The Lee-Shore.
Sleet, and hail, and thunder!
And ye winds that rave,
Till the sands thereunder
Tinge the sullen wave;
Winds, that like a demon
Howl with horrid note
Round the toiling seaman
In his tossing boat!
From his humble dwelling
On the shingly shore,
Where the billows swelling
Keep such hollow roar;—
From that weeping woman,
Seeking with her cries
Succour superhuman
From the frowning skies;
From the urchin pining
For his father's knee;—
From the lattice shining
Drive him out to sea!
Let broad leagues dissever
Him from yonder foam.
O God! to think man ever
Comes too near his home!
Epitaph on an Infant.
On life's wild ocean sorrowful and pained
How many voyagers their course perform!
This little bark a kinder fate obtained;
It reached the harbour ere it met the storm.
Nimium premendo Litus iniquum.
Grandines imbresqve Iovisqve fulmen,
Instar et diri Boreas gigantis,
Ima qvo bacchante truces arena
Miscuit undas,
Qvi laborantem fragili carina
Navitam circumgemis, hunc procul vos
Pellite a saxis qvibus intumescens
Obstrepit unda;
Qva, boni tutela laris, marinis
Accubat spumis casa, qva minaces
Pro viro divos miseris fatigat
Planctibus uxor,
Qva puer multum lacrimans amata
Poscit absentis genua; a fenestra,
Qvae procul nota rutilat lucerna,
Trudite in altum.
Longus hunc inter scopulosqve iniqvos
Saeviat pontus. Tibi vae miselle,
Qvem vel aversi tueantur arce-
antqve penates.
Pondere curarum nimioqve oppressa dolore
Triste secat vitae plurima cymba fretum;
Sors tamen huic melior portum dedit ante carinae
Tangere quam flatus incubuere mari.
Licht und Waerme.
Der bess're Mensch tritt in die Welt
Mit fröhlichem Vertrauen;
Er glaubt, was ihm die Seele schwellt,
Auch außer sich zu schauen,
Und weiht, von edlem Eifer warm,
Der Wahrheit seinen treuen Arm.
Doch Alles ist so klein, so eng,
Hat er es erst erfahren,
Da sucht er in dem Weltgedräng
Sich selbst nur zu bewahren;
Das Herz in kalter stolzer Ruh
Schließt endlich sich der Liebe zu.
Sie geben, ach, nicht immer Glut,
Der Wahrheit helle Strahlen;
Wohl denen, die des Wissens Gut
Nicht mit dem Herzen zahlen.
Drum paart, zu eurem schönsten Glück,
Mit Schwärmers Ernst des Weltmanns Blick.
Song of Proserpine.
Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth,
Thou from whose immortal bosom
Gods and men and beasts have birth,
Leaf and blade and bud and blossom,
Breathe thine influence most divine
On thine own child Proserpine.
If with mists of evening dew
Thou dost nourish these young flowers Till they grow, in scent and hue,
Fairest children of the hours, Breathe thine influence most divine On thine own child Proserpine.
Qvaedam, si credis consultis, mancipat Usus.
Alti cordis homo bonaeqve mentis
Res laeta iuvenis fide capessit:
Affectus animi sui benignos
Normam dum putat esse ceterorum,
Nervis omnibus intimisqve votis
Vero dedicat ipse se tuendo.
Sed quaecumqve homines agunt aventqve
Qvam sint omnia sordida ac pusilla
Expertus sibi consulit, sua arma
Per turbam studet explicare victor,
Nil ultra trepidans; in hoc qvievit,
Et supercilio gravi superbus
Nullas curat habere caritates.
Heu non semper alit calore blando
Pectus lucida flamma Veritatis.
Felicissimus ille, qvisqvis usu
Dum scit vivere non amare nescit.
Ergo, qvi volet esse perbeatus,
Ardorem meditantis alta mentis
Scita callidus arte temperabit.
Περσεφόνης Σκόλιον.
Μῆτερ, πότνα θεῶν, σὺ δ' Αἶα, σῶν γὰρ πάντ' ἐξ ἀθανάτων ἔγεντο κόλπων, ἐπίπνει κάρα Περσεφόνης
ἄμβροτα δῶρα Κούρης σέθεν εὐτέκνου. σοῦ θεὸς γὰρ ἔφυ βροτός τε καὶ θήρ, ποίη σὺν πετάλοις, κάλυξ ἅμ ̓ ἄνθει νεόδρεπτα δ' εἰ ταῦτ ̓ ἐθέλεις
εσπερίαισιν ἀλδεῖν ῥανίσιν δρόσων, κάλλει τ' αὐξόμεν εὐπνόῳ τ ̓ ἐν ὀδμῇ ἄνθεμ ̓ ἔκγονα καλλιπάρθεν Ὡρῶν, ἐπίπνει κάρα Περσεφόνης
ἄμβροτα δῶρα Κούρης σέθεν εὐτέκνου.
Dear is my little native Vale.
Know ye not that lovely river?
Know ye not that smiling river,
Whose gentle flood
By cliff and wood
With wildering sound goes winding ever?
Oh, often yet, with feeling strong,
On that dear stream my memory ponders; And still I prize its murmuring song,
For by my childhood's home it wanders.
There's music in each wind that blows
Around our native valley breathing;
There's beauty in each flower that grows
Around our native woodland wreathing;
The memory of the lightest joys,
In childhood's happy dawn that found us, Is dearer than the richest toys
The present vainly sheds around us.
O sister, when, mid doubts and fears
That haunt life's onward journey ever,
I turn to those departed years,
And that beloved and lovely river,—
My sinking heart with suffering riven,
And soul with lonely anguish aching,—
It needs my long-taught hope in heaven
To keep that weary heart from breaking.
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