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THE MYSTIC TREE.
III.
No star on his breast is beaming,
But the light of his flashing eye
Reveals, in its haughtier gleaming,
The conscious majesty.
For the Poet's crown is the godlike brow—
Away with that golden thing!
Your fealty was never yet due till now—
Kneel to the God-made King!
No star on his breast is beaming,
But the light of his flashing eye
Reveals, in its haughtier gleaming,
The conscious majesty.
For the Poet's crown is the godlike brow—
Away with that golden thing!
Your fealty was never yet due till now—
Kneel to the God-made King!
THE MYSTIC TREE.
FROM ÖLENSCHLÄGER.
TS branches up to Heaven a tree is sending,Rare to see,
For with flowers, fruit, and seed at once is bending
That mystic tree.
Round the giant stem, all rugged, rude, and mossy,
Roses twine,
And the young flowers veil it with their glossy
Hues divine.
Roses twine,
And the young flowers veil it with their glossy
Hues divine.
The leaves rustle thickly, many-formed,
So green and bright;
The branches spread out broadly to be warmed
In Heaven's light.
So green and bright;
The branches spread out broadly to be warmed
In Heaven's light.
Now curve they down, all drooping, to the meadows
And cool springs;
Now upwards on the blue air fling their shadows
Like seraphs' wings.
And cool springs;
Now upwards on the blue air fling their shadows
Like seraphs' wings.
Pause ye beneath its golden avalanches—
Well it's worth;
For when the breath of Heaven stirs the branches,
The fruit falls to earth.
Well it's worth;
For when the breath of Heaven stirs the branches,
The fruit falls to earth.
