From The Back Of The North Wind.[2]

I.

Breathing, blowing, The cool breeze is blowing, High in the tree-tops, Low in the grasses, Softly it passes; The daisies it kisses And never one misses, And laughs at the buttercups, Breathing and blowing, Its blessing bestowing On all that it passes Among the low grasses And daisies and buttercups, Never one misses, But each one it kisses. Softer and fainter it grows, Faintly and softly it blows, Breathing, sighing, Dying, Sweetly and softly it goes, Goes--goes!

II.

Hark to the wind from the mountain-tops blowing! Raining, snowing, Scattering ice-drops and crimson leaves blowing! Teasing the burnies With all their soft fernies, Bending and waving Among the green mosses; Roaring and raving, The long hair it tosses Of each little maiden Beside the brown burnies With crimson leaves laden All bound for the sea, With wee boaties laden, All crimson to see, And high in the tree-tops It rushes and roars; It leaps from the hill-tops And hurls with its might on the long, rocky shores The floods of the sea, All the time roaring and shouting and blowing, Icy drops throwing, Blowing, snowing, It roars!

III.

What shall the Soft Breeze do for thee? What shall I do with my faint, sweet blowing, Breathing, blowing, My blessing bestowing? I pray thee, Soft Breeze, Do thou blow, for me! Stir in the trees And breathe in the grasses, The soft, low grasses, And when the tall buttercup, Tall in the grasses, Thy light foot passes, Gather for me A wee grain of gold from its treasures rare, A ray of the sunlight it treasures there; Then beg of the daisies a bit of their white, Pure, pure white, And two tiny petals, crimson tipped, Because in God’s love they have just been dipped, And bearing the sunlight, the whiteness and love, Breathing, blowing, Fair blessings bestowing, Among the soft grasses And tree-tops above, High in the cloud-land’s silvery sheen, Low in the winding valleys between, Seek my wee girlie Who’s just thirteen, With hair so curly,-- The curliest hair you ever have seen, The brownest hair you ever have seen,-- With eyes so blue, Like skies so blue, And hide thy gifts in her heart so true, For to-day she’s just thirteen, Thirteen.

IV.

What shall the Fierce Wind do for thee? What shall I do, with my terrible roaring, Raving, roaring, Icy drops pouring?

I pray thee, Fierce Wind, Do thou roar, for me! Shatter the crags of the desolate mountain, Scatter the drops of the trembling fountain, Ride on the waves of the tossing sea, Tossing and spouting, Roaring and shouting; Snatch a bright leaf from the burnie’s brink, And a drop from the pool where the white lambs drink, A wisp of hair from the maiden fern, Bending over the laughing burn; The health of the seas, The life of the trees, The beauty of fernies, The faith of bright burnies, Life and beauty and health and faith, Whiteness and sunshine, love stronger than death, These to the maidie that’s just thirteen Shall all be given to-day, I ween,-- Shall all be given, In blessing from Heaven,-- For now she’s just thirteen, And her eyes are so blue, Sweet skies so blue, And her heart so true, And to-day she’s just thirteen, Thirteen.

FOOTNOTE:

Suggested by George MacDonald’s little book of that name.

TRANSLATIONS.

SONGS FROM HEINE.

In the north-land standeth a pine-tree Alone, on a hill-top bare. It sleepeth beneath a mantle Of snow and frost-work rare.

It dreameth long of a palm-tree Which, silent as a star, On the burning desert mourneth In Orient lands afar.

* * * * *

A LOVELY flower thou seemest, So tender, sweet, and true; And, as I gaze, steals o’er me A sadness strange and new.

Upon thy peaceful forehead I’d lay my hands, in prayer That God may ever keep thee As tender, true, and fair.

* * * * *

Eagerly I cry, awaking, “Cometh she to-day?” Eventide--my sad heart, breaking, Speaks the answer, Nay!

In the night I know but sorrow Till the dawn’s faint beam; Mist-enwrapped, in each to-morrow, Agony of dream.

* * * * *

He who for the first time loveth, Godlike, worlds of bliss doth rule; He who twice that joy essayeth, Luckless wight--he is a fool.

Loving where no love returneth, Such a fool, alas!--am I; Sun and moon and stars are laughing, I laugh, too,--and die.

Little maid, with lips so rosy, With thy blue eyes, sweet and clear, All my thoughts to thee are flying, All my life is with thee, dear!

Slowly pace the leaden-footed Hours that mark the winter’s night; Ah, that I were now beside thee, Gazing, murmuring my delight!

Kisses would I press, my darling, On thy little hand to-night; Nay--a tear should fall, unbidden, On thy little hand so white.

* * * * *