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Behold, she comes ! My vision traces
The goddess as she earthward flies; She comes, adorned with Chloe's graces,
And joy is laughing in her eyes.
Away with doubt-away with dolour !
A glory brightens Nature's face :
Daughter of Heaven, Earth's consoler,
Fly, Friendship, fly to my embrace !
But ah-this dart! My frame is shaken ;
Wild tumults in my bosom rise : I find, too late, that I've mistaken
For Friendship, Love in Friendship's guise.
CRONEGK.—Die verkleidete Liebe. ON AN EGOTIST.
Here lies a poor elf
Who did nought good or bad ; He loved but himself,
And no rival he had.
P. L. VERDIER.-Épitaphe d'un Égoïste.
THE OCEAN OF HOPE.
HOPE after hope is dashed to pieces,
Wave after wave on ocean's breast
Is broken, yet he does not rest.
To sink and rise in endless motion,
That is the very life of ocean;
They are the surges of the heart.
As upward still the foam is driven,
RÜCKERT.—Das Meer der Hoffnung THE WEAPONS OF MAN.
Not weaponless is fashioned man;
I speak not of the sword-
Right worthily reward-
To make him strong and free,
A sovereign mastery.
And such a weapon is his Soul,
Resolved, whate'er betide, To make the Loftiest its goal,
To spurn the Base aside ; That, when Misfortune wreaks her spite,
Firm as against a rock,
Swerves not a hairbreadth from the right,
And bravely bears the shock.
And such a weapon is his Heart,
With honest warmth aglow,
Where puling sorrow finds no part,
Though soft to real woe;
To love, with honour, fain,
Of self-respect a grain.
And such a weapon is his Word,
The echo of his thought,
By sordid interest unstirred,
No bauble to be bought :
It nobly makes a stand; A treasure rich in evil days,
A pledge of good at hand.