These are the shades of the departed flowers, My lines faint shadows of some beauteous hours, Whereto the soul the highest thoughts have spoken, And brightest hopes from frequent twilight broken. Preserve them for my sake. In other years, When life has answered to your hopes or fears, When the web is well woven, and you try Your wings, whether as moth or butterfly, If, as I pray, the fairest lot be thine, Yet value still the faded columbine. But look not on her if thy earnest eye, Be filled by works of art or poesy; Bring not the hermit where, in long array, Triumphs of genius gild the purple day; Let her not hear the lyre's proud voice arise, To tell, "still lives the song though Regnor dies;" Let her not hear the lute's soft-rising swell Declare she never lived who lived so well; But from the anvil's clang, and joiner's screw, The busy streets where men dull crafts pursue, From weary cares and from tumultuous joys, From aimless bustle and from voiceless noise, If there thy plans should be, turn here thine eye,-- Open the casket of thy memory; Give to thy friend the gentlest, holiest sigh. DISSATISFACTION. TRANSLATED FROM THEODORE KOeRNER. "Composed as I stood sentinel on the banks of the Elbe." Fatherland! Thou call'st the singer In the blissful glow of day; He no more can musing linger, While thou dost mourn a tyrant's sway. Love and poesy forsaking, From friendship's magic circle breaking, The keenest pangs he could endure Thy peace to insure. Yet sometimes tears must dim his eyes, As, on the melodious bridge of song, The shadows of past joys arise, And in mild beauty round him throng. In vain, o'er life, that early beam Such radiance shed;--the impetuous stream Of strife has seized him, onward borne, While left behind his loved ones mourn. Here in the crowd must he complain, Nor find a fit employ? Give him poetic place again, Or the quick throb of warlike joy. The wonted inspiration give; Thus languidly he cannot live; Love's accents are no longer near; Let him the trumpet hear. Where is the cannon's thunder? The clashing cymbals, where? While foreign foes our cities plunder, Can we not hasten there? I can no longer watch this stream; _In prose_ I die! O source of flame! O poesy! for which I glow,-- A nobler death thou shouldst bestow! MY SEAL-RING.