They who passed through many woes,

They whose lot was bright as morn,

Sick of life, or newly born;

Now their earthly days they cease,

Now all spirits rest in peace.

JOHANN G. VON HERDER.

[1744-1803.]

NIGHT. A FRAGMENT.

ART returning, peaceful holy mother

Of the stars and heavenly meditation—

Art to us returning? Earth is waiting
Yearningly for thee, and all her flowers
Bend their weary heads, from out thy chalice
Fragrant drops of heaven's dew desiring.
And with them inclineth too my weary
Soul, with wondrous images o'ercrowded,
Waiting till the gentle hand efface them-
Images of other worlds' creating,

And with rest my yearning heart refresheth.

Star-bespangled, golden-crowned goddess,

Thou upon whose sable garments flowing Sparkle tens of thousands worlds, whom gently Thou hast borne, and whose unceasing motion,

Fiery orbits' course, and restless being,

Thou with arms of rest eternal holdest.

With what hymns of praise to thee resoundeth

All the universe, thou gentle leader

Of the starry chorus, hymns, and praises,

Silencing the tempest, softly lulling

Into slumber every voice and language,
Ev'ry whisp'ring heart in holy silence!
Holy silence, now the world o'erbrooding,
Gentle stream, that on the shores eternal

Of the vast creation rolleth ever;

And thou music of those worlds celestial,

Light from light, the heavens' gentle language!

Lofty night, I kneel before thy altar;

All the lights in th' all-surrounding ether

Are the fillet of thy holy temples,

Full of sacred letters. Who can read them,
Flaming letters of the Uncreated

On the brow of night? They say: Jehovah

Is the only God, His name Eternal,

And His child is Night; her name is called

Mystery no mortal e'er hath lifted

Yet her veil most holy. She created

Worlds, and space, and time. Her children ever

Stand in face of love, and law, and order,

And of fate relentless, guiding ever

Guiding ever to the loving Father.

Fling around thy veil, O holy mother!

Close thy mighty book of sacred writing!

Even in my thoughts I can no higher,

Can no further climb; do thou then rather

Pour from out thy sleep-filled horn upon me,

Gently pour on me, O holy mother

Thou of sleep and dreams, pour gently on me

Soft oblivion of my cares and sorrows.

THE LYRE.

YE chords, what singeth in you?

What sounds do ye prolong?

Is't thou, oh Philomela,

Thou bird of mournful song?

Who when she to my spirit

Her soft complaining sent,

Became, perchance, in sighing,

A silver instrument.

Ye chords, what speaketh in you?

What sounds do ye prolong?