Chapter V: Letter LXI: Of the Sorrows of Werter, Versified (2)

O praise the Lord! ye sweetest flow'rs,
To him your earliest fragrance yield;
Ye birds exert your tuneful pow'rs;
Praise him in meadow and in field.

O praise the Lord!--Ev'n from his den
The desert's savage roars his praise;
And, oh! my soul! how much more then,
Should'st thou thy voice in Paeans raise?

--Oscar.

_Phila. Repos._, III-152, May 7, 1803, Phila.

ODE TO SPRING
From the German.
"Freude wirbelt in den Lueften."

Joy comes laughing with the breeze;
Gladness spreads itself around;
Songsters warble in the trees;
Nature gaily decks the ground.

Heav'n unfolds its richest vesture,
Sparkling stars--etherial blue;
Fairies dance with antic gesture;
Or sip, delighted, morning dew.

Gentle, smiling, Zephyrs, wander,
Thro' the groves of verdant green;
Toying with the lilac yonder--
Here, with the rose of blooming mien.

Humming bees, on wafer pinions,
Careful, thro' the blossoms roam:
Searching all their flow'r dominions,
The nectar tribute gather home.

In th'embroider'd violet vale,
Love, attended by the Graces,
Tells his soft bewitching tale,
While blushing fair ones hide their faces.

How beautiful is the creation,
In this time of mirth and joy?
All is life--all animation:
Nought our pleasures to annoy.

--Oscar.

_Phila. Repos._, III-152, May 7, 1803, Phila.

[For introductory note, cf. the preceding.]

UNIVERSAL SONG OF PRAISE.
A Sapphic Ode.
From the German of Buerde.
"Alles was odem hat, lobe den Herrn!"

All ye that live and breathe, O praise the Lord!
With holy streams of joy, and exultation,
Our souls are penetrated.

O taste and see, how great, how good He is!
His love and mercy, his truth and grace alone,
Leads us to joys eternal.

O ye enwraptur'd souls that serve the Lord
Cherubim! Seraphim! Angels and Spirits!
Love is your felicity.

Thirst on, our souls--thirst for the living streams;
Bless'd and holy! and for ever love Him!
Who us, in love, created.

Yes, we'll love and adore Him! yes, the dust
Loves its Redeemer; and all our anxious tears
Himself shall wipe away.

--Oscar.

_Phila. Repos._, III-152, May 7, 1803, Phila.

[For introductory note, cf. _Morning Song of Praise_, preceding.]

THE SHOE PINCHES.
A Song of Shoe-maker, William.
From Kotzebue.

Though idlers riot, eat and drink,
And on soft downy pillows sink,
They are not free from woe:
For every man must have his share
Of trouble, and must know best where
_The shoe does pinch his toe_.

When rainy, wise men boots will wear,
But shoes put on when all is fair,
And take times as they go;
No man that ever wore a shoe
Will say if he be fair and true,
_It never pinch'd his toe_.

_Balance and Columbian Repos._, II-288, Sept. 6, 1803, Hudson, (N. Y.).

BENEVOLENCE.--A FABLE.
Imitated from the German of Gellert.

_Port Folio_, III-352, Oct. 29, 1803, Phila.

[Also in _Amer. Universal Mag._, I-28, Jan. 2, 1797, Phila.]

THE NOSEGAY.

[Prose translation.]

_Phila. Repos._, IV-4, Jan. 7, 1804, Phila.

[S. Gessner, _Der Blumenstrauss_. W. Hooper, _New Idylles_, p. 37.]

For the Philadelphia Repository.
HOFFNUNG.

Wie des morgens helle licht
Die dunkeln 'nachts durchbricht,
Und die ganze welt erfrout
Mit des tages herlichkeit

So wann grosse traurigkeit--
Laest den menschen keine freud,
Wann verzweiflung angst und schmertze
Fuelt das arme, banges hertze.

Geht die sonne _Hoffnungs_ auf,
Und im traur'gem brust sein lauf
Beginnt; dann flichtet traurigkeit,
Und die brust ist voller freud.

Von verzweiflung, angst und schmertze
Ist befreyt das bange hertze,
O! es bringt die _Hoffnungs_ sonne,
Seeligkeit, und grosse wonne.

--ADELIO.

* * *A poetical translation is requested.

_Phila. Repos._, IV-56, Feb. 18, 1804, Phila.

For the Philadelphia Repository.
TRANSLATION
Of Adelio's German Lines in last Repository.

HOPE.

As does the morn's resplendent light
Dispel the gloomy shades of night,
And the whole universe delight,
With the day's illustrious sight--

So when the adverse fates decree
Nothing to man but misery,
When they despair and pain impart
To the keen agonized heart--

Then does his course, _Hope's_ sun from rest
Take thro' the troubled heaving breast;
Then disappears adversity,
And leaves behind felicity.

Exempt from horror is the breast,
Despair and pain sink into rest;
The sun of _Hope_ affords delight,
And happiness supremely bright.

Translator.

_Phila. Repos._, IV-64, Feb. 25, 1804, Phila.

PASSAGE FROM KLOPSTOCK'S MESSIAH.

So at the midnight hour draws nigh to the slumbering city
Pestilence. Couch'd on his broad spread wings lurks under the rampart
Death, bale-breathing. As yet unalarmed are the peaceable dwellers;
Close to his nightly-lamp the sage yet watches; and high friends
Over wine not unhallow'd, in shelter of odorous bowers,
Talk of the soul and of friendship, and weigh their immortal duration.
But too soon shall frightful Death, in a day of affliction
Pouncing over them, over them spread; in a day of moaning and
anguish....
When with wringing of hands the bride for the bridegroom loud wails;
When, now of all her children bereft, the desperate mother
Furious curses the day on which she bore, and was born ... when
Weary with hollower eye, amid the carcases totter
Even the buriers ... till the sent Death-angel, descending,
Thoughtful on thunder-clouds, beholds all lonesome and silent,
Gazes the wide desolation, and long broods over the graves, fixt.

"Perhaps some other writer will throw this fine picture into blank verse so well, as to convince the public, that the beauties of Klopstock can be naturalized without strangeness, and his peculiarities retained without affectation; that quaintness, the unavoidable companion of neologism, is as needless to genius, as hostile to grace; the hexameter, until it is familiar, must repel, and, when it is familiar, may annoy; that it wants a musical orderliness of sound; and that its cantering capricious movement opposes the grave march of solemn majesty, and better suits the ordinary scenery of Theocritus than the empyreal visions of Klopstock."

From "Criticism on Klopstock's Messiah."

_Lit. Mag. and Amer. Reg._, I-468, Mar. 1804, Phila.

[F. G. Klopstock, _Messias_.]

THE GUARDIAN SPIRIT.
From the German of Matthison.

Whene'er day-light's parting gleam
A smiling form salutes my love,
And loiters near the murm'ring stream,
And glides beneath the conscious grove:
Ah! then my Henry's spirit see:
Soft joy and peace it brings to thee.

