The Project Gutenberg eBook of Translations of German Poetry in American Magazines, by Edward Ziegler Davis

Oh, youth, from what I now relate,
While gentle tears bedew your eyes,
Lament the lover's hapless fate,
And learn, what woes from love arise.

A youth of exemplary worth,
The comfort of his aged sire,
Whose virtues, early bursting forth,
The fairest hopes might well inspire.

By beauty's potent charms subdued,
For Chloe felt a tender pain;
Her equal love with ardour sued,
But found his fond entreaties vain.

While at her feet he pleads his flame,
The cruel Chloe bids him fly;
Yes! cried he, yes! insulting dame,
You never more shall hear me sigh.

Then, on his sword, his hand he lays,
While wild despair his gestures breathe;
Draws it—the deadly point surveys,
And thrusts it—back into its sheath.

While yon enlivening orb of day
To William yields its light,
He to no other lass will stray
Nor faithful Anna slight.

Thus Will to Nance, with ardour, said;
And kept his word, I ween,
Nor, till the sun had gone to bed,
Met Sophy on the green.

A bear, who long had danced for bread,
One morning from his keeper fled;
Back to his native woods retreated,
And, by his brother brutes, was kindly greeted:
Their joy to see him made the forest roar,
They lick'd his chaps, they stroak'd him with the paw;
And when each bear his neighbour saw,
Their news was, So!—Our Bruin's here once more.
Straightway the travell'd youth went on
All his adventures to relate,
And whatsoever he had seen, or done,
Or heard, in foreign parts to state.
And when it came the turn to tell
His dancing deeds, to capering he fell,
As though his former master's chain
Were fasten'd round his neck again.

Bears of the woods are seldom trained to dance;
Yet, seeing Bruin throw his limbs about,
The fancy seiz'd them all, themselves to prance,
And strive, with clumsy aim, his motions to make out.

Scarce one of all the brood but quickly trip'd,
And stumbling, staggering, fell his whole length down;
The more they fail'd, the brisker Bruin skip'd,
To show their skill at fault and prove his own.
But now, their fury kindles at his play;
Away! Begone, you tumbling fool! they bawl;
Must you, forsooth, be wiser than us all?
And straight, with one accord, they hooted him away.

Your neighbour's hatred would you shun?
His talents to surpass beware!
And still the higher your attainments run,
Conceal them still with greater care.
For though, at first, the voice of fame
Shall sound your praises to the sky:
Anon shall Envy blast your name,
And turn your fairest arts to crimes of deepest dye.

[Gellert, Die Gutthat. Also in Amer. Universal Mag., I-28, Jan. 2, 1797, Phila.]

[S. Gessner, Daphne.
Mary Collyer, Gessner's Idyls, 1802, Liverpool. II-121, Aminta.]

Say, who could mope in joyless plight,
While youth and spring bedeck the scene,
And scorn the profer'd gay delight,
With thankless heart and frowning mien?
See Joy with becks and smiles appear,
While roses strew the devious way;
The feast of life she bids us share,
Where'er our pilgrim footsteps stray.

And still the grove is cool and green,
And clear the bubbling fountain flows,
Still shines the night's resplendent queen,
As erst in Paradise she rose:
The grapes their purple nectar pour,
To 'suage the heart that griefs oppress;
And still the lonely ev'ning bow'r
Invites and screens the stolen kiss.

Still Philomela's melting strain,
Responsive to the dying gale,
Beguiles the bosom's throbbing pain,
And sweetly charms the list'ning vale;
Creation's scene expanded lies:—
Blest scene! how wond'rous bright and fair!
Till Death's cold hand shall close my eyes,
Let me the lavish'd bounties share!

Et vos, O lauri, carpam, et te proxima myrtus,
Sic positae, quoniam suaves miscetis odores.

