O bear me hence!--They hearken not-- The clouds on high so prudent are! They fly above this town, to seek With trembling haste some region far. 8. ANNO 1839. Dear distant Germany, how often I weep when I remember thee! Gay France my sorrow cannot soften, Her merry race gives pain to me. In Paris, in this witty region, ’Tis cold dry reason that now reigns; O bells of folly and religion, How sweetly sound at home your strains! Courteous the men! Their salutation I yet return with feelings sad; The rudeness shown in every station In my own country made me glad! Smiling the women! but their clatter, Like millwheels, never seems to cease; The Germans (not to mince the matter) Prefer I, who lie down in peace. And all things here with restless passion Keep whirling, like some madden’d dream; With us, they move in jog-trot fashion, And well-nigh void of motion seem. Methinks I hear the distant ringing Of the soft bugle’s notes serene; The watchman’s songs I hear them singing, With Philomel’s sweet strains between. At home the bard, a happy vagrant In Schilda’s oak woods loved to rove; From moonbeams fair and violets fragrant My tender verses there I wove. 9. AT DAWN. On the Faubourg Saint Marçeau Lay the mist this very morning, Mist of autumn, heavy, thick, And a white-hued night resembling. Wandering through this white-hued night, I beheld before me gliding An enchanting female form Which the moon’s sweet light resembled. Yes, she was, like moonlight sweet, Lightly floating, tender, graceful; Such a slender shape of limbs I had here in France ne’er witness’d. Was it Luna’s self perchance, Who with some young dear and handsome Fond Endymion had to-day In th’ Quartier Latin been ling’ring? On my way home thus I thought: Wherefore fled she when she saw me? Did the Goddess think that I Was perchance the Sun-God Phœbus? 10. SIR OLAVE. I. At the door of the cathedral Stand two men, both wearing red coats, And the first one is the monarch, And the headsman is the other. To the headsman spake the monarch: “By the priest’s song I can gather “That the wedding is now finish’d-- “Keep thy trusty hatchet ready!” To the sound of bells and organ From the church the people issue In a motley throng, and ’mongst them Move the gay-dress’d bridal couple. Pale as death and sad and mournful Looks the monarch’s lovely daughter; Bold and joyous looks Sir Olave, And his ruddy lips are smiling. And with smiling ruddy lips he Thus the gloomy king addresses: “Father of my wife, good morning! “Forfeited to-day my head is.