And when at moon-light's sober ray
Thou dream'st perchance of love and me,
As thro' the pines the breezes play,
And whisper dying melody--
When tender bodings prompt the sigh--
Thy Henry's spirit hovers nigh.

When o'er the mind soft musings steal,
As thou the pleasing past hast scann'd;
Should'st thou a gentle pressure feel,
Like zephyr's kiss o'er lip and hand;--
And should the glimmering taper fade--
Then near thee 'bides thy lover's shade.

And when at midnights' solemn tide,
As soft the rolling planets shine--
Like Aeol's harp, thy couch beside,
Thou hear'st the words--'forever thine!'
Then slumber sweet, my spirit's there,
And peace and joy it brings my fair.

_Phila. Repos._, IV-160, May 19, 1804, Phila.

[Friedrich Matthisson, _Lied aus der Ferne_.]

BUeRGER'S LEONORA. [g].

[In an article on Buerger's _Lenore_, three eight-lined stanzas of Spencer's translation, and two six-lined stanzas of Stanley's translation are given.

W. R. Spencer, _Leonora_. Trans. from the German of G. A. Buergher. London, 1796.

J. T. Stanley, _Leonora_. Trans. freely from the German; 2nd ed., London, 1796.]

_Port Folio_, IV-167, May 26, 1804, Phila.

A SONNET
Translated from Jacobi.

Tell me where's the vi'let fled
Late so gaily blowing;
Springing 'neath fair Flora's tread,
Choicest sweets bestowing?
Swains the vernal scene is o'er,
And the vi'let blooms no more.

Say where hides the blushing rose,
Pride of fragrant morning;
Garland meet for beauty's brows,
Hill and dale adorning?
Gentle maid the summer's fled
And the hopeless Rose is dead!

Bear me then to yonder rill,
Late so freely flowing;
Wat'ring many a daffodil,
On its margin glowing--
Sun and wind exhaust its store:
Yonder riv'let glides no more!

Lead me to the bow'ry shade,
Late with roses flaunting;
Lov'd resort of youth and maid,
Am'rous ditty chanting--
Hail and storm with fury show'rs,
Leafless mourn with rifled bow'rs!

Say where hides the village maid,
Late yon cot adorning;
Oft I've met her in the glade,
Fair and fresh as morning?
Swain how short is beauty's bloom,
Seek her in the grassy tomb!

Whither roves the tuneful swain
Who of rural pleasures,
Rose and vi'let, rill and plain,
Sung in deftest measures?
Maiden, swift life's vision flies,
Death has clos'd the Poet's eyes.

_Companion and Weekly Misc._, I-104, Jan. 26, 1805, Balto.

[J. G. Jacobi, _Vergaenglichkeit_. W. Taylor of Norwich, _op. cit._ II-106, _Elegy_. (Variants in stanza V).]

The following is a German drinking song, popular in the Rhingau, and probably the inspiration of the _old Hock_, which it celebrates.

Bekranzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher,
Und trinkt ihn froelich leer;
In ganz Europa, ihr herren recher,
Ist solch ein wein nicht mehr.

Ihn bringt das vatterland aus seiner fuelle,
Wie war er sonst so gut?
Wie war er sonst so edel stille,
Und doch voll kraft und muth?

Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben;
Gesegnet sey der Rhein!
Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben
Uns diesen lieben wein.

So trinkt hin dann, and last uns alle wege
Uns freun und froelich seyn;
Und, wisten wir wo jemand traurig laege,
Wir gaeben ihm den wein.

TRANSLATION.

The brimful goblet crown with wines,
And drink the cordial juice,
Europe itself can't boast such vines
As these bless'd hills produce.

Yes, Germany's the copious source
Of wines that all excel;
So mild, so generous, full of force,
None cheer the heart so well.

Rhingau alone such grapes can boast,
Huzza! here's to the Rhine!
And may the wretch, who slights the toast,
Forget the taste of wine.

Come, drink about, and let's be gay,
With nectar so divine,
Is any man to grief a prey?
We'll comfort him with wine.

_Port Folio_, V-110, Apr. 13, 1805, Phila.

EPIGRAMS.
From the German of G. E. Lessing.

Adam awhile in Paradise
Enjoy'd his novel life:
He was caught napping; in a thrice
His rib was made a wife.

Poor father Adam, what a guest!
This most unlucky dose
Made the first minute of thy rest
The last of thy repose.

* * * * *

But one bad woman at a time
On earth arises.
That every one should think he has her,
I own--surprises.

* * * * *

A long way off--Lucinda strikes the men.
As she draws near,
And one see clear,
A long way off--one wishes her again.

_Phila. Repos._, V-128, Apr. 20, 1805, Phila.

In Dr. Cogan's amusing and _Shandean_ Travels on the Rhine, he has preserved a _German_ Ode to Evening. They, who are curious to behold the _Teutonic_ Muse, in the character of a pensive minstrel, may here be gratified.

Komm, stiller abend, neider,
Auf unsre kleine flur;
Dir toenen unsre lieder,
Wie schoen bist du, natur!

Schon steigt die abendroethe
Herab ins kuehle thal;
Bald glantz in sanfter roethe
Der sonne letzter strahl.

All uberal herrscht schweigen
Nur schwingt der vogel chor
Hoch aus den dunkeln zweigen
Den nacht gesang empor.

Komm, lieber abend, neider
Auf unsre kleine flur;
Dir toenen unsre lieder,
Wie schoen bist du natur.

TRANSLATION.

Come, silent Eve, return again,
Our homely cottage view,
And hear us sing a cheerful strain,
To thee, and nature due.

The sun retires yon hills behind,
And sinks into the sea,
Glancing his rays both mild and kind,
Oh, blushing maid, on thee.

To thee he yields the soothing sway,
Inviting all to rest;
The birds conclude the happy day
With singing on thy breast.

Come, silent Eve, return again,
Our homely cottage view,
And hear us sing a cheerful strain,
To thee and nature due.

_Port Folio_, V-149, May 18, 1805, Phila.

FROM THE GERMAN OF LESSING.

Ah! why am I so transient, ask'd of Jupiter, Beauty?
Only the transient is fair, smiling answer'd the God!
Love, and Youth, and the Spring, and the Flow'rs, and the Dew,
they all heard it;
Slowly they turn'd away, weeping from Jupiter's throne!

_Port Folio_, I-40, Jan. 25, 1806, Phila.

THE WOODEN LEG. [a].
An Helvetick Tale.
From the German of Solomon Gessner.

[Prose translation.]

_Polyanthos_, I-192, Feb., 1806, Boston.

[S. Gessner, _Das hoelzerne Bein_. W. Hooper, _New Idylles_, p. 78.]

It is but seldom that the Muses of the North sing more sweetly than in the following strain:

SONG--FROM THE GERMAN.

Scarce sixteen summers had I seen,
And rov'd my native bow'rs;
Nor stray'd my thoughts beyond the green,
Bedew'd with shrubs and flow'rs.