As I perceive your plan, like that of Coleman and Thornton, in the "Connoisseur," and like that of your relation, Solomon Saunter, in "Literary Leisure," admits Poetry as well as Prose, which one may feed upon alternately, as we eat bread and cheese, I send you a translation, from the German of Lessing, and some fugitive originals.

I ask'd my fair, one happy day,
What should I call her in my lay,
By what sweet name, from Rome or Greece,
Iphigenia, Clelia, Chloris,
Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris,
Dorimene or Lucrece?

Ah, replied my gentle fair,
Beloved, what are names but air?
Take thou whatever suits the line,
Clelia, Iphigenia, Chloris,
Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris—
But don't forget to call me—thine.

It flies! the vessel flies, that bears away
To distant shores my Daphne, fair as May.
Guard her, ye loves! be lull'd each ruder gale;
Let Zephyrs only fill the swelling sail;
Ye waves flow gently by the vessel's side,
While pensive she surveys you idly glide;
Ah! softly glide, prolong her reverie,
For then, ye Gods! 'tis then she thinks of me.
When near the nodding groves that shade the shore,
To her, ye birds, your sweetest warbling pour;
No sounds be heard, but such as gently sooth,
And be, O sea, thy azure surface smooth.
Ne'er since thy daughters sought their liquid caves,
A lovelier charge, was trusted to thy waves.
Her clear, her bright unsullied beauty shews
The lilly's white, and freshness of the rose.
Not Venus had more charms, more beauteous bloom,
When, rising from the sea's resplendent foam,
She smiling mounted first her silver car,
And shone effulgent as the morning star.
The enchanted Tritons left their noisy sport,
And nymphs cerulian in their crystal court;
Regardless of their frowns, or jealous smiles,
While beauty's queen each eager eye beguiles.
They gaze, and held in most delightful trance,
Pursue her moving o'er the smooth expanse.

The subjoined Pieces under the signature of Oscar, are the production of a gentleman residing in a distant part of the state. They were written solely with a view to amuse his leisure hours. If you think them worthy of publication, you are at liberty to insert them in the Repository.

O praise the Lord! the morning sun,
From sleep awakes the cheerful swain;
And all creation's joys again,
To us, in streams renewed, run.

O praise the Lord! ye sweetest flow'rs,
To him your earliest fragrance yield;
Ye birds exert your tuneful pow'rs;
Praise him in meadow and in field.

O praise the Lord!—Ev'n from his den
The desert's savage roars his praise;
And, oh! my soul! how much more then,
Should'st thou thy voice in Paeans raise?

Joy comes laughing with the breeze;
Gladness spreads itself around;
Songsters warble in the trees;
Nature gaily decks the ground.

Heav'n unfolds its richest vesture,
Sparkling stars—etherial blue;
Fairies dance with antic gesture;
Or sip, delighted, morning dew.

Gentle, smiling, Zephyrs, wander,
Thro' the groves of verdant green;
Toying with the lilac yonder—
Here, with the rose of blooming mien.

Humming bees, on wafer pinions,
Careful, thro' the blossoms roam:
Searching all their flow'r dominions,
The nectar tribute gather home.

In th'embroider'd violet vale,
Love, attended by the Graces,
Tells his soft bewitching tale,
While blushing fair ones hide their faces.

How beautiful is the creation,
In this time of mirth and joy?
All is life—all animation:
Nought our pleasures to annoy.

All ye that live and breathe, O praise the Lord!
With holy streams of joy, and exultation,
Our souls are penetrated.

O taste and see, how great, how good He is!
His love and mercy, his truth and grace alone,
Leads us to joys eternal.

O ye enwraptur'd souls that serve the Lord
Cherubim! Seraphim! Angels and Spirits!
Love is your felicity.

Thirst on, our souls—thirst for the living streams;
Bless'd and holy! and for ever love Him!
Who us, in love, created.

Yes, we'll love and adore Him! yes, the dust
Loves its Redeemer; and all our anxious tears
Himself shall wipe away.

