Now, from the mountain's lofty brow, There Av'rice guides the bounding prow, Let Fortune pour her golden store, Her laurel'd favours many, Give me but this, my soul's first wish, CCLXXIV. GO ROUND, MY WHEEL, GO ROUND.* Go round, my wheel, go round And spin a thread as long and fine, * This is the composition of Gottfr. Aug. Burder, a German poet of consi derable talent, much and deservedly esteemed in his own country, and from what we have seen of his compositions we hesitate not to say that they need only to be faithfully translated to be generally read. In the Edinburgh Magazine for 1818 will be found several translations of this eminent poet, and from which we extract the present Spinning Song, not from the idea that it is the best, but the most suitable for our publication. In the same volume, Go round, my wheel, go round And spin a 'kerchief fine and rare, To deck my bosom at the fair, Where soon the bright-hair'd youth I'll see, Go round, my wheel, go round Like the veil thou spinn'st to me, the translator has the following critical comparison between Burder and our favourite Bard, Robert Burns. "Burder has, in many respects, a manifest resemblance to our own Burns, although the most superficial reader will perceive that these two popular poets have many sufficiently distinct points of dissimilitude, and that perhaps two better instances could not be selected than those offered by these kindred spirits of the discriminating traits of Scotch and German genius. Yet Burder, like Burns, delighted to sing of love as it is known to those whose feelings have not been corrupted either by vicious indulgence or by much commerce with the world-of that pure, and ardent, and entrancing love which glows in the breasts of healthy peasants, and which, to those who are under its influence, give a character and interest to everything in life, of which cooler minds have not the slightest idea. Burder, too, like Burns, could well depict those feelings, somewhat akin to love, by which the breasts of youthful and enthusiastic men are agitated, when they give full play in some hour of conviviality and joy, to all the social propensities of their nature. There is another point of resemblance between these celebrated poets, and that is the unfeigned rapture with which both of them can depict an act of generosity, and the power which they possess over those moral sensibilities of our nature, from whose operation all high active virtue must proceed. Burns, indeed, has not painted anything of this kind in a regular tale; but all those who are acquainted with his works are aware by what powerful touches of indigna Ground, my wheel, go round He for whom the badge I twine, OʻLAXV. THE MINSTREL'S LAY OF DEATH: OR, PAREWELL TO HIS HARP. O Harp! that cheer'd my trembling limbs, O'er many a pathless, rugged wild; O Muse! that erst so fondly smil'd On fancy's lov'd poetic child, tion or of triumph he incidentally awakens our abhorrence or our admiration, and in what glowing letters he could write villanous or praiseworthy on such characters or actions as he thought fit to contemplate. His instances of these qualities, too, like our German author, are commonly selected from humble life; and there is no reader of poetry in this country whose heart has not beat with a livelier pulse in favour of honest and undisguised conduct, when he reads such verses as occur throughout the whole of the song, "Is there for honest poverty," I have only to re and in many other productions of this powerful author. gret that I have not been able to give them, in my poor version, the thousandth part of the heart-awakening energy which it breathes in the immortal verse of the original author." Farewell for aye: a salt tear dims And now we part to meet no more! Our lay of joy is past and gone, That once in vaulted halls we sung; Alas! our final peal hath rung Of mirth, high dames and lords among : And now we gaze with sadness on The narrow home where song must end; There no merry lays ascend Where my feeble footsteps wend. Here on this oak that bourgeons fair, I'll hang thy wires of witching tone; The passing breeze will cause them moan, And swell my requiem when I'm gone. The traveller faint will list'ning stare, And marvel whence thy sounds proceed, The fairy king in buxom weed, Will leave his dance to hear thy rede. But chief of all, the love-lorn maid, When dusky twilight clouds the sky, Eluding watchful guardian's eye Towards this sacred spot will hie. Beneath thy oaks' embow'ring shade She'll muse, and count each straggling ray The moon sheds on its lovely way, Along thy frame of silvery grey. She'll hear thee woo'd by wandering gale, Rise sweetly in thy midnight song, Now, rapid roll, full ton'd, and strong, Now, low and dying, weep along. Oh! she will hear thee oft bewail Maids, who have lov'd but all too well. The steel-clad knight as home he wends, From battle toils, and sieges dire, Will pause, and check his courser's fire, And under thy old oak retire : For, lo thy song of triumph blends Its warlike notes with rustling breeze; And falling, rising, through the trees, Mimes his old hall's festivities. O Harp! be still a little while, Now, take with thee his last faint smile, FENES. |