That from the farthest north

Some nation may

Yet undiscovered issue forth,

And o'er his new-got conquest sway.

Some nation yet shut in

With hills of ice,

May be let out to scourge his sin,

Till they shall equal him in vice.

And they likewise shall

Their ruin have;

For as yourselves, your empires fall,
And every kingdom hath a grave.

There those celestial fires,

Though seeming mute, The fallacy of our desires,

And all the pride of life confute.

For they have watch'd since first
The world had birth,

And found sin in itself accurst,

And nothing permanent on earth.

WILLIAM HABINGTON, 1560-1647

TO THE MOON.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Fillest hill and vale again,

Still with softening light!

Loosest from the world's cold chain
All my soul to-night!

Spreadest round me, far and nigh,
Soothingly thy smile;

From thee, as from friendship's eye,
Sorrow shrinks the while.

Every echo thrills my heart-
Glad and gloomy mood;
Joy and sorrow both have part
In my solitude.

Night of sweetest song,
With the gloomy woods,
Philomela mingleth.

Far in ether wide

Yawns the dread abyss

Of deep worlds uncounted.

Neither eye nor ear,

Seeking, findeth here
The end of mazy thinking.

Evermore the wheel

Of unmeasured Time

Turns round all existence;

And it bears away
Swift, how swift! the prey
Of fleet-flitting mortals.

Where soft breezes blow,
Where thou see'st the row
Of smooth-shining beeches;

Driven from the flood
Of the thronging Time,
Lina's hut receives me.

Brighter than aloft,

In night's shimmering star,
Peace with her is shining.

And the vale so sweet,

And the sweet moonlight,

Where she dwells, is sweeter.

Anonymous Translation.

CARL V. KNEBEL, 1744-1884.

ELEGY.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH,

In the still evening, when with rapid flight,
Low in the western sky the sun descends
To give expectant nations life and light,
The aged pilgrim, in some clime unknown,
Slow journeying, right onward fearful bends
With weary haste, a stranger and alone;
Yet, when his labor ends,

He solitary sleeps.

And in short slumber steeps

Each sense of sorrow hanging on the day,

And all the toil of the long past way:

But O each pang, that wakes with morn's first ray,

More piercing wounds my breast,

When heaven's eternal light sinks crimson in the west!

His burning wheels when downward Phoebus bends,
And leaves the world to night, its lengthened shade
Each towering mountain o'er the vale extends;
The thrifty peasant shoulders light his spade,
With sylvan carol gay and uncouth note,
Bidding his cares upon the wild winds float-
Content in peace to share

His poor and humble fare,

As in that golden age

We honor still, yet leave its simple ways;
Whoe'er so list, let joy his hours engage:

No gladness e'er has cheer'd my gloomy days,

Nor moment of repose,

However rolled the spheres, whatever planet rose.

When as the shepherd marks the sloping ray
Of the great orb that sinks in ocean's bed,
While on the east soft steals the evening gray,
He rises, and resumes the accustom'd crook,
Quitting the beechen grove, the field, the brook,
And gently homeward drives the flock he fed ;
Then far from human tread,

In lonely hut or cave,

O'er which the green boughs wave,

In sleep without a thought he lays his head:

Ah! cruel Love! at this dark, silent hour,

Thou wak'st to trace, and with redoubled power,

The voice, the step, the air

Of her who scorns my chain, and flies thy fatal snare.

And in some sheltered bay, at evening's close,
The mariners their rude coats 'round them fold,
Stretched on the rugged plank in deep repose :
But I, though Phoebus sink into the main,
And leave Granada wrapt in night with Spain,
Morocco, and the Pillars fam'd of old-

Though all of human kind,

And every creature blest,

All hush their ills to rest,

No end to my unceasing sorrows find:
And still the sad account swells day by day;
For, since these thoughts on my lorn spirit prey,

I see the tenth year roll;

Nor hope of freedom springs in my desponding soul.

Thus, as I vent my bursting bosom's pain!

Lo! from their yoke I see the oxen freed

Slow moving homeward o'er the furrowed plain :

Why to my sorrow is no pause decreed?

Why from my yoke no respite must I know?
Why gush these tears, and never cease to flow?
Ah, me! what sought my eyes,

When, fixed in fond surprise,

On her angelic face

I gazed, and on my heart each charm impress'd?
From whence nor force nor art the sacred trace
Shall e'er remove, till I the victim rest

Of Death, whose mortal blow

Shall my pure spirit free, and this worn frame lay low. Translation of LADY DACRE.

FRANCESCO PETRARCA, 1304-1874.

The moon is up in splendor,

And golden stars attend her;

The heavens are calm and bright;

Trees cast a deepening shadow,

And slowly off the meadow

A mist is rising silver-white.

Night's curtains now are closing
'Round half a world reposing

In calm and holy trust:
All seems one vast, still chamber,
Where weary hearts remember

No more the sorrows of the dust.
Translation of C. T. BROOKS.

MATTHIAS CLAUDIUS, 1740-1818.