When late a stranger youth appear'd;
I neither wish'd nor sought him;
He came, but whence I never heard,
And spake what love had taught him.

His hair in graceful ringlets play'd,
All eyes are charm'd that view them,
And o'er his comely shoulders stray'd,
Where wanton zephyrs blew them.

His speaking eye of azure hue
Seem'd ever softly suing,
And such an eye, so clear and blue,
Ne'er shone for maid's undoing.

His face was fair, his cheek was red,
With blushes ever burning;
And all he spoke was deftly said,
Though far beyond my learning.

Where'er I stray'd, the youth was nigh,
His look soft sorrows speaking;
Sweet maid! he'd say, then gaze and sigh,
As if his heart were breaking.

And once, as low his head he hung,
I fain would ask the meaning;
When round my neck his arms he flung,
Soft tears his grief explaining.

Such freedom ne'er was ta'en till now,
And now 'twas unoffending;
Shame spread my cheek with ruddy glow,
My eyes kept downward bending.

Nor aught I spoke, my looks he read,
As if with anger burning;
No--not one word--away he sped,
Ah! would he were returning.

_Port Folio_, I-189, Mar. 29, 1806, Phila.

PASTORAL POETRY.

From Gessner's "New Idyls."
THE ZEPHYRS. [b].

[Prose translation.] _Weekly Visitant_, I-158, May 17, 1806, Salem.

[S. Gessner, _Die Zephyre_. W. Hooper, _New Idylles_, p. 16.]

From Gessner's "New Idylles."
THE CARNATION.

[Prose translation.] _Weekly Visitant_, I-159, May 17, 1806, Salem.

[S. Gessner, _Die Nelke_. W. Hooper, _New Idylles_, p. 7.]

THE NAME UNKNOWN.

Imitated from Klopstock's ode to his future mistress. By Thomas Campbell, Esq., author of Pleasures of Hope.

_Evening Fire-Side or Lit. Misc._, II-165, May 24, 1806, Phila.

[F. G. Klopstock, _Die kuenftige Geliebte_.

The above imitation appeared first in a newspaper, _Newport Mercury_, No. 2160, Aug. 30, 1803, Newport.]

THE FOWLER--A SONG.
Altered from a German air, in the opera of "Die Zauberlote."

A CARELESS whistling lad am I,
On sky-lark wings my moments fly;
There's not a _Fowler_ more renown'd
In all the world--for ten miles round!
Ah! who like me can spread the net?
Or tune the merry flageolet?

Then why--O why should I repine,
Since all the roving birds are mine?
The thrush and linnet in the vale,
The sweet sequester'd nightingale,
The bulfinch, wren, and wood-lark, all
Obey my summons when I call:
O! could I form some cunning snare
To catch the coy, coquetting fair,
In _Cupid's_ filmy web so fine,
The pretty girls should all be mine!

When all were mine--among the rest,
I'd choose the Lass I lik'd the best;
And should my charming mate be kind;
And smile, and kiss me to my mind,
With her I'd tie the nuptial knot,
Make _Hymen's_ cage of my poor cot,
And love away this fleeting life,
Like Robin Redbreast and his wife!

_Mo. Anthology and Boston Rev._, III-591, Nov. 1806, Boston.

[E. Schickaneder, _Die Zauberfloete_. Oper in zwei Aufzuegen von Mozart. Dichtung nach Ludwig Giesecke von E. Schickaneder.

James Montgomery, _The Wanderer of Switzerland and Other Poems_, London, 1806. First Amer. ed. from second London ed., N. Y., 1807. P. 93.]

THE CHASE.

In the third number[33] of the Port Folio we inserted a very humorous parody of the following ballad of Buerger. We understand from the criticks in the German Language that the original is eminently beautiful. Its merit was once so highly appreciated in England that a host of translators started at once in the race for public favor. The ensuing version which is, we believe, by Sir Walter Scott, Esqr., well deserves a place in this journal.

[Footnote 33: _Parody on Buerger's Earl Walter_ in _Port
Folio_, III-44, Jan. 17, 1807. Cf. p. 165.]

[The translation by Scott follows.]

_Port Folio_, III-100, Feb. 14, 1807, Phila.

[Also in _Weekly Mag._, II-413, July 28, 1798, Phila.]

The following charming
SONG
is translated from the German by Mr. Herbert.

"Hail, orient sun, auspicious light!
Hail, new-born orb of day!
Lo, from behind the wood-crown'd height,
Breaks forth thy glittering ray.
Behold it sparkle in the stream,
And on the dew drop shine!
O, may sweet joy's enlivening beam
Mix his pure rays with thine!
The Zephyrs now, with frolic wing,
Their rosy beds forsake;
And, shedding round the sweets of spring,
Their drowsy comrades wake.
Soft sleep and all his airy forms
Fly from the dawning day:
Like little loves O may their swarms
On Chloe's bosom play!
Ye Zephyrs haste; from every flower
The sweetest perfumes take;
And bear them hence to Chloe's bower;
For soon the maid must wake!
And, hovering round her fragrant bed,
In breezes call my fair;
Go, frolic round her graceful head,
And scent her golden hair!
Then gently whisper in her ear,
That ere the sun gan rise,
By the soft murmuring fountain here
I breath'd her name in sighs."

_Observer_, I-352, May 30, 1807, Balto.

Selected Poetry.
THE POEM OF HALLER VERSIFIED.
By HENRY JAMES PYE, Esq., P.L.

Ah! woods forever dear! whose branches spread
Their verdant arch o'er Hasel's breezy head,
When shall I once again, supinely laid,
Hear Philomela charm your list'ning shade?
When shall I stretch my careless limbs again,
Where, gently rising from the velvet plain,
O'er the green hills, in easy curve that bend,
The mossy carpet Nature's hands extend?
Where all is silent! save the gales that move
The leafy umbrage of the whisp'ring grove;
Or the soft murmurs of the rivulet's wave,
Whose chearing streams the lonely meadows lave.

O Heav'n! when shall once more these eyes be cast
On scenes where all my spring of life was pass'd;
Where, oft responsive to the falling rill,
Sylvia and love my artless lays would fill?
While Zephyr's fragrant breeze, soft breathing, stole
A pleasing sadness o'er my pensive soul:
Care, and her ghastly train, were far away; }
While calm, beneath the sheltering woods I lay }
Mid shades, impervious to the beams of day. }

Here--sad reverse!--from scenes of pleasure far,
I wage with sorrow unremitting war:
Oppress'd with grief, my ling'ring moments flow,
Nor aught of joy, or aught of quiet, know.
Far from the scenes that gave my being birth,
From parents far, an outcast of the earth!
In youth's warm hours, from each restriction free,
Left to myself in dangerous liberty.