Though idlers riot, eat and drink,
And on soft downy pillows sink,
They are not free from woe:
For every man must have his share
Of trouble, and must know best where
The shoe does pinch his toe.

When rainy, wise men boots will wear,
But shoes put on when all is fair,
And take times as they go;
No man that ever wore a shoe
Will say if he be fair and true,
It never pinch'd his toe.

Wie des morgens helle licht
Die dunkeln 'nachts durchbricht,
Und die ganze welt erfrout
Mit des tages herlichkeit

So wann grosse traurigkeit—
Laest den menschen keine freud,
Wann verzweiflung angst und schmertze
Fuelt das arme, banges hertze.

Geht die sonne Hoffnungs auf,
Und im traur'gem brust sein lauf
Beginnt; dann flichtet traurigkeit,
Und die brust ist voller freud.

Von verzweiflung, angst und schmertze
Ist befreyt das bange hertze,
O! es bringt die Hoffnungs sonne,
Seeligkeit, und grosse wonne.

As does the morn's resplendent light
Dispel the gloomy shades of night,
And the whole universe delight,
With the day's illustrious sight—

So when the adverse fates decree
Nothing to man but misery,
When they despair and pain impart
To the keen agonized heart—

Then does his course, Hope's sun from rest
Take thro' the troubled heaving breast;
Then disappears adversity,
And leaves behind felicity.

Exempt from horror is the breast,
Despair and pain sink into rest;
The sun of Hope affords delight,
And happiness supremely bright.

So at the midnight hour draws nigh to the slumbering city
Pestilence. Couch'd on his broad spread wings lurks under the rampart
Death, bale-breathing. As yet unalarmed are the peaceable dwellers;
Close to his nightly-lamp the sage yet watches; and high friends
Over wine not unhallow'd, in shelter of odorous bowers,
Talk of the soul and of friendship, and weigh their immortal duration.
But too soon shall frightful Death, in a day of affliction
Pouncing over them, over them spread; in a day of moaning and anguish....
When with wringing of hands the bride for the bridegroom loud wails;
When, now of all her children bereft, the desperate mother
Furious curses the day on which she bore, and was born ... when
Weary with hollower eye, amid the carcases totter
Even the buriers ... till the sent Death-angel, descending,
Thoughtful on thunder-clouds, beholds all lonesome and silent,
Gazes the wide desolation, and long broods over the graves, fixt.

"Perhaps some other writer will throw this fine picture into blank verse so well, as to convince the public, that the beauties of Klopstock can be naturalized without strangeness, and his peculiarities retained without affectation; that quaintness, the unavoidable companion of neologism, is as needless to genius, as hostile to grace; the hexameter, until it is familiar, must repel, and, when it is familiar, may annoy; that it wants a musical orderliness of sound; and that its cantering capricious movement opposes the grave march of solemn majesty, and better suits the ordinary scenery of Theocritus than the empyreal visions of Klopstock."
From "Criticism on Klopstock's Messiah."

Whene'er day-light's parting gleam
A smiling form salutes my love,
And loiters near the murm'ring stream,
And glides beneath the conscious grove:
Ah! then my Henry's spirit see:
Soft joy and peace it brings to thee.

And when at moon-light's sober ray
Thou dream'st perchance of love and me,
As thro' the pines the breezes play,
And whisper dying melody—
When tender bodings prompt the sigh—
Thy Henry's spirit hovers nigh.

When o'er the mind soft musings steal,
As thou the pleasing past hast scann'd;
Should'st thou a gentle pressure feel,
Like zephyr's kiss o'er lip and hand;—
And should the glimmering taper fade—
Then near thee 'bides thy lover's shade.

And when at midnights' solemn tide,
As soft the rolling planets shine—
Like Aeol's harp, thy couch beside,
Thou hear'st the words—'forever thine!'
Then slumber sweet, my spirit's there,
And peace and joy it brings my fair.

[In an article on Bürger's Lenore, three eight-lined stanzas of Spencer's translation, and two six-lined stanzas of Stanley's translation are given.

