IV.Morning.

The morning song of Bellman, commencing, “Up, Amaryllis!” is one of the most celebrated of the lyrical poems of Sweden. We are told that nothing can exceed the enthusiasm with which it is sung in that country by high and low, old and young, alike. The translation inserted in the ensuing pages has been taken from the interesting work of the Howitts, on the “Literature of Northern Europe.”

But who the melodies of morn can tell?The wild brook babbling down the mountain side;The lowing herd, the sheepfold’s simple bell;The pipe of early shepherd dim descriedIn the lone valley; echoing far and wideThe clamorous horn along the cliffs above;The hollow murmur of the ocean tide;The hum of bees, the linnet’s lay of love,And the full choir that wakes the universal groveThe cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;Crown’d with her pail the tripping milk-maid sings;The whistling plowman stalks afield; and hark!Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;Through rustling corn the hare, astonish’d, springs;Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour—The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;Deep mourns the turtle in sequester’d bower,And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour.James Beattie, 1735–1803.

But who the melodies of morn can tell?

The wild brook babbling down the mountain side;

The lowing herd, the sheepfold’s simple bell;

The pipe of early shepherd dim descried

In the lone valley; echoing far and wide

The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;

The hollow murmur of the ocean tide;

The hum of bees, the linnet’s lay of love,

And the full choir that wakes the universal grove

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;

Crown’d with her pail the tripping milk-maid sings;

The whistling plowman stalks afield; and hark!

Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;

Through rustling corn the hare, astonish’d, springs;

Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour—

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;

Deep mourns the turtle in sequester’d bower,

And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour.

James Beattie, 1735–1803.

The morning hath not lost her virgin blush,Nor step, but mine, soil’d the earth’s tinsel’d robe.How full of Heaven this solitude appears—This healthful comfort of the happy swain,Who from his hard but peaceful bed roused up,In morning’s exercise saluted isBy a full choir of feather’d choristers,Wedding their notes to the enamor’d air!There Nature, in her unaffected dress,Plaited with valleys, and emboss’d with hills,Enlaced with silver streams, and fring’d with woods,Sits lovely in her native russet.William Chamberlayne, 1619–1689.

The morning hath not lost her virgin blush,

Nor step, but mine, soil’d the earth’s tinsel’d robe.

How full of Heaven this solitude appears—

This healthful comfort of the happy swain,

Who from his hard but peaceful bed roused up,

In morning’s exercise saluted is

By a full choir of feather’d choristers,

Wedding their notes to the enamor’d air!

There Nature, in her unaffected dress,

Plaited with valleys, and emboss’d with hills,

Enlaced with silver streams, and fring’d with woods,

Sits lovely in her native russet.

William Chamberlayne, 1619–1689.

BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning starIn his steep course? So long he seems to pauseOn thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc!The Arne and Aveyron at thy baseRove ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!Risest from forth thy silent sea of pinesHow silently! Around thee and above,Deep in the air and dark, substantial, black—An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest itAs with a wedge! But when I look again,It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,Thy habitation from eternity!O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon theeTill thou, still present to the bodily sense,Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer,I worshiped the Invisible alone.Yet like some sweet, beguiling melody,So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,Yea, with my life, and life’s own secret joy;Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfusedInto the mighty vision passing—there,As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!Awake, my soul! not only passive praiseThou owest! not alone these swelling tears,Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!Grim vales and icy cliffs all join my hymn.Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale!O struggling with the darkness all the night,And visited all night by troops of stars,Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink,Companion of the morning-star, and of the dawn.Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad!Who called you forth from night and utter death,From dark and icy caverns called you forth,Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,Forever shattered, and the same forever?Who gave you your invulnerable life,Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam?And who commanded (and the silence came),Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s browAdown enormous ravines slope amain—Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven,Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sunClothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?God! Let the torrent, like a shout of nations,Answer, and let the ice-plains echo God!God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal pool!Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle’s nest!Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the elements!Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!Thou too, hoar mount! with the sky-pointing peaks,Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure sereneInto the depths of clouds, that vail thy breast—Thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemed, like a vapory cloud,To rise before me—rise, O ever rise—Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth!Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God!S. T. Coleridge.

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star

In his steep course? So long he seems to pause

On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc!

