sir Walter Scott, Esqr., well deserves a place in this journal.
[Footnote 33: _Parody on Buerger's Earl Walter_ in _Port Folio_, III-44, Jan. 17, 1807. Cf. p. 165.]
[The translation by Scott follows.]
_Port Folio_, III-100, Feb. 14, 1807, Phila.
[Also in _Weekly Mag._, II-413, July 28, 1798, Phila.]
The following charming SONG is translated from the German by Mr. Herbert.
"Hail, orient sun, auspicious light! Hail, new-born orb of day! Lo, from behind the wood-crown'd height, Breaks forth thy glittering ray. Behold it sparkle in the stream, And on the dew drop shine! O, may sweet joy's enlivening beam Mix his pure rays with thine! The Zephyrs now, with frolic wing, Their rosy beds forsake; And, shedding round the sweets of spring, Their drowsy comrades wake. Soft sleep and all his airy forms Fly from the dawning day: Like little loves O may their swarms On Chloe's bosom play! Ye Zephyrs haste; from every flower The sweetest perfumes take; And bear them hence to Chloe's bower; For soon the maid must wake! And, hovering round her fragrant bed, In breezes call my fair; Go, frolic round her graceful head, And scent her golden hair! Then gently whisper in her ear, That ere the sun gan rise, By the soft murmuring fountain here I breath'd her name in sighs."
_Observer_, I-352, May 30, 1807, Balto.
Selected Poetry. THE POEM OF HALLER VERSIFIED. By HENRY JAMES PYE, Esq., P.L.
Ah! woods forever dear! whose branches spread Their verdant arch o'er Hasel's breezy head, When shall I once again, supinely laid, Hear Philomela charm your list'ning shade? When shall I stretch my careless limbs again, Where, gently rising from the velvet plain, O'er the green hills, in easy curve that bend, The mossy carpet Nature's hands extend? Where all is silent! save the gales that move The leafy umbrage of the whisp'ring grove; Or the soft murmurs of the rivulet's wave, Whose chearing streams the lonely meadows lave.
O Heav'n! when shall once more these eyes be cast On scenes where all my spring of life was pass'd; Where, oft responsive to the falling rill, Sylvia and love my artless lays would fill? While Zephyr's fragrant breeze, soft breathing, stole A pleasing sadness o'er my pensive soul: Care, and her ghastly train, were far away; } While calm, beneath the sheltering woods I lay } Mid shades, impervious to the beams of day. }
Here--sad reverse!--from scenes of pleasure far, I wage with sorrow unremitting war: Oppress'd with grief, my ling'ring moments flow, Nor aught of joy, or aught of quiet, know. Far from the scenes that gave my being birth, From parents far, an outcast of the earth! In youth's warm hours, from each restriction free, Left to myself in dangerous liberty.
Ah! scenes of earthly joy! ah, much-lov'd shades! Soon may my footsteps tread your vernal glades. Ah! should kind Heav'n permit me to explore Your seats of still tranquillity once more! E'en now to Fancy's visionary eye, Hope shews the flattering hour of transport nigh, Blue shines the aether, when the storm is past; And calm repose succeeds to sorrow's blast. Flourished, ye scenes of every new delight! Wave wide your branches to my raptur'd sight! While, ne'er to roam again, my wearied feet Seek the kind refuge of your calm retreat.
Now pale disease shoots thro' my languid frame, And checks the zeal for wisdom and for fame. Now droops fond hope, by Disappointment cross'd; Chill'd by neglect, each sanguine wish is lost. O'er the weak mound stern Ocean's billows ride, And waft destruction in with every tide; While Mars, descending from his crimson car, Fans with fierce hands the kindling flames of war.
Her gentle aid let Consolation lend; All human evils hasten to their end. The storm abates at every gust it blows; Past ills enhance the comforts of repose. He who ne'er felt the pressure of distress, Ne'er felt returning pleasure's keen excess. Time who Affliction bore on rapid wing, My panting heart to happiness may bring; I, on my native hills, may yet inhale The purer influence of the ambient gale.
