"Many the paths to Hades," an ancient proverb Tells us, "and one of them thou thyself shalt follow, Doubt not!" My sweetest Sappho, who can doubt it? Tells not each day the old tale? Yet the foreboding word in a youthful bosom Rankles not, as a fisher bred by the seashore, Deafened by use, perceives the breaker's thunder no more. --Strangely, however, today my heart misgave me. Attend: Sunny the glow of morn-tide, pouring Through the trees of my well-walled garden, Roused the slugabed (so of late thou calledst Erinna) Early up from her sultry couch. Full was my soul of quiet, although my blood beat Quick with uncertain waves o'er the thin cheek's pallor. Then, as I loosed the plaits of my shining tresses, Parting with nard-moist comb above my forehead The veil of hair--in the glass my own glance met me. Eyes, strange eyes, I said, what will ye? Spirit of me, that within there dwelled securely as yet, Occultly wed to my living senses-- Demon-like, half smiling thy solemn message, Thou dost nod to me, Death presaging! --Ha! all at once like lightning a thrill went through me, Or as a deadly arrow with sable feathers Whizzing had grazed my temples, So that, with hands pressed over my face, a long time Dumb-struck I sat, while my thought reeled at the frightful abyss. Tearless at first I pondered, Weighing the terror of Death; Till I bethought me of thee, my Sappho, And of my comrades all, And of the muses' lore, When straightway the tears ran fast. But there on the table gleamed a beautiful hair-net, thy gift, Costly handwork of Byssos, spangled with golden bees. This, when next in the flowery festal season We shall worship the glorious child of Demeter, This will I offer to her for thy and my sake, So may she favor us both (for she much availeth), That no mourning lock thou untimely sever From thy beloved head for thy poor Erinna. * * * * * MOZART'S JOURNEY FROM VIENNA TO PRAGUE (about 1850) A ROMANCE OF HIS PRIVATE LIFE BY EDUARD MÖRIKE TRANSLATED BY FLORENCE LEONARD In the fall of the year 1787 Mozart and his wife undertook a journey to Prague, where he was to finish and bring out his masterpiece, _Don Juan_. Eleven o'clock of the fourteenth of September found them well on their way and in the best of spirits. They had been traveling two days, and were about one hundred and twenty miles from Vienna, among the beautiful Mährische mountains. The splendid coach, drawn by three post-horses, belonged to an elderly Frau Volkstett, wife of General Volkstett, who prided herself on her intimacy with the Mozarts and on the favors she had shown them. The carriage was painted a bright yellowish-red, the body adorned with garlands of gay-colored flowers, the wheels finished with narrow stripes of gold. The high top was fitted with stiff leather curtains, now drawn back and fastened.