Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 56, Number 348. Various

afar:

      Came it flashing, swift and sudden;

      As if fiery wine it were,

      Flowing from an open chalice,

      Which a beauteous boy did bear.

IV

      And he wore a lustrous chaplet,

      And his eyes were full of thought,

      As he stepp’d into the circle

      With the radiance that he brought.

      And he bade me taste the goblet;

      And I thought—“It cannot be,

      That this boy should be the bearer

      Of the Demon’s gifts to me!”

V

      “Taste the draught of pure existence

      Sparkling in this golden urn,

      And no more with baneful magic

      Shalt thou hitherward return.

      Do not dig for treasures longer;

      Let thy future spellwords be

      Days of labour, nights of resting;

      So shall peace return to thee!”

      Pass we away now from the Hartz to Heidelberg, in the company of our glorious poet. We all know the magnificent ruins of the Neckar, the feudal turrets which look down upon one of the sweetest spots that ever filled the soul of a weary man with yearning for a long repose. Many a year has gone by since the helmet of the warder was seen glancing on these lofty battlements, since the tramp of the steed was heard in the court-yard, and the banner floated proudly from the topmost turret; but fancy has a power to call them back, and the shattered stone is restored in an instant by the touch of that sublimest architect:—

      The Castle on the Mountain

      There stands an ancient castle

      On yonder mountain height,

      Where, fenced with door and portal,

      Once tarried steed and knight.

      But gone are door and portal,

      And all is hush’d and still;

      O’er ruin’d wall and rafter

      I clamber as I will.

      A cellar with many a vintage

      Once lay in yonder nook;

      Where now are the cellarer’s flagons,

      And where is his jovial look?

      No more he sets the beakers

      For the guests at the wassail feast;

      Nor fills a flask from the oldest cask

      For the duties of the priest.

      No more he gives on the staircase

      The stoup to the thirsty squires,

      And a hurried thanks for the hurried gift

      Receives, nor more requires.

      For burn’d are roof and rafter,

      And they hang begrimed and black;

      And stair, and hall, and chapel,

      Are turn’d to dust and wrack.

      Yet, as with song and cittern,

      One day when the sun was bright,

      I saw my love ascending

      With me the rocky height;

      From the hush and desolation

      Sweet fancies did unfold,

      And it seem’d as we were living

      In the merry days of old.

      As if the stateliest chambers

      For noble guests were spread,

      And out from the prime of that glorious time

      A youth a maiden led.

      And, standing in the chapel,

      The good old priest did say,

      “Will ye wed with one another?”

      And we smiled and we answer’d “Yea!”

      We sung, and our hearts they bounded

      To the thrilling lays we sung,

      And every note was doubled

      By the echo’s catching tongue.

      And when, as eve descended,

      We left the silence still,

      And the setting sun look’d upward

      On that great castled hill;

      Then far and wide, like lord and bride,

      In the radiant light we shone—

      It sank; and again the ruins

      Stood desolate and lone!

      We shall now select, from the songs that are scattered throughout the tale of Wilhelm Meister, one of the most genial and sweet. It is an in-door picture of evening, and of those odorous flowers of life which expand their petals only at the approach of Hesperus.

      Philine’s Song

      Sing not thus in notes of sadness

      Of the loneliness of night;

      No! ’tis made for social gladness,

      Converse sweet, and love’s delight.

      As to rugged man his wife is,

      As his fairest half decreed,

      So dear night the half of life is,

      And the fairest half indeed.

      Canst thou in the day have pleasure,

      Which but breaks on rapture in,

      Scares us from our dreams of leisure

      With its glare and irksome din?

      But when night is come, and glowing

      Is the lamp’s attemper’d ray,

      And from lip to lip are flowing

      Love and mirth, in sparkling play;

      When the fiery boy, that wildly

      Rushes in his wayward mood,

      Calms to rest, disporting mildly,

      By some trivial gift subdued;

      When the nightingale is trilling

      Songs of love to lovers’ ears,

      Which, to hearts with sorrow thrilling,

      Seem but sighs and waken tears;

      Then, with bosom lightly springing,

      Dost thou listen to the bell,

      That, with midnight’s number ringing,

      Speaks of rest and joy so well?

      Then, dear heart, this comfort borrow

      From the long day’s lingering light—

      Every day hath its own sorrow,

      Gladness cometh with the night!

      We are somewhat puzzled as to the title which we ought to prefix to our next specimen. Goethe rather maliciously calls it “Gegenwart,” which may be equivalent to the word “Presentiality,” if, indeed, such a word belongs to the English language. We, therefore, prefer dedicating it to our own ladye love; and we could not find for her any where a sweeter strain, unless we were to commit depredation upon the minor poems of Ben Jonson or of Shakspeare.

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