English

(After H EINE )

Through the lonely mountain land
 There rode a cavalier.
“Oh, ride I to my darling's arms,
 Or to the grave so drear?”
 The Echo answered clear,
 “The grave so drear.”

So onward rode the cavalier
 And clouded was his brow.
“If now my hour be truly come,
 Ah well, it must be now!”
 The Echo answered low,
 “It must be now.”

Of Richmond hill and Hampton green,
The maids have long been sung;
But one more charming here is seen,
The Munster maids among;
This lovely fair whose auburne hair,
Loose flowing in the gale,
More love imparts than Cupid's darts,
Sweet lass of Munster vale.

No costly gems this maid adorn,
Devoid of art's her mein,
And blooming as the rosy morn,
She moves love's second queen:
E'en cestus aid in vain wou'd plead,
And rosy hue look pale,
Her cheeks out blush carnation's flush,

Queen Juno, long plagu'd by her wandering lord,
Each project attempted in vain;
No caution celestial cou'd safety afford,
To guard the false heart of her swain:
He revel'd on Ida just under her throne,
And frolic'd with Hebe the fair;
Sweet peace from the goddess far distant was flown,
Nor aught cou'd avail her her care.

When wooing fair Leda, tho' caught by surprise,
A swan quick appear'd to her view;
Not Argus himself, tho' so fam'd for his eyes,
The god thro' his wiles cou'd pursue.

Masters, I sleep not quiet in my grave,
There where they laid me, by the Avon shore,
In that some crazy wights have set it forth
By arguments most false and fanciful,
Analogy and far-drawn inference,
That Francis Bacon, Earl of Verulam
(A man whom I remember in old days,
A learned judge with sly adhesive palms,
To which the suitor's gold was wont to stick) —
That this same Verulam had writ the plays
Which were the fancies of my frolic brain.
What can they urge to dispossess the crown

The bloom is on the may once more,
The chestnut buds have burst anew;
But, darling, all our springs are o'er,
'Tis winter still for me and you.
We plucked Life's blossoms long ago,
What's left is but December's snow.

But winter has its joys as fair,
The gentler joys, aloof, apart;
The snow may lie upon our hair
But never, darling, in our heart.
Sweet were the springs of long ago
But sweeter still December's snow.

Yes, long ago, and yet to me
It seems a thing of yesterday,

Ye, who liberty revere!
More than all things hold it dear,
Ye, who boast with hearty cheer,
Free and equal laws!
In the name of men oppress'd,
In the name of souls distress'd,
We demand their wrongs redress'd;
Who will aid our cause?

By oppressions, woes, and pains, —
By our brethren's servile chains, —
Will we, while our life remains,
War with slavery:
Yet no battle's storm shall low'r,
Truth shall claim the day and hour,
And Religion's holy pow'r
Gain our victory.

Sons and daughters of the pilgrims,
Who of noble birth are proud!
Lo! the glorious cause of FREEDOM
For exertion calls aloud;
While the monster
Still within the land is found.

See — " the fettered slave is bleeding,
Lashed by some incarnate fiend; "
Hear the mother — children, pleading,
Heaven relief would quickly send!
Cruel tyrant!
When will thy oppressions end?

O thou Great Eternal Father!
Haste thee on the glorious day,
When the mighty arch deceiver

A gentleman of wit and charm,
A kindly heart, a cleanly mind,
One who was quick with hand or purse
To lift the burden of his kind.
A brain well balanced and mature,
A soul that shrank from all things base,
So rode he forth that winter day,
Complete in every mortal grace.

And then — the blunder of a horse,
The crash upon the frozen clods,
And — Death? Ah! no such dignity,
But Life, all twisted and at odds!
At odds in body and in soul,
Degraded to some brutish state,
A being loathsome and malign,

God sits sovereign on the throne,
He is HING OF KINGS alone;
Ye that sway an iron rod!
Hear a message from your God; —

" Heed the helpless orphan's cry,
Hear the friendless widow's sigh,
Plead the poor and needy's cause,
Save th' oppress'd from cruel laws. "

Lo! they heed not, — on they go,
Dealing scourges, chains and woe;
Justice weeps — her pillars shake —
All the old foundations quake!

What though call'd vicegerents now —
Gods on earth! — ye all must bow;

Whilst Eastern wives connubial trophies raise,
By mounting dauntless on the funeral blaze;
Or tragic bards Euphresia's worth relate,
Her father rescu'd, and the tyrant's fate;
Domestic scenes your infant muse inspire,
And glowing nature trembles on your lyre.
No labour'd groves wave in your artless verse,
Or fancy'd joys your flowing lines rehearse.

If less than Auburn is your happy ville,
This all my view, that owns the poet's skill;
If Primrose glow'd with ev'ry virtue fraught,