II.

  One plagues himself about the sun,
    And puzzles on, through every weather,
  What time he’ll rise,—­how long he’ll run,—­
    And when he’ll leave us altogether;
  Now matters it a pebble-stone,
    Whether he shines at six or seven? 
  If they don’t leave the sun alone,
    At last they’ll plague him out of heaven! 
  Never sigh when you can sing
  But laugh, like me, at everything!

  III.

  Another spins from out his brains
    Fine cobweb, to amuse his neighbors,
  And gets, for all his toils and pains,
    Reviewed, and laughed at for his labors: 
  Fame is his star! and fame is sweet;
    And praise is pleasanter than honey,—­
  I write at just so much a sheet,
    And Messrs Longman pay the money! 
  Never sigh when you can sing,
  But laugh, like me, at everything!

  IV.

  My brother gave his heart away
    To Mercandests[illegible], when he met her,
  She married Mr. Ball one day—­
    He’s gone to Sweden to forget her
  I had a charmer, too—­and sighed,
    And raved all day and night about her;
  She caught a cold, poor thing! and died,
    And I—­am just as fat without her
  Never sigh when you can sing,
  But laugh, like me, at everything!

  V.

  For tears are vastly pretty things,
    But make one very thin and taper;
  And sighs are music’s sweetest strings,
    But sound most beautiful—­on paper! 
  “Thought” is the Sage’s brightest star,
    Her gems alone are worth his finding;
  But as I’m not particular,
    Please God!  I’ll keep on “never minding.” 
  Never sigh when you can sing,
  But laugh, like me, at everything!

  VI.

  Oh! in this troubled world of ours,
    A laughter-mine’s a glorious treasure;
  And separating thorns from flowers,
    Is half a pain and half a pleasure: 
  And why be grave instead of gay? 
    Why feel a-thirst while folks are quaffing?—­
  Oh! trust me, whatsoe’er they say,
    There’s nothing half so good as laughing! 
  Never sigh when you can sing,
  But laugh, like me, at everything!

* * * * *

  FROM THE GERMAN OF LENAU.

  Over that ancient story grass has grown;
    Myself, I scarce recall my own transgression;
  Yet, when at twilight hour, I stray alone,
    At times I feel as I could make confession. 
  But turning from the Past as all unknown. 
    I harbor in the Present!  Such opression
  Of futile sad remorse by me be flown! 
    Why summon bootless woes to Memory’s session? 
  When Death, that scythesman stern, thy frame destroyeth,
    He’ll lop the grass, too, which thing actions covers. 
  And that forgotten deed shall cling about thee! 
  Back to the Past!  Not vainly Care employeth
  Labor and pain to pierce where Darkness hovers;
  Till sin is slain within, it cannot die without thee!