The Arne and Aveyron at thy base

Rove ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines

How silently! Around thee and above,

Deep in the air and dark, substantial, black—

An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it

As with a wedge! But when I look again,

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,

Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee

Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer,

I worshiped the Invisible alone.

Yet like some sweet, beguiling melody,So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,Yea, with my life, and life’s own secret joy;Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfusedInto the mighty vision passing—there,As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!

Yet like some sweet, beguiling melody,

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,

Yea, with my life, and life’s own secret joy;

Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused

Into the mighty vision passing—there,

As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praiseThou owest! not alone these swelling tears,Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!Grim vales and icy cliffs all join my hymn.

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise

Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,

Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,

Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!

Grim vales and icy cliffs all join my hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale!O struggling with the darkness all the night,And visited all night by troops of stars,Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink,Companion of the morning-star, and of the dawn.Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale!

O struggling with the darkness all the night,

And visited all night by troops of stars,

Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink,

Companion of the morning-star, and of the dawn.

Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?

Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?

Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad!Who called you forth from night and utter death,From dark and icy caverns called you forth,Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,Forever shattered, and the same forever?Who gave you your invulnerable life,Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam?And who commanded (and the silence came),Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad!

Who called you forth from night and utter death,

From dark and icy caverns called you forth,

Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,

Forever shattered, and the same forever?

Who gave you your invulnerable life,

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,

Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam?

And who commanded (and the silence came),

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s browAdown enormous ravines slope amain—Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven,Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sunClothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowersOf loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?God! Let the torrent, like a shout of nations,Answer, and let the ice-plains echo God!God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s brow

Adown enormous ravines slope amain—

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,

And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!

Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven,

Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun

Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?

God! Let the torrent, like a shout of nations,

Answer, and let the ice-plains echo God!

God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal pool!Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle’s nest!Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!Ye signs and wonders of the elements!Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!Thou too, hoar mount! with the sky-pointing peaks,Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure sereneInto the depths of clouds, that vail thy breast—Thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thouThat as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy baseSlow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemed, like a vapory cloud,To rise before me—rise, O ever rise—Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth!Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God!S. T. Coleridge.

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal pool!

Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle’s nest!

Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!

Ye signs and wonders of the elements!

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, hoar mount! with the sky-pointing peaks,

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,

Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene

Into the depths of clouds, that vail thy breast—

Thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thou

That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low

In adoration, upward from thy base

Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,

Solemnly seemed, like a vapory cloud,

To rise before me—rise, O ever rise—

Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth!

Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills,

Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,

Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,

Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God!

S. T. Coleridge.

Wish’d morning’s come; and now upon the plainsAnd distant mountains, where they feed their flocks,The happy shepherds leave their homely huts,And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day!The lusty swain comes with his well-fill’d stoupOf healthful viands, which, when hunger calls,With much content and appetite he eats,To follow in the field his daily toil,And dress the grateful glebe that yields him fruits.The beasts, that under the warm hedges slept,And weather’d out the cold, bleak night, are up,And, looking toward the neighboring pastures, raiseTheir voice, and bid their fellow-brutes good-morrow!The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees,Assemble all in choirs, and with their notesSalute and welcome up the rising sun.Thomas Otway, 1651–1685.

Wish’d morning’s come; and now upon the plains

And distant mountains, where they feed their flocks,

The happy shepherds leave their homely huts,

And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day!

The lusty swain comes with his well-fill’d stoup

Of healthful viands, which, when hunger calls,

With much content and appetite he eats,

To follow in the field his daily toil,

And dress the grateful glebe that yields him fruits.

The beasts, that under the warm hedges slept,

And weather’d out the cold, bleak night, are up,

And, looking toward the neighboring pastures, raise

Their voice, and bid their fellow-brutes good-morrow!

The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees,

Assemble all in choirs, and with their notes

Salute and welcome up the rising sun.

Thomas Otway, 1651–1685.

SPRING MORNING IN ITALY.

