FROM THE GERMAN OF COUNT STOLBERG,
BY THE REV, J. WHITEHOUSE.
HE ne'er shall be my friend, whose iron breast
Thrills not to Nature's holy melodies,
Sweet as the Seraph's harp! Th' endearing name
Of children, friend, or wife ne'er waked in him
The throb of warm affection: never he
With mute, intense delight, and trembling lips
Of pious rapture, to the morning-beam
Has hymned his inward song, ne'er dropped his tear
In the full fount of human happiness;
Ne'er has his heart with secret gratitude
O'erflowed to Thee, O Parent of all Good!
His mirth but madness, and his gayest look
The unmeaning smile of idiotcy-but those
Whom Wisdom and Virtue teach their sacred lore,
Thee love, meek SENSIBILITY!
Ne'er has he hailed thee; sweetest LIBERTY,
Of country, or of kindred ?—reptile, hence,
Crouch at my feet, thou base and abject one,
That I may spurn thee :-
But wherefore mock at him? Forgive the wrong.
Great God of mercies! nor on me let fall
Thy triple-bolted vengeance. What am I
Inflated with presumption and vain pride,
Child of the dust myself, that I should mock
The dust I ought to pity!
Tear of repentance flow-but faster still
Flow tear of Pity, whose all-healing balm
Can purify the soul from selfish stain,
And make the sombrous landscape smile as bright
As the gay mead, whose verdure has imbibed
May's genial dew.
The innocent alone can taste the sweets
Of th' oderiferous landscape: 'tis for such
The solemn oak his dark-brown foliage spreads,
For such his shade is holy. 'Mid thy haunts
They walk, majestic Solitude! and hear
Thy mystic sounds, and catch thy visions dim,
Veiled from profaner eyes. Then lead me thou,
Calm CONTEMPLATION! to thy moon-light walks,
And deep-sequestered vales, where thy loved train
Find TRUTH, meek inmate of the hermit-cell-
Or there, where GENIUS trims his sun-bright lamp
In pensive musings rapt, oft let me woo
The visions wild of FANCY, while thy scenes
NATURE! thy hills and groves, and vocal streams
Re-echo to my song.
Deign then admit me to thy secret haunts
And seat me by THYSELF-then shall thou hear
My wild wood-minstrelsy amid the bloom
Of vigorous youth; nor shall it cease, when Time
Has crowned my aged head with silver grey,
And my thin tresses tremble to the wind,
WHILE pensively wand'ring along the sea-shore
And musing on all that was dear to my heart,
Those moments of pleasure that now are no more,
Since Mary the light of my soul did depart,
I wrote on the smooth sandy surface that Name,
My soul breathes on every soft gale that blows by;
And while I stood gazing, recalling each dream,
A sigh heav'd my heart, and a tear fill'd my eye.
But few were the moments to gaze and to weep,
The wide-rolling wave soon around me did roar,
And cruelly dashing, o'erwhelm'd in its sweep,
The tablet of sand, and the charm which it bore"Twas thus-ah! 'twas thus, even with Mary I cried, A season she flourish'd the pride of my soul; But the waves of affliction soon lifted their tide, And swept her away in the billowy roll.
But Mary! though now in thy grave thou art laid, And no trace of thy meteor-existence remain; Though the tears of thy kindred should cease to be shed, And all be forgetful and happy again;
Yet thy name and remembrance for ever shall share In the throne of my bosom the welcome retreat, Till the moment my spirit to Heaven shall repair, With the last words I utter, My Mary we meet !
HAIL fruitful Nurse of humankind!
Green Erin hail! it is my boast,
I rose to being on thy rocky coast,
Nurse of fair forms, and energetic mind.
Hail to thy fertile vales, and hills sublime,
Thy rills, majestic streams, and genial clime.
Fair island, turn'd, with placid brow,
Where sweeping zephyrs sport, and lave
Their pinions in the vast Atlantic wave.
Thy breast receives them from the surge below,
To winnow Health and Plenty thro' the land,
And verdure spread, and genial skies expand,
O'er thy green vales, and teeming soil,
The sea-born gales and show'rs repair,
To sooth th' inclement wintry air,
And bid abundance crown the Farmer's toil.
Nor parching Summer's heat, nor Winter's cold
Thy pastures desolate, and croud the fold.
But chief thy pride, is in a race
With many a grace and virtue fill'd,
Awake to love, with honour thrill'd,
With spirit beaming in the manly face,
And mild affliction in the female eyes,
And hearts too gen'rous to be coldly wise.
Mark where the warlike banners float,
And Trumpet's voice to glory calls,
The Son of Erin fights, and falls.
Nor slow thy sons to pour their blood devote,
To guard fair virgin innocence from wrong
And silence into shame the Sland'rer's tongue.
Nor Thou proud selfish Av'rice deem
The people mean, who want such art,
As pow'r and riches can impart.
No longer, sick with foolish self-esteem,
And wrapt in ignorance and lazy pride
The gallant progeny of men deride.
O be the vulgar scorn confin'd
To sordid souls, among the venal train,
Whose only deity is gain,
For ever banish'd from the letter'd mind,
For ever blotted from the polish'd page;
Nor wit and learning stain, with envious rage.
The Man, who dooms his fellow men,
To delve in mines, or tempt the flood,
And barter beads for human blood,
From earth can hardly tear his scowling ken,
To reach the value of a free-born train;
Or feel a worth, distinct from pow'r and gain,
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