_Observer_, II-95, Aug. 8, 1807, Balto.
[Albrecht von Haller, _Sehnsucht nach dem Vaterlande_.]
Walter Scott, Esq., whose honoured name is now perfectly familiar to every lover of poetical description, has lately published a ballad which we are solicitous to preserve in this paper. The gayety of the beginning, contrasted with the solemnity of the conclusion of this terrifick ballad cannot fail to strike all who relish The Castle of Otranto, or The Romance of the Forest.
FREDERICK AND ALICE.
This tale is imitated rather than translated from a fragment introduced in Goethe's "Claudina von Villa Bella," where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti to engage the attention of the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess to my friend Mr. Lewis, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state; and who, after some material improvement, published it in his "Tales of Wonder."
[The poem follows.]
_Port Folio_, IV-134, Aug. 29, 1807, Phila.
[Goethe, _Claudine von Villa Bella_, Act II. Song by "Rugantino" (Karlos von Castellvecchio).
M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Wonder_.]
THE LASS OF FAIR WONE. From the German of Buerger.
_Charms of Lit._, p. 103, 1808, Trenton.
[Also in _Phila. Minerva_, II, Dec. 17, 1796, Phila.]
THE WOODEN LEG. [b]. A Swiss Idyll. By GESSNER.
[Prose translation.]
_Charms of Lit._, p. 401, 1808, Trenton.
[S. Gessner, _Das hoelzerne Bein_.]
FROM THE GERMAN OF GESNER.
Hail, Morning, to thy rising beam That gilds with light the mountain's brow, And shines and glitters in the stream That winds along the vale below!
Joy, and health, and glad delight Await thy steps, thy march pursue; The Zephyr now that slept the night In flowers that weep beneath the dew,
His plumes with new-born vigour tries, And lifts him from his balmy bed; And dreams that round the wearied eyes Of mortals hover'd, now are fled.
Haste, ye Gales, and thro' the air Waft the sweets from every flower, And wave your wings around my Fair, What slumbers in yon rosy bower;
Paint o'er her lips and cheek's bright hues, And heave upon her heaving breast, And when yo've chas'd Sleep's balmy dews, And gently burst the bonds of rest,
Oh whisper to her list'ning ear, That e'er bright Morn had deck'd the sky, These streams beheld me shed the tear, And heard me pour for her the sigh!
_Lady's Weekly Misc._, VII-112, June 11, 1808, N. Y.
[S. Gessner, _Morgenlied_.]
MORNING SONG. (Morgenlied) from the German of Gesner.
Welcome, early orb of morn! Welcome, infant day! O'er the wood-top'd mountain borne, Mark its coming ray! Now o'er babbling brooks it beams; Sips from each flower its _dew_; Now with glorious gladdening gleams Wakes the world anew. Zephyrs first, o'er flowers that slumber'd, Quit their couch, and play; Breathe o'er flowers in sighs unnumber'd, Breathe the scent of day. Fancy now her reign gives o'er, Every vision flies; Chloe's cheek is wan no more, Cupids round it rise. Hasten, Zephyr, waft from roses All their loveliest bloom! Haste where Chloe now reposes, Wake her from her tomb! To the fairest's couch repair, Wanton round her pillow; O'er her lip and bosom fair Bathe thy blandest billow! She wakes the whispers to the gale, Wakes from her morning dream; Whilst so the stream, and thro' the vale, I er'st have breathed her name.
_Emerald_, n. s., I-562, Sept. 10, 1808, Boston.
[S. Gessner, _Morgenlied_.]
TRANSLATION OF SHELLER'S "FORGET ME NOT." (From the German.)
Belov'd of my bosom, alas my fond heart Does weep for the fate of my heart-rending lot; To range the wide world, now from me you depart, Yet remember me ever, "forget me not."
