"Lehn deine Wang' an meine Wang', Dann fliessen die Thränen zusammen! Und an mein Herz drück fest dein Herz, Dann schlagen zusammen die Flammen! Und wenn in die grosse Flamme fliesst Der Strom von unseren Thränen, Und wenn dich mein Arm gewaltig umschliesst-- _Sterb' ich vor Liebessehnen._"[1] [1] Thy cheek incline, dear love to mine, Then our tears in one stream will meet, love! Let thy heart be pressed till on mine it rest, Then the flames together will beat, love! And when the stream of our tears shall light On that flame so fiercely burning, And within my arms I clasp thee tight-- I shall die with love's wild yearning. (Translated by SIR THEODORE MARTIN.) This favoured lover, who, when the flames meet, dies of longing, betrays himself to be in reality a thoroughly unsatisfied lover. Hence the best of the purely erotic poems are those which express love's longing and those which depict its sad decay. Conspicuous amongst the poems of tender longing is the charming Oriental song, _Auf Flügeln des Gesanges, Herzliebchen, trag' ich dich fort_, which fascinates by its exotic Indian landscape and by its delicate fervency of feeling. Heine longed for India as Goethe longed for Italy; his spiritual home was on the banks of the Ganges, as Goethe's was on the banks of the Tiber. It is probable that Bopp's lectures first turned his thoughts in the direction of that Oriental dream-land; but in picturing it he employs the purely imaginative, Romantic style, which he inherited, remodelled for himself, and used in painting the far-off and alluring. How simply beautiful is such a verse as: "Dort wollen wir niedersinken Unter dem Palmenbaum, Und Lieb' und Ruhe trinken Und träumen seligen Traum."[2] [2] We'll lie there, in slumber sinking, 'Neath the palm tree by the stream, Raptures and rest deep drinking, Dreaming the happiest dream. (C. G. LELAND.) But a verse like: "Dort liegt ein rothblühender Garten Im stillen Mondenschein, Die Lotosblumen erwarten Ihr trautes Schwesterlein."[3] [3] There a red-blooming garden is lying In the moonlight silent and clear; The lotus flowers are sighing For their sister so gentle and dear. (E. A. BOWRING.)