Rose of the Alpine valley! I feel, in every vein, Thy soft touch on my fingers; oh, press them not again! Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward track, And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy master back.' THE SERENADE. FROM THE SPANISH. Ir slumber, sweet Lisena! As night steals o'er the glory Wake, in thy scorn and beauty, That mourns for thy disdain. Here by thy door at midnight, With plaintive sounds profaning A tale of sorrow cherished Of wrong from love the flatterer, And my own wayward heart. Twice, o'er this vale, the seasons The genial wind of May; Yet still my plaint is uttered, I saw from this fair region, While winter seized the streamlets That fled along the ground, And fast in chains of crystal The truant murmurers bound. I saw that to the forest The nightingales had flown, And every sweet-voiced fountain Had hushed its silver tone. The maniac winds, divorcing The turtle from his mate, Raved through the leafy beeches, And left them desolate. Now May, with life and music, And rears her flowery arches The minstrel bird of evening Comes back on joyous wings, And, like the harp's soft murmur, Is heard the gush of springs, And deep within the forest Their nuptial chambers seeking, Their chambers close and green. The rugged trees are mingling The ivy climbs the laurel, To clasp the boughs above. They change-but thou, Lisena, Why to thy lover only Should spring return in vain? A NORTHERN LEGEND. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. THERE sits a lovely maiden, The ocean murmuring nigh; She throws the hook, and watches; The fishes pass it by. A ring, with a red jewel, Uprises from the water A hand like ivory fair. What gleams upon its finger? Uprises from the bottom A young and handsome knight; In golden scales he rises, That glitter in the light. |