RECOLLECTIONS OF FATHERLAND.

FROM THE GERMAN OF PHILIP KNIES.

FATHERLAND,-of thee I sing!—
O'er my soul thy beauties throng;

Bold, I laurels o'er thee fling

As Apollo's throne of Song:

Fatherland!-the Muses' land!—

Land that claims my heart and hand!

Beauteous heaven, richly pouring

Floods of radiance, pure and bright!

With thy sunbeams, heart-alluring,

Gleaming in imperial might,

God his peaceful covenant drew

With golden pen on ground of blue!

D

Charming provinces are thine—

Truly, in this world the fairest ! Heart-attractive land of mine—

Under heaven's tent the rarest :

Eden's glories yet remain,

Scatter'd o'er each sunny plain!

Gladsome vales, with roses bright,—

Richest pastures, pearl-bedew'd,

Stretching far to charm the sight,

Fields, with fertile glories strew'd ;

There the purple-cluster'd vine

Grows to fill the cup divine.

Grapes, whose luscious veins are rife

With the juicy glowing wine

To thy sons the spirit-life,

Yield thy banks, old Father Rhine !—

Clink the cup, and quaff the wine:

Huzza, huzza!" To Father Rhine !"

In thy breast Hygeia dwells:

Every breeze is pure and free! Full a thousand healing wells, Blessing-fraught, lie hid in thee

Land, that God consider'd well,

Who shall all thy wonders tell?

Nature's throes of giant-birth

Gave thee mountains tow'ring high

Heaven's pillars based on earth,

Bearing up the azure sky:

Firm they stand, and seem to brave
Even Time's incessant wave !

Gentle are thy maidens fair

Guileless-hearted, angel-kin,

Who with one his life would share

Will the wealth of chasteness win

Needs no greater mortal bliss

Than to taste her loving kiss!

Fair Germania!-Fatherland!—

Valiant were thy sons of old: In thy storied annals stand

Deeds that should be traced in gold: Fatherland!-the heroes' land!—

Land that claims my heart and hand!

All renown can give is there-
Highest art and science,

Seer-like vision, strange and rare,

That gives dull sense defiance:

E'en the simple peasant-hind
By thy beauty is refined.

Proud am I that I was born

Child of Hertha's Musenland!
"Plight-troth unto thee I've sworn,
Only thine in heart and hand,
Fatherland!-where'er I rove,

Thee, above all lands, I love!

THE POET'S MISSIONS.

INFANCY.

TAKE thy harp, O bard, and sing
In some simple measure,

While life's morn is on the wing,

Lays that it may treasure

Of celestial birth!

Ring, oh, ring its golden string,

Bright with peace and beauty;

Round thee trusting cherubs bring,

As thy sweetest duty

On this troubled earth!