FAREWELL TO LIFE.

337

Days of my age, ye will shortly be past;
Pains of my age, yet awhile can ye last;
Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight;
Eyes of my age, be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod;
Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your God.

FAREWELL TO LIFE.

LINES WRITTEN BY KÖRNER, WHEN HE LAY DANGEROUSLY WOUNDED AND HELPLESS, IN A FOREST, EXPECTING TO DIE.

TRANSLATED BY DR. FOLLEN.

THIS smarting wound, chill!

these lips so pale and

My heart, with faint and fainter beating, says,
I stand upon the borders of my days.

Amen! my God, I own thy holy will.
The golden dreams, that once my soul did fill,
The songs of mirth, become sepulchral lays.
Faith faith! That truth which all my spirit

sways,

Yonder, as here, must live within me still.

And what I held as sacred here below,

What I embraced with quick and youthful glow,

Whether I called it liberty, or love,
A seraph bright I see it stand above;
And as my senses slowly pass away,
A breath transports me to the realms of day.

A POET'S DYING HYMN.

MRS. HEMANS.

Be mute who will, who can,

Yet I will praise Thee with impassioned voice!
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine

In such a temple as we now behold,

Reared for thy presence; therefore am I bound

To worship, here and everywhere.

WORDSWORTH.

THE blue, deep, glorious heavens! I lift my eye, And bless thee, O my God! that I have met And owned thine image in the majesty

Of their calm temple still!--that never yet There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night, I bless thee, O my God!

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, I see the mercy of thine aspect shine, Touching death's features with a lovely glance Of light, serenely, solemnly divine,

A POET'S DYING HYMN.

And lending to each holy star a ray

As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away,
I bless thee, O my God!

339

That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid,
In the earth's garden, 'midst the mountains

old,

And the low thrillings of the forest shade,

And the wild sounds of waters uncontrolled, And upon many a desert plain and shore,— No solitude, for there I felt Thee more,

I bless thee, O my God!

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed
The gift, the vision of the unsealed eye,
To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread,
To reach the hidden fountain urns that lie
Far in man's heart, — if I have kept it free
And pure, a consecration unto thee,

I bless thee, O my God!

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught

With an awakening power,-if thou hast made Like the winged seed the breathings of my thought,

And by the swift winds bid them be conveyed To lands of other lays, and there become

Native as early melodies of home,

I bless thee, O my God!

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,

Nor for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead, But that perchance a faint gale of thy breath, A still, small whisper in my song, hath led One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne, Or but one hope, one prayer, - for this alone I bless thee, O my God!

That I have loved, that I have known the love Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs, Yet with a coloring halo from above

Tinges and glorifies all earthly things, Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be, Still weaving links for intercourse with thee, I bless thee, O my God!

That by the passion of its deep distress,
And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer,
And by the yearning of its tenderness,

Too full for words upon their stream to bear, I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, Well-spring of love, the unfathomed, the divine; I bless thee, O my God!

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken, High hope, which e'en from mystery, doubt, or dread,

Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken

Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed,

A POET'S DYING HYMN.

341

That passing storms have only fanned the fire Which pierced them still with its triumphant spire,

I bless thee, O my God!

Now art thou calling me in every gale,

Each sound and token of the dying day;

Thou leavest me not, though early life grows pale;

I am not darkly sinking to decay;

But hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.

I bless thee, O my God!

And if this earth, with all its choral streams,
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,
And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams,
Be lovely still in my departing eyes,-
'Tis not that fondly I would linger here,
But that thy footprints on its dust appear.
I bless thee, O my God!

And that the tender shadowing I behold,
The tracery veining every leaf and flower,
Of glories cast in more consummate mould,
No longer vassals to the changeful hour,
That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring
Rich visions of imperishable spring,-

I bless thee, O my God.