Part 17 (2/2)

See, there, how rich the ruddy gold Winds snakeways, 'midst the clammy mould And hard green stone. By torches' ray, The harvest there men mow away.

But, see ye not yon gath'ring cloud, Which 'gainst them cometh paley proud; That holds the spirit of the hill, Who brings death in its hand so chill: If down they do not quickly fall, Most certainly 't will slay them all; For sorely wrathful is its mood, Because they break its solitude: Because its treasure off they bear, And fling light o'er its gloomy lair.

'T is white, and Kobbold is the name Which it from oldest days does claim.

Now, back at once into time we go, For many a hundred years, I trow.

A gothic chamber salutes your sight: A taper gleams feebly through the night; A ghostly man by the board you see, With his hand to his temples muses he: Parchments, with age discolour'd and dun; Ancient s.h.i.+elds all written upon; Tree-bark, bearing ciphers half defac'd; Stones with Runes and characters grac'd; Things of more worth than ye are aware, On the mighty table are pil'd up there.

He gazes now in exstatic trance Through the cas.e.m.e.nt, out into nature's expanse.

Whene'er we sit at the lone midnight, And stare out into the dubious light, Whilst the pallid moon is peering o'er Ruin'd cloister and crumbling tower, Feelings so wondrous strange come o'er us; The past, and the future, arise before us; The present fadeth, unmark'd, away In the garb of insignificancy.

He gazes up into nature's height, The n.o.ble man with his eye so bright; He gazes up to the starry skies, Whither, sooner or later, we hope to rise; And now he takes in haste the pen, And the spirit of Oldom flows from it amain; The scatter'd Goth-songs he changes unto An Epic which maketh each bosom to glow.

Thanks to the old Monk, toiling thus-- They call him Saxo Grammaticus.

An open field before you lies, A wind-burst o'er its bosom sighs, Now all is still, all seems asleep; 'Midst of the field there stands a heap, Upon the heap stand Runic stones, Thereunder rest gigantic bones.

From Arild's time, that heap stands there, But now 't is till'd with utmost care, In order that its owner may Thereoff reap golden corn one day.

Oft has he tried, the n.i.g.g.ard soul, The mighty stones away to roll, As useless burdens of his ground; But they for that too big were found.

See, see! the moon through cloud and rack Looks down upon the letters black: And when the ghost its form uprears He s.h.i.+nes upon its bursting tears-- For oh! the moon's an ancient man, Describe him, mortal tongue ne'er can, He s.h.i.+nes alike, serene and bright, At midmost hour of witching night, Upon the spot of love and glee, And on the gloomy gallows-tree.

Upon each Rune behold him stare, While off he hastes through fields of air; He understands those signs, I'll gage, Whose meaning lies in sunken age; And if he were in speaking state, No doubt the old man could relate Strange things that have on earth occurr'd, Of which fame ne'er has said a word; But since with look, with look alone, He cannot those events make known, He waketh from his height sublime Mere longing for the dark gone time.

THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE.

FROM THE GERMAN.

This piece is not translated for the sentiments which it contains, but for its poetical beauties. Although the path of human life is rough and th.o.r.n.y, the mind may always receive consolation by looking forward to the world to come. The mind which rejects a future state has to thank itself for its utter misery and hopelessness.

The evening shadows fall upon the grave On which I sit; it is no common heap,-- Below its turf are laid the bones of one, Who, sick of life and misery, did quench The vital spark which in his bosom burn'd.

The shadows deepen, and the ruddy tinge Which lately flooded all the western sky Has now diminish'd to a single streak, And here I sit, alone, and listen to The noise of forests, and the hum of groves.

This is the time to think of nature's G.o.d, When birds and fountains, streams and woods, unite Their various-sounding voices in his praise: Shall man alone refuse to sing it--yes, For man, alone, has nought to thank him for.

There's not a joy he gives to us on earth That is not dash'd with bitterness and gall, Only when youth is past, and age comes on, Do we find quiet--quiet is not bliss, Then tell me, G.o.d, what I've to thank thee for.

But to recur to him who rests beneath-- He had a heart enthusiastic, warm, And form'd for love--no prejudice dwelt there; He roam'd about the world to find a heart Which felt with his, he sought, and found it not.

Or if he found it, providence stepp'd in, And tore the cherish'd object from his sight, Or fill'd its mind with visions weak and vain-- Could he survive all this? ah, no! he died,-- Died by the hand which injur'd none but him.

And did he die unpitied and unwept,-- Most probably, for there are fools who think 'T is crime in man to take what is his own-- And 't was on account they laid him here, Within this sweet, unconsecrated, spot.

There comes a troop of maidens and of youths Home from their labour--hark! they cease their song, And, pointing to the grave, with trembling hands, They make a circuit, thinking that in me The ghost of the self-murderer they view-- Which, fame says, wanders here.

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