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 And said, Ye may no more contend, - THE WAVE. FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE. WHITHER, thou turbid wave? As if a thief wert thou? I am the Wave of Life, 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! |