W. R. Spencer, Leonora. Trans. from the German of G. A. Bürgher. London, 1796.

J. T. Stanley, Leonora. Trans. freely from the German; 2nd ed., London, 1796.]

Tell me where's the vi'let fled
Late so gaily blowing;
Springing 'neath fair Flora's tread,
Choicest sweets bestowing?
Swains the vernal scene is o'er,
And the vi'let blooms no more.

Say where hides the blushing rose,
Pride of fragrant morning;
Garland meet for beauty's brows,
Hill and dale adorning?
Gentle maid the summer's fled
And the hopeless Rose is dead!

Bear me then to yonder rill,
Late so freely flowing;
Wat'ring many a daffodil,
On its margin glowing—
Sun and wind exhaust its store:
Yonder riv'let glides no more!

Lead me to the bow'ry shade,
Late with roses flaunting;
Lov'd resort of youth and maid,
Am'rous ditty chanting—
Hail and storm with fury show'rs,
Leafless mourn with rifled bow'rs!

Say where hides the village maid,
Late yon cot adorning;
Oft I've met her in the glade,
Fair and fresh as morning?
Swain how short is beauty's bloom,
Seek her in the grassy tomb!

Whither roves the tuneful swain
Who of rural pleasures,
Rose and vi'let, rill and plain,
Sung in deftest measures?
Maiden, swift life's vision flies,
Death has clos'd the Poet's eyes.

[J. G. Jacobi, Vergänglichkeit.
W. Taylor of Norwich, op. cit. II-106, Elegy. (Variants in stanza V).]

The following is a German drinking song, popular in the Rhingau, and probably the inspiration of the old Hock, which it celebrates.

Bekranzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher,
Und trinkt ihn frölich leer;
In ganz Europa, ihr herren recher,
Ist solch ein wein nicht mehr.

Ihn bringt das vatterland aus seiner fülle,
Wie war er sonst so gut?
Wie war er sonst so edel stille,
Und doch voll kraft und muth?

Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben;
Gesegnet sey der Rhein!
Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben
Uns diesen lieben wein.

So trinkt hin dann, and last uns alle wege
Uns freun und frölich seyn;
Und, wisten wir wo jemand traurig läge,
Wir gäben ihm den wein.

The brimful goblet crown with wines,
And drink the cordial juice,
Europe itself can't boast such vines
As these bless'd hills produce.

Yes, Germany's the copious source
Of wines that all excel;
So mild, so generous, full of force,
None cheer the heart so well.

Rhingau alone such grapes can boast,
Huzza! here's to the Rhine!
And may the wretch, who slights the toast,
Forget the taste of wine.

Come, drink about, and let's be gay,
With nectar so divine,
Is any man to grief a prey?
We'll comfort him with wine.

Adam awhile in Paradise
Enjoy'd his novel life:
He was caught napping; in a thrice
His rib was made a wife.

Poor father Adam, what a guest!
This most unlucky dose
Made the first minute of thy rest
The last of thy repose.

But one bad woman at a time
On earth arises.
That every one should think he has her,
I own—surprises.

A long way off—Lucinda strikes the men.
As she draws near,
And one see clear,
A long way off—one wishes her again.

In Dr. Cogan's amusing and Shandean Travels on the Rhine, he has preserved a German Ode to Evening. They, who are curious to behold the Teutonic Muse, in the character of a pensive minstrel, may here be gratified.

Komm, stiller abend, neider,
Auf unsre kleine flur;
Dir tönen unsre lieder,
Wie schön bist du, natur!

Schon steigt die abendröthe
Herab ins kühle thal;
Bald glantz in sanfter röthe
Der sonne letzter strahl.

All uberal herrscht schweigen
Nur schwingt der vogel chor
Hoch aus den dunkeln zweigen
Den nacht gesang empor.

Komm, lieber abend, neider
Auf unsre kleine flur;
Dir tönen unsre lieder,
Wie schön bist du natur.

