“But there is nothing morbid in Uhland’s mind.  He is always fresh and invigorating, like a breezy morning.  In this he differs entirely from such writers as Salis and Matthisson.”

“And who are they?”

“Two melancholy gentlemen to whom life was only a Dismal Swamp, upon whose margin they walked with cambric handkerchiefs in their hands, sobbing and sighing, and making signals to Death, to come and ferry them over the lake.  And now their spirits stand in the green fields of German song, like two weeping-willows, bending over agrave.  To read their poems, is like wandering through a village churchyard on a summer evening, reading the inscription upon the grave-stones, and recalling sweet images of the departed; while above you,

’Hark! in the holy grove of palms,

Where the stream of life runs free,

Echoes, in the angels’ psalms,

‘Sister spirit! hail to thee!’”

“How musically those lines flow!  Are they Matthisson’s!”

“Yes; and they do indeed flow musically.  I wish I had his poems here.  I should like to read to you his Elegy on the Ruins of an Ancient Castle.  It is an imitation of Gray’s Elegy.  You have been at Baden-Baden?

“Yes; last summer.”

“And have not forgotten—­”

“The old castle?  Of course not.  What a magnificent ruin it is!”

“That is the scene of Matthisson’s Poem, andseems to have filled the melancholy bard with more than wonted inspiration.”

“I should like very much to see the poem, I remember that old ruin with so much delight.”

“I am sorry I have not a translation of it for you.  Instead of it I will give you a sweet and mournful poem from Salis.  It is called the Song of the Silent Land.

“Into the Silent Land!

Ah! who shall lead us thither!

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.

Who leads us with a gentle hand,

Thither, oh, thither.

Into the Silent Land?

“Into the Silent Land!

To you, ye boundless regions

Of all perfection!  Tender morning-visions

Of beauteous souls!  Eternity’s own band!

Who in Life’s battle firm doth stand,

Shall bear Hope’s tender blossoms

Into the Silent Land!

“O Land!  O Land!

For all the broken-hearted

The mildest herald by our fate allotted,

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand

To lead us with a gentle hand

Into the land of the great departed,

Into the Silent Land!

Is not that a beautiful poem?”