The sun is up, and ’tis a morn of May,Round old Ravenna’s clear-shown towers and bay;A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen—Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green;For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,Have left a sparkling welcome for the light;And there’s a crystal clearness all about;The leaves are sharp; the distant hills look out;A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze;The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;And when you listen, you may hear a coil,Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil;And all the scene, in short—sky, earth, and sea—Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.’Tis nature full of spirits, waked and springing;The birds to the delicious time are singing,Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,Where the light woods go seaward from the town;While happy faces striking through the greenOf leafy roads at every town are seen.And the far ships, lifting their sails of white,Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light—Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day,And chase the whistling brine and swirl into the bay.Already in the streets the stir grows loud,Of expectation and a bustling crowd;With feet and voice the gathering hum contends,The deep talk heaves, the ready laugh ascends;Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite,And shouts from mere exuberance of delight;And armed bands, making important way,Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday;And nodding neighbors, greeting as they run;And pilgrims chanting in the morning sun.Leigh Hunt.

The sun is up, and ’tis a morn of May,

Round old Ravenna’s clear-shown towers and bay;

A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen—

Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green;

For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,

Have left a sparkling welcome for the light;

And there’s a crystal clearness all about;

The leaves are sharp; the distant hills look out;

A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze;

The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;

And when you listen, you may hear a coil,

Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil;

And all the scene, in short—sky, earth, and sea—

Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.

’Tis nature full of spirits, waked and springing;The birds to the delicious time are singing,Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,Where the light woods go seaward from the town;While happy faces striking through the greenOf leafy roads at every town are seen.And the far ships, lifting their sails of white,Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light—Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day,And chase the whistling brine and swirl into the bay.Already in the streets the stir grows loud,Of expectation and a bustling crowd;With feet and voice the gathering hum contends,The deep talk heaves, the ready laugh ascends;Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite,And shouts from mere exuberance of delight;And armed bands, making important way,Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday;And nodding neighbors, greeting as they run;And pilgrims chanting in the morning sun.Leigh Hunt.

’Tis nature full of spirits, waked and springing;

The birds to the delicious time are singing,

Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,

Where the light woods go seaward from the town;

While happy faces striking through the green

Of leafy roads at every town are seen.

And the far ships, lifting their sails of white,

Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light—

Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day,

And chase the whistling brine and swirl into the bay.

Already in the streets the stir grows loud,

Of expectation and a bustling crowd;

With feet and voice the gathering hum contends,

The deep talk heaves, the ready laugh ascends;

Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite,

And shouts from mere exuberance of delight;

And armed bands, making important way,

Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday;

And nodding neighbors, greeting as they run;

And pilgrims chanting in the morning sun.

Leigh Hunt.

UP, AMARYLLIS!

SWEDISH.

Waken, thou fair one! up, Amaryllis!Morning so still is;Cool is the gale:The rainbows of heaven,With its hues seven,Brightness hath givenTo wood and dale.Sweet Amaryllis, let me convey thee;In Neptune’s arms naught shall affray thee;Sleep’s god no longer power has to stay thee,Over thy eyes and speech to prevail.Come out a-fishing; nets forth are carrying;Come without tarrying—Hasten with me.Jerkin and vail in—Come for the sailing,For trout and grayling:Baits will lay we.Awake, Amaryllis! dearest, awaken;Let me not go forth by thee forsaken;Our course among dolphins and sirens taken,Onward shall paddle our boat to the sea.Bring rod and line—bring nets for the landing;Morn is expanding,Hasten away!Sweet! no denying,Frowning, or sighing—Could’st thou be tryingTo answer me nay?Hence, on the shallows, our little boat leaving,Or to the Sound where green waves are heaving,Where our true love its first bond was weaving,Causing to Thirsis so much dismay.Step in the boat, then! both of us singing,Love afresh springing,O’er us shall reign.If the storm rages,If it war wages,Thy love assuagesTerror and pain.Calm 'mid the billows’ wildest commotion,I would defy on thy bosom the ocean,Or would attend thee to death with devotion:Sing, O ye sirens, and mimic my strain!Translation ofMrs. Howitt.Carl Michael Bellmann, 1740–1795.

Waken, thou fair one! up, Amaryllis!

Morning so still is;

Cool is the gale:

The rainbows of heaven,

With its hues seven,

Brightness hath given

To wood and dale.

Sweet Amaryllis, let me convey thee;

In Neptune’s arms naught shall affray thee;

Sleep’s god no longer power has to stay thee,

Over thy eyes and speech to prevail.

Come out a-fishing; nets forth are carrying;Come without tarrying—Hasten with me.Jerkin and vail in—Come for the sailing,For trout and grayling:Baits will lay we.Awake, Amaryllis! dearest, awaken;Let me not go forth by thee forsaken;Our course among dolphins and sirens taken,Onward shall paddle our boat to the sea.

