English

Wherever in the world I am,
In whatsoe'er estate,
I have a fellowship with hearts
To keep and cultivate;
A work of lowly love to do
For him on whom I wait.

I ask thee for a thoughtful love,
Through constant watching wise
To meet the glad with joyful smiles,
And wipe the weeping eyes;
A heart at leisure from itself
To soothe and sympathize.

In service which thy will appoints
There are no bonds for me:
My inmost heart is taught the truth
That makes thy children free, —

I would not work elsewhere but on a farm;
For toil my farm and mulberry leaves suffice
I do it without other laborers,
And cold and hungry feed on husks of rice
I only want enough to eat my fill,
Only expect sufficient grain to eat;
For winter satisfied with country cloth,
Rough linen serves me for the days of heat,
Yet even these desires I cannot meet;
This pitiful reflection gives me pain.
All other men can satisfy their needs,
But my attempts prove clumsy and in vain.
If such a fate is destined to be mine,

High fate is their's, ye sleepless waves, whose ear
Learns Freedom's lesson from your voice of fear;
Whose spell-bound sense from childhood's hour hath known
Familiar meanings in your mystic tone:
Sounds of deep import—voices that beguile
Age of its tears and childhood of its smile,
To yearn with speechless impulse to the free
And gladsome greetings of the buoyant sea!
High fate is their's, who where the silent sky
Stoops to the soaring mountains, live and die;
Who scale the cloud-capt height, or sink to rest

I saw a neat white cottage by a rill,
A limpid rill, that wound along a glade,
Curling and flashing to the sun; a shade
Of willows brooded over it; a hill,
Not distant, heaved its fresh green slope, and smiled
With daisies and with dandelions; oft
I wandered through such meadows when a child,
And loved the turf below, the sky aloft,
So softly green, so clearly, purely blue;
And as the mild wind, breathing odors, flew
Serenely through the grass tufts, and the crown
Of dandelions filled the fields with down,

A SAPPHIC

Sweet is the morning when the Sabbath-day dawns,
And earth and sky spread lovelier before me;
When not a breath stirs, in its whispering motion,
Garden or forest,
Which does not seem to partake in the holy
Peace of the pure hearts, where passion slumbers,
Care is composed, and the thoughts all awaken
Bright with devotion.
Sweeter the lark sings on that sunny morning,
Livelier the wren chirps round the shingled cottage,

Poor Matthias!—Found him lying
Fall'n beneath his perch and dying?
Found him stiff, you say, though warm—
All convulsed his little form?
Poor canary! many a year
Well he knew his mistress dear;
Now in vain you call his name,
Vainly raise his rigid frame,
Vainly warm him in your breast,
Vainly kiss his golden crest,
Smooth his ruffled plumage fine,
Touch his trembling beak with wine.
One more gasp—it is the end!
Dead and mute our tiny friend!
—Songster thou of many a year,

Thou art endeared to me by all
The ties of kindred minds,
And thou hast twined my heart in all
The chains that beauty binds;
The man who could deceive thee,
And, when the prize was won,
Could ruin, scorn, and leave thee,
Must have a heart of stone.

For but one look of kindness given
By thee, my heart would brave
The coldest, darkest frowns of Heaven,
The terrors of the grave:
O, death cannot affright me,
When thou art smiling by;
I ask no star to light me,
But the sparkle of thine eye.

Our walls are on the sea,
And they ride along the wave,
Manned with sailors, bold and free,
And the lofty and the brave
Hoist their flag to the sport of the gale;
With an even march they sweep
O'er the bosom of the deep,
And their order trimly keep,
As they sail.

Though so gallantly we ride,
Yet we do not seek the fight;
We have justice on our side,
And we battle in our right,
For our homes, and our altars, and sires:
Then we kindle in our cause,
And awhile a solemn pause —

Come on your sky-blue wings, ye Paphian doves!
And o'er me drop the pure Idalian dews,
Come, fan the air with silken pinions,
Pluck with tender bill the roses,
While they open in the thickets,
Heavy with the tears of morning:
Bear them on the faltering breezes,
As they waken with Aurora,
Lightly brushing o'er the meadow,
Kissing, as they pass, the lilies;
Sighing through the silent forest,
Waking from their nightly slumbers
All its murmuring tones and echoes;
Floating o'er the sleeping ocean,

" Henri Heine " — — 'tis here!
That black tombstone, the name
Carved there — no more! and the smooth,
Swarded alleys, the limes
Touch'd with yellow by hot
Summer, but under them still,
In September's bright afternoon,
Shadow, and verdure, and cool.
Trim Montmartre! the faint
Murmur of Paris outside;
Crisp everlasting-flowers,
Yellow and black, on the graves.

Half blind, palsied, in pain,
Hither to come, from the streets
Uproar, surely not loath
Wast thou, Heine! — to lie