Forth breaks the new creation here, Eclipsing the glow of the brightest sphere. Behold through ruins ivy-streaming A new and wondrous future gleaming, And what was common hitherto, Appeareth marvellous and new. Love's realm beginneth to reveal, And busy Fable plies her wheel. To its olden play each nature returns, And a mighty spell in each one burns; And so the Soul of the world doth hover And move through all, and bloom forever. For each other all must strive, One through the other must ripen and thrive; Each is shadowed forth in all, While itself with them is blending, And eagerly into their deeps doth fall, Its own peculiar essence mending, And myriad thoughts to life doth call. The dream is World, the world is Dream, And what already past may seem, Itself is yet in distance moulding; But Fancy first her court is holding, Freely the threads at her pleasure weaving, Much veiling here, much there unfolding, And then in magical vapor leaving. Life and death, rapture and sadness, Are here in inmost sympathy,-- Who yieldeth himself to love's deep madness, From its wounds is never free. In pain must every bond be riven That winds around the inner eye, The orphaned heart with woe have striven, Ere it the sullen world can fly. The body melteth in its weeping, Its bitter sighs the bosom burn; The world a grave becometh, keeping The heart, like ashes in an urn. In deep thought a pilgrim was walking along a narrow foot-path which ran up the mountain side. Noon had passed. A strong wind whistled through the blue air. Its dull and ever-changing sounds lost themselves as they came. Had it perhaps flown through the regions of childhood, or through other whispering lands? They were voices whose echo sounded in his heart; yet the pilgrim did not appear to recognise them. He had now reached the mountain where he hoped to find a limit to his journey. Hoped? No longer did he cherish hope. Terrible anxiety, the sterile coldness of indifferent despair, urged him to seek the wild horrors of the mountains; the most toilsome path soothed the tumult of his soul. He was weary and silent. He noticed not the gradual accumulation of nature around him, as he sat upon a stone and cast his eye backward. It seemed as if he were or had been dreaming. A splendor whose limit he could not define opened before him. His cheeks were soon wet with tears, as his feelings suddenly broke loose; he would have wept himself away in the distance, that no trace of his existence might remain. Amid his deep-drawn sighs he seemed to recover; the soft, serene air penetrated him. The world was again present to his senses, and thoughts of other times began to speak to him consolation.