If moving in circles of beauty and love, Perchance to adore some sweet maid, be your lot, O! then may my spirit thy wav'rings reprove, And whisper thee gently, "forget me not."
If hap'ly hard fate should you e'er from me sever, How drearily mournful would be my sad lot, In sorrow's dark path I would wander forever, Nor smile more with joy, then "forget me not."
If in the fresh bloom of my life's early blossom, To leave you my dear, and this world, be my lot, Thine be the last sigh that escapes from my bosom, Then think how I love you; "O! forget me not."
Yet tho' we now part, in the bless'd realms above, We will meet soon again, free from life's woeful lot; We will meet to dear joy, we will meet to sweet love, Then no more need I say "O! forget me not."
Z.
_Gleaner_, I-325, Mar. 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).
TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN.
Whoever has perused the prophetick metrical compositions of Van Vander Horderclogeth must surely remember the poem on the 3697 fol. of which the following is a translation; it commences thus--
Vrom Grouter gruder grout gropstock, Zordur zoop, &c.
All gloomy and sorrowful Beelzebub sat, With his imps and his devils around, When the thundering knocker of Hell's outer grate Rang a peal so terrifick and loud on the gate, That all Erebus echoed the sound.
Full swift to the portal the young devils flew, And the long gloomy passage unbarr'd; When a lanthorn-jaw'd monster stood forth to their view, So meagre his figure, so pale was his hue, That the devils all trembled and star'd.
All green were his eyes in their sockets decay'd, His nose was projecting and wide, In a dusty frock-coat was his carcase array'd, On his scull he a three-corner'd scraper display'd, And two volumes[34] he bore at his side.
So foul were his breath and the words that he said, That his teeth had long rotted away-- And now to the devils a signal he made, To show him their master, the devils obey'd, And brought him where Beelzebub lay.
Old Beelzebub rose, as the monster came in, And stood for a moment in dread, For they look'd like each other enough to be kin, Save that one had whole feet and a light-colour'd skin, And the other had horns on his head.
'Whence art thou?' said Beelzebub; 'stranger, proclaim, For if Satan can rightly divine, Thou art surely some hero of throat-cutting fame, For ne'er to these regions a spirit there came, With figure so hellish as thine.'
'No throats have I cut,' the lank goblin replied, With voice that was hollow and shrill; 'I have cheated, and bullied, and swindled, and lied, Sedition and falsehood I've spread far and wide, And in mischief I never was still.
'My name is ---- ----;' no sooner said he, Than Beelzebub rose with a grin; He embrac'd the foul monster, who also display'd His joy at the meeting; and both of them made All Hell echo round with their din.
_Ordeal_, I-157, Mar. 11, 1809, Boston.
[Footnote 34: I have not been able to discover what these volumes were. There is a short note in the German, which implies that they were entitled Dulder Soudth.]
THE FOWLER.
A Song. Altered from a German air, in the opera of "Dizauberlote." _Gleaner_, I-374, Apr. 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).
[Also in _Mo. Anthology and Boston Rev._, III-591, Nov. 1806, Boston.]
TO CHLOE. From the German of Gesner.
[Prose translation.]
_Visitor_, I-154, Nov. 4, 1809, Richmond.
[S. Gessner, _An Chloen_.]
SONG. From the German of Jacobi.
_Boston Mirror_, II-88, Dec. 30, 1809, Boston.
[Same as, _A Sonnet_, by Jacobi, in _Companion and Weekly Misc._, I-104, Jan. 26, 1805, Balto.]
I publish the following new translation of "The Wild Hunter," first on account of its superiority over every other, and secondly because it is my intention in a future number to notice particularly this _chef d'oeuvre_ of the German poet.
THE WILD HUNTER.
Loud, loud the baron winds his horn; And, see, a lordly train On horse, on foot, with deafening din, Comes scouring o'er the plain.
O'er heath, o'er field, the yelping pack Dash swift, from couples freed; O'er heath, o'er field, close on their track, Loud neighs the fiery steed.
And now the Sabbath's holy dawn Beam'd high with purple ray, And bright each hallowed temple's dome Reflected back the day.
Now deep and clear the pealing bells Struck on the list'ning ear, And heaven-ward rose from many a voice The hymn of praise and prayer.
Swift, swift along the crossway, still They speed with eager cry: See! right and left, two horsemen strange Their rapid coursers ply.
Who were the horsemen right and left? That may I guess full well: Who were the horsemen right and left? That may I never tell.
The right, of fair and beauteous mien, A milk-white steed bestrode; Mild as the vernal skies, his face With heavenly radiance glow'd.
The left spurr'd fast his fiery barb, Red as the furnace flame; Sullen he loured, and from his eyes The death-like lightning came.
'Right welcome to our noble sport;' The baron greets them fair; 'For well I wot ye hold it good To banish moping care.
'No pleasure equal to the chase, Or earth, or heaven can yield;' He spoke,--he waved his cap in air, And foremost rushed afield.
'Turn thee!' the milder horseman cries; 'Turn thee from horns and hounds! Hear'st not the bells, hear'st not the quire, Mingle their sacred sounds?
'They drown the clamor of the chase; Oh! hunt not then to-day, Nor let a fiend's advice destroy Thy better angel's sway.'
'Hunt on, hunt on,' his comrade cries, 'Nor heed yon dotard's spell; What is the bawling quire to us? Or what the jangling bell?
'Well may the chase delight thee more; And well may'st learn from me, How brave, how princely is our sport, From bigot terrors free.'
'Well said! well said! in thee I own A hero's kindled fire; These pious fool'ries move not us, We reck nor priest, nor quire.
'And thou, believe me, saintlike dolt, Thy bigot rage is vain; From prayers and beadrolls, what delight Can sportsmen hope to gain?'
Still hurry, hurry, on they speed O'er valley, hill and plain; And ever at the baron's side Attend the horsemen twain.
See, panting, see, a milk-white hart Up-springs from yonder thorn: 'Now swiftly ply both horse and foot; Now louder wind the horn!'
See, falls a huntsman! see, his limbs The pangs of death distort! 'Lay there and rot: no caitiff's death Shall mar our princely sport.'
Light bounds with deftest speed the hart, Wide o'er the country borne; Now closer prest a refuge seeks Where waves the ripening corn.
See, the poor owner of the field Approach with tearful eyes; 'O pity, pity, good my lords!' Alas! in vain he cries.
'O spare what little store the poor By bitter sweat can earn!' Now soft the milder horseman warns The baron to return.
Not so persuades his stern compeer, Best pleas'd with darkest deeds; Tis his to sway the baron's heart, Reckless what mercy pleads.
'Away!' the imperious noble cries; 'Away, and leave us free! Off! or by all the powers of hell, Thou too shalt hunted be!
'Here, fellows! let this villain prove My threats were not in vain: Loud lash around his piteous face The whips of all my train.'
Tis said, tis done: swift o'er the fence The baron foremost springs; Swift follow hound, and horse, and man, And loud the welkin rings.
Loud rings the welkin with their shouts, While man, and horse, and hound, Ruthless tread down each ripening ear, Wide o'er the smoking ground.
O'er heath and field, o'er hill and dale, Scared by the approaching cries, Still close pursued, yet still unreach'd, Their destin'd victim flies.
Now mid the lowing herds that graze Along yon verdant plain, He hopes, concealed from every eye, A safe retreat to gain.
In vain, for now the savage train Press ravening on his heels: See, prostrate at the baron's feet The affrighted herdsman kneels.
Fear for the safety of his charge Inspires his faltering tongue; 'O spare,' he cries, 'these harmless beasts, Nor work an orphan's wrong.
'Think, here thy fury would destroy A friendless widow's all!' He spoke:--the gentle stranger strove To enforce soft pity's call.
Not so persuades his sullen frere, But pleas'd with darkest deeds; Tis his to sway the baron's heart, Reckless what mercy pleads.