Ah! scenes of earthly joy! ah, much-lov'd shades!
Soon may my footsteps tread your vernal glades.
Ah! should kind Heav'n permit me to explore
Your seats of still tranquillity once more!
E'en now to Fancy's visionary eye,
Hope shews the flattering hour of transport nigh,
Blue shines the aether, when the storm is past;
And calm repose succeeds to sorrow's blast.
Flourished, ye scenes of every new delight!
Wave wide your branches to my raptur'd sight!
While, ne'er to roam again, my wearied feet
Seek the kind refuge of your calm retreat.

Now pale disease shoots thro' my languid frame,
And checks the zeal for wisdom and for fame.
Now droops fond hope, by Disappointment cross'd;
Chill'd by neglect, each sanguine wish is lost.
O'er the weak mound stern Ocean's billows ride,
And waft destruction in with every tide;
While Mars, descending from his crimson car,
Fans with fierce hands the kindling flames of war.

Her gentle aid let Consolation lend;
All human evils hasten to their end.
The storm abates at every gust it blows;
Past ills enhance the comforts of repose.
He who ne'er felt the pressure of distress,
Ne'er felt returning pleasure's keen excess.
Time who Affliction bore on rapid wing,
My panting heart to happiness may bring;
I, on my native hills, may yet inhale
The purer influence of the ambient gale.

_Observer_, II-95, Aug. 8, 1807, Balto.

[Albrecht von Haller, _Sehnsucht nach dem Vaterlande_.]

Walter Scott, Esq., whose honoured name is now perfectly familiar to every lover of poetical description, has lately published a ballad which we are solicitous to preserve in this paper. The gayety of the beginning, contrasted with the solemnity of the conclusion of this terrifick ballad cannot fail to strike all who relish The Castle of Otranto, or The Romance of the Forest.

FREDERICK AND ALICE.

This tale is imitated rather than translated from a fragment introduced in Goethe's "Claudina von Villa Bella," where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti to engage the attention of the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess to my friend Mr. Lewis, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state; and who, after some material improvement, published it in his "Tales of Wonder."

[The poem follows.]

_Port Folio_, IV-134, Aug. 29, 1807, Phila.

[Goethe, _Claudine von Villa Bella_, Act II. Song by "Rugantino" (Karlos von Castellvecchio).

M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Wonder_.]

THE LASS OF FAIR WONE.
From the German of Buerger.

_Charms of Lit._, p. 103, 1808, Trenton.

[Also in _Phila. Minerva_, II, Dec. 17, 1796, Phila.]

THE WOODEN LEG. [b].
A Swiss Idyll.
By GESSNER.

[Prose translation.]

_Charms of Lit._, p. 401, 1808, Trenton.

[S. Gessner, _Das hoelzerne Bein_.]

FROM THE GERMAN OF GESNER.

Hail, Morning, to thy rising beam
That gilds with light the mountain's brow,
And shines and glitters in the stream
That winds along the vale below!

Joy, and health, and glad delight
Await thy steps, thy march pursue;
The Zephyr now that slept the night
In flowers that weep beneath the dew,

His plumes with new-born vigour tries,
And lifts him from his balmy bed;
And dreams that round the wearied eyes
Of mortals hover'd, now are fled.

Haste, ye Gales, and thro' the air
Waft the sweets from every flower,
And wave your wings around my Fair,
What slumbers in yon rosy bower;

Paint o'er her lips and cheek's bright hues,
And heave upon her heaving breast,
And when yo've chas'd Sleep's balmy dews,
And gently burst the bonds of rest,

Oh whisper to her list'ning ear,
That e'er bright Morn had deck'd the sky,
These streams beheld me shed the tear,
And heard me pour for her the sigh!

_Lady's Weekly Misc._, VII-112, June 11, 1808, N. Y.

[S. Gessner, _Morgenlied_.]

MORNING SONG.
(Morgenlied) from the German of Gesner.

Welcome, early orb of morn!
Welcome, infant day!
O'er the wood-top'd mountain borne,
Mark its coming ray!
Now o'er babbling brooks it beams;
Sips from each flower its _dew_;
Now with glorious gladdening gleams
Wakes the world anew.
Zephyrs first, o'er flowers that slumber'd,
Quit their couch, and play;
Breathe o'er flowers in sighs unnumber'd,
Breathe the scent of day.
Fancy now her reign gives o'er,
Every vision flies;
Chloe's cheek is wan no more,
Cupids round it rise.
Hasten, Zephyr, waft from roses
All their loveliest bloom!
Haste where Chloe now reposes,
Wake her from her tomb!
To the fairest's couch repair,
Wanton round her pillow;
O'er her lip and bosom fair
Bathe thy blandest billow!
She wakes the whispers to the gale,
Wakes from her morning dream;
Whilst so the stream, and thro' the vale,
I er'st have breathed her name.

_Emerald_, n. s., I-562, Sept. 10, 1808, Boston.

[S. Gessner, _Morgenlied_.]

TRANSLATION OF SHELLER'S "FORGET ME NOT."
(From the German.)

Belov'd of my bosom, alas my fond heart
Does weep for the fate of my heart-rending lot;
To range the wide world, now from me you depart,
Yet remember me ever, "forget me not."

If moving in circles of beauty and love,
Perchance to adore some sweet maid, be your lot,
O! then may my spirit thy wav'rings reprove,
And whisper thee gently, "forget me not."

If hap'ly hard fate should you e'er from me sever,
How drearily mournful would be my sad lot,
In sorrow's dark path I would wander forever,
Nor smile more with joy, then "forget me not."

If in the fresh bloom of my life's early blossom,
To leave you my dear, and this world, be my lot,
Thine be the last sigh that escapes from my bosom,
Then think how I love you; "O! forget me not."

Yet tho' we now part, in the bless'd realms above,
We will meet soon again, free from life's woeful lot;
We will meet to dear joy, we will meet to sweet love,
Then no more need I say "O! forget me not."

Z.

_Gleaner_, I-325, Mar. 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).

TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN.

Whoever has perused the prophetick metrical compositions of Van Vander Horderclogeth must surely remember the poem on the 3697 fol. of which the following is a translation; it commences thus--

Vrom Grouter gruder grout gropstock, Zordur zoop, &c.

All gloomy and sorrowful Beelzebub sat,
With his imps and his devils around,
When the thundering knocker of Hell's outer grate
Rang a peal so terrifick and loud on the gate,
That all Erebus echoed the sound.

Full swift to the portal the young devils flew,
And the long gloomy passage unbarr'd;
When a lanthorn-jaw'd monster stood forth to their view,
So meagre his figure, so pale was his hue,
That the devils all trembled and star'd.

All green were his eyes in their sockets decay'd,
His nose was projecting and wide,
In a dusty frock-coat was his carcase array'd,
On his scull he a three-corner'd scraper display'd,
And two volumes[34] he bore at his side.

So foul were his breath and the words that he said,
That his teeth had long rotted away--
And now to the devils a signal he made,
To show him their master, the devils obey'd,
And brought him where Beelzebub lay.

Old Beelzebub rose, as the monster came in,
And stood for a moment in dread,
For they look'd like each other enough to be kin,
Save that one had whole feet and a light-colour'd skin,
And the other had horns on his head.

'Whence art thou?' said Beelzebub; 'stranger, proclaim,
For if Satan can rightly divine,
Thou art surely some hero of throat-cutting fame,
For ne'er to these regions a spirit there came,
With figure so hellish as thine.'

'No throats have I cut,' the lank goblin replied,
With voice that was hollow and shrill;
'I have cheated, and bullied, and swindled, and lied,
Sedition and falsehood I've spread far and wide,
And in mischief I never was still.

'My name is ---- ----;' no sooner said he,
Than Beelzebub rose with a grin;
He embrac'd the foul monster, who also display'd
His joy at the meeting; and both of them made
All Hell echo round with their din.

_Ordeal_, I-157, Mar. 11, 1809, Boston.

[Footnote 34: I have not been able to discover what these
volumes were. There is a short note in the German, which
implies that they were entitled Dulder Soudth.]

THE FOWLER.

A Song. Altered from a German air, in the opera of "Dizauberlote." _Gleaner_, I-374, Apr. 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).

[Also in _Mo. Anthology and Boston Rev._, III-591, Nov. 1806, Boston.]

TO CHLOE.
From the German of Gesner.

[Prose translation.]

_Visitor_, I-154, Nov. 4, 1809, Richmond.

[S. Gessner, _An Chloen_.]

SONG.
From the German of Jacobi.

_Boston Mirror_, II-88, Dec. 30, 1809, Boston.

[Same as, _A Sonnet_, by Jacobi, in _Companion and Weekly Misc._, I-104, Jan. 26, 1805, Balto.]

I publish the following new translation of "The Wild Hunter," first on account of its superiority over every other, and secondly because it is my intention in a future number to notice particularly this _chef d'oeuvre_ of the German poet.

THE WILD HUNTER.

Loud, loud the baron winds his horn;
And, see, a lordly train
On horse, on foot, with deafening din,
Comes scouring o'er the plain.

O'er heath, o'er field, the yelping pack
Dash swift, from couples freed;
O'er heath, o'er field, close on their track,
Loud neighs the fiery steed.

And now the Sabbath's holy dawn
Beam'd high with purple ray,
And bright each hallowed temple's dome
Reflected back the day.

Now deep and clear the pealing bells
Struck on the list'ning ear,
And heaven-ward rose from many a voice
The hymn of praise and prayer.

Swift, swift along the crossway, still
They speed with eager cry:
See! right and left, two horsemen strange
Their rapid coursers ply.

Who were the horsemen right and left?
That may I guess full well:
Who were the horsemen right and left?
That may I never tell.

The right, of fair and beauteous mien,
A milk-white steed bestrode;
Mild as the vernal skies, his face
With heavenly radiance glow'd.

The left spurr'd fast his fiery barb,
Red as the furnace flame;
Sullen he loured, and from his eyes
The death-like lightning came.

'Right welcome to our noble sport;'
The baron greets them fair;
'For well I wot ye hold it good
To banish moping care.

'No pleasure equal to the chase,
Or earth, or heaven can yield;'
He spoke,--he waved his cap in air,
And foremost rushed afield.

'Turn thee!' the milder horseman cries;
'Turn thee from horns and hounds!
Hear'st not the bells, hear'st not the quire,
Mingle their sacred sounds?

'They drown the clamor of the chase;
Oh! hunt not then to-day,
Nor let a fiend's advice destroy
Thy better angel's sway.'

'Hunt on, hunt on,' his comrade cries,
'Nor heed yon dotard's spell;
What is the bawling quire to us?
Or what the jangling bell?

'Well may the chase delight thee more;
And well may'st learn from me,
How brave, how princely is our sport,
From bigot terrors free.'

'Well said! well said! in thee I own
A hero's kindled fire;
These pious fool'ries move not us,
We reck nor priest, nor quire.

'And thou, believe me, saintlike dolt,
Thy bigot rage is vain;
From prayers and beadrolls, what delight
Can sportsmen hope to gain?'

Still hurry, hurry, on they speed
O'er valley, hill and plain;
And ever at the baron's side
Attend the horsemen twain.

See, panting, see, a milk-white hart
Up-springs from yonder thorn:
'Now swiftly ply both horse and foot;
Now louder wind the horn!'

See, falls a huntsman! see, his limbs
The pangs of death distort!
'Lay there and rot: no caitiff's death
Shall mar our princely sport.'

Light bounds with deftest speed the hart,
Wide o'er the country borne;
Now closer prest a refuge seeks
Where waves the ripening corn.

See, the poor owner of the field
Approach with tearful eyes;
'O pity, pity, good my lords!'
Alas! in vain he cries.

'O spare what little store the poor
By bitter sweat can earn!'
Now soft the milder horseman warns
The baron to return.

Not so persuades his stern compeer,
Best pleas'd with darkest deeds;
Tis his to sway the baron's heart,
Reckless what mercy pleads.

'Away!' the imperious noble cries;
'Away, and leave us free!
Off! or by all the powers of hell,
Thou too shalt hunted be!

'Here, fellows! let this villain prove
My threats were not in vain:
Loud lash around his piteous face
The whips of all my train.'

Tis said, tis done: swift o'er the fence
The baron foremost springs;
Swift follow hound, and horse, and man,
And loud the welkin rings.

Loud rings the welkin with their shouts,
While man, and horse, and hound,
Ruthless tread down each ripening ear,
Wide o'er the smoking ground.

O'er heath and field, o'er hill and dale,
Scared by the approaching cries,
Still close pursued, yet still unreach'd,
Their destin'd victim flies.

Now mid the lowing herds that graze
Along yon verdant plain,
He hopes, concealed from every eye,
A safe retreat to gain.

In vain, for now the savage train
Press ravening on his heels:
See, prostrate at the baron's feet
The affrighted herdsman kneels.

Fear for the safety of his charge
Inspires his faltering tongue;
'O spare,' he cries, 'these harmless beasts,
Nor work an orphan's wrong.

'Think, here thy fury would destroy
A friendless widow's all!'
He spoke:--the gentle stranger strove
To enforce soft pity's call.

Not so persuades his sullen frere,
But pleas'd with darkest deeds;
Tis his to sway the baron's heart,
Reckless what mercy pleads.

'Away, audacious hound!' he cries;
'Twould do my heart's-blood good,
Might I but see thee transform'd to beasts
Thee and thy beggar brood.

'Then, to the very gates of heaven,
Who dare to say me nay!
With joy I'd hunt the losel fry;
Come fellows, no delay!'

See, far and wide the murderous throng
Deal many a deadly wound;
Mid slaughter'd numbers, see, the hart
Sinks bleeding on the ground.

Yet still he summons all his strength
For one poor effort more,
Staggering he flies; his silver sides
Drop mingled sweat and gore.

And now he seeks a last retreat
Deep in the darkling dell,
Where stands, amidst embowering oaks,
A hermit's holy cell.

