Part 2 (1/2)

THE FAVOR OF THE MOMENT.

Once more, then, we meet In the circles of yore; Let our song be as sweet In its wreaths as before, Who claims the first place In the tribute of song?

The G.o.d to whose grace All our pleasures belong.

Though Ceres may spread All her gifts on the shrine, Though the gla.s.s may be red With the blush of the vine, What boots--if the while Fall no spark on the hearth; If the heart do not smile With the instinct of mirth?-- From the clouds, from G.o.d's breast Must our happiness fall, 'Mid the blessed, most blest Is the moment of all!

Since creation began All that mortals have wrought, All that's G.o.dlike in man Comes--the flash of a thought!

For ages the stone In the quarry may lurk, An instant alone Can suffice to the work; An impulse give birth To the child of the soul, A glance stamp the worth And the fame of the whole. [17]

On the arch that she buildeth From sunbeams on high, As Iris just gildeth, And fleets from the sky, So s.h.i.+neth, so gloometh Each gift that is ours; The lightning illumeth-- The darkness devours! [18]

THE LAY OF THE MOUNTAIN.

[The scenery of Gotthardt is here personified.]

To the solemn abyss leads the terrible path, The life and death winding dizzy between; In thy desolate way, grim with menace and wrath, To daunt thee the spectres of giants are seen; That thou wake not the wild one [20], all silently tread-- Let thy lip breathe no breath in the pathway of dread!

High over the marge of the horrible deep Hangs and hovers a bridge with its phantom-like span, [21]

Not by man was it built, o'er the vastness to sweep; Such thought never came to the daring of man!

The stream roars beneath--late and early it raves-- But the bridge, which it threatens, is safe from the waves.

Black-yawning a portal, thy soul to affright, Like the gate to the kingdom, the fiend for the king-- Yet beyond it there smiles but a land of delight, Where the autumn in marriage is met with the spring.

From a lot which the care and the trouble a.s.sail, Could I fly to the bliss of that balm-breathing vale!

Through that field, from a fount ever hidden their birth, Four rivers in tumult rush roaringly forth; They fly to the fourfold divisions of earth-- The sunrise, the sunset, the south, and the north.

And, true to the mystical mother that bore, Forth they rush to their goal, and are lost evermore.

High over the races of men in the blue Of the ether, the mount in twin summits is riven; There, veiled in the gold-woven webs of the dew, Moves the dance of the clouds--the pale daughters of heaven!

There, in solitude, circles their mystical maze, Where no witness can hearken, no earthborn surveys.

August on a throne which no ages can move, Sits a queen, in her beauty serene and sublime, [22]

The diadem blazing with diamonds above The glory of brows, never darkened by time, His arrows of light on that form shoots the sun-- And he gilds them with all, but he warms them with none!

THE ALPINE HUNTER.

Wilt thou not the lambkins guard?

Oh, how soft and meek they look, Feeding on the gra.s.sy sward, Sporting round the silvery brook!

”Mother, mother, let me go On yon heights to chase the roe!”

Wilt thou not the flock compel With the horn's inspiring notes?

Sweet the echo of yon bell, As across the wood it floats!

”Mother, mother, let me go On yon heights to hunt the roe!”

Wilt thou not the flow'rets bind, Smiling gently in their bed?