Translations Of German Poetry In American Magazines 1741-1810 Part 10

DAMON.

Daphne, embrace me with thy circling arms, What sacred joy my swelling bosom warms, Where'er we turn what glories meet our eyes, What unexhausted springs of rapture rise.

From the least plant to the bright star of day, That kindles nature with its quickening ray, All, all, our admiration ought to raise, And tune our voices to the notes of praise!

How my heart swells, when from yon mountain's brow, I view the spreading country stretch'd below.

Or, when amid the gra.s.s, in rural ease, Laying my limbs beneath the branching trees, I contemplate the various flowers and plants, And their minutely fine inhabitants.

Or when amid the solemn hours of night, I view the stars adorn the heavens with light; The grateful changes of the seasons trace, The progress of the vegetable race.

When all these wonders thro' my senses roll, They fill with purest awe my swelling soul; Thoughts urge on thoughts in quick successive birth, Weeping, I kneel to him who made the earth; To him, my admiration I confess, Father of light, of life, of every bliss: Nought then my soul with equal joy can move, Save the delight to know my Daphne's love.

DAPHNE.

Damon, around me also wonders rise, And fill my bosom with a sweet surprize.

Oh let us then, lock'd in a soft embrace, When Morn approaching lifts her ruddy face, When gentle Eve her milder beauties shows, Or moonlight through the air its radiance throws, Thus let our thoughts upon such objects rest, Whilst to each others beating bosoms prest, In broken accents we our wonder own, And turn our minds tow'rds heaven's eternal throne.

How inexpressible is the delight, When transports such as these, with tend'rest love unite.

P. D.

_Port Folio_, I-171, May 30, 1801, Phila.

[S. Gessner, _Damon. Daphne_.]

For the Port Folio.

THE FLY, A FABLE.

From the German of Gellert.

That insects think, as well as speak, Needs, at this day, small eloquence to show; Esop, whom even children prize in Greek, Affirm'd as much, some thousand years ago.

Fontaine, in French, a.s.serted just the same; Who then shall dare deny the reptile claim To faculties, the world esteems so low, As scarce to notice, if you think or no?

Within a temple, where the builder's art, Grandeur and elegance at once had join'd; While due proportion, reign'd in every part, And simple grace, with solid strength combin'd.

In such a temple's wall, sat perch'd on high, A solemn, thoughtful, philosophic fly.

For flies, an air so grave, of wisdom take, And on one leg, the head will often hold, And into wrinkles, oft the forehead fold, Only because they deep reflection's make; And to the bottom dive to know, The source of all things here below.

Thus then, involv'd in contemplation deep, With half a dozen wrinkles on his brow, This fly began, around himself to peep, And question whence the building rose, and how?

No _maker_ of this work can I perceive, Quoth he--and that there is one, scarce believe; For who should such a maker be?

"Art," said a spider sage. "Art built the work you see, For, wheresoever turns your eye, Fix'd laws, and order you descry; And hence, a fair conclusion grows, That from the hand of Art, the building rose."

At this the fly, in his conceptions proud, Laugh'd out aloud, And with a sneer of scorn, replied-- "Most learned sir, I oft have tried, At this same Art to get a sight, But never on him yet could light; And now, the more I think, the more I find, Your Art is but a fiction of the mind.

Now learn from me how this same temple grew: Once on a time, it so by chance befel That pebbles numberless together flew, And settling, form'd this hollow sh.e.l.l, Where you, and I, friend spider, dwell; Say, what can be more evidently true?"

A fly, for such a system, we forgive; But if great geniuses should live, Who deem this world's well-order'd frame, Sprung from blind accident alone, And chance, as author of their lives proclaim, Rather than bow to G.o.d's eternal throne, The sole excuse a creed, like this admits, Is, that its votaries have lost their wits.

L.

_Port Folio_, I-192, June 13, 1801, Phila.

[C. F. Gellert, _Die Fliege_.]

For the Port Folio.

THE SUICIDE.

From the German of Gellert.

Oh, youth, from what I now relate, While gentle tears bedew your eyes, Lament the lover's hapless fate, And learn, what woes from love arise.

A youth of exemplary worth, The comfort of his aged sire, Whose virtues, early bursting forth, The fairest hopes might well inspire.

By beauty's potent charms subdued, For Chloe felt a tender pain; Her equal love with ardour sued, But found his fond entreaties vain.

While at her feet he pleads his flame, The cruel Chloe bids him fly; Yes! cried he, yes! insulting dame, You never more shall hear me sigh.

Then, on his sword, his hand he lays, While wild despair his gestures breathe; Draws it--the deadly point surveys, And thrusts it--_back into its sheath_.

U.

_Port Folio_, I-192, June 13, 1801, Phila.

[C. F. Gellert, _Der Selbstmord_.]

FROM THE GERMAN.

While yon enlivening orb of day To William yields its light, He to no other la.s.s will stray Nor faithful Anna slight.

Thus Will to Nance, with ardour, said; And kept his word, I ween, Nor, till the sun had gone to bed, Met Sophy on the green.

_Port Folio_, I-280, Aug. 29, 1801, Phila.

For the Port Folio.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GELLERT.

THE DANCING BEAR A Fable.

A bear, who long had danced for bread, One morning from his keeper fled; Back to his native woods retreated, And, by his brother brutes, was kindly greeted: Their joy to see him made the forest roar, They lick'd his chaps, they stroak'd him with the paw; And when each bear his neighbour saw, Their news was, So!--Our Bruin's here once more.

Straightway the travell'd youth went on All his adventures to relate, And whatsoever he had seen, or done, Or heard, in foreign parts to state.

And when it came the turn to tell His dancing deeds, to capering he fell, As though his former master's chain Were fasten'd round his neck again.

Bears of the woods are seldom trained to dance; Yet, seeing Bruin throw his limbs about, The fancy seiz'd them all, themselves to prance, And strive, with clumsy aim, his motions to make out.

Scarce one of all the brood but quickly trip'd, And stumbling, staggering, fell his whole length down; The more they fail'd, the brisker Bruin skip'd, To show their skill at fault and prove his own.

But now, their fury kindles at his play; Away! Begone, you tumbling fool! they bawl; Must you, forsooth, be wiser than us all?

And straight, with one accord, they hooted him away.

Your neighbour's hatred would you shun?

His talents to surpa.s.s beware!

And still the higher your attainments run, Conceal them still with greater care.

For though, at first, the voice of fame Shall sound your praises to the sky: Anon shall Envy blast your name, And turn your fairest arts to crimes of deepest dye.

L.

27 November 1801.