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O where thy voice doth come
Let all doubts be dumb;
Let all words be mild ;
All strifes be reconciled ;
All pains beguiled.
Light bring no blindness;
Love no unkindness;
Knowledge no ruin ;
Fear no undoing.
From the cradle to the grave,
Save, oh, save.
HEINRICH HEINE now lies paralysed, blind, and bedridden, in an obscure lodging of the Rue d'Amsterdam at Paris. Speaking of his great physical suffering and distress, he pathetically says: “But do I indeed still exist! My body is gone so greatly to ruin, that there remains scarcely anything but the voice, and my bed reminds me of the sounding grave of Conjuror Merlin, which is situated in the wood of Brozeliand, in Brittany, under lofty oaks, whose tops taper, like emerald flames, towards heaven. Oh! brother Merlin, I envy thee those trees, with their fresh breezes, for never a green leaf rustles about this mattrass-grave of mine in Paris, where from morning to night I bear nothing but the rattle of wheels, the clatter of hammers, streetbrawls, and the jingling of pianofortes.” But, amid the turmoil of the mighty city, sleep—the “balın of burt minds”—sometimes visits the dying poet, and then he dreams of happier days:
I DREAMT that I was young once more, and gaysome;
I saw the cottage on the high hill stand;
I raced along the well-known pathway, playsome,
Swift-racing with Ottilia, hand in hand.
How bravely is the little body fashion'd !
Her deep blue eye, how fairy-like it shines !
She stands upon her small foot firmly station'd,
A form wherein with strength all grace combines.
Her cordial voice it sounds so frank and gracious,
Revealing all her soul, without eclipse;
And all she says is thoughtful and sagacious;
And like a pair of rosebuds are her lips.
It is not love upon my senses stealing-
My reason, undiseased, is at command;
Yet wondrously her Being thrills my Being;
And tremblingly I stoop and kiss her hand.
I think that at the last I cull'd a flower,
gave it her, and then spake loud and free:
“Yea! be my wife, Ottilia, from this hour,
That I, like thee, may pure and happy be."
What she replied I never may remember,
For suddenly I woke; and I lay here,
Once more the sick-man, who in this sick-chamber
Disconsolate has lain full many a year.
LONGFELLOW, the American poet, has just published a volume, entitled The Song of Hiawatha, an American legend, as its name will indicate, a tale of Indian life. The following is a choice passage:
In his lodge beside a river,
Close beside a frozen river,
Sat an old man, sad and lonely.
White his hair was as a snow-drift;
Dull and low bis fire was burning,
And the old man shook and trembled,
Folded in bis Waubewyon,
In his tattered white-skin wrapper,
Hearing nothing but the tempest
As it roar'd along the forest,
Seeing nothing but the snow-storm
As it whirled and hissed and drifted.
All the coals were white with ashes,
And the fire was slowly dying,
As a young man, walking lightly,
At the open doorway entered.
Red with blood of youth his cheeks were,
Soft his eyes, as stars in spring-time,
Bound his rehead was with grasses,
Bound and plumed with scented grasses ;
On his lips a smile of beauty,
Filling all the lodge with sunshine,
In his hand a bunch of blossoms
Filling all the lodge with sweetness.
“Ah, my son!” exclaim'd the old man,
“Happy are my eyes to see you.
Sit here on the mat beside me,
Sit here by the dying embers,
Let us pass the night together.
Tell me of your strange adventures,
Of the lands were you have travelled ;
I will tell you of my prowess,
Of my many deeds of wonder.”
From his pouch he drew his peace-pipe, Very old and strangely fashioned; Made of redstone was the pipe-head, And the stem a reed with feathers; Filled the pipe with bark of willow, Placed a burning coal upon it; Gave it to his guest, the stranger, And began to speak in this wise:
“When I blow my breath about me, When I breathe
the landscape, Motionless are all the rivers, Hard as stone becomes the water!”
And the young man answer'd, smiling: “When I blow my breath about me, When I breathe upon the landscape, Flowers spring up o'er all the meadows, Singing, onward rush the rivers !"
When I shake my hoary tresses,"
Said the old man, darkly frowning,
6 All the land with snow is cover'd;
All the leaves from all the branches
Fall and fade and die and wither,
For I breathe, and lo! they are not.
From the waters and the marshes
Rise the wild goose and the heron,
Fly away to distant regions,
For I speak, and lo! they are not.
And where'er my footsteps wander,
All the wild beasts of the forests
Hide themselves in holes and caverns,
And the earth becomes as flintstone!"
“When I shake my flowing ringlets,"
Said the young man, softly laughing,
“Showers of rain fall warm and welcome,
Plants lift up their heads rejoicing,
Back unto their lakes and marshes
Come the wild goose and the heron,
Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow,
Sing the bluebird and the robin,
And where'er my footsteps wander,
All the meadows wave with blossoms,
All the woodlands ring with music,
All the trees are dark with foliage!”
While they spake, the night departed;
From the distant realms of Wabun,
From his shining lodge of silver,
Like a warrior robed and painted,
Came the sun, and said, “Behold me!
Gheezis, the great sun, behold me!”
Then the old man's tongue was speechless,
And the air grew warm and pleasant,
And upon the wigwam sweetly
Sang the bluebird and the robin,
And the stream began to murmur,
And a scent of growing grasses
Through the lodge was gently wafted.
And Segwun, the youthful stranger,
More distinctly in the daylight
Saw the icy face before him;
It was Peboan, the Winter!
From his eyes the tears were flowing,
As from melting lakes the streamlets,
And his body shrunk and dwindled
As the shouting sun ascended,
Till into the air it faded,
Till into the ground it vanished,
And the young man saw before him,
On the hearthstone of the wigwam,
Where the fire had smoked and smoulder'd,
Saw the earliest flower of spring-time,
Saw the beauty of the spring-time,
Saw the Miskodeed in blossom.
Thus it was that in the Northland After that unheard-of coldness,
That intolerable winter,
Came the spring with all its splendour,
All its birds and all its blossoms,
All its flowers and leaves and grasses.
Sailing on the wind to northward,
Flying in great flocks, like arrows,
Like huge arrows shot through heaven,
Passed the swan, the Mahnaħbezee,
Speaking almost as a man speaks ;
And in long lines waving, bending
Like a bowstring snapp'd asunder,
The white goose, the Waw-be-wawa;
And in pairs, or singly flying,
Mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions,
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa.
In the thickets and the meadows
Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa,
On the summit of the lodges
Sang the Opechee, the robin,
In the covert of the pine-trees
Coo'd the Omemee, the pigeon,
And the sorrowing Hiawatha,
Speechless in his infinite sorrow,
Heard their voices calling to him,
Went forth from his gloomy doorway,
Stood and gazed into the heaven,
Gazed upon the earth and waters.
From his wanderings far to eastward,
From the regions of the morning,
From the shining land of Wabun,
Homeward now returned Iagoo,
The great traveller, the great boaster,
Full of new and strange adventure,
Marvels many, and many wonders.
And the people of the village
Listen'd to him as he told them
Of his marvellous adventures,
Laughing, answer'd him in this wise :
“Ugh! it is indeed Iagoo!
No one else beholds such wonders !"
He had seen, he said, a water
Bigger than the Big-Sea-Water,