Sweeter to sing to the wild blast that chills me,

Harden'd with toil and with cold,

Than list to the fountain, whose melody stills me, Floating in odours and gold!

TO SPRING.

BY

PROFESSOR THOMAS THAARUP.

THY beams are sweet, beloved spring!
The winter shades before thee fly;

The bough smiles green, the young birds sing,
The chainless current glistens by;
'Till countless flowers, like stars, illume
The deepening vale and forest-gloom.

Oh! welcome, gentle guest from high,
Sent to cheer our world below,
To lighten sorrow's faded eye,
To kindle nature's social glow;

E

Oh! he is o'er his fellows blest,
Who feels thee in a guiltless breast.

Peace to the generous heart, essaying With deeds of love to win our praise! He smiles the spring of life surveying,

Nor fears her cold and wintry days. To his high goal, with triumph bright, The calm years waft him in their flight.

Thou glorious goal! that shinest afar, And seem'st to smile us on our way; Bright is the hope that crowns our war, The dawn-blush of eternal day!

There shall we meet, this dark world o'er, And mix in love for evermore.

TIL DEN ELSKEDE.

AF

B. S. INGEMAN.

HVAD er det, o! Pige, jeg hos dig tilbeder? Hvad er det, mig binder med magiske Baand? O! er det din Siæls de fortryllende Klæder? O! er det din Yndighed, eller din Aand?

Hvad fryder mig vel i dit himmelblaae Öje? Hvad er vel ved Læbernes Roser min Lyst? Hvor ligger det Skjönne? hvor ligger det Höje? I bankende Hjerte? i bölgende Bryst?