Come out a-fishing; nets forth are carrying;

Come without tarrying—

Hasten with me.

Jerkin and vail in—

Come for the sailing,

For trout and grayling:

Baits will lay we.

Awake, Amaryllis! dearest, awaken;

Let me not go forth by thee forsaken;

Our course among dolphins and sirens taken,

Onward shall paddle our boat to the sea.

Bring rod and line—bring nets for the landing;Morn is expanding,Hasten away!Sweet! no denying,Frowning, or sighing—Could’st thou be tryingTo answer me nay?Hence, on the shallows, our little boat leaving,Or to the Sound where green waves are heaving,Where our true love its first bond was weaving,Causing to Thirsis so much dismay.

Bring rod and line—bring nets for the landing;

Morn is expanding,

Hasten away!

Sweet! no denying,

Frowning, or sighing—

Could’st thou be trying

To answer me nay?

Hence, on the shallows, our little boat leaving,

Or to the Sound where green waves are heaving,

Where our true love its first bond was weaving,

Causing to Thirsis so much dismay.

Step in the boat, then! both of us singing,Love afresh springing,O’er us shall reign.If the storm rages,If it war wages,Thy love assuagesTerror and pain.Calm 'mid the billows’ wildest commotion,I would defy on thy bosom the ocean,Or would attend thee to death with devotion:Sing, O ye sirens, and mimic my strain!Translation ofMrs. Howitt.Carl Michael Bellmann, 1740–1795.

Step in the boat, then! both of us singing,

Love afresh springing,

O’er us shall reign.

If the storm rages,

If it war wages,

Thy love assuages

Terror and pain.

Calm 'mid the billows’ wildest commotion,

I would defy on thy bosom the ocean,

Or would attend thee to death with devotion:

Sing, O ye sirens, and mimic my strain!

Translation ofMrs. Howitt.Carl Michael Bellmann, 1740–1795.

FROM THE DANISH.

To the beech-grove, with so sweet an air,It beckoned me;O Earth! that never the plowshareHad furrowed thee!In their dark shelter the flowerets grew,Bright to the eye,And smiled, at my feet, on the cloudless blueWhich decked the sky.* * * * *O lovely field, and forest fair,And meads grass-clad!Her bride-bed Freya everywhereEnameled had;The corn-flowers rose in azure bondFrom earthly cell;Naught else could I do but stop, and stand,And greet them well.“Welcome on earth’s green breast again,Ye flowerets dear!In Spring how charming, 'mid the grain,Your heads ye rear!Like stars 'midst lightning’s yellow rayYe shine red, blue:O how your Summer aspect gayDelights my view!”“O poet, poet, silence keep,God help thy case!Our owner holds us sadly cheap,And scorns our race;Each time he sees he calls us scum,Or worthless tares,Hell-weeds, that but to vex him come'Midst his corn-ears.”“O wretched mortals! O wretched man!O wretched crowd!No pleasures ye pluck, no pleasures ye plan,In life’s lone road—Whose eyes are blind to the glories greatOf the works of God,And dream that the mouth is the nearest gateTo joy’s abode!“Come, flowers! for we to each other belong,Come, graceful elf,And around my lute in sympathy strongNow wind thyself;And quake as if moved by zephyr’s wing,'Neath the clang of the chord;And a morning song with glee we’ll singTo our Maker and Lord.”Anonymous Translation.Adam Gottlob Ochlenshlager, 1779.

To the beech-grove, with so sweet an air,

It beckoned me;

O Earth! that never the plowshare

Had furrowed thee!

In their dark shelter the flowerets grew,

Bright to the eye,

And smiled, at my feet, on the cloudless blue

Which decked the sky.

* * * * *

O lovely field, and forest fair,And meads grass-clad!Her bride-bed Freya everywhereEnameled had;The corn-flowers rose in azure bondFrom earthly cell;Naught else could I do but stop, and stand,And greet them well.

O lovely field, and forest fair,

And meads grass-clad!

Her bride-bed Freya everywhere

Enameled had;

The corn-flowers rose in azure bond

From earthly cell;

Naught else could I do but stop, and stand,

And greet them well.

