With deeds of horror, and go all unscathed,
No, there's a God to punish and avenge!

Come forth, thou sometime source of bitter pain, My costly jewel now, my highest joy,Soon thou shalt find a mark, which never yet The voice of pity or of woe might pierce. "Twill not be proof 'gainst thee,-and, trusty string! Thou that so oft hast done me faithful service In games of pleasure, O, forsake me not Now in this hour of awful earnestness! Only this once hold fast, true sinew! thou That hast so oft winged me the stinging shaft, – If all in vain this once the bow I bend, No second arrow have I here to send.

Upon this bench of stone I'll seat myself, Where oft the traveller rests him by the way, For here no home is found. Each hurries on, Nor stops to ask another's sorrows. Here The anxious pedler passes by, the light Thinly clad pilgrim and the pious monk,The gloomy robber and the gay musician, The carrier with his heavy-laden steed, Who comes from farthest habitable lands, For every road conducts to the world's end. With busy steps they hasten on their way, Each to his several business. Mine is murder!

Time was, dear children, if your sire went out, There was rejoicing, when he came again;

Denn niemals fehrt' er heim, er bracht' euch etwas,
War's eine schöne Alpenblume, war's

Ein seltner Vogel oder Ammonshorn,
Wie es der Wandrer findet auf den Bergen
Jet geht er einem andern Weidwerk nach,
Am wilden Weg fißt er mit Mordgedanken;
Des Feindes Leben ist's, worauf er lauert.

Und doch an euch nur denkt er, liebe Kinder,
Auch jezt — euch zu verteid'gen, eure holde Unschuld
Zu schüßen vor der Rache des Tyrannen,
Will er zum Morde jezt den Bogen spannen.

Ich laure auf ein edles Wild Läßt sich's
Der Jäger nicht verdrießen, Tage lang
Umher zu streifen in des Winters Strenge,
Von Fels zu Fels den Wagesprung zu tun,
Hinan zu klimmen an den glatten Wänden,
Wo er sich anleimt mit dem eignen Blut,

Um ein armselig Grattier zu erjagen. Hier gilt es einen köstlicheren Preis,

Das Herz des Todfeinds, der mich will verderben.

Mein ganzes Leben lang hab' ich den Bogen
Gehandhabt, mich geübt nach Schüßenregel;
Ich habe oft geschossen in das Schwarze
Und manchen schönen Preis mir heimgebracht
Vom Freudenschießen Aber heute will ich
Den Meisterschuß tun und das Beste mir
Im ganzen Umkreis des Gebirgs gewinnen.

Friedrich von Schiller.

For ever on's return he brought you home
Some lovely Alpine flower or rare bird,

Or other wondrous offspring of the mountains. Now

He seeks for other spoil; on the wild way

He sits with murderous thoughts. His foeman's

It is for that your sire is lurking now.
And yet on you alone he thinks as ever,
Dear children, to protect your innocent heads,
And save you from the tyrant's vengeance, now
He's forced with deadly aim to bend his bow!

I lie in wait for nobler game. The hunter
Tires not of roaming all the livelong day
In stern midwinter, making perilous leaps
From rock to rock, or climbing slippery heights,
Gluing his path with blood, and all for what?
All to entrap a miserable chamois !

Here is a far more costly prize at stake,
The heart of the fell foe who seeks my life.

All

my life long this bow has been to me
My most familiar friend. I've trained myself
By rules of archery, and oftentimes

I've pierced the target-spot and brought me home
Full many a noble prize from shooting-match.
To-day I'll make my master-shot, and win
The proudest prize in all the mountains round.

Tr. by C. T. Brooks.

The Simplon Pass

BROOK and road

Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, And with them did we journey several hours At a slow step. The immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, The stationary blasts of waterfalls, And in the narrow rent, at every turn, Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn, The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream, The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens, Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light Were all like workings of one mind, the features Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, Characters of the great Apocalypse,

The types and symbols of Eternity,

Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.

William Wordsworth.

ITALY

Open my heart and you will see,
Graved inside of it, "Italy."

Robert Browning.

This poem was chiefly written upon the mountainous ruins of the Baths of Caracalla, among the flowery glades, and thickets of odoriferous blossoming trees, which are extended in ever winding labyrinths upon its immense platforms and dizzy arches suspended in the air. The bright blue sky of Rome, and the effect of the vigorous awakening of spring in that divinest climate, and the new life with which it drenches the spirit even to intoxication, were the inspiration of this drama. P. B. Shelley.

(Preface to Prometheus Unbound.)