Else Heaven help us, now it goes no more! Help thou, and bring us our Duke! Then will we die for German honor! Then bury us in German earth! _December_ 30, 1863. It is not, however, in war songs or political invective that the poetical genius of Klaus Groth shows to advantage. His proper sphere is the quiet idyl, a truthful and thoughtful description of nature, a reproduction of the simplest and deepest feelings of the human heart, and all this in the homely, honest, and heartfelt language of his own “Platt Deutsch.” That the example of Burns has told on Groth, that the poetry of the Scotch poet has inspired and inspirited the poet of Schleswig-Holstein, is not to be denied. But to imitate Burns, and to imitate him successfully, is no mean achievement, and Groth would be the last man to disown his master. The poem “Min Jehann” might have been written by Burns. I shall give a free metrical translation of it, but should advise the reader to try to spell out the original; for much of its charm lies in its native form, and to turn Groth even into High-German destroys his beauty as much as when Burns is translated into English. MIN JEHANN. Ik wull, wi weern noch kleen, Jehann, Do weer de Welt so grot! We seten op den Steen, Jehann, Weest noch? by Nawers Sot. An Heben sell de stille Maan, Wi segen, wa he leep, Un snacken, wa de Himmel hoch, Un wa de Sot wul deep. Weest noch, wa still dat weer, Jehann? Dar röhr keen Blatt an Bom. So is dat nu ni mehr, Jehann, As höchstens noch in Drom. Och ne, wenn do de Scheper sung— Alleen in’t wide Feld: Ni wahr, Jehann? dat weer en Ton— De eenzige op de Welt. Mitünner inne Schummerntid Denn ward mi so to Mod, Denn löppt mi’t langs den Rügg so hitt, As domals bi den Sot. Den dreih ik mi so hasti um, As weer ik nich alleen: Doch Allens, wat ik finn, Jehann, Dat is—ik stah un ween. MY JOHN. I wish we still were little, John, The world was then so wide! When on the stone by neighbor’s bourn We rested side by side. We saw the moon in silver veiled Sail silent through the sky; Our thoughts were deeper than the bourn, And as the heavens high. You know how still it was then, John; All nature seemed at rest; So is it now no longer, John, Or in our dreams at best! Think when the shepherd boy then sang Alone o’er all the plain, Aye, John, you know, that was a sound We ne’er shall hear again. Sometimes now, John, the eventides The self-same feelings bring, My pulses beat as loud and strong As then beside the spring. And then I turn affrighted round, Some stranger to descry; But nothing can I see, my John,— I am alone and cry.