“Welcome on earth’s green breast again,Ye flowerets dear!In Spring how charming, 'mid the grain,Your heads ye rear!Like stars 'midst lightning’s yellow rayYe shine red, blue:O how your Summer aspect gayDelights my view!”

“Welcome on earth’s green breast again,

Ye flowerets dear!

In Spring how charming, 'mid the grain,

Your heads ye rear!

Like stars 'midst lightning’s yellow ray

Ye shine red, blue:

O how your Summer aspect gay

Delights my view!”

“O poet, poet, silence keep,God help thy case!Our owner holds us sadly cheap,And scorns our race;Each time he sees he calls us scum,Or worthless tares,Hell-weeds, that but to vex him come'Midst his corn-ears.”

“O poet, poet, silence keep,

God help thy case!

Our owner holds us sadly cheap,

And scorns our race;

Each time he sees he calls us scum,

Or worthless tares,

Hell-weeds, that but to vex him come

'Midst his corn-ears.”

“O wretched mortals! O wretched man!O wretched crowd!No pleasures ye pluck, no pleasures ye plan,In life’s lone road—Whose eyes are blind to the glories greatOf the works of God,And dream that the mouth is the nearest gateTo joy’s abode!

“O wretched mortals! O wretched man!

O wretched crowd!

No pleasures ye pluck, no pleasures ye plan,

In life’s lone road—

Whose eyes are blind to the glories great

Of the works of God,

And dream that the mouth is the nearest gate

To joy’s abode!

“Come, flowers! for we to each other belong,Come, graceful elf,And around my lute in sympathy strongNow wind thyself;And quake as if moved by zephyr’s wing,'Neath the clang of the chord;And a morning song with glee we’ll singTo our Maker and Lord.”Anonymous Translation.Adam Gottlob Ochlenshlager, 1779.

“Come, flowers! for we to each other belong,

Come, graceful elf,

And around my lute in sympathy strong

Now wind thyself;

And quake as if moved by zephyr’s wing,

'Neath the clang of the chord;

And a morning song with glee we’ll sing

To our Maker and Lord.”

Anonymous Translation.Adam Gottlob Ochlenshlager, 1779.

From eastern quarters nowThe sun’s up wandering;His rays on the rock’s brow,And hill-side squandering.Be glad, my soul! and sing amid thy pleasure;Fly from the house of dust,Up with thy thanks, and burstTo heaven’s azure.O, countless as the grainsOf sand so tiny—Measureless as the main’sDeep waters briny;God’s mercy is which he upon me showeth!Each morning in my shell,A grace immeasurableTo me down-poureth.Thou best does understand,Lord God! my needing,And placed is in thy hand,My fortune’s speeding.And thou foreseest what is for me most fitting;Be still, then, O my soul!To manage in the whole,Thy God permitting!May fruit the land array,And even for eating!May truth e’er make its way,With justice meeting!Give Thou to me my share with every other,Till down my staff I lay,And from this world awayWend to another!Translation ofH. W. Longfellow.Thomas Kingo, 1634–1728.

From eastern quarters now

The sun’s up wandering;

His rays on the rock’s brow,

And hill-side squandering.

Be glad, my soul! and sing amid thy pleasure;

Fly from the house of dust,

Up with thy thanks, and burst

To heaven’s azure.

O, countless as the grainsOf sand so tiny—Measureless as the main’sDeep waters briny;God’s mercy is which he upon me showeth!Each morning in my shell,A grace immeasurableTo me down-poureth.

O, countless as the grains

Of sand so tiny—

Measureless as the main’s

Deep waters briny;

God’s mercy is which he upon me showeth!

Each morning in my shell,

A grace immeasurable

To me down-poureth.

Thou best does understand,Lord God! my needing,And placed is in thy hand,My fortune’s speeding.And thou foreseest what is for me most fitting;Be still, then, O my soul!To manage in the whole,Thy God permitting!

Thou best does understand,

Lord God! my needing,

And placed is in thy hand,

My fortune’s speeding.

And thou foreseest what is for me most fitting;

Be still, then, O my soul!

To manage in the whole,

Thy God permitting!

May fruit the land array,And even for eating!May truth e’er make its way,With justice meeting!Give Thou to me my share with every other,Till down my staff I lay,And from this world awayWend to another!Translation ofH. W. Longfellow.Thomas Kingo, 1634–1728.

