How beautiful art thou, In silvery locks! How terrible art thou, When the cliffs are resounding in thunder around! Thee feareth the fir-tree; Thou crushest the fir-tree From its root to its crown. The cliffs flee before thee; The cliffs thou engraspest, And hurlest them, scornful, like pebbles adown. The sun weaves around thee The beams of its splendor; It painteth with hues of the heavenly iris, Why speedest thou downward, Is it not well by the nearer heaven? Not well by the o'erhanging forest of oaks? Toward the green sea! Youth! O now thou art strong, like a god! Free like a god! Beneath thee is smiling the peacefullest stillness, Youth, O what is this silken quiet; Now streamest thou wild As thy heart may prompt! But below oft ruleth the fickle tempest, Oft the stillness of death, in the subject sea! O hasten not so Toward the green sea! Youth, O now thou art strong, like a god, Free, like a god! Translation of W. W. STORY. FR. LEOP. STOLBERG, 1750-1819. A RIVER. FROM SALMONIA." Hal. I think I can promise you green meadows, shady trees, the song of the nightingale, and a full, clear river, Poiet. This last is, in my opinion, the most poetical object in nature. I will not fail to obey your summons. Pliny has, as well as I recollect. compared a river to human life. I have never read the passage in his works but I have been a hundred times struck with the analogy, particularly amid mountain scenery. The river, small and clear at its origin, gushes forth from rocks, falls into deep glens, and wantons and meanders through a wild and picturesque country, nourishing only the uncultivated tree or flower by its dew or spray. In this, its state of infancy and youth, it may be compared to the human mind, in which fancy and strength of imagination are predominant-it is more beautiful than useful. When the different rills or torrents join, and descend into the plain, it becomes slow and stately in its motions; it is applied to move machinery, to irrigate meadows, and to bear upon its bosom the stately barge; in this mature state it is deep, strong, useful. As it flows on toward the sea, it loses its force and its motion, and at last, as it were, becomes lost, and mingled with the mighty abyss of waters. Hal. One might pursue the metaphor still further, and say that in its origin-its thundering and foam, when it carries down clay from the bank, and becomes impure-it resembles the youthful mind affected by dangerous passions. And the influence of a lake, in calming and clearing the turbid water, may be compared to the effect of reason in more mature life, when the tranquil, deep, cool, and unimpassioned mind is freed from its fever, its troubles, bubbles, noise, and foam. And, above all, the sources of a river-which may be considered as belonging to the atmosphere—and its termination in the ocean, may be regarded as imaging the divine origin of the human mind, and its being ultimately returned to, and lost in, the Infinite and Eternal Intelligence from which it originally sprung. SIR HUMPHREY DAVY. LIFE COMPARED TO A STREAM. Life glides away, Lorenzo, like a brook ; To the same life none ever twice awoke. Our life, though still more rapid in its flow; We start, awake, look out; our bark is burst! EDWARD YOUNG, 1651-1755 ON THE BRONZE IMAGE OF A FROG. FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO. A traveler, when nearly exhausted by thirst, being guided by the croaking of a frog to a spring of water, afterward vowed to the Nymphs a brouze image of the little creature. The servant of the Nymphs, the singer dank, Pleased with clear fountains-the shower-loving frog, Placed here, a votive gift-because it served To quench the fever of the traveler's thirst. For the amphibious creature's well-timed song, Of him who searched for water hither drew; Not heedless of the guiding voice, he found The longed-for draught from the sweet cooling spring. Translation of W. Har. LITTLE STREAMS. Little streams are light and shadow, Flowing by the green way-side, Through the forest dim and wild, Through the hamlet still and small, By the cottage, by the hall, By the ruin'd abbey still, Turning here and there a mill, Bearing tribute to the river Little streams, I love you ever. Summer music is there flowing Flowering plants in them are growing; |