Language is but inexpressive, Words are awkward and in vain; Soon as they are said, the pretty Butterfly flies off again. But a look may last for ever, And with joy may fill thy breast, Making it like some wide heaven, Full of starry rapture blest. 3. Not one solitary kiss After months of loving passion, So my mouth must still continue Dry, in very wretched fashion. Happiness seem’d once at hand, And her breath I e’en felt nigh me But without my lips e’er touching, She, alas! soon fleeted by me. 4. Emma, for my satisfaction Say if I’m distracted driven, By my love, or is love only The result of my distraction? Ah! I’m tortured, charming Emma, Not alone by my mad loving, Not alone by loving madness, But besides by this dilemma. 5. When I’m with thee, strife and need! So I on my travels started; Yet my life, when from thee parted, Is no life, but death indeed. Pondering all the livelong night, I ’twixt death and hell lay choosing-- Ah, methinks this strife confusing Now has driv’n me mad outright! 6. Fast is creeping on us dreary Night with many a ghostly shape, And our souls are growing weary, And we at each other gape. Thou art old and I still older, And our spring has ceased to bloom; Thou art cold, and I still colder, At th’ approach of winter’s gloom. At the end, how all is sadden’d! After love’s sweet cares are past, Cares draw nigh, by love ungladden’d, After life comes death at last. 8. FREDERICA. 1. O leave Berlin, with its thick-lying sand, Weak tea, and men who seem so much to know That they both God, themselves, and all below With Hegel’s reason only understand. O come to India, to the sunny land Where flowers ambrosial their sweet fragrance throw Where pilgrim troops on tow’rd the Ganges go With reverence, in white robes, a festal band. There, where the palm-trees wave, the billows smile, And on the sacred bank the lotos-tree Soars up to Indra’s castle blue,--yes there, There will I kneel to thee in trusting style, And press against thy foot, and say to thee: “Madam, thou art the fairest of the fair!” 2. The Ganges roars; amid the foliage see The sharp eyes of the antelope, who springs Disdainfully along; their colour’d wings The peacocks as they move, show haughtily. Deep from the bosom of the sunny lea Rises a newborn race of flowers, sweet things; With yearning-madden’d voice Cocila sings-- Yes, thou art fair, no woman’s like to thee! God Cama[9] lurks in all thy features fair, He dwells within thy bosom’s tents so white, And breathes to thee the sweetest songs he knows.