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515

THE WORTH OF WOMAN.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

[Democratic Review, October, 1837.]

HONOR'D be woman! she beams on the sight, Graceful and fair, like a being of light; Scatters around her, wherever she strays, Roses of bliss o'er our thorn-cover'd ways; Roses of Paradise, sent from above,

To be gather'd and twin'd in a garland of love.

Man on Passion's stormy ocean,
Toss'd by surges mountains high,
Courts the hurricane commotion,
Spurns at reason's feeble cry.
Loud the tempest roars around him,
Wilder still it wars within;
Flashing lights of hope confound him,
Stuns him life's incessant din.

Woman invites him with bliss in her smile, To cease from his toil and be happy awhile; Whispering wooingly, come to my bower! Go not in search of the phantom of power! Honor and wealth are illusory; come! Happiness dwells in the temple of home.

Man, with fury stern and savage,
Persecutes his brother man;
Reckless if he bless or ravage,
Action, action, still his plan.
Now creating, now destroying,
Ceaseless wishes tear his breast,
Ever seeking, ne'er enjoying,
Still to be, but never blest.

Woman contented in silent repose,

Enjoys in its beauty life's flower as it blows,
And waters and tends it with innocent heart;
Far richer than man with his treasures of art,
And wiser by far, in her circle confin'd,

Than he with his science, and flights of the mind.

Coldly to himself sufficing,

Man disdains the gentler arts,
Knoweth not the bliss arising
From the interchange of hearts;
Slowly through his bosom stealing
Flows the genial current on,
Till, by age's frost congealing,
It is harden'd into stone.

She, like the harp that instinctively rings,
As the night-breathing zephyr soft sighs on the strings,
Responds to each impulse with ready reply,
Whether sorrow or pleasure her sympathy try;
And tear-drops and smiles on her countenance play,
Like the sunshine and showers of a morning in May.

Through the range of man's dominion,
Terror is the ruling word;

And the standard of opinion

Is the temper of the sword

Strife exults, and Pity blushing,

From the scene despairing flies,
Where to battle madly rushing,

Brother upon brother dies.

Woman commands with a milder control,

She rules by enchantment the realm of the soul; As she glances around in the light of her smile, The war of the passions is hush'd for a while, And discord, content from his fury to cease, Reposes entranc'd on the pillow of peace.

44

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM.

IMITATED FROM THE GERMAN OF

[Democratic Review, June, 1843.]

BUERGER.

BUERGER'S Lenora is acknowledged, by all who are familiar with German poetry, to be the masterpiece of ballads. No composition of the kind in German, or perhaps any other language, can be compared with it for effect. It is rather remarkable that the works of a poet who was capable of producing it, should be so scanty, and generally of so little value. With the exception of the Wild Huntsman (Wilde Jaeger), another ballad of great power, though not equal to the Lenora, the contents of his little volume are almost wholly destitute of interest.

There is a fine translation of the Wild Huntsman by Sir Walter Scott. The Lenora has been several times attempted, but without much success. The poem, which is published in Sir Walter's works under the title of William and Helen, though founded upon that of Buerger, can hardly be said with propriety to be a translation, or even an imitation of it. It was written by Scott after having heard a friend relate the substance of the ballad, as he had heard it read by a lady in the translation of Mr. Taylor, at the house of Dugald Stewart. That, with so little knowledge of the original, Scott should have approached it so nearly as he did in William and Helen, is a fact which does credit to his memory as well as to that of his relator. There are, however, great deviations, not only in the language, but in the narrative; and the poem, in general, has very little merit.

Among other alterations, Sir Walter has changed the time to that of the Crusades, and the scene from the common walks of life to those of knighthood and romance. This change, as Mr. J. Q. Adams has justly remarked in a letter to the late Dr. Follen, injures the effect. It was a part of the author's plan to give an air of reality to his wild machinery, by placing it among ordinary characters and incidents. For the same reason he makes the language, which is exceedingly bold, striking and poetical, at the same time colloquial and familiar. I have attempted to combine the same characteristics, and also to bring out more distinctly than is done in some of the other translations, the sneering, Mephistopheles tone of the spectre.

I.

Ar the first sight of dawning light
Lenora left her bed:

"Oh William! William! art thou false
To me, or art thou dead?"

The youth had gone with Frederic's bands To fight in far Bohemian lands,

And ne'er had written home, to tell

His love if he were sick or well.

II.

At length, the king and empress queen,
Quite surfeited with strife,
Resolv'd to make their quarrel up,
And lead a quiet life;

And both the armies, gaily drest
In garlands green and all their best,
With bugles braying, beat of drum,
And flying colors, hurried home.

III.

And wheresoe'er they took their way,
To meet the joyous rout,

Forth came the people one and all,

From every village out.

"Thank God!" each grateful mother cried;

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Thrice welcome, dearest!" many a bride;

A happy meeting seem'd in store

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As on they journey'd, troop by troop,
She sought through all the train

And question'd each, "Is William here?"
And question'd all in vain.

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