THE DEAD

BY ERNST STOCKMANN

   How they so softly rest,
   All they the holy ones,
   Unto whose dwelling-place
   Now doth my soul draw near! 
   How they so softly rest,
   All in their silent graves,
   Deep to corruption
   Slowly don-sinking!

   And they no longer weep,
   Here, where complaint is still! 
   And they no longer feel,
   Here, where all gladness flies! 
   And, by the cypresses
   Softly o’ershadowed
   Until the Angel
   Calls them, they slumber!

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP

BY WILHELM MULLER

 “The rivers rush into the sea,
 By castle and town they go;
The winds behind them merrily
 Their noisy trumpets blow.

 “The clouds are passing far and high,
 We little birds in them play;
And everything, that can sing and fly,
 Goes with us, and far away.

 “I greet thee, bonny boat!  Whither,
    or whence,
 With thy fluttering golden band?”—­
 “I greet thee, little bird!  To the wide sea
 I haste from the narrow land.

 “Full and swollen is every sail;
 I see no longer a hill,
I have trusted all to the sounding gale,
 And it will not let me stand still.

 “And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? 
 Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall,
For full to sinking is my house
 With merry companions all.”—­

 “I need not and seek not company,
 Bonny boat, I can sing all alone;
For the mainmast tall too heavy am I,
 Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.

“High over the sails, high over the mast,
 Who shall gainsay these joys? 
When thy merry companions are still, at last,
 Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.

 “Who neither may rest, nor listen may,
  God bless them every one! 
I dart away, in the bright blue day,
And the golden fields of the sun.

“Thus do I sing my merry song,
 Wherever the four winds blow;
And this same song, my whole life long,
 Neither Poet nor Printer may know.’

WHITHER?

BY WILHELM MULLER

  I heard a brooklet gushing
   From its rocky fountain near,
Down into the valley rushing,
   So fresh and wondrous clear.

  I know not what came o’er me,
   Nor who the counsel gave;
  But I must hasten downward,
   All with my pilgrim-stave;

Downward, and ever farther,
   And ever the brook beside;
And ever fresher murmured,
 And ever clearer, the tide.

Is this the way I was going? 
 Whither, O brooklet, say I
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,
 Murmured my senses away.

What do I say of a murmur? 
 That can no murmur be;
’T is the water-nymphs, that are singing
 Their roundelays under me.