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ÓVER hill and plain and valley
Ónward as I trável aimless,
Óften, toward the clóse of evening,
To my secret sélf I thús say: -
“Yónder see the same sun sétting
Neárly where he sét last evening,
Yonder, grówn a little larger,
See the same moon silent rísing.
“Thoú too 'rt grówn one whole day older
Thán thou wást at this hour lást night,
Bút thou rt nót grown one day wiser,
And still less grown one day bétter.
“Whát though Titus, whát though Cáto
Hád in thị case mourned a day lost,
Heart, rejoice, and coúnt each hoúr won
Thát no wound inficts in passing.”
Walking from GIEBELSTADT in BAVARIA to MERGENTHEIM in WÜRTTEMBERG, Oct. 22, 1855.
TÉLL me not how much thou lóv'st me,
Lóve by words was never measured,
Bút look kindly and I 'll soon know.
Without words how much thou lóv'st me.
Let me see thine eýe grow brighter
Át my coming and thy lid droop if I bút talk of departing And I 'll know how much thou lóv'st me.
Whén thou singest, when thou pláyest
Sing and play those aírs alóne which
Thoú hast heard me say I like best,
And I'll know how much thou lóv'st me.
Walk no roads but those which Í walk, Choose no flowers but those which I choose, Háve no friends but those whom I have, And I 'll know how much thou lóv'st me.
Lóve me and thou need'st not téll it,
Love that 's told 's already léss love;
Lóve me and thou canst not hide it,
Love me and I can't but know it.
Í 'LL not tell thee hów I love thee,
Lóve by words was never meásured,
Bút look at me thoú, and tell me
Dóst thou not see how I love thee
Dóst thou not mine eye see brighten
Át thy cóming, and my. líd droop
ff thou bút talk'st of departing
Í 'll not tell thee hów I love thee.
Í no sóngs sing, I no airs play,
Bút those songs and airs thou lík'st best,
When thou ''rt absent I am túneless
Í 'll not tell thee hów I love thee.
Í no roads walk which thou walk’st not,
Choose no flowers but those thou choosest,
Háve no friends but those whom thoú hast
f'll not tell thee hów I love thee.
Hów I love thee Í 'll not tell thee,
Lóve that 's told 's already léss love;
Hów I lóve thee I cannot hide,
Ére I knew it myself thou knéw'st it.
ANNIVERSARY OF SCHILLER'S BIRTHDAY.
STUTTGART, NOV. 10, 1853.
This dáy is Schiller's birthday; there 's rejoicing
In Stuttgart from the highest to the lowest;
All Württemberg rejoices, king and court,
Láic and priést; the square before Old Palace
Is odorous of flowers strown round his statue;
Children his name lisp, and the very bells
That call on Sundays to the house of prayer
Are this day éloquent with the name of Schiller.
Silence, vile sounds ! false flowers, grow pale and wither!
Húsh, children! let no tongue pronounce his name,
Th' expatriated fugitive's, whose bones
Sánctify Weimar's earth, whom ye disowned,
And from among ye sent to seek a poor,
Hard earned subsistence in a foreign land,
Becaúse he would not have his free thoughts scissored,
And from another cog what he should say,
Hé has his túrn now and disowns thee, Stuttgart,
Disówns thee, Suábia; bids ye keep your honors,
Úseless to him, reproachful to yourselves;
He was yours; yé despised him, would not háve him;
In vain ye claim him now he is the world's,
And yet ye did no more than other Stuttgarts
And Württembergs have done to other Schillers,
No more than, from all time, the seized of power
Háve done, and to all time will do, to those
Who dáre to touch or even so much as point at
The incohérent rubbish, silt and offal,
Which únderlie the lowest foundation stone
Of áll power, and may any day give way
And slip from underneath, and down falls power
Amid the loúd hurrahs of those who take
The rúins to erect with them a like
Proud, towering structure on like dunghill basis
Permanent perhaps a while, but sure at last
To rót and stink and ooze and slip away
From underneath, and down, as old tower fell,
Falls néw tower headlong, amid like hurrahs,
Cúrses, and thanks to God, and hymns of triumph.
Thirty nine birthdays Márbach's son had counted,
Ere fár Iérne from my mother's womb
Received me first, and to his fate had bowed,
And yiélded úp, resigned, his painful breath,
Ánd his eyes closed upon the sweet daylight
And his own rádiant fame, as my seventh year
By the hand took me, and, beside the lap
Of Wátts and Bárbauld placing, bade me listen
Fór the first time to sweéter sound than lark's
Or thróstle's song, the numbers of the poet.
Then other years came and to other laps
Léd me successive, and mine ear drew in
Eáger the various lore, and I grew on
To be a man, and in the busy world
Mixed with the busiest, and toiled hard for bread,
And for vile góld, alas ! and rank and honor,
But never at my busiest did I quite
Forgét my seventh year, or not now and then
At early morn, late eve, or deep midnight,
Retired and all alone, entreat to hear
Númbers melódious Goldsmith's, Scott's or Pope's,
Spenser's or Shákespeare's, or divinest Milton's.
Late láte, and almost last, fell on mine ear