I wish we still were little, John,
The world was then so wide!
When on the stone by neighbor’s bourn
We rested side by side.
We saw the moon in silver veiled
Sail silent through the sky;
Our thoughts were deeper than the bourn,
And as the heavens high.
You know how still it was then, John;
All nature seemed at rest;
So is it now no longer, John,
Or in our dreams at best!
Think when the shepherd boy then sang
Alone o’er all the plain,
Aye, John, you know, that was a sound
We ne’er shall hear again.
Sometimes now, John, the eventides
The self-same feelings bring,
My pulses beat as loud and strong
As then beside the spring.
And then I turn affrighted round,
Some stranger to descry;
But nothing can I see, my John,—
I am alone and cry.
The next poem is a little popular ballad, relating to a tradition, very
common on the northern coast of Germany, both east and west of the
peninsula, of islands swallowed by the sea, their spires, pinnacles, and
roofs being on certain days still visible, and their bells audible, below
the waves. One of these islands was called _Büsen_, or _Old Büsum_, and is
supposed to have been situated opposite the village now called Büsen, on
the west coast of Dithmarschen. Strange to say, the inhabitants of that
island, in spite of their tragic fate, are represented rather in a comical
light, as the Bœotians of Holstein.