How lovely art thou in thy tresses of foam, And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill, When yelling thou rollest thee down from thy home, 'Mid the boom of the echoing forest and hill. The pine-trees are shaken--they yield to thy shocks, And spread their vast ruin wide over the ground, The rocks fly before thee--thou seizest the rocks, And whirl'st them like pebbles contemptuously round. The sun-beams have cloth'd thee in glorious dyes, They streak with the tints of the heavenly bow Those hovering columns of vapour that rise Forth from the bubbling cauldron below. But why art thou seeking the ocean's dark brine? If grandeur makes happiness, sure it is found, When forth from the depths of the rock-girdled mine Thou boundest, and all gives response to thy sound. Beware thee, O torrent, of yonder dark sea, For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod, Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,-- Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a god. True, it is pleasant, at eve or at noon, To gaze on the sea and its far-winding bays, When ting'd with the light of the wandering moon, Or red with the gold of the midsummer rays. But, torrent, what is it? what is it?--behold That lustre as nought but a bait and a snare, What is the summer sun's purple and gold To him who breathes not in pure freedom the air. Abandon, abandon, thy headlong career-- But downward thou rushest--my words are in vain, Bethink thee that oft-changing winds domineer On the billowy breast of the time-serving main. Then haste not, O torrent, to yonder dark sea, For there thou must crouch beneath tyranny's rod; Here thou art lonely, and lovely, and free,-- Loud as a thunder-peal, strong as a god. RUNIC VERSES. O the force of Runic verses, O the mighty strength of song Cannot baffle all the curses Which to mortal state belong. Slaughter'd chiefs, that buried under Heaps of marble, long have lain, Song can rend your tomb asunder, Give ye life and strength again. When around his dying capture, Fierce, the serpent draws his fold, Song can make him, wild with rapture, Straight uncoil, and bite the mould. When from keep and battled tower, Flames to heaven upward strain, Song has o'er them greater power, Than the vapours dropping rain. It can quench the conflagration Striding o'er the works of art; But nor song nor incantation Can appease love's cruel smart. O the force of Runic verses, O the mighty strength of song Cannot baffle all the curses Which to mortal state belong. THOUGHTS ON DEATH. FROM THE SWEDISH OF C. LOHMAN. Perhaps 't is folly, but still I feel My heart-strings quiver, my senses reel, Thinking how like a fast stream we range Nearer and nearer to yon dread change, When soul and spirit filter away, And leave nothing better than senseless clay.