_Die Nordsee_

FIRST CYCLE.

XII.

PEACE.

High in heaven the sun was glowing, White cloud-waves were round him flowing; The sea was still and grey. Thinking in dreams, by the helm I lay: Half waking, half in slumber, then Saw I Christ, the Saviour of men. In undulating garments white He walked in giant shape and height Over land and sea. High in the heaven up towered his head; His hands in blessing forth he spread Over land and sea. And for a heart, in his breast He bore the sun; there did it rest. The red, flaming heart of the Lord Out its gracious radiance poured, Its fair and love-caressing light With illuminating and warming might Over land and sea.

Sounds of solemn bells that go Through the air to and fro, Drew, like swans in rosy traces, With soft, solemn, stately graces, The gliding ship to the green shore-- Peopled, for many a century hoar, By men who dwell at rest in a mighty Far-spreading and high-towered city.

Oh, wonder of peace, how still was the town! The hollow tumult had all gone down Of the babbling and stifling trades; And through each clean and echoing street Walked men and women, and youths and maids, White clothes wearing, Palm branches bearing; And ever and always when two did meet, They gazed with eyes that plain did tell They understood each other well; And trembling, in self-renouncement and love, Each a kiss on the other’s forehead laid, And looked up to the Saviour’s sunheart above, Which, in joyful atoning, its red blood rayed Down upon all; and the people said, From hearts with threefold gladness blest, Lauded be Jesus Christ!

FROM VON SALIS-SEEWIS.

THE GRAVE. PSYCHE’S MOURNING.

THE GRAVE.

The grave is deep and soundless, Its brink is ghastly lone; With veil all dark and boundless It hides a land unknown.

The nightingale’s sweet closes Down there come not at all; And friendship’s withered roses On the mossy hillock fall.

Their hands young brides forsaken Wring bleeding there in vain; The cries of orphans waken No answer to their pain.

Yet nowhere else for mortals Dwells their implored repose; Through none but those dark portals Home to his rest man goes.

The poor heart, here for ever By storm on storm beat sore, Its true peace gaineth never But where it beats no more.

PSYCHES MOURNING.

Psyche moans, in deep-sunk, darksome prison, For redemption; ah! for light she aches; Fears, hopes, after every noise doth listen-- Whether Fate her bars of iron breaks.

Bound are Psyche’s pinions--airy, soaring; Yet high-hearted is she, groaning low; Knows that under clouds whence rain is pouring Sprouts the palm that crowns the victor’s brow;

Knows among the thorns the rose yet reigneth; Golden flowers spring from the desert grave She her garland through denial gaineth, And her strength is steeled by winds that rave.

‘Tis through lack that she her blisses buyeth; Sorrow’s dream comes true by longing long; Lest light break the sleep wherein she lieth, Round her tree of life the shadows throng.

Psyche’s wail is but a fluted sadness Heard from willows the moon silvereth; Psyche’s tears are dews of morning redness, And her sighs the sweet night-violet’s breath!

Yews o’ershade the myrtle of her probation; Much she loves for great has been her dole; Love leads through the paths of separation, Leads her to reunion’s joyous goal.

She endures; bravely bears every burden, Dumb before the will of Fate bends low; Lies her bliss the patient tranquil word in; Her one cordial, feeling’s overflow!

Preconviction--ah! the call, the token, Spreading wings the darksome sky to cleave! ‘Tis but boding! ‘tis but knowledge broken! Truth’s but what she truly doth believe!

Darkness hides the goal of Psyche’s mission; For the eyes that tears so often gall Reach not to the summit of completion Where illusion’s vaporous veil doth fall!

FROM CLAUDIUS.

THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE CONTENTMENT

THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE.

Sleep, baby boy, sleep sweet, secure; Thy father’s very miniature! That art thou, though thy father goes And says that thou hast not his nose.

This very moment here was he, His face o’er thine did pose And said--Much has he sure of me, But no, ‘tis not my nose.

I think myself, it is too small, But it is his nose after all; For if thy nose his nose be not, Whence came the nose that thou hast got?

Sleep, boy! thy father only chose To tease me--that’s his part! Never you mind about his nose, But see you have his heart.

CONTENTMENT.

I am content. In triumph’s tone My song, let people know! And many a mighty man, with throne And sceptre, is not so. And if he is, why then, I cry, The man is just the same as I.

The Mogul’s gold, the Sultan’s show, The hero’s bliss, who, vext To find no other world below, Up to the moon looked next-- I’d none of them; for things like that Are only fit for laughing at.

My motto is--Content with this. Gold--rank--I prize not such. That which I have, my measure is; Wise men desire not much. Men wish and wish, and have their will, And wish again, as hungry still.

And gold or honour, though it rings, Is but a brittle glass; Experience of changing things Might teach a very ass! Right often Many turns to None, And honour has but a short run.

To do right, to be good and clear, Is more than rank and gold; Then art thou always of good cheer, And blisses hast untold; Then art thou with thyself at one, And hatest no man, fearest none.

I am content. In triumph’s tone, My song, let people know! And many a mighty man, with throne And sceptre, is not so. And if he is, why then, I cry, The man is just the same as I.

FROM GENESTET.

THREE PAIRS AND ONE.

You have two ears--and but one mouth: Let this, friend, be a token-- Much should be heard, and not so much Be spoken.

You have two eyes--and but one mouth: That is an indication-- Much must you see, but little serves Relation.

You have two hands--and but one mouth: Receive the hint you meet with-- For labour two, but only one To eat with.