May fruit the land array,

And even for eating!

May truth e’er make its way,

With justice meeting!

Give Thou to me my share with every other,

Till down my staff I lay,

And from this world away

Wend to another!

Translation ofH. W. Longfellow.Thomas Kingo, 1634–1728.

FROM THE DUTCH.

Up, sleeper! dreamer, up! for nowThere’s gold upon the mountain’s brow—There’s light on forests, lakes, and meadows:The dew-drops shine on floweret bells;The village clock of morning tells.Up, man! Out, cattle! for the dellsAnd dingles teem with shadows.Up! out! o’er furrow and o’er field!The claims of toil some moments yield,For morning’s bliss and time is fleeterThan thought; so out! ’tis dawning yet;Why twilight’s lovely hour forget?For sweet though be the workman’s sweat,The wanderer’s sweat is sweeter.Up! to the fields! through shine and stour!What hath the dull and drowsy hourSo blest as this—the glad heart leaping,To hear morn’s early song sublime?See earth rejoicing in its prime!The summer is the waking time,The winter, time for sleeping.O fool! to sleep such hours away,While blushing nature wakes to day,Or down through summer morning soaring!’Tis meet for thee the winter long,When snows fall fast, and winds blow strong,To waste the night amid the throng,Their vinous poisons pouring.The very beast that crops the flowerHath welcome for the dawning hour:Aurora smiles; her beckonings claim thee.Listen! look round! the chirp, the hum,Song, low, and bleat—there’s nothing dumb—All love, all life! Come slumberer, come!The meanest thing shall shame thee.We come—we come—our wanderings takeThrough dewy field, by misty lake,And rugged paths, and woods pervadedBy branches o’er, by flowers beneath,Making earth odorous with their breath;Or through the shadeless gold-gorze heath,Or 'neath the poplars shaded.Were we of feather, or of fin,How blest to dash the river in,Thread the rock-stream, as it advances—Or, better, like the birds above,Rise to the greenest of the grove,And sing the matin song of love,Amid the highest branches!O thus to revel, thus to range,I’ll yield the counter, bank, or 'Change—The busier crowds all peace destroying:The toil with snow that roofs our brains,The seeds of care which harvests pains;The wealth for more which strains and strains,Still less and less enjoying!O, happy who the city’s noise,Can quit for nature’s quiet joys—Quit worldly sin and worldly sorrow;No more 'midst prison walls abide,But in God’s temple, vast and wide,Pour praises every eventide,Ask mercies every morrow!No seraph’s flaming sword hath drivenThat man from Eden or from Heaven—From earth’s sweet smiles and winning features;For him by toils and troubles toss’d,By wealth and wearying cares engross’d,For him a Paradise is lost,But not for happy creatures!Come—though a glance it may be—come—Enjoy, improve; then hurry home,For life strong urgencies must bind us!Yet mourn not; morn shall wake anew,And we shall wake to bless it new.Homewards! the herds that shake the dew,We’ll leave in peace behind us!Anonymous Translation.H. Tollens, 1778.

Up, sleeper! dreamer, up! for now

There’s gold upon the mountain’s brow—

There’s light on forests, lakes, and meadows:

The dew-drops shine on floweret bells;

The village clock of morning tells.

Up, man! Out, cattle! for the dells

And dingles teem with shadows.

Up! out! o’er furrow and o’er field!The claims of toil some moments yield,For morning’s bliss and time is fleeterThan thought; so out! ’tis dawning yet;Why twilight’s lovely hour forget?For sweet though be the workman’s sweat,The wanderer’s sweat is sweeter.

Up! out! o’er furrow and o’er field!

The claims of toil some moments yield,

For morning’s bliss and time is fleeter

Than thought; so out! ’tis dawning yet;

Why twilight’s lovely hour forget?

For sweet though be the workman’s sweat,

The wanderer’s sweat is sweeter.

Up! to the fields! through shine and stour!What hath the dull and drowsy hourSo blest as this—the glad heart leaping,To hear morn’s early song sublime?See earth rejoicing in its prime!The summer is the waking time,The winter, time for sleeping.

Up! to the fields! through shine and stour!

