148

YOUTHFUL DAYS.

Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impaired
My relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothed
Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find
Still soothing, and of power to charm me still.
And witness, dear companion of my walks,
Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive
Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love,
Confirmed by long experience of thy worth
And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire-
Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.
Thou know'st my praise of Nature most sincere,
And that my raptures are not conjured up
To serve occasions of poetic pomp,

But genuine, and art partner of them all.

How oft upon yon eminence our pace

Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne

The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew,
While admiration, feeding at the eye,

And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene!

Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned
The distant plough still moving, and beside
His labouring team, that swerved not from the track,
The sturdy swain diminished to a boy!
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along his sinuous course
Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank,
Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms,
That screens the herdsman's solitary hut;

YOUTHFUL DAYS.

149

While far beyond, and overthwart the stream
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,
The sloping land recedes into the clouds;
Displaying on its varied side the grace

Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower,
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells
Just undulates upon the listening ear,

Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which daily viewed
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years:
Praise justly due to those that I describe.

The air is cool, and it darkles,
And quietly flows the Rhine,
While over the mountain summits
The evening sunbeams shine.

A maiden of peerless beauty
Is wondrously sitting there;
They sparkle, her golden jewels;
She combeth her golden hair.
With a comb of gold she combs it,
And a song, too, singeth she,-
song hath a wondrous ringing
Of powerful melody.

That

The boatman in yonder shallop
Is seized with a wild delight;
He looketh not on the breakers,
gaze is towards the height.

His

I ween the waves will have swallowed
Both boatman and bark ere long,-
And 'tis Lore-Ley who hath done this
By might of her magic song.

From the German of H. HEINE.

A

The Nymph's Description of Her Fawn.

ITH sweetest milk and sugar,

first

I it at mine own fingers nursed;
And, as it grew, so every day
It wax'd more white and sweet
than they,

It had so sweet a breath! and

oft

I blush'd to see its foot more soft,
And white, shall I say? than my

hand

Than any lady's of the land.
It was a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet;
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And when't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay.
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,

But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess

To be a little wilderness;

And all the spring-time of the year
It loved only to be there.