Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | March 1, 2009


by Erik Johan Stagnelius (1793 – 1823).




O camp of flowers, with poplars girdled round,

Gray guardians of life’s soft and purple bud!

O silver spring, beside whose brimming flood

My pensive childhood its Elysium found!

O happy hours by love and fancy crowned,                       5

Whose horn of plenty flatteringly subdued

My heart into a trance, whence, with a rude

And horrid blast, fate came my soul to hound!

Who was the goddess that empowered you all

Thus to bewitch me? Out of wasting snow                      10  

And lily-leaves her head-dress should be made!

Weep, my poor lute! nor on Astraea call,

She will not smile, nor I, who mourn below,

Till I, a shade in heaven, clasp her, a shade.


Translated by Sir Edmund Gosse.



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