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THE BIRD AND THE SHIP.

FROM THE GERMAN OF MÜLLER.

The rivers rush into the sea,

By castle and town they go ; The winds behind them merrily

Their noisy trumpets blow.

" The clouds are passing far and high,

We little birds in them play ; And every thing, that can sing and fly,

Goes with us, and far away.

“ I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or whence,

With thy fluttering golden band ? ” — “I greet thee, little bird ! To the wide sea

I haste from the narrow land.

" Full and swollen is every sail ;

I see no longer a hill,
I have trusted all to the sounding gale,

And it will not let me stand still.

" And wilt thou, little bird, go with us ?

Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, For full to sinking is my house

With merry companions all.”

" I need not and seek not company,

Bonny boat, I can sing all alone ; For the mainmast tall too heavy am I,

Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.

“ High over the sails, high over the mast,

Who shall gainsay these joys ? When thy merry companions are still, at last,

Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.

6. Who neither may rest, nor listen may,

God bless them every one !
I dart away, in the bright blue day,

And the golden fields of the sun.

66 Thus do I sing my weary song,

Wherever the four winds blow;
And this same song, my whole life long,

Neither Poet nor Printer may know.”

WHITHER ?

FROM THE GERMAN OF MÜLLER.

I HEARD a brooklet gushing

From its rocky fountain near, Down into the valley rushing,

So fresh and wondrous clear.

I know not what came o'er me,

Nor who the counsel gave; But I must hasten downward,

All with my pilgrim-stave ;

Downward, and ever farther,

And ever the brook beside ; And ever fresher murmured,

And ever clearer, the tide.

Is this the way I was going ?

Whither, O brooklet, say ! Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,

Murmured my senses away.

What do I say of a murmur ?

That can no murmur be; ’T is the water-nymphs, that are singing

Their roundelays under me.

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur,

And wander merrily near ; The wheels of a mill are going

In every brooklet clear.

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