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handkerchiefs waved from the coaches;

       We fain would embrace, but our horses are fleet,

       And speed on, despite all reproaches.

      Dear Prince Alexander, as onward we go,

       We scarcely have met at a station,

       When the signal to start the postilions blow,

       Compelling our sad separation.

      20. QUITE TRUE.

      When the spring returns with the sun’s sweet light,

       The flowers then bud and blossom apace;

       When the moon begins her radiant race,

       Then the stars swim after her track so bright.

       When the minstrel sees two beautiful eyes,

       Then songs from his inmost bosom arise;—

       But songs and stars and flowerets gay,

       And eyes and moonbeams and sun’s bright ray,

       However delightful they are,

       Don’t make up the world, friend, by far.

4. SONNETS.

       TO A. W. VON SCHLEGEL.

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      In dainty hoop, with flowers all-richly dight,

       With beauty-patches on her painted face,

       With pointed shoes all hung about with lace,

       With tow’ring curls, and, wasp-like, fasten’d tight—

       Thus was the spurious muse equipp’d that night

       When first she offer’d thee her fond embrace;

       But thou eludedst her and leftst the place,

Led by a mystic impulse from her sight: A castle in the desert thou didst find, Where, like a lovely marble image shrin’d, Lay a fair maid, in magic slumber sunk; But soon the spell was loosed—when kiss’d by thee, With smiles the lawful muse of Germany Awoke, and sank within thine arms, love-drunk.

TO MY MOTHER, B. HEINE, née VON GELDERN.

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      1.

      I have been wont to bear my head right high,

       My temper too is somewhat stern and rough;

       Even before a monarch’s cold rebuff

       I would not timidly avert mine eye.

       Yet, mother dear, I’ll tell it openly:

       Much as my haughty pride may swell and puff,

       I feel submissive and subdued enough,

       When thy much-cherished, darling form is nigh.

       Is it thy spirit that subdues me then,

       Thy spirit, grasping all things in its ken,

       And soaring to the light of heaven again?

       By the sad recollection I’m oppress’d

       That I have done so much that grieved thy breast,

       Which loved me, more than all things else, the best.

      2.

      With foolish fancy I deserted thee;

       I fain would search the whole world through, to learn

       If in it I perchance could love discern,

       That I might love embrace right-lovingly.

       I sought for love as far as eye could see,

       My hands extending at each door in turn,

       Begging them not my prayer for love to spurn—

       Cold hate alone they laughing gave to me.

       And ever search’d I after love; yes, ever

       Search’d after love, but love discover’d never,

       And so I homeward went, with troubled thought;

       But thou wert there to welcome me again,

       And, ah, what in thy dear eye floated then

       That was the sweet love I so long had sought.

TO H. S.

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      When I thy book, friend, open hastily,

       Full many a cherish’d picture meets my view,

       And many a golden image that I knew

       In boyish dreams and days of infancy.

       Proudly tow’rd heaven upsoaring, then I see

       The pious dome, rotted by religion true,

       I bear the sound of bell and organ too,

       Love’s sweet lament at times addressing me.

       Well see I, too, how o’er the dome they skip,

       The nimble dwarfs, and with malicious joy

       The beauteous flow’r- and carvèd- work destroy.

       But though the oak of foliage we may strip,

       And rob it of its fair and verdant grace,

       When spring returns, fresh leaves it dons apace.

FRESCO-SONNETS TO CHRISTIAN S—.

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      1.

      I take no notice of the blockheads tame

       Who, seeming to be golden, are but sand;

       I never offer to that rogue my hand

       Who secretly would injure my good name;

       I bow not to the harlots who proclaim

       Boldly their infamy throughout the land;

       And when in victor-cars the rabble band

       Draw their vain idols, with them I ne’er came.

       Well know I that the oak must fall indeed,

       Whilst by the streamlet’s side the pliant reed

       Stands in all winds and weathers, fearing not;

       But say, what is the reed’s eventual lot?

       What joy! As walking-stick it serves the dandy,

       Or else for beating clothes they find it handy.

      2.

      Give me a mask, I’ll join the masquerade

       As country clown, so that the rabble rot

       Who in their proud disguises strut about

       May not suppose me one of their vile trade.

       Give me low manners, words on purpose made

       To show vulgarity beyond all doubt;

       All sparks of spirit I’ll with care put out

       Wherewith dull fools coquet in accents staid.

       So will I dance then at the great mask’d

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