This gifted and genial man, who lived in such loving companionship with nature, was called away from the earth, which seemed to him so cheerful, before he had passed the middle term of human life. The news of his death was received with lamentation by all classes in Norway. Crowds of people went to Christiana to bid farewell to the lifeless body of their favorite poet. While in the last stage of consumption, in May, 1845, he wrote the following verses, which were read to me by one of his countrymen, who translated them literally, as he went along. Even through this imperfect medium, my heart was deeply touched by their childlike simplicity and farewell sadness. The plaintive voice seemed to become my own, and uttered itself thus, in English rhyme, which faithfully preserves the sense of the original: SUPPLICATION TO SPRING. Oh, save me, save me, gentle Spring! Bring healing on thy balmy wing! I loved thee more than all the year. To no one hast thou been more dear. Bright emeralds I valued less, Than early grass, and water-cress. Gem of the year I named _thy_ flower, Though roses grace fair Summer’s bower. The queenly ones, with fragrant sighs, Tried to allure thy poet’s eyes; But _they_ were far less dear to me, Than _thy_ simple wild anemone. Bear witness for me, little flower! Beloved from childhood’s earliest hour; And dandelions, so much despised, Whose blossoms more than gold I prized. I welcomed swallows on the wing, And loved them for their news of Spring. I gave a feast for the earliest one, As if a long-lost child had come, Blest harbingers of genial hours, Unite _your_ voices with the flowers! Dear graceful birds, pour forth your prayer, That nature will her poet spare! Plead with the Maker of the rain! That he will chilling showers restrain; And my poor breast no longer feel Sharp needle-points of frosty steel. Thou beautiful old maple tree! For my _love’s_ sake, pray _thou_ for me! Thy leaf-buds, op’ning to the sun, Like pearls I counted ev’ry one. I wished I might thy grandson be, Dear, ven’rable old maple tree! That my young arms might round thee twine, And mix my vernal crown with thine. Ah, even now, full well I ween, Thou hast thy robe of soft light-green. I seem to hear thee whisp’ring slow To the vernal grass below. Stretch thy strong arms toward the sky, And pray thy poet may not die! I will heal thy scars with kisses sweet, And pour out wine upon thy feet. Blessings on the patriarch tree! Hoarsely he intercedes for me; And little flowers, with voices mild, Beg thee to spare thy suff’ring child. Fair season, so beloved by me! Thy young and old _all_ plead with thee. Oh, heal me, with thy balmy wing! I have so _worshipped_ thee, sweet Spring!