“NATHALIE A.
“P.S. If there were not so many causes to prevent me, I would go myself to his resting-place and gather relics for my soul; but, if you keep silence, I do not answer for anything. I send you my congratulations on your new appointment, and I hope I may be able to wish you joy some day by word of mouth; my heart may become so far whole once more that I shall be able to come and pay my dear friend a visit at her father’s, and see you without dying of sorrow, at the likeness you bear to your buried friend, unlike you now.”
I venture to translate[[107]] the pretty poem as follows:
“MY NEW YEAR’S GREETING TO MYSELF.
“The New Year’s gates are open, and Fate, standing between the sun and the burning morning clouds upon the mound of