The King who well crown'd does govern the land,
And whose fair crown well fill'd does stand--
That King adorns his crown, I trow;
And he who is thus by his crown adorn'd,
And for whose sake never that crown is scorn'd,
Does bear a well-fill'd crown on his brow.




ODE.


To a Mountain Torrent.
From the German of Stolberg.

O stripling immortal thou forth dost career
From thy deep rocky chasm; beheld has no eye
The mighty one's cradle, and heard has no ear
At his under-ground spring-head his infant-like cry.

How lovely art thou in the foam of thy brow,
And yet the warm blood in my bosom grows chill;
For awful art thou and terrific, I vow,
In the roar of the echoing forest and hill.

The pine-trees are shaken--they yield to thy shocks,
And crashing they tumble in wild disarray;
The rocks fly before thee--thou seizest the rocks,
And contemptuously whirlst them like pebbles away.