Farewell, farewell, ye golden dreams!
Ye fancies that in Eden play!

Ye flowers of Heaven, that while the beams
Of dawn still smile, must fade away.

How

gay it was with rose-knots redMy swan-like dress! How heavenly fair Shone the young living roses, spread

In my long locks of yellow hair! Victim!-whose blood malignant powers Of evil claim,-no rose-knots now On thy white dress !-for joyous flowers, A coarse black death-band binds the brow!

Weep ye, who see the lilies wave

In stainless bloom-your emblems still,— Ye, to whom guardian Nature gave

Soft hearts, and angels' strength of will!
I felt too fondly,-Feeling is

Its victim's execution-sword:
He vow'd and wept-and I was his,—
And I was his, for I ador'd!

Perhaps, e'en now, with jest and smile,
He flutters round some happier maid;
Nor at her toilet thinks, the while,
What fate is hers, before betray'd:
E'en now his lip may court the kiss,
His hand the vagrant tresses twine;

His blood may bound alive to bliss,

While the sharp death-stroke scatters mine.

Oh Ludolph! Ludolph! far or near,
Louisa's death-psalm follow thee!
A dull, damp tolling fret thine ear,—
The last low knell that tolls for me!
If, to his breast-another prest,

With murmuring words of love decoy,
Pierce through his brain,-drear bell, and stain
With blood the visionary joy!

Traitor!-was woman flung to shame ?—

My tears?—my pangs ?-my wrongs-unfelt? And-the young unborn life—a claim

That makes the wild-wood tiger melt? -Proud flies his bark,-while I remain

The sails with wistful eyes pursuing. Beware his sighs, ye maids of Seine

And the false smiles that were my ruin!

Here on this mother's heart-the child,
At rest, in sweet and golden sleep,
Like the young morning rose-bud smil'd-
A smile so soft it made me weep.
And evermore the language of

That sweet repose said, "Death is fair."
Then came, with strife of mother's love,
The fancifulness of despair!

"Where is my sire ?"-his mute eye cries,-
Less dreadful were the thunder's peal.
"Where is thy spouse?"-my heart replies,-
And who can tell what pangs I feel?

In vain wouldst thou thy father seek,
In vain, poor orphan'd bastard boy!
Another's child will press his cheek,
While mine must mourn our guilty joy.

Thy mother!-the heart-agony

To be alone upon the earthTo find the very fount of joy

All bitterness, and pine in dearth! Grief stares me from thy countenanceSad echoes of sweet days gone by Chime in thy voice-and in thy glance Are pangs more bitter than to die.

Anguish it is to look on thee

Anguish to miss thee from my sight. His kisses-once so dear to me

In thine like scourging Furies smite.
And, evermore, the oaths he swore,
As from the grave, in thunders dread,
Again are breath'd,—and round me wreath'd
A hydra twines !-my child is dead.

Oh Ludolph! Ludolph! far and fast
Flee from that angry spectre-flee!
His icy arms are round thee cast-
He howls in thunder after thee.
Think on his death-glance, when the light
Of soft stars pants in silent skies!
The blood upon his garment bright
Will lash thee back from Paradise.

All lifeless at my feet he lay ;-
With icy stare aghast I stood;
And felt my own life flow away

With every drop of that young blood.
Hark! 'tis the jailor's tread-Again-
Hush!-'tis my beating bosom's breath-
Oh that these pangs of fiery pain
Were over in the chill of death!

Ludolph!-in Heaven God may forgive!
The sinner dies, forgiving thee.
In thy dark bosom, Earth, receive
My wrongs! let all forgotten be.
Wake, slumbering embers! See, the blaze
Starts up in triumph-feasts upon
His written vows-in triumph preys
On kisses-tears-'till All is gone!

Frail rose of Youth,-how fugitive

Thy tints!—and Love,-how false a dream! Here, on the scaffold-here I give

My curse to beauty's treacherous gleam! And weeps the headsman for my sake?

Haste-bind my eyes,-and have no thought

Of grief for me!—the lily break!—

Pale headsman, tremble not!

A.

Die Größe der Welt. 1782.

THIS Poem, on the "Vastness of Creation," and the two or three following, afford striking evidence of the state of mind under which they were composed, and of the high and mysterious objects which were already, at that early age, familiar to the poet's contemplation, and left him, for a period, absorbed in the depths of the Pantheistic philosophy. The steps are worth tracing, from these, to the celebrated Philosophische Briefe-the Letters of Julius and Raphael.

AMIDST revolving worlds, which the creative mind Erst out of chaos struck, I fly on wings of wind, Seeking to land

On the billows' strand

Cast anchor where stirs no breath vibration,
Where stands the bound-stone of creation.

And stars I there beheld, radiant in youth, arise,
Their fix'd millennial course to travel thro' the skies;
Saw them sportive roll

To the beckoning goal

Then cast a wandering glance around me,
And already in starless space I found me.

More wide into the realm of thought to urge my

flight,

I steer right boldly on, and take the wings of light. With dim clouds o'ercast

Is the heaven I've past:

Wave after wave, world-systems gushing, my sun-dazzled sense come rushing.

On