Arms outstretched, alas! in vain,

To embrace his longing ones;

For the greedy sand devours us;
Or the burning sun above us
Sucks our life-blood; or some hillock
Hems us into ponds. Ah! brother,
Take thy brothers from the plain-
Take thy brothers from the hill-sides
With thee, to our Sire with thee!"
"Come ye all, then!"

Now, more proudly,

On he swells; a countless race, they
Bear their glorious prince aloft!
On he rolls triumphantly
Giving names to countries; cities
Spring to being 'neath his feet.

Onward with incessant roaring,
See! he passes proudly by

Flaming turrets, marble mansions-
Creatures of his fullness, all!

Cedar houses bears this Atlas
On his giant shoulders; rustling,
Flapping in the playful breezes,
Thousand flags about his head are
Telling of his majesty.

And so bears he all his brothers,
And his treasures, and his children,
To their Sire, all joyous roaring-
Pressing to his mighty heart.

Translation of J. S. DWIGHT.

JOHANN WOLFGANG V. GOETHE, 1749-1832.

THE RIVULET.

FROM THE SPANISH.

Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave

The lovely vale that lies around thee!
Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve,

When but a fount the morning found thee?

Born when the skies began to glow,"
Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters,
No blossom bowed its stalk to show
Where stole thy still and scanty waters.

Now on thy stream the moonbeams look,
Usurping, as thou downward driftest,
Its crystal from the clearest brook,

Its rushing current from the swiftest.

Ah! what wild haste-and all to be
A river, and expire in ocean!
Each fountain's tribute hurries thee

To that vast grave with quicker motion.

Far better 'twere to linger still

In this green vale these flowers to cherish,
And die in peace, an aged rill,

Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.

Translation of W. C. BRYANT.

PEDRO DE CASTRO, 17th Century.

THE STREAM OF THE ROCK.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Unperishing youth!

Thou leapest from forth

The cleft of the rock;

No mortal eye saw

The mighty one's cradle;

No ear ever heard

The lofty one's lisp in the murmuring spring

How beautiful art thou,

In silvery locks!

How terrible art thou,

When the cliffs are resounding in thunder around!

Thee feareth the fir-tree;

Thou crushest the fir-tree

From its root to its crown.

The cliffs flee before thee;

The cliffs thou engraspest,

And hurlest them, scornful, like pebbles adown.

The sun weaves around thee

The beams of its splendor;

It painteth with hues of the heavenly iris,
The uprolling clouds of the silvery spray.

Why speedest thou downward,
Toward the green sea?

Is it not well by the nearer heaven?
Not well by the sounding cliff?

Not well by the o'erhanging forest of oaks?
O hasten not so

Toward the green sea!

Youth! O now thou art strong, like a god!

Free like a god!

Beneath thee is smiling the peacefullest stillness,
The tremulous swell of the slumberous sea;
Now silvered o'er by the swimming moonshine;
Now golden and red in the light of the west.

Youth, O what is this silken quiet;
What is the smile of the friendly moonlight-
The purple and gold of the evening sun,
To him whom the feeling of bondage oppresses?

Now streamest thou wild

As thy heart may prompt!

But below oft ruleth the fickle tempest,

Oft the stillness of death, in the subject sea!

O hasten not so

Toward the green sea!

Youth, O now thou art strong, like a god,

Free, like a god!

Translation of W. W. STORY.

FR. LEOP. STOLBERG, 1750-1819.