Think'st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance, Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears? Speak, for thy tears disturb me!-what art thou? Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on? Look up!-oh! is it-that wan cheek and brow!— Is it-alas! yet joy!—my son, my son! THEKLA'S SONG; OR, THE VOICE OF A SPIRIT. FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. This Song is said to have been composed by Schiller in answer to the inquiries of his friends respecting the fate of Thekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the tragedy of "Wallenstein's Death," after her resolution to visit the grave of her lover is made known. ""Tis not merely The human being's pride that peoples space Since likewise for the stricken heart of love Coleridge's Translation of Wallenstein. ASK'ST thou my home?-my pathway wouldst thou know, When from thine eye my floating shadow pass'd? Was not my work fulfill'd and closed below? Had I not lived and loved?-my lot was cast. Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone, That melting into song her soul away, Gave the spring-breeze what witch'd thee in its tone? -But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay! Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found? -Yes! we are one, oh! trust me, we have met, Where nought again may part what love hath bound, Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret. There shalt thou find us, there with us be blest, There dwells my father,* sinless and at rest, And well he feels, no error of the dust Drew to the stars of Heaven his mortal ken, There shall each feeling beautiful and high, *Wallenstein. THE REVELLERS. RING, joyous chords!-ring out again! A swifter still, and a wilder strain! They are here—the fair face and the careless heart, And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. -But I met a dimly mournful glance, In a sudden turn of the flying dance; In a pause of the thrilling melody! And it is not well that woe should breathe On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath! Ring, joyous chords!--but who art thou With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow, And the world of dreamy gloom that lies In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes? -Thou hast loved, fair girl! thou hast loved too well! Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell; Thou hast pour'd thy heart's rich treasures forth, There is not a tone in our songs for thee— Ring, joyous chords!--ring out again! Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of mirth-- Ring, joyous chords! ring forth again! A swifter still, and a wilder strain! -But thou, though a reckless mien be thine, And thy cup be crown'd with the foaming wine, By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud, By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud, I know thee !-it is but the wakeful fear Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here! I know thee!-thou fearest the solemn night, |