What hath the dull and drowsy hour

So blest as this—the glad heart leaping,

To hear morn’s early song sublime?

See earth rejoicing in its prime!

The summer is the waking time,

The winter, time for sleeping.

O fool! to sleep such hours away,While blushing nature wakes to day,Or down through summer morning soaring!’Tis meet for thee the winter long,When snows fall fast, and winds blow strong,To waste the night amid the throng,Their vinous poisons pouring.

O fool! to sleep such hours away,

While blushing nature wakes to day,

Or down through summer morning soaring!

’Tis meet for thee the winter long,

When snows fall fast, and winds blow strong,

To waste the night amid the throng,

Their vinous poisons pouring.

The very beast that crops the flowerHath welcome for the dawning hour:Aurora smiles; her beckonings claim thee.Listen! look round! the chirp, the hum,Song, low, and bleat—there’s nothing dumb—All love, all life! Come slumberer, come!The meanest thing shall shame thee.

The very beast that crops the flower

Hath welcome for the dawning hour:

Aurora smiles; her beckonings claim thee.

Listen! look round! the chirp, the hum,

Song, low, and bleat—there’s nothing dumb—

All love, all life! Come slumberer, come!

The meanest thing shall shame thee.

We come—we come—our wanderings takeThrough dewy field, by misty lake,And rugged paths, and woods pervadedBy branches o’er, by flowers beneath,Making earth odorous with their breath;Or through the shadeless gold-gorze heath,Or 'neath the poplars shaded.

We come—we come—our wanderings take

Through dewy field, by misty lake,

And rugged paths, and woods pervaded

By branches o’er, by flowers beneath,

Making earth odorous with their breath;

Or through the shadeless gold-gorze heath,

Or 'neath the poplars shaded.

Were we of feather, or of fin,How blest to dash the river in,Thread the rock-stream, as it advances—Or, better, like the birds above,Rise to the greenest of the grove,And sing the matin song of love,Amid the highest branches!

Were we of feather, or of fin,

How blest to dash the river in,

Thread the rock-stream, as it advances—

Or, better, like the birds above,

Rise to the greenest of the grove,

And sing the matin song of love,

Amid the highest branches!

O thus to revel, thus to range,I’ll yield the counter, bank, or 'Change—The busier crowds all peace destroying:The toil with snow that roofs our brains,The seeds of care which harvests pains;The wealth for more which strains and strains,Still less and less enjoying!

O thus to revel, thus to range,

I’ll yield the counter, bank, or 'Change—

The busier crowds all peace destroying:

The toil with snow that roofs our brains,

The seeds of care which harvests pains;

The wealth for more which strains and strains,

Still less and less enjoying!

O, happy who the city’s noise,Can quit for nature’s quiet joys—Quit worldly sin and worldly sorrow;No more 'midst prison walls abide,But in God’s temple, vast and wide,Pour praises every eventide,Ask mercies every morrow!

O, happy who the city’s noise,

Can quit for nature’s quiet joys—

Quit worldly sin and worldly sorrow;

No more 'midst prison walls abide,

But in God’s temple, vast and wide,

Pour praises every eventide,

Ask mercies every morrow!

No seraph’s flaming sword hath drivenThat man from Eden or from Heaven—From earth’s sweet smiles and winning features;For him by toils and troubles toss’d,By wealth and wearying cares engross’d,For him a Paradise is lost,But not for happy creatures!

No seraph’s flaming sword hath driven

That man from Eden or from Heaven—

From earth’s sweet smiles and winning features;

For him by toils and troubles toss’d,

By wealth and wearying cares engross’d,

For him a Paradise is lost,

But not for happy creatures!

Come—though a glance it may be—come—Enjoy, improve; then hurry home,For life strong urgencies must bind us!Yet mourn not; morn shall wake anew,And we shall wake to bless it new.Homewards! the herds that shake the dew,We’ll leave in peace behind us!Anonymous Translation.H. Tollens, 1778.

Come—though a glance it may be—come—

Enjoy, improve; then hurry home,

For life strong urgencies must bind us!

Yet mourn not; morn shall wake anew,

And we shall wake to bless it new.

Homewards! the herds that shake the dew,

We’ll leave in peace behind us!

Anonymous Translation.H. Tollens, 1778.

[Pastoral Scene]

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