E'en here the madly eager train
Rush swift with impious rage,
When, lo! persuasion on his tongue,
Steps forth the reverend sage.

'O cease thy chase! nor thus invade
Religion's free abode;
For know, the tortur'd creature's groans
E'en now have reach'd his god.

'They cry at heaven's high mercy seat,
For vengeance on thy head;
O turn, repentant turn, ere yet
The avenging bolt is sped.'

Once more religion's cause in vain
The gentle stranger pleads;
Once more, alas! his sullen frere
A willing victim leads.

'Dash on!' the harden'd sinner cries;
'Shalt thou disturb our sport?
No! boldly would I urge the chase
In heaven's own inmost court.

'What reck I then thy pious rage?
No mortal man I fear:
Not god in all his terrors arm'd
Should stay my fix'd career.'

He cracks his whip, he winds his horn,
He calls his vassal-crew;
Lo! horse and hound, and sage and cell,
All vanish from his view.

All, all, are gone!--no single rack
His eager eye can trace;
And silence, still as death, has hush'd
The clamors of the chase.

In vain he spurs his courser's sides,
Nor back nor forward borne;
He winds his horn, he calls aloud,
But hears no sound return.

And now inclos'd in deepest night,
Dark as the silent grave,
He hears the sullen tempest roar,
As roars the distant wave.

Loud and louder still the storm
Howls through the troubled air;
Ten thousand thunders from on high
The voice of judgment bear.

Accursed before god and man,
Unmoved by threat or prayer;
Creator, nor created, aught
Thy frantic rage would spare.

'Think not in vain creation's lord
Has heard his creature's groan;
E'en now the torch of vengeance flames
High by his awful throne.

'Now, hear thy doom! to aftertimes
A dread example given,
For ever urge thy wild career,
By fiendish hell-hounds driven.'

The voice had ceased; the sulphurous flash
Shot swift from either pole;
Sore shook the grove; cold horror seized
The trembling miscreant's soul.

Again the rising tempest roars,
Again the lightnings play;
And every limb, and every nerve
Is frozen with dismay.

He sees a giant's swarthy arm
Start from the yawning ground;
He feels a demon grasp his head,
And rudely wrench it round.

In torrents now from every side,
Pours fast a fiery flood;
On each o'erwhelming wave upborne,
Loud howls the hellish brood.

Sullen and grisly gleams the light,
Now red, now green, now blue;
Whilst o'er the gulf the fiendish train
Their destined prey pursue.

In vain he shrieks with wild despair,
In vain he strives to fly;
Still at his back the hell-born crew
Their cursed business ply.

By day, full many a fathom deep
Below earth's smiling face;
By night, high through the troubled air,
They speed their endless chase.

In vain to turn his eyes aside
He strives with wild affright;
So never may those maddening scenes
Escape his tortured sight.

Still must he see those dogs of hell
Close hovering on his track;
Still must he see the avenging scourge
Uplighted at his back.

Now this is the wild baron's hunt;
And many a village youth,
And many a sportsman (dare they speak)
Could vouch the awful truth.

For oft benighted midst the wilds
The fiendish troop they hear,
Now shrieking shrill, now cursing loud,
Come thundering through the air.

No hand shall stay those dogs of hell
Or quench that sea of fire,
Till god's own dreadful day of doom
Shall bid the world expire!

_Rambler's Mag._, I-137, [1809], N. Y.

[G. A. Buerger, _Der wilde Jaeger_.]

III.

TRANSLATIONS OF DUTCH, DANISH, NORWEGIAN AND ICELANDIC POETRY, AND
ORIGINAL POEMS REFERRING TO THE GERMAN COUNTRIES.

We hear from _Annopolis-Royal_ that a play was acted the last Winter for the Entertainment of the Officers and Ladies at that Place and that the following Lines were Part of the Prologue compos'd and spoke on that Occasion.

Whilst to relieve a generous Queen's Distress,
Whom proud, ambitious Potentates oppress:
Our king pursues the most effectual Ways,
Sooths some to Peace, and there the Storm allays;
And against others, who're more loath to yield,
He leads his _Britons_ to the _German_ Field:
Where to his Cost th' insulting Foe has found
What 'tis with _Britons_ to dispute the Ground:
We still enjoying Peace in this cold Clime,
With innocent diversions pass our Time, &c.

_Amer. Mag. and Hist. Chron._, I-348, Apr. 1744, Boston.

WINTER, A POEM.
By the same [_i. e._, Annandius].

The twelfth stanza:

Thrice happy they! but why my muse,
To rural pastimes so profuse?
The crouded city surely yields,
More joy than ice and snowy fields?
Here folks are witty and well dress'd,
And blooming beauty is caress'd
In ev'ry form art can devise-- }
With soothing flattery solemn lies, }
And all that nymphs deluded prize }
Here fashions reign, and modes prevail,
And in twelve moons again grow stale,
Thus ever vary, ever change,
Yet ever please--a thing most strange!
And here each thing is told that's new }
What _Loundoun_ or what _Richlieu_ do, }
Each secret expedition too-- }
And then great FREDERICK'S _noble_ feats,
When he th' imperial forces beats.
Such themes the lazy hours beguile;
There's nothing else that's worth our while.
* * * * *

_Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron._, I-238, Feb. 1758, Phila.

To the Proprietors, &c.

GENTLEMEN:

The honour of becoming a father has made me desirous of ushering the following _Ode_ into the world, which is my own true, honest, and lawfully begotten birth. I, therefore know of no better method than to commit it to the care of gentlemen of your abilities and public character; for if it remains with me it must live and die in obscurity.

Philadelphia, February 25th.
PHILANDREIA.

ON THE COMPLEAT VICTORY GAIN'D BY
HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY OVER THE FRENCH
AND IMPERIAL ARMY, THE 5TH OF NOVEMBER, 1757.

A _Pindaric_ Ode.

