POETRY.
FROM HEINE.
"MIT ROSEN, CYPIIESSEN,UND ruereaeor.e.- With roses and cypress and gold-leaf fine I would make my book lovely,—a sacred shrine, As if for the dead 'twere hallow'd and made,— And herein shall my songs be gather'd and laid.
Along with my songs, could I love entomb,— On Love's grave the blossom of peace might bloom. It blooms, and men gather what all men crave, But for me 'twill not bloom till I lie in my grave.
Lo„ my songs! once burning with passion and pride, Like a lava-stream gushing from Etna's side, From the deep soul flung in its travail-hour, And scattering sparks in a glittering shower ;- Dumb now like the dead that sepulchres hold, As pale as the mist they lie stiff and cold, Yet anew the old fire its force will show, If the spirit of love heti onee set it aglow And the heart will with tender forebodings thrill That the spirit of love shall its dews distil, Should the book once come into thy dear hand, Sweet love, sweet love in a distant land.
Then the spell will work in each cold dumb line, The letters pale with life's glow will shine, They will look in thy lovely beseeching eye, And whisper their sadness with love's own sigh.—J. H. H.
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