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By bowers of birds, and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks so gayly green,

May num'rous herds and flocks be seen,
And lasses chanting o'er the pail,

And shepherds piping in the dale,
And ancient Faith, that knows no guile,
And Industry embrown'd with toil,

And hearts resolved, and hands prepar'd,

The blessings they enjoy to guard.

TOBIAS SMOLLETT, 1720-1771.

SONG.

FROM THE GERMAN.

See the rocky spring,

Clear as joy,

Like a sweet star gleaming!

O'er the clouds, he

In his youth was cradled

By good spirits,

'Neath the bushes in the cliffs.

Fresh with youth

From the cloud he dances

Down upon the rocky pavement;

Thence, exulting,

Leaps to heaven.

For a while he dallies

Round the summit,

Through its little channels chasing
Motley pebbles round and round;
Quick, then, like determined leader,
Hurries all his brother streamlets
Off with him.

There, all round him in the vale,
Flowers spring up beneath his footstep,
And the meadow

Wakes to feel his breath.

But him holds no shady vale

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Arms outstretched, alas! in vain,

To embrace his longing ones;
For the greedy sand devours us;
Or the burning sun above us
Sucks our life-blood; or some hillock
Hems us into ponds. Ah! brother,
Take thy brothers from the plain-
Take thy brothers from the hill-sides
With thee, to our Sire with thee!"

"Come ye all, then!"

Now, more proudly,

On he swells; a countless race, they
Bear their glorious prince aloft !
On he rolls triumphantly
Giving names to countries; cities
Spring to being 'neath his feet.

Onward with incessant roaring,
See! he passes proudly by

Flaming turrets, marble mansions-
Creatures of his fullness, all!

Cedar houses bears this Atlas
On his giant shoulders; rustling,
Flapping in the playful breezes,
Thousand flags about his head are
Telling of his majesty.

And so bears he all his brothers,
And his treasures, and his children,
To their Sire, all joyous roaring-
Pressing to his mighty heart.

Translation of J. S. DWIGHT.

JOHANN WOLFGANG V. GOETHE, 1749-1882.

THE RIVULET.

FROM THE SPANISH.

Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave

The lovely vale that lies around thee!

Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve,

When but a fount the morning found thee?

Born when the skies began to glow,

Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters,
No blossom bowed its stalk to show
Where stole thy still and scanty waters.

Now on thy stream the moonbeams look,
Usurping, as thou downward driftest,
Its crystal from the clearest brook,
Its rushing current from the swiftest.
Ah! what wild haste-and all to be
A river, and expire in ocean!
Each fountain's tribute hurries thee

To that vast grave with quicker motion.

Far better 'twere to linger still

In this green vale these flowers to cherish,
And die in peace, an aged rill,

Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.

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