Thus I dreamed on, and might have dwelt
Still on that rapturous dream,

When hark! a raven's luckless note

(Sooth 'twas a direful scream!) Broke up the vision of delight.

Instant my joy was past;

O had a stone but met my hand,
That hour had been his last!

Translation of E. TAYLOR.

WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE, about 1150.

SUMMER.

The spring's gay promise melted into thee,
Fair summer! and thy gentle reign is here;
The emerald robes are on each leafy tree;

In the blue sky thy voice is rich and clear;
And the free brooks have songs to bless thy reign-
They leap in music midst thy bright domain.

The gales that wander from the unclouded west

Are burden'd with the breath of countless fields;
They teem with incense from the green earth's breast,
That up to heaven its grateful odor yields,
Bearing sweet hymns of praise from many a bird,
By nature's aspect into rapture stirr'd.

In such a scene the sun-illumin'd heart

Bounds like a prisoner in his narrow cell,

When through its bars the morning glories dart,
And forest anthems in his hearing swell;
And like the heaving of the voiceful sea,
His panting bosom labors to be free.

Thus, gazing on thy void and sapphire sky,
O summer! in my inmost soul arise
Uplifted thoughts, to which the woods reply,
And the bland air with its soft melodies;
Till basking in some vision's glorious ray,
I long for eagle's plumes to flee away.

I long to cast this cumbrous clay aside,

And the impure, unholy thoughts that cling
To the sad bosom, torn with care and pride;
I would soar upward, on unfetter'd wing,
Far through the chambers of the peaceful skies,
Where the high fount of summer brightness lies!

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, 1910-1941.

XII.

The Forest.

THIS

FROM "EVANGELINE."

HIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic,

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.

SONG.

Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;
There shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun

And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,

And pleas'd with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;
There shall he see

No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

SHAKSPEARE.

A GROVE.

FROM BRITANNIA'S PASTORAL."

There stood the elme, whose shade so mildly dim
Doth nourish all that groweth under him;
Cipresse that like piramids rune topping,
And hurt the least of any by their dropping,
The alder whose fat shadow nourisheth,
Each plant set neere to him long flourisheth.
The heavy-headed plane-tree, by whose shade
The grasse grows thickest, men are fresher made.
The oake, that best endures the thunder-shocks;
The everlasting ebene, cedar, boxe;

The olive that in wainscot never cleans;

The amorous vine which in the elme still weaves;
The lotus, juniper, where worms ne'er enter;
The pyne, with whom men through the ocean venter;
The war-like yeugh, by which (more than the lance)
The strong-arm'd English spirits conquer'd France.
Among the rest the tamariske there stoode

For huswife's besoms only knowne most goode.

The cold-place-loving birch, and servis-tree;

The walnut loving vales, the mulberry.

The maple, ashe, that doe delight in fountains,

Which have their currents by the side of mountains.

The laurell, mirtle, ivy, date, which hold

Their leaves all winter, be it ne'er so cold.

The firre, that often times doth rosins drop;

The beach that scales the welkin with his top.
All these, and thousand more, within this grove,

By all the industry of nature strove

To frame an arbour that might keep within it,
The best of beauties that the world hath in it.

WILLIAM BROWNE, 1590-1645.