'Away, audacious hound!' he cries; 'Twould do my heart's-blood good, Might I but see thee transform'd to beasts Thee and thy beggar brood.
'Then, to the very gates of heaven, Who dare to say me nay! With joy I'd hunt the losel fry; Come fellows, no delay!'
See, far and wide the murderous throng Deal many a deadly wound; Mid slaughter'd numbers, see, the hart Sinks bleeding on the ground.
Yet still he summons all his strength For one poor effort more, Staggering he flies; his silver sides Drop mingled sweat and gore.
And now he seeks a last retreat Deep in the darkling dell, Where stands, amidst embowering oaks, A hermit's holy cell.
E'en here the madly eager train Rush swift with impious rage, When, lo! persuasion on his tongue, Steps forth the reverend sage.
'O cease thy chase! nor thus invade Religion's free abode; For know, the tortur'd creature's groans E'en now have reach'd his god.
'They cry at heaven's high mercy seat, For vengeance on thy head; O turn, repentant turn, ere yet The avenging bolt is sped.'
Once more religion's cause in vain The gentle stranger pleads; Once more, alas! his sullen frere A willing victim leads.
'Dash on!' the harden'd sinner cries; 'Shalt thou disturb our sport? No! boldly would I urge the chase In heaven's own inmost court.
'What reck I then thy pious rage? No mortal man I fear: Not god in all his terrors arm'd Should stay my fix'd career.'
He cracks his whip, he winds his horn, He calls his vassal-crew; Lo! horse and hound, and sage and cell, All vanish from his view.
All, all, are gone!--no single rack His eager eye can trace; And silence, still as death, has hush'd The clamors of the chase.
In vain he spurs his courser's sides, Nor back nor forward borne; He winds his horn, he calls aloud, But hears no sound return.
And now inclos'd in deepest night, Dark as the silent grave, He hears the sullen tempest roar, As roars the distant wave.
Loud and louder still the storm Howls through the troubled air; Ten thousand thunders from on high The voice of judgment bear.
Accursed before god and man, Unmoved by threat or prayer; Creator, nor created, aught Thy frantic rage would spare.
'Think not in vain creation's lord Has heard his creature's groan; E'en now the torch of vengeance flames High by his awful throne.
'Now, hear thy doom! to aftertimes A dread example given, For ever urge thy wild career, By fiendish hell-hounds driven.'
The voice had ceased; the sulphurous flash Shot swift from either pole; Sore shook the grove; cold horror seized The trembling miscreant's soul.
Again the rising tempest roars, Again the lightnings play; And every limb, and every nerve Is frozen with dismay.
He sees a giant's swarthy arm Start from the yawning ground; He feels a demon grasp his head, And rudely wrench it round.
In torrents now from every side, Pours fast a fiery flood; On each o'erwhelming wave upborne, Loud howls the hellish brood.
Sullen and grisly gleams the light, Now red, now green, now blue; Whilst o'er the gulf the fiendish train Their destined prey pursue.
In vain he shrieks with wild despair, In vain he strives to fly; Still at his back the hell-born crew Their cursed business ply.
By day, full many a fathom deep Below earth's smiling face; By night, high through the troubled air, They speed their endless chase.
In vain to turn his eyes aside He strives with wild affright; So never may those maddening scenes Escape his tortured sight.
Still must he see those dogs of hell Close hovering on his track; Still must he see the avenging scourge Uplighted at his back.
Now this is the wild baron's hunt; And many a village youth, And many a sportsman (dare they speak) Could vouch the awful truth.
For oft benighted midst the wilds The fiendish troop they hear, Now shrieking shrill, now cursing loud, Come thundering through the air.
No hand shall stay those dogs of hell Or quench that sea of fire, Till god's own dreadful day of doom Shall bid the world expire!
_Rambler's Mag._, I-137, [1809], N. Y.
[G. A. Buerger, _Der wilde Jaeger_.]