Child of the Unborn! joy! for thou
       Shinest in every heavenly flame,
     Breathest in all the winds that blow,
       While self-conviction speaks thy name: 
     Oh, let one glance of thine illume
     The longing soul that bids thee come,
       And make me feel of heaven, like thee! 
     Shake from thy torch one blazing drop,
     And to my soul all heaven shall ope,
       And I—­dissolve in melody!

     Translated in Westminster Review.

     FROM THE ‘ODE TO NAPOLEON’

     Poesy, nay!  Too long art silent! 
     Seize now the lute!  Why dost thou tarry? 
     Let sword the Universe inherit,
     Noblest as prize of war be glory. 
     Let thousand mouths sing hero-actions: 
     E’en so, the glory is not uttered. 
     Earth-gods—­an endless life, ambrosial,
     Find they alone in song enchanting.

     Watch thou with care thy heedless fingers
     Striking upon the lyre so godlike;
     Hold thou in check thy lightning-flashes,
     That where they chance to fall are blighting. 
     He who on eagle’s wing soars skyward
     Must at the sun’s bright barrier tremble. 
     Frederic, though great in royal throning,
     Well may amaze the earth, and heaven,
     When clothed by thunder and the levin
     Swerves he before the hero’s fanfare.

* * * * *

     Pause then, Imagination!  Portals
     Hiding the Future, ope your doorways! 
     Earth, the blood-drenched, yields palms and olives. 
     Sword that hath cleft on bone and muscle,
     Spear that hath drunk the hero’s lifeblood,
     Furrow the soil, as spade and ploughshare. 
     Blasts that alarm from blaring trumpets
     Laws of fair Peace anon shall herald: 
     Heaven’s shame, at last, its end attaining.

     Earth, see, O see your sceptres bowing. 
     Gone is the eagle once majestic;
     On us a cycle new is dawning;
     Look, from the skies it hath descended. 
     O potent princes, ye the throne-born! 
     See what Almighty will hath destined. 
     Quit ye your seats, in low adoring,
     Set all the earth, with you, a-kneeling;
     Or—­as the free-born men should perish—­
     Sink in grave with crown and kingdom.

     Glorious in lucent rays, already
     Brighter than gold a sceptre shineth;
     No warring realm shall dim its lustre,
     No earth-storm veil its blaze to dimness. 
     Can it be true that, centuries ended,
     God’s endless realm, the Hebrew, quickens
     Lifting its horns—­though not for always? 
     Shines in the East the sun, like noonday? 
     Shall Hagar’s wandering sons be heartened
     After the Moslem’s haughty baiting?