And then my friends--defend them not: Count not thyself one now; For thou those friends resemblest not,-- No! firm, and good, and true art thou. A PARODY. Indeed they have wearied me greatly, And made me exceedingly sad, One half with their prose so wretched, The other with poetry bad. Their terrible discord has scatter’d What little senses I had, One half with their prose so wretched, The other with poetry bad. But ’mongst the whole army of scribblers, They most have stirr’d up my bile, Who write in neither prosaic Nor true poetical style. WALKING FLOWERS AT BERLIN. Yes! under the lindens, my dear friend, Thy yearnings may satisfied be; The fairest of womankind here, friend, All walking together, thou’lt see. How charming they look, how delicious, In gay silken garments all dress’d! A certain poet judicious “Walking flowers” has named them in jest. How very charming each bonnet! Each Turkish shawl, how it gleams! Each cheek, what a bright glow upon it! Each neck, how swanlike it seems! EVENING SONGS. 1. Without any aim, forth I sallied, And roam’d by the pond o’er the lea; The charming flowers look’d pallid, And spectre-like gazed upon me. Upon me they gazed, and to chatter And tell my dull tale I began; They ask’d me, what was the matter With me, poor sad-looking man. The truth, I valiantly said it, No love in the world can I find; And as I have lost all my credit, With want of cash ’tis combin’d. 2. And over the pond are sailing Two swans all white as snow; Sweet voices mysteriously wailing Pierce through me as onward they go. They sail along, and a ringing Sweet melody rises on high, And when the swans begin singing, They presently must die. 3. When in sorrow, they dare not show it, However mournful their mood, For the swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood. And in their death-hour they waken The air, and break into song; And, unless my ears are mistaken, They sing now, while sailing along. 4. The cloudlets are lazily sailing O’er the blue Atlantic sea; And mid the twilight there hovers A shadowy figure o’er me. Full deep in my soul it gazes, With old-time-recalling eye, Like a glimpse of joys long buried, And happiness long gone by. Familiar the vision appeareth, Methinks I know it full well; ’Tis the much-loved shadow of Mary, Who on earth no longer doth dwell. She beckons in friendly silence, And clasps me with gentle despair; But I seize hold of my glasses, To have a better stare! SONNETS. 1. TO AUGUSTUS WILLIAM VON SCHLEGEL.