Come, silent Eve, return again,
Our homely cottage view,
And hear us sing a cheerful strain,
To thee, and nature due.

The sun retires yon hills behind,
And sinks into the sea,
Glancing his rays both mild and kind,
Oh, blushing maid, on thee.

To thee he yields the soothing sway,
Inviting all to rest;
The birds conclude the happy day
With singing on thy breast.

Come, silent Eve, return again,
Our homely cottage view,
And hear us sing a cheerful strain,
To thee and nature due.

Ah! why am I so transient, ask'd of Jupiter, Beauty?
Only the transient is fair, smiling answer'd the God!
Love, and Youth, and the Spring, and the Flow'rs, and the Dew, they all heard it;
Slowly they turn'd away, weeping from Jupiter's throne!

It is but seldom that the Muses of the North sing more sweetly than in the following strain:

Scarce sixteen summers had I seen,
And rov'd my native bow'rs;
Nor stray'd my thoughts beyond the green,
Bedew'd with shrubs and flow'rs.

When late a stranger youth appear'd;
I neither wish'd nor sought him;
He came, but whence I never heard,
And spake what love had taught him.

His hair in graceful ringlets play'd,
All eyes are charm'd that view them,
And o'er his comely shoulders stray'd,
Where wanton zephyrs blew them.

His speaking eye of azure hue
Seem'd ever softly suing,
And such an eye, so clear and blue,
Ne'er shone for maid's undoing.

His face was fair, his cheek was red,
With blushes ever burning;
And all he spoke was deftly said,
Though far beyond my learning.

Where'er I stray'd, the youth was nigh,
His look soft sorrows speaking;
Sweet maid! he'd say, then gaze and sigh,
As if his heart were breaking.

And once, as low his head he hung,
I fain would ask the meaning;
When round my neck his arms he flung,
Soft tears his grief explaining.

Such freedom ne'er was ta'en till now,
And now 'twas unoffending;
Shame spread my cheek with ruddy glow,
My eyes kept downward bending.

Nor aught I spoke, my looks he read,
As if with anger burning;
No—not one word—away he sped,
Ah! would he were returning.

Imitated from Klopstock's ode to his future mistress. By Thomas Campbell, Esq., author of Pleasures of Hope.

The above imitation appeared first in a newspaper, Newport Mercury, No. 2160, Aug. 30, 1803, Newport.]

A Careless whistling lad am I,
On sky-lark wings my moments fly;
There's not a Fowler more renown'd
In all the world—for ten miles round!
Ah! who like me can spread the net?
Or tune the merry flageolet?

Then why—O why should I repine,
Since all the roving birds are mine?
The thrush and linnet in the vale,
The sweet sequester'd nightingale,
The bulfinch, wren, and wood-lark, all
Obey my summons when I call:
O! could I form some cunning snare
To catch the coy, coquetting fair,
In Cupid's filmy web so fine,
The pretty girls should all be mine!

When all were mine—among the rest,
I'd choose the Lass I lik'd the best;
And should my charming mate be kind;
And smile, and kiss me to my mind,
With her I'd tie the nuptial knot,
Make Hymen's cage of my poor cot,
And love away this fleeting life,
Like Robin Redbreast and his wife!

[E. Schickaneder, Die Zauberflöte. Oper in zwei Aufzügen von Mozart. Dichtung nach Ludwig Giesecke von E. Schickaneder.

James Montgomery, The Wanderer of Switzerland and Other Poems, London, 1806. First Amer. ed. from second London ed., N. Y., 1807. P. 93.]

In the third number [33] of the Port Folio we inserted a very humorous parody of the following ballad of Bürger. We understand from the criticks in the German Language that the original is eminently beautiful. Its merit was once so highly appreciated in England that a host of translators started at once in the race for public favor. The ensuing version which is, we believe, by Sir Walter Scott, Esqr., well deserves a place in this journal.