III.

Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides,
Where the fireflies light the brake;

A ruddier juice the Briton hides,

In his fortress by the lake.

Build high the fire, till the panther leap

From his lofty perch in fright,

And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleep, For the deeds of to-morrow night.

THE DEATH OF SCHILLER.*

'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh, The wish possessed his mighty mind, To wander forth wherever lie

The homes and haunts of human kind.

Then strayed the poet, in his dreams,
By Rome and Egypt's ancient graves;
Went up the New World's forest streams,
Stood in the Hindoo's temple-caves.

Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark,
The bearded Tartar, 'midst his herds,
The peering Chinese, and the dark
False Malay uttering gentle words.

How could he rest? even then he trod

The threshold of the world unknown; Already, from the seat of God,

A ray upon his garments shone ;

* Shortly before the death of Schiller, he was seized with a strong desire to travel in foreign countries, as if his spirit had a presentiment of its approaching enlargement, and already longed to expatiate in a wider and more varied sphere of existence.

Shone and awoke that strong desire

For love and knowledge reached not here, Till death set free his soul of fire,

To plunge into its fitting sphere.

Then who shall tell how deep, how bright,

The abyss of glory opened round?

How thought and feeling flowed like light,

Through ranks of being without bound?

LIFE.*

Oн life! I breathe thee in the breeze,

I feel thee bounding in my veins,

I see thee in these stretching trees,

These flowers, this still rock's mossy stains.

This stream of odors flowing by

From clover-field and clumps of pine,

This music, thrilling all the sky,

From all the morning birds, are thine.

Thou fill'st with joy this little one,

That leaps and shouts beside me here, Where Isar's clay-white rivulets run.

Through the dark woods like frighted deer.

* Close to the city of Munich, in Bavaria, lies the spacious and beautiful pleasure ground called the English Garden, in which these lines were written, originally projected and laid out by our countryman, Count Rumford, under the auspices of one of the sovereigns of the country. Winding walks of great extent pass through close thickets and groves interspersed with lawns; and streams diverted from the river Isar traverse the grounds swiftly in various directions, the water of which, stained with the clay of the soil it has corroded in its descent from the upper country, is frequently of a turbid white color.

Ah! must thy mighty breath, that wakes
Insect and bird, and flower and tree,
From the low trodden dust, and makes
Their daily gladness, pass from me-

Pass, pulse by pulse, till o'er the ground
These limbs, now strong, shall creep with pain,
And this fair world of sight and sound
Seem fading into night again?

The thing, oh LIFE! thou quickenest, all Strive upward toward the broad bright sky,

Upward and outward, and they fall

Back to earth's bosom when they die.

All that have borne the touch of death,
All that shall live, lie mingled there,
Beneath that veil of bloom and breath,
That living zone 'twixt earth and air.

There lies my chamber dark and still,
The atoms trampled by my feet,
There wait, to take the place I fill
In the sweet air and sunshine sweet.

Well, I have had my turn, have been
Raised from the darkness of the clod,

And for a glorious moment seen

The brightness of the skirts of God: