On looking over, a short time ago, a book of German songs, I was much
struck by the similarity of thought, and even sometimes of expression,
between the above piece from Mr. Longfellow's _Voices of the Night_, and a
song by Luise Reichardt, a few verses of which I subjoin; as perhaps the
song may not be known to some of your correspondents.
"It is a favourite theme," as Sir W. Scott says, "of laborious dulness
to trace such coincidences, because they appear to reduce genius of the
higher order to the usual standard of humanity, and of course to bring
the author nearer to a level with his critics."
It is not, however, with the view of detracting from the originality of Mr.
Longfellow, that these two small pieces are put side by side; for possibly
the song alluded to was never seen by our transatlantic neighbour, but
merely for the purpose of showing how the poets treat the same, and
certainly not very novel subject.
"DER SCHNITTER TOD.
(Von Luise Reichartdt.)
"Es ist ein Schnitter, der heisst Tod,
Der hat Gestalt vom hoechsten Gott.
Heut' wetzt er das Messer,
Es schneid't schon viel besser,
Bald wird er drein schneiden,
Wir muessen's nur leiden.
Huete dich, schoen's Bluemelein!
"Was heut' noch gruen und frisch dasteht,
Wird morgen schon hinweg gemaeht;
Die edlen Narzissen,
Die Zierden der Wiesen
Die schoen' Nyagnithen,
Die turkischen Binden.
Huete dich, schoen's Bluemelein!
"Viel hundert tausend ungezaehlt,
Was nur unter die Sichel faellt:
Ihr Rosen, ihr Lilien,
Euch wird er austilgen,
Auch die Kaiserkronen
Wird er nicht verschonen,
Huete dich, schoen's Bluemelein!
"Trotz, Tod! Komm her, ich fuercht' dich nicht!
Trotz, eil daher in einem Schnitt!
Werd' ich nur verletzet,
So werd' ich versetzet,
In den himmlischen Garten,
Auf den wir alle warten,
Freue dich, schoen's Bluemelein!"