Part 21 (1/2)

O youth! and wherefore steals the tear into thy dreaming eye?

Alas! they seek in vain within the charm around bestowed, The tender fruit is ripened now, and bows to earth its load.

And restless goes the youth to feed his heart upon its fire, All, where the gentle breath to cool the flame of young desire!

And now they meet--the holy love that leads them lights their eyes, And still behind the winged G.o.d the winged victory flies.

O heavenly love!--'tis thy sweet task the human flowers to bind, For ay apart, and yet by thee forever intertwined!

LOVE AND DESIRE.

Rightly said, Schlosser! Man loves what he has; what he has not, desireth; None but the wealthy minds love; poor minds desire alone.

THE BARDS OF OLDEN TIME.

Say, where is now that glorious race, where now are the singers Who, with the accents of life, listening nations enthralled, Sung down from heaven the G.o.ds, and sung mankind up to heaven, And who the spirit bore up high on the pinions of song?

Ah! the singers still live; the actions only are wanting, And to awake the glad harp, only a welcoming ear.

Happy bards of a happy world! Your life-teeming accents Flew round from mouth unto mouth, gladdening every race.

With the devotion with which the G.o.ds were received, each one welcomed That which the genius for him, plastic and breathing, then formed.

With the glow of the song were inflamed the listener's senses, And with the listener's sense, nourished the singer the glow-- Nourished and cleansed it,--fortunate one! for whom in the voices Of the people still clear echoed the soul of the song, And to whom from without appeared, in life, the great G.o.dhead, Whom the bard of these days scarcely can feel in his breast.

JOVE TO HERCULES.

'Twas not my nectar made thy strength divine, But 'twas thy strength which made my nectar thine!

THE ANTIQUES AT PARIS.

That which Grecian art created, Let the Frank, with joy elated, Bear to Seine's triumphant strand, And in his museums glorious Show the trophies all-victorious To his wondering fatherland.

They to him are silent ever, Into life's fresh circle never From their pedestals come down.

He alone e'er holds the Muses Through whose breast their power diffuses,-- To the Vandal they're but stone!

THEKLA.

A SPIRIT VOICE.

Whither was it that my spirit wended When from thee my fleeting shadow moved?

Is not now each earthly conflict ended?

Say,--have I not lived,--have I not loved?

Art thou for the nightingales inquiring Who entranced thee in the early year With their melody so joy-inspiring?

Only whilst they loved they lingered here.