had beckoned not from high, Had we gained immortality? If love had not inflamed each thought, Had we the master spirit sought?    'Tis love that guides the soul along To Nature's Father's heavenly throne By love are blest the gods on high, Frail man becomes a deity When love to him is given;    'Tis love that makes the heavens shine With hues more radiant, more divine, And turns dull earth to heaven! 

           TO A MORALIST. Are the sports of our youth so displeasing? Is love but the folly you say? Benumbed with the winter, and freezing, You scold at the revels of May. For you once a nymph had her charms, And Oh! when the waltz you were wreathing, All Olympus embraced in your arms—     All its nectar in Julia's breathing. If Jove at that moment had hurled The earth in some other rotation, Along with your Julia whirled, You had felt not the shock of creation. Learn this—that philosophy beats Sure time with the pulse,—quick or slow As the blood from the heyday retreats,—     But it cannot make gods of us—No! It is well icy reason should thaw In the warm blood of mirth now and then, The gods for themselves have a law Which they never intended for men. The spirit is bound by the ties Of its gaoler, the flesh;—if I can Not reach as an angel the skies, Let me feel on the earth as a man! 

      COUNT EBERHARD, THE GROANER OF WURTEMBERG. A WAR SONG. Now hearken, ye who take delight In boasting of your worth! To many a man, to many a knight, Beloved in peace and brave in fight, The Swabian land gives birth. Of Charles and Edward, Louis, Guy, And Frederick, ye may boast; Charles, Edward, Louis, Frederick, Guy—    None with Sir Eberhard can vie—     Himself a mighty host! And then young Ulerick, his son, Ha! how he loved the fray! Young Ulerick, the Count's bold son, When once the battle had begun, No foot's-breadth e'er gave way. The Reutlingers, with gnashing teeth, Saw our bright ranks revealed And, panting for the victor's wreath, They drew the sword from out the sheath, And sought the battle-field. He charged the foe,—but fruitlessly,—     Then, mail-clad, homeward sped; Stern anger filled his father's eye, And made the youthful warrior fly, And tears of anguish shed. Now, rascals, quake!—This grieved him sore, And rankled in his brain; And by his father's beard he swore, With many a craven townsman's gore To wash out this foul stain. Ere long the feud raged fierce and loud,—     Then hastened steed and man To Doeffingen in thronging crowd,   

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