'Tis he! 'tis he! I hear him from afar,
Thundering like the God of War;
To Rosbach's plains, in dread array,
The god-like hero bends his way!
Hark! the rattling rumbling noise of drums!
He comes, he comes!
See, _Prussia's_ awful king's at hand!
He speaks, he speaks! attentive stand!
His well known voice, the gallant warriours hear,
And bend their wide-extended wings both front and rear,
Which half enclose him round.
Stern as the face of war, and yet serene, }
With grace attractive, and majestic mein, }
Was the mighty monarch seen. }
With martial rage each bosom glow'd,
While from his lips those moving accents flow'd--
'My valiant troops, my dear and trusty friends,
'The hour at last is come, in which depends
'What ever is, or should to us be dear,
'Upon the sword-unsheath'd, and glitt'ring spear.
'For PROTESTANTS-_unborn_ you fight: Your cause is good,
'Which you have yet maintain'd, thro' seas of richest blood.
'And, bear me witness, that your Prince thus far,
'Hath shar'd each danger in this glorious war;
'Nor shall it e'er by envious[35] tongue be told
'Your leader shrunk from watching, hunger, cold,
'And left the burden to his vet'rans bold
'Oh! no; my faithful bands!
'With you your FRED'RICK stands,
'For _Freedom_ ready to impart
'Those crimson drops that roll around his heart'--
He spoke: And acclamations loud,
Like thunder bursting from a cloud,
Struck th' approaching foe with awe;
And the madly-floating sound
Fill'd the wide extended plains around,
With the wild _Huzza_.
Each warrior, big with rage,
Stands panting to engage;
And now the voice of furious Joy
Again bursts forth into the vaulted sky;
And the rude rocks rebound
The warlike trumpet's solemn sound--
"Destroy! destroy! destroy!"
As water roaring from a mountain's side
Tears down whole rocks with its impetuous tide;
And rolling through the plains with furious sweep, }
Bears off the shepherd's cottage, and his sheep, }
Into the surging of th' astonish'd deep; }
So each band,
Sword in hand,
Pour'd on the foe;
Thund'ring, flashing,
Fiercely clashing
Arms on Arms--
Glory's Charms,
Fir'd each breast with martial glow,
Ah, see what piteous scenes appear.
When warriors yield their breath;
Now dying groans invade the ear,
They sink in glorious death.
_Prussian_ rage the foe confounds,
Some stagger, fall, are slain,
Some cover'd o'er with blood and wounds,
Lie weltring on the plain,
Surpriz'd and confounded,
With horror surrounded,
And pale fear half dead,
They're vanquish'd and fled.
Hark! hark! the trumpet's sound
A shout for _Victory_ spreads around;
And _Victory_ the vales,
And _Victory_ the dales,
And _Victory_ the tufted hills rebound!
When muttering thunders roll along the sky.
You may have seen the winged lightnings fly;
Quick as thought, the flashes glance
Thro' th' immensurable wide expanse--
So nimble warriours flew,
When they gave their foes the rout,
With this universal shout,
"Pursue! pursue! pursue!"
O'er carcasses of heroes slain,
The mighty victors rode,
Where shiver'd armour strew'd the plain
Empurpled o'er with blood;
Now thund'ring on their broken rear,
He spreads destruction, death and fear,
Till day forsakes him, and the sullen night,
In thickest gloom of hov'ring shades, descends
To the assistance of her ghastly friends,
And screens the _vanquish'd_ from the _victor's_ sight!

_Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron._, I-240, Feb. 1758, Phila.

[Footnote 35: We have taken the liberty to make two or three
small alterations here, which we flatter ourselves the
ingenious author's judgment will approve of and excuse, as
they do not affect the sense.]

ODE ON THE LATE VICTORY OBTAINED
BY THE KING OF PRUSSIA,
By the same [_i. e._, Annandius].

I.

Hail matchless monarch! prince renown'd!
Long be thy head with laurels crown'd,
By victories obtained!
For liberty long hast thou stood,
In crimson fields of war and blood
That peace may be regain'd.

II.

When Austria and aspiring Gaul
Determin'd kingdoms to enthral,
Lo Prussia's pow'rful prince!
With watchful eye and warlike hand,
Makes them aghast and trembling stand,
Rais'd up by providence.

III.

As when a Lion rears his head,
The forest wide is fill'd with dread,
Each creature seeks his den;
Or when Leviathan the great
Displays himself in finny state
He terrifies the main.

IV.

In fair record shall long remain
The DAY, when on _Thuringia's_ plain
SOUBISE before him fled;
When HILBOURGHAUSEN'S num'rous band
'Gainst Prussian valor could not stand,
With terror almost dead.

V.

With haste they fled, and bless'd the night,
Which hid them from the victor's sight,
And favoured their retreat.
Near Freybourg walls, the _Unstrut_ pass'd.
On hills of Eckersberg harras'd,
They mourn'd their adverse fate.

VI.

O glorious prince! O warlike train!
Who hunger, cold and toil sustain
With brave unyielding mind!
To you proud Austria shall submit,
And LOUIS lovingly shall greet
The _Prussian_ as his friend.

VII.

In characters of purest gold
Thy speech deserves to be enroll'd,
Before the battle made;
Each Soldier stil'd great FRED'RICK'S friend,
Who can his country's rights defend
When her fierce foes invade.

VIII.

Who would, in battle lag behind,
That serves a prince so great, so kind,
In every danger near?
When monarchs' lives are laid at stake,
What subject would his king forsake?
What room is left for fear?

IX.

Europe on thee has fix'd her eye,
Great monarch! All on thee rely
Her balance just to keep.
May this great end thy labours crown,
Be sempiternal thy renown,
When thou in dust shall sleep.

Philadelphia, February 10, 1758.

_Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron._, I-240, Feb. 1758, Phila.

The same worthy motives that induced the author to send us the following poem, will induce us to give it place this month, altho we are already crowded with materials. We think it our duty, as _Britons_ and _Protestants_, to take every opportunity of celebrating such an illustrious hero as the King of _Prussia_; and, however unequal the strains may be thought, yet if they contribute ever so little to raise an imitation of his noble and almost divine atchievments, in the cause of _Religion_ and _Liberty_, our end will be fully answered.

ON THE GLORIOUS VICTORY OBTAINED BY
THE HEROICK KING OF PRUSSIA OVER THE
IMPERIAL ARMY NEAR NEWMARK IN
SILESIA THE 5TH DECEMBER 1757.

I.

My muse! again attempt the lyre;
Rouse! rouse! thy whole poetic fire!
Great FREDRICK'S deeds do still require
More ample praise.
Let his great acts the verse inspire,
And tuneful be thy lays.

II.

Illustrious HANNIBAL of old,
CAESAR the brave and SCIPIO bold,
For battles won stand high enroll'd
In hist'ry's page!
Let Fred'rick's name with theirs be told,
The HERO of his age!

III.

_Rosbach!_ thy plain the VICTOR owns!
'Twas fill'd with shrieks and dying groans,
And mangled limbs and shatter'd bones--
In heaps they lay!
The vanquished _Gaul_ as yet bemoans
That inauspicious day.

IV.

Yea FRED'RICK bent on conquests new,
Doth ALEXANDER-like pursue,
As if the world he would subdue--
Undaunted prince!
That thou 'rt a _Hero_ great and true
Each action doth evince.

V.

_Silesia_ first demands relief,
His losses there augment his grief;
Thitherward the _Prussians_ and their CHIEF,
To BEVERN'S aid
Make hasty marches; and in brief
Their parts they nobly play'd.

VI.

See! see! the godlike MAN proceed!
And vet'ran bands to battle lead,
Inur'd to toil, and warlike deed,
A hardy race!
Such troops are princes' friends indeed,
And do their LEADER grace.

VII.

The trumpet's sound, and loudest noise
Of martial drums, increase their joys;
Not by compulsion led, but choice,
And bold to fight,
Their _Country's_ cause in mind they poise;
_War! War!_ is their delight!

VIII.

