"O wretched mortals! O wretched man! O wretched crowd! No pleasures ye pluck, no pleasures ye plan, Whose eyes are blind to the glories great And dream that the mouth is the nearest gate "Come, flowers! for we to each other belong, And around my lute in sympathy strong And quake as if moved by zephyr's wing, And a morning song with glee we'll sing Anonymous Translation. ADAM GOTTLOB OCHLENSHLAGER, 1779. DANISH MORNING SONG. From eastern quarters now The sun's up wandering; And hill-side squandering. Be glad, my soul! and sing amid thy pleasure; Up with thy thanks, and burst To heaven's azure. O, countless as the grains Of sand so tiny- Deep waters briny; God's mercy is which he upon me showeth ! A grace immeasurable To me down-poureth. Thou best does understand, And thou foreseest what is for me most fitting; To manage in the whole, May fruit the land array, And even for eating! May truth e'er make its way, With justice meeting! Give Thou to me my share with every other, Till down my staff I lay, And from this world away Wend to another! Translation of H. W. LONGFELLOW. THOMAS KINGO, 1634-1723. SUMMER MORNING SONG. FROM THE DUTCH. Up, sleeper! dreamer, up! for now There's light on forests, lakes, and meadows; The dew-drops shine on floweret bells; The village clock of morning tells. Up! out! o'er furrow and o'er field! For morning's bliss and time is fleeter Up! to the fields! through shine and stour! So blest as this-the glad heart leaping, The winter, time for sleeping. O fool! to sleep such hours away, Or down through summer morning soaring! 'Tis meet for thee the winter long, When snows fall fast, and winds blow strong, The very beast that crops the flower Aurora smiles; her beckonings claim thee. We come-we come our wanderings take And rugged paths, and woods pervaded Were we of feather, or of fin, How blest to dash the river in, Thread the rock-stream, as it advances- O thus to revel, thus to range, I'll yield the counter, bank, or 'Change- The wealth for more which strains and strains, O, happy who the city's noise, Can quit for nature's quiet joys Quit worldly sin and worldly sorrow; No more 'midst prison walls abide, But in God's temple, vast and wide, Ask mercies every morrow! No seraph's flaming sword hath driven From earth's sweet smiles and winning features; For him by toils and troubles toss'd, But not for happy creatures! Come-though a glance it may be-come- For life strong urgencies must bind us! We'll leave in peace behind us! Anonymous Translation. H. TOLLENS, 1778. THE THE voices of these two noblest of the singing-birds of the Old World may be heard, in echoing accompaniment, throughout the prolonged choir of European poets, from the earliest dawn of civilization to the present hour. There are few poems of any length, in either of the languages of Europe, in which some allusion to one or the other has not a place. The noblest poets of the earth were born companions to these birds; beneath skies saluted by the lark, among groves haunted by the nightingale. These little creatures sung with Homer and Sappho among the isles of Greece-for Virgil and Horace on the plains of Italy; they cheered Dante in his lifelong wandering exile, and Petrarch in his solitary hermitage. Conceive also the joy with which Chaucer, and Shakspeare, and Spenser listened, each in his day, among the daisied fields of England, to music untaught, instinctive like their own! What pure delight, indeed, have these birds not given |