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[ From the German of Friedrich Kind. ]

BY D. SEYMOUR.

Couldst thou not sleep upon thy mother's breast? Was't thou, ere day dawned, wakened from thy slumbers? Did earth deny to thee the quiet rest She grants to all her children's countless numbers? In narrow bed they sleep away the hours Beneath the winter's frost, the summer's flowers; No shade protects thee from the sun's fierce glow, Thy only winding-sheet the pitying snow.

How naked art thou! Pale is now that face Which once, no doubt, was blooming—deeply dinted, A gaping wound doth thy broad brow deface; Was't by the sword or careless plough imprinted? Where are the eyes whose glances once were lightning! No soul is in their hollow sockets brightening; Yet do they gaze on me, now fierce, now sad, As though I power o'er thy destiny had.

I did not from thy gloomy mansion spurn thee To gaze upon the sun that gilds these fields; But on my pilgrim staff I lift and turn thee, And try if to my spells thy silence yields; Wert thou my brother once—and did those glances Respond to love's and friendship's soft advances? Has then a spirit in this frame-work slept? Say, hast thou loved and hated, smiled and wept?

What, silent still!—wilt thou make no disclosure? Is the grave's sleep indeed so cool and still? Say, dost thou suffer from this rude exposure? Hast thou then lost all thought, emotion, will? Or has thy soul, that once within thee centered, On a new field of life and duty entered? Do flesh and spirit still in thee entwine, Dost thou still call this mouldering skull-bone thine?

Who wert thou once? what brought thee to these regions, The murderer or the murdered to be? Wert thou enrolled in mercenary legions, Or didst thou Honour's banner follow free? Didst thou desire to be enrolled in story, Didst fight for freedom, peace, truth, gold, or glory? The sword which here dropped from thy helpless hand, Was it the scourge or guardian of the land?

Even yet, for thee, beyond yon dim blue mountains, The tear may tremble in a mother's eye, And as approaching death dries up life's fountains, Thou to her thoughts and prayers may'st still be nigh; Perhaps thy orphans still for thee are crying, Perhaps thy friends for thy return are sighing, And dream not that upon this little hill The dews of night upon thy skull distil.

Or wert thou one of the accursed banditti Who wrought such outrage on fair Germany? Who made the field a desert, fired the city, Defiled the pure, and captive led the free? Didst thou, in disposition fierce and hellish, Thy span of life with deeds like these embellish? Then—God of righteousness! to thee belongs, Not unto us, to judge and right our wrongs.

The sun already toward the west is tending, His rays upon thy hollow temples strike; Thou heed'st them not; heed'st not the rains, descending On good and bad, just and unjust alike. The mild, cool breeze of even is round me playing, Sweet perfume from the woods and fields are straying; Rich grain now waves where lances bristled then; Thus do all things proclaim God's love to men.

Whoe'er thou wert, who by a fellow-mortal Were hurried out of life; we are at peace; Thus I return thee to the grave's dark portal, Revenge and hatred on this spot should cease. Rest where thy mouldering skeleton reposes, And may the perfume of the forest roses Waft thoughts of peace to every wanderer's breast! Thou restless one! return thee to thy rest.