Page:Kickerbocker Oct 1847 vol 30 no 4.djvu/18
is a species of genealogical history, arranged to flatter the vanity of some prince or noble. The Fiolrinsmal resembles the love-ballads, or Wachter-liedes, so common in the old collections of German poetry. A young man has quitted his affianced for the purpose of seeking his fortune; his long voyage is about to terminate, and he returns with a heart in which burning love and strong anxiety are strangely mingled. He arrives trembling at the house of his betrothed, ignorant whether her attachment still remains, or indeed whether she still exists. Calling to him the porter of the chateau, and concealing his true name, he demands whether the beautiful Menglada is within, and whether she has any new lovers. 'No,' replies the old man, 'she is faithful to the valiant Sripda, to whom she has been long contracted. With this joyful intelligence Sripda enters, and the young Menglada rushes to his arms.
This poem, notwithstanding its obscurity in certain places, still contains the germ of a mysterious idea, a mythological imagination, which has consumed much of the discussion of the learned.
The chant of Groa is based on one of those beautiful conceptions, so peculiar to the North: the supposition, that beyond the confines of this world those whom we have tenderly loved still sympathize with all our sorrows, and will often answer to the story of our woes. In the poem referred to, a young man has seated himself beside the grave, and calls upon the name of his departed mother, who is momentarily awakened from the sleep of death, and affectionately inquires his purpose. 'I would,' he replies, 'espouse her whom I now love; but her residence is far from me, and I know not the road thither. His mother encourages him to pursue the adventure, and teaches him many magic words and spells for safety against the malice of elves, the machinations of his enemies, tempests, danger by night, and the attacks of giants. The young man departs in security, while the mother sinks again to the unbroken stillness of the grave.
TO A BIRD SINGING.
And Zephyrus his breath suspends, as if to catch thy lay,
I listen to thy mellow notes, that charm each living thing,
Till every chord within my heart thrills like a music string.
Thou knowest not how many ears are gladdened by thy song;
Thou knowest not how much the strains the listeners' joy prolong;
But feeling that their melody some pleasure must impart,
And pouring it in rivers, thou a glorious charmer art.
Thou art the blest embodiment, the sacred soul of song,
A happy little melodist, above that dost belong,
Here strayed awhile to teach how sweet the music heaven supplies,
And stealing all our thoughts from earth, to lure us to the skies.
J. C.
Buffalo, (N. Y.)