Other interesting poems are records of these often beautiful visions, especially of that preceding her own death; the address to her life-circle, the thought of which is truly great, (this was translated in the Dublin Magazine,) and descriptions of her earthly state as an imprisonment.  The story of her life, though stained like others, by partialities, and prejudices, which were not justly distinguished from what was altogether true and fair, is a poem of so pure a music; presents such gentle and holy images, that we sympathize fully in the love and gratitude Kerner and his friends felt towards her, as the friend of their best life.  She was a St. Theresa in her way.

His address to her, with which his volume closes, may thus be translated in homely guise.  In the original it has no merit, except as uttering his affectionate and reverent feeling towards his patient, the peasant girl,—­“the sick one, the poor one.”  But we like to see how, from the mouths of babes and sucklings, praise may be so perfected as to command this reverence from the learned and worldly-wise.

Farewell; the debt I owe thee
Ever in heart I bear;
My soul sees, since I know thee,
The spirit depths so clear.

Whether in light or shade,
Thy soul now dwelling hath;
Be, if my faith should fade,
The guide upon my path.

Livest thou in mutual power,
With spirits blest and bright,
O be, in death’s dark hour,
My help to heaven’s light.

Upon thy grave is growing,
The plant by thee beloved,[5]
St. Johns-wort golden glowing,
Like St. John’s thoughts of love.

Witness of sacred sorrow,
Whene’er thou meet’st my eye,
O flower, from thee I borrow,
Thoughts for eternity.

Farewell! the woes of earth
No more my soul affright;
Who knows their temporal birth
Can easy bear their weight.

[Footnote 5:  She received great benefit from decoctions of this herb,
and often prescribed it to others.]

I do confess this is a paraphrase, not a translation, also, that in the other extracts, I have taken liberties with the original for the sake of condensation, and clearness.  What I have written must be received as a slight and conversational account, of the work.

Two or three other remarks, I had forgotten, may come in here.

The glances at the spirit-world have none of that large or universal significance, none of that value from philosophical analogy, that is felt in any picture by Swedenborg, or Dante, of permanent relations.  The mind of the forester’s daughter was exalted and rapidly developed; still the wild cherry tree bore no orange; she was not transformed into a philosophic or poetic organization.

Yet many of her untaught notions remind of other seers of a larger scope.  She, too, receives this life as one link in a long chain; and thinks that immediately after death, the meaning of the past life will appear to us as one word.