Now they engage with furious shout;
And join in battle fierce and stout,
Th' invet'rate _Foe_ at length they rout;
And loud they cry--
O! matchless _Prussians_! ne'er give out;
Pursue! Cut off! Destroy!

IX.

Th' intrepid victors far and near
Spread fierce destruction on the rear,
Their enemies with trembling fear
Their arms lay down;
Who whilom haughty and severe,
Had deem'd the field their own.

X.

See them triumphant bear away
Th' imperial standards waving gay!
A thousand trophies line the way;
As they return,
Beneath their feet, a hapless prey,
The vanquish'd mourn.

XI.

Behold the blood impurpled plain,
And shiver'd armour of the slain!
Their dreams of honour, ah! how vain?
Gasping they lie!
Now of their wounds complain,
Now sink and faint and die.

XII.

Such is th' event of human things,
The fates of emp'rors and of kings;
Death in the rear disaster brings,
Dreadful to see!
Such as great POPE or HOMER sings,
Strains far too high for me.

XIII.

But CHARLES and valiant DAUN retreat,
Who lately led an army great--
At _Breslau_ now in shatter'd state
They rendezvous:
And there bemoan their adverse fate,
And dismal overthrow.

XIV.

The _Prussian Chief_ pursues with speed,
At his approach they're fill'd with dread,
From whose terrific arm, dismay'd,
So late they flew!
O FREDRICK! matchless prince, proceed,
Thy glorious course pursue!

XV.

To him those _Heros_ yield the town,
And him a _greater Hero_ own;
Who soon its walls could batter down,
And lay them low.
Long may he wear the _Prussian Crown_,
And curb each haughty _Foe_.

--Annandius.

March 11th, 1758.

_Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron._, I-279, Mar. 1757, Phila.

A LITERAL TRANSLATION OF THE KING
OF PRUSSIA'S ODE.

I.

Oh God! all powerful God!
Invincible, unknown!
Creator, father of all;
Whom every nation implores;
Whom the Barbarian worships in the wind.
By what name will it please thee
That I shall address thee? Oh infinite,
All wise, and eternal spirit!
At the foot of thy sacred throne I most humbly bow my head.

II.

Forsaken by my only friends,
In a strange country,
Where winter was near killing us;
The enraged enemy on every side,
With their savage instruments,
The sword and fire consuming,
As if sacrificers,
They came with their deadly rage,
And hasten'd to destroy us with cries of triumph.

III.

But in thy penetrating view,
How vain are powerful troops!
I, still intrepid, dare the combat;
My buckler and my lance being my cause:
And behold the armies meet;
They turn their backs, we following to punish:
Victorious each of my soldiers
Seems to carry of war
The most terrible thunder;
And every arm is a thousand in the fury of the combat.

IV.

Then I owe thee success
To fortune! why so?
Justice succoured me;
From on high she cast down her eyes;
And when she perceived the contending parties,
She lifted up her hand to weigh
The right of each side,
And as she found the balance incline, she employ'd her sword.

The King of Prussia employs himself in times of peace in the following manner: He rises at five; on business till seven; dresses, and receives letters and petitions till nine; from nine to eleven with his ministers; then on the parade, to exercise the guards; dines at half an hour after twelve with some of his officers; at half an hour after one he retires till five; then somebody reads to him till seven; then the concert; at nine come the men of genius; they sup half an hour after, and converse till eleven; then the king retires, and at twelve goes to bed.--He is a statesman, soldier, author, and musician; indefatigable in business; and by method overlooks and directs everything; very frugal; without farce of state; the idle officers of the court have the usual titles; but no pay for the drones, tho' they are mostly officers.

THE THIRD PSALM PARAPHRASED, ALLUDING
TO HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY.

Look down, O God! regard my cry!
On thee my hopes depend:
I'm close beset, without ally;
Be thou my shield and friend.
Confed'rate kings and princes league,
On ev'ry side attack
To perpetrate the black intrigue
But thou canst drive them back,
Long did I fear their wink and nod;
In close cabals they cry'd,
_There is no help for him in God_;
His kingdom we'll divide.
Amid their army's dreadful glare
Thou gav'st me inward might,
Teaching my arm the art of war,
My fingers how to fight.
Tho' vet'ran troops my camp invest,
Expert in war's alarms,
Calmly I lay me down to rest
In thy protecting arms.
Nor will I fear their empty boasts,
Tho' thousands thousands join;
Since thou art stil'd _the God of hosts_,
And victory is thine.
Arise, O God, and plead my cause,
O! save me by thy pow'r;
If e'er I reverenc'd thy laws,
Guide this important hour!
'Tis done!--they shudder with dismay;
My troops maintain their ground:
Lo! their embattl'd lines give way,
And we are victors crown'd!
Success, ye kings, is not your gift;
To heav'n it does belong:
The race not always to the swift
Nor battle to the strong.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. IV-78, Apr. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

SPEECH OF THE PRINCE OF BRUNSWICK
TO THE HANOVERIAN AND HESSIAN
TROOPS.

To injured troops thus gallant BRUNSWICK spoke;
'Shall we with tameness bear the _Gallic_ yoke!
'Will ye, O Veterans, inur'd to pains
'And toils of War, drag ignominious chains?
'Turn and behold! behold where hostile bands
'Seize on your properties, lay waste your lands,
'Your daughters, wives, snatch'd forcibly away,
'Slaves to proud _Gallia's_ sons, to best a prey!
'Hark! how with piercing Cries, the tender Maid,
'By force subdu'd, implores her father's aid;
'In agonies repeats her brother's name,
'To flay the ruffians and preserve her fame!
'Rouze! GERMANS! rouze! a glorious vengeance take;
'Religion, honour, freedom, all's at stake!'
... "Enough," they cry'd, "let FERDINAND proceed,
"We dare to follow, where he dares to lead."
Fir'd by their country's wrongs, to arms they fly,
Resolv'd to save her, or resolved to die.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. IV-80, Apr. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.

ON A CARGO OF FRENCH MUFFS SEIZ'D BY THE PRUSSIANS.

Lewis, the winter harsh, and climate rough,
To each of his nice captains, sends a muff,
Knowing his troops too tender to resist
The foe, without a furr to guard his wrist;
For who could prime his gun, or pistol hold,
Whose aching fingers were benumbed with cold.
_Prussia_, a different scheme in war approves;
Whose hardy veterans charge without their gloves.
Defy the rigour of the chilling air,
And fight, and conquer with their knuckles bare.
_Bourbon!_ if wreathes and triumphs are thy aim,
Think of some wiser way to purchase fame:
Some other arts thy rival to subdue,
Soft muffs, without keen swords, will never do;
Thy shivering troops would act a better part,
Would'st thou send something that could warm their heart;
Less for their valour than their heels admir'd
With fighting oft' ... with flying seldom tir'd,
Success thy arms would never fail to meet,
Were battles to be won by nimble feet.

_New Amer. Mag._, No. IV-80, Apr. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.