THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene 'T was not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh! no, "T was that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,i Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. Das Thal von Avoca. Kein Ort auf der Welt mir so lieblich erscheint, Eh' dem Herzen entschwindet das blühende Thal. Doch es war nicht der Landschaft lichtathmendes Blühn Daß Freunde mir nahe, die liebsten der Brust, O, Thal von Avoca! so schattig und kühl, Uch! gleich deinen Wassern, in Frieden vereint! SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing: But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Ah! little they think who delight in her strains, He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, They 'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, Sie ist fern von dem Land. Sie ist fern von dem Land, wo gefallen ihr Held; Sie weint und ist kalt für die übrige Welt, Sie finget sein wildes, sein klagendes Lied Er lebte dem Lieb nur, er starb für sein Land, Seines Vaterlands Leid wird so bald nicht gewandt, O! grabt ihr ein Grab, wo des Abendlichts Kuß Daß es lächl' ihrem Schlaf, wie aus Westen ein Gruß WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. He. What the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew, Through the leaves that close embower it, What the bank, with verdure glowing, Whispering kisses, while they're going, But they say, the bee 's a rover, Who will fly, when sweets are gone; Faithless brooks will wander on. He. Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, 'T is but right, that bees and brooks Should sip and kiss them, while they may. |