Translations Of German Poetry In American Magazines 1741-1810 Part 26

Then red-hair'd Rollo, fierce advancing cri'd,-- "Who'er thou art, come down, "We live on hills, to ev'ry toil we're tri'd, "And war is all our own.

"Let Sivard come, we'll meet the tyrant here: "But stranger come thou down."

He came--Old Athold gaz'd with look severe;-- He gaz'd--but ceas'd to frown.

"Or Athold has forgot his monarch's face, "Or sure thou art his son!

"Eric, of mighty Norway's royal race!"-- Full quick the tidings run.

With shouts they press to see the beauteous chief; The aged kiss his hand: On either side, fast roll'd the marks of grief, Then Athold spoke the band--

"Ye sons of Norway, to your homes repair, "There seize the sword and s.h.i.+eld, "And ere the morning's purple streaks the air, "Meet Eric in the field.

"Oh prince! do you with aged Athold go, "And take refres.h.i.+ng sleep; "Athold will sing and soothe the rising woe, "Or break his harp and weep!"

'Twas night--in Athold's hall each took his place; Of other times he sung; Fast stream'd the tears adown the hero's face, And groans responsive rung.

Bright came the morn; and bright in batter'd arms, The rustic vet'rans came: And many a youth, untri'd in rough alarms, Now hop'd a patriot's name.

They heard from far the hum of Sivard's host; Young Eric struck his s.h.i.+eld; Then high in air his heavy spear he tost, And blaz'd along the field.

Next aged Athold follow'd; Rollo strong; Black Calmar lifts his mace; Culullin, Marco, Streno, rush along, And all the rugged race.

Fierce came the Swede;--in strength of numbers proud; He scorn'd his feeble foe; But soon the voice of battle roar'd aloud, And many a Swede lay low.

Strong Rollo struck the tow'ring Olaus dead, Full fifteen bleed beside: Old Athold cleft the brave Adolphus head, In all his youthful pride.

But Eric! Eric! rang'd the field around, On Sivard still he cri'd; The gasping Swedes lay heap'd upon the ground-- Sivard! the hills repli'd.

In fury Sivard seiz'd his s.h.i.+ning s.h.i.+eld, His mail, his helm, and spear; He mounts his car, and thunders o'er the field; Now Norway knows no fear.

Great Rollo falls beneath his dreadful arm, His steeds are stain'd with blood; Young Eric smil'd to hear the loud alarm, And flew to stop the flood.

He rag'd, he foam'd--fierce flew the thirsty spear, Down fell the foremost steed: Astonish'd Sivard felt unusual fear, "Tyrant thou'rt doom'd to bleed!"

Up sprang the youth--deep fell the sword, Sunk in the tyrant's brow: Fast fly the Swedes, and leave their hated lord, His mighty pride laid low.

Now Norway's sons their great deliv'rer hail, But lo! he bleeds! he falls!

Old Athold strips the helm and beamy mail, And on his G.o.ds he calls.

He lifts the helm, and down the snowy neck Fast falls the silky hair-- And could those limbs, the conq'ring Sivard check!

Oh pow'r of great despair!

Life ebbs apace--she lifts her languid head, She strives her hand to wave; Confess to all, the beauteous Ella said-- "Thanks, thanks companions brave:

"Freedom rewards you--naught can Ella give, "Low, low poor Ella lies; "Sivard is dead! and Ella wou'd not live."

She bleeds--she faints--she dies!

_N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, II-235, Apr. 1791, N. Y.

PEASANT OF THE ALPS.

Where cliffs arise by Winter crown'd, And through dark groves of pine around, Down the deep chasms, the snowed torrents foam, Within some hollow, shelter'd from the storms, The PEASANT of the ALPS his cottage forms, And builds his humble, happy home.

Unenvied is the rich domain, That far beneath him on the plain, Waves its wide harvests and its olive groves; More dear to him his hut, with plantain thatch'd, Where long his unambitious heart attach'd, Finds all he wishes, all he loves.

There dwells the mistress of his heart, And _Love_ who teaches ev'ry art, Has bid him dress the spot with fondest care; When borrowing from the vale its fertile soil, He climbs the precipice with patient toil, To plant her fav'rite flow'rets there.

With native shrubs, a hardy race, There the green myrtle finds a place, And roses there, the dewy leaves decline; While from the crags' abrupt and tangled steeps, With bloom and fruit the Alpine berry peeps, And, blus.h.i.+ng, mingles with the vine.

His garden's simple produce stor'd, Prepared for him by hands ador'd Is all the little luxury he knows: And by the same dear hands are softly spread, The Chamois' velvet spoil that forms the bed, Where in her arms he finds repose.

But absent from the calm abode Dark thunder gathers round his road, Wild raves the wind, the arrowy light'nings flash, Returning quick the murmuring rocks among, His faint heart trembling as he winds along; Alarm'd he listens to the crash.

Of rifted ice!--Oh, man of woe!

O'er his dear cot--a ma.s.s of snow, By the storm sever'd from the cliff above, Has fall'n--and buried in its marble breast, All that for him--lost wretch--the world possest, His home, his happiness, his love!

Aghast the heartstruck mourner stands!

Glaz'd are his eyes--convuls'd his hands, O'erwhelming anguish checks his labouring breath; Crush'd by Despair's intolerable weight, Frantic he seeks the mountain's giddiest height, And headlong seeks relief in death.

A fate too similar is mine, But I--in ling'ring pain repine, And still my last felicity deplore; Cold, cold to me is that dear breast become, Where this poor heart had fondly fix'd its home, And love and happiness are mine no more.

_N. Y. Mag., or Lit. Repos._, III-443, July 1792, N. Y.

ELLA. A TALE.

_Lady's Mag. and Repos._, I-97, Jan. 1793, Phila.

[Also in _N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, II-235, Apr. 1791, N. Y.]

A GENERAL VIEW OF SWITZERLAND AND THE ALPS, WITH AN AFFECTING ANECDOTE.

But to return to our Alps. Here, savage rocks of an inaccessible height; there, torrents bursting, as it were, from the clouds, and rolling down the rugged precipices:

The gay train, Of fog, thick roll'd into romantic shape,

may, perhaps, excite your wonder, but not exceed the compa.s.s of your imagination. But how shall I convey to you an idea of the ever-varying and accidental beauties of this majestic scenery! Sometimes the vapour-winged tempest, flitting along some lonely vale, embrowns it with a solemn shade, whilst every thing around glitters in the fullness of meridian splendour. On a sudden, all is dark and gloomy; the thunder rolls from rock to rock, till echo seems tired with the dreadful repet.i.tion: add to this, the gradual approach of the evening, the last gleam of suns.h.i.+ne fading on the mountain-brow, the lingering twilight still warding off the veil of night, till the rising moon just continues, in vision, a glimmering of its faded glories:

Now all's at rest--and ere the wearied swain Rise to his labour on the upland lawn, Shall not the muse from nature catch a strain, To wake, and greet him at the morning dawn?

Oh! let her tell him that the feeling heart, Oft to the mountain side by memory led, Shall seek those blessings wealth can ne'er impart, And wish to share the quiet of his shed:

Where ev'ry sordid pa.s.sion lull'd to rest, Man knows each gift of nature how to prize: Flies from the storm unto his fair one's breast, And there reposing waits serener skies.

Say, ye proud sons of fortune and of power, Can aught the joys you feel, with these compare?