Hark, that hollow cry! She springs up from beneath Even under such monstrous and torturing trammel, She reaches the central moon-lighted plain, That spreadeth around all bare and wide; And her woeful eyeballs, how they stare Yet on she flies-on, on; for her there is no retreating; And the desert can hear the heart of the doomed one beat ing! And lo! A stupendous column of sand, A sand-spout out of that sandy ocean, upcurls Behind the pair in eddies and whirls; Most like some colossal brand, Or wandering spirit of wrath On his blasted path, Or the dreadful pillar that lighted the warriors and women Of Israel's land through the wilderness of Yemen. And the vulture, scenting a coming carouse, Sails, hoarsely screaming, down the sky; The panther, too, who strangles the Cape-Town sheep Athirst for his share in the slaughter, follows; While the gore of their victim spreads like a pool in the sandy hollows! She reels, but the king of the brutes bestrides His tottering throne to the last: with might He plunges his terrible claws in the bright And delicate cushions of her sides. Yet hold! -fair play!- she rallies again! In vain, in vain! Her struggles but help to drain her life-blood faster; She staggers, gasps, and sinks at the feet of her slayer and master! She staggers, she falls; she shall struggle no more! Anon will rise over Madagascar brightly.- REST IN THE BELOVED (RUHE IN DER GELIEBTEN) From Lyrics and Ballads of Heine and Other German Poets. Copyright 1892, by Frances Hellman. Reprinted by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons, publishers, New York. H, HERE forever let me stay, love! Here let my resting-place e'er be; And both thy tender palms then lay, love, Here at thy feet, before thee kneeling, I'll open them but to the glances That from thine own in radiance fall; Of burning tears that upward swell, Thus am I meek, and kind, and lowly, Within thine arms I'm lulled to rest, With slumber songs that soothe my breast. A life renewed each seems bestowing; To what each other's heart-beats say! We disappear from time and space; OH, LOVE SO LONG AS LOVE THOU CANST H, LOVE So long as love thou canst! OF. Oh, love so long thy soul have need! The hour will come, the hour will come, And let thy heart forever glow And throb with love, and hold love's heat, Shall echo to its yearning beat. And who to thee his heart shall show, Guard well thy tongue; a bitter word Soon from the mouth of anger leaps. Oh, love so long as love thou canst! Oh, love so long thy soul have need! Thou kneelest down upon the grave, And sink'st in agony thine eyes,— They never more the dead shall see, The silent church-yard hears thy sighs. Thou mourn'st: "Oh, look upon this heart, O God, it was not meant to wound!" But he, he sees and hears thee not; He comes not, he can never know: The mouth that kissed thee once says not, "Friend, I forgave thee long ago!" He did forgive thee long ago, Though many a hot tear bitter fell For thee and for thy angry word; But still he slumbers soft and well! Oh, love so long as love thou canst! Oh, love so long thy soul have need! The hour will come, the hour will come, When by the grave thy heart shall bleed! Translation of Dr. Edward Breck. GUSTAV FRENSSEN. (1863-) BY ESTHER E. LAPE USTAV FRENSSEN was born at Barlt, in South Dithmarsch, on October 19th, 1863. After attending the gymnasiums in Meldorf and Husum, he studied theology at the universities of Tübingen, Berlin, and Kiel. In 1892 he was appointed pastor in the village of Hemme. Two years later, after the success of Jörn Uhl, he resigned his charge. He is now living at Blankenese, near Hamburg. Frenssen's Frenssen belongs to that group of Schleswig-Holsteiners who draw their real strength from the soil of their native district. stories are full of the sea and the moor, and of the quiet reserved men and women that live half-isolated there, wresting a hard-won living from sea and shore. As he pictures them, they are hard, bitterly earnest, and stubborn, yet they can be soft and mild. Born and brought up among them, and then working among them, this Holstein country parson knows to the backbone the people he tells us about, and sets them before his readers, a real world. His claim to fame rests mainly on his longest novel, (Jörn Uhl,› which was published in 1901. It quickly became the most widely read book of the time in Germany, and ran into two hundred editions. Its theme is the moral force that can be derived only from hard work, and the healing, elevating influence of severe sustained effort. The story is simple. The Uhls live on a large, pretentious farm, and consider themselves better than their neighbors. The father is easy-going and wasteful, and spoils his two oldest sons by letting them swagger around without working, wheedling money out of him for their dissipations. Jörn, the youngest, is slow and rather stolid; he is the only one that cares how things are going, and by and by is drafted into working like a hired man on the farm. The father is crippled by an accident just as a heavy mortgage falls due, and the burden of retrieving the family fortunes falls on Jörn. He puts in years of bitter toil in the vain endeavor to build up the run-down farm or rather the run-down farm and family, for in (Jörn Uhl,) as in (Frau Sorge, the family and the soil are the two elements out of which life is made. Frenssen, like Sudermann, makes everything grow out of these two things. Jörn leads a life full of toil and despair; he has one misfortune after another, as long as he feels like the lord of the manor. All his troubles, however, |