Translations. - Longing. (From Schiller.)

A poem by George MacDonald

Ah, from out this valley hollow,
By cold fogs always oppressed,
Could I but the outpath follow--
Ah, how were my spirit blest!
Hills I see there, glad dominions,
Ever young, and green for aye!
Had I wings, oh, had I pinions,
To the hills were I away!

Harmonies I hear there ringing,
Tones of sweetest heavenly rest;
And the gentle winds are bringing
Balmy odours to my breast!
Golden fruits peep out there, glowing
Through the leaves to Zephyr's play;
And the flowers that there are blowing
Will become no winter's prey!

Oh, what happy things are meeting
There, in endless sunshine free!
And the airs on those hills greeting,
How reviving must they be!
But me checks yon raving river
That betwixt doth chafe and roll;
And its dark waves rising ever
Strike a horror to my soul!

See a skiff on wild wave heaving!
But no sailor walks the mole.
Quick into it, firm believing,
For its sails they have a soul!
Thou must trust, nor wait to ponder:
God will give no pledge in hand;
Nought but miracle bears yonder
To the lovely wonderland!

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