Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!

A bold Bohemian cries;

If there's a heaven upon this earth,
In Bohemia it lies.

There the tailor blows the flute,
And the cobler blows the horn,
And the miner blows the bugle,
Over mountain gorge and bourn.

And then the landlord's daughter
Up to heaven raised her hand,
And said, Ye may no more contend,
There lies the happiest land!

THE WAVE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE.

WHITHER, thou turbid wave? Whither, with so much haste, As if a thief wert thou?

I am the Wave of Life,
Stained with my margin's dust;
From the struggle and the strife
Of the narrow stream I fly
To the Sea's immensity,
To wash from me the slime
Of the muddy banks of Time.

THE DEAD.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KLOPSTOCK.

How they so softly rest,

All, all the holy dead,
Unto whose dwelling-place
Now doth my soul draw near!
How they so softly rest,
All in their silent graves,

Deep to corruption
Slowly down-sinking!

And they no longer weep,

Here, where complaint is still!

And they no longer feel,

Here, where all gladness flies!

And by the cypresses

Softly o'ershadowed,

Until the Angel

Calls them, they slumber!

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP.

FROM THE GERMAN OF MÜLLER.

THE rivers rush into the sea,

By castle and town they go; The winds behind them merrily Their noisy trumpets blow.

The clouds are passing far and high,
We little birds in them play;
And every thing, that can sing and fly,
Goes with us, and far away.