It must be confessed, however, that there is in Platen a remarkable lack of inner experience. He went through life without ever having been shaken to the depths of his nature and was, unfortunately, not of so Olympian a calmness that, like Goethe, he could present the world in plastic repose and sublimity. With all his refinement and fervor he has left but few poems of lasting interest, and of these _The Grave in the Busento_ is perhaps the best. [Illustration: THE MAGIC HORN] _LUDWIG ACHIM VON ARNIM AND CLEMENS BRENTANO_ * * * * * THE BOY'S MAGIC HORN[7] (1806) WERE I A LITTLE BIRD Were I a little bird, And had two little wings, I'd fly to thee; But I must stay, because That cannot be. Though I be far from thee, In sleep I dwell with thee, Thy voice I hear. But when I wake again, Then all is drear. Each nightly hour my heart With thoughts of thee will start When I'm alone; For thou 'st a thousand times Pledged me thine own. * * * * * THE MOUNTAINEER Oh, would I were a falcon wild, I should spread my wings and soar; Then I should come a-swooping down By a wealthy burgher's door. In his house there dwells a maiden, She is called fair Magdalene, And a fairer brown-eyed damsel All my days I have not seen. On a Monday morning early, Monday morning, they relate, Magdalene was seen a-walking Through the city's northern gate. Then the maidens said: "Thy pardon-- Magdalene, where wouldst thou go?" "Oh, into my father's garden, Where I went the night, you know." And when she to the garden came, And straight into the garden ran, There lay beneath the linden-tree Asleep, a young and comely man. "Wake up, young man, be stirring, Oh rise, for time is dear, I hear the keys a-rattling, And mother will be here." "Hearst thou her keys a-rattling, And thy mother must be nigh, Then o'er the heath this minute Oh come with me, and fly!" And as they wandered o'er the heath, There for these twain was spread, A shady linden-tree beneath, A silken bridal-bed. And three half hours together, They lay upon the bed. "Turn round, turn round, brown maiden; Give me thy lips so red!" "Thou sayst so much of turning round, But naught of wedded troth, I fear me I have slept away My faith and honor both." "And fearest thou, thou hast slept away Thy faith and honor too, I say I'll wed thee yet, my dear, So thou shalt never rue." Who was it sang this little lay, And sang it o'er with cheer? On St. Annenberg by the town, It was the mountaineer. He sang it there right gaily, Drank mead and cool red wine, Beside him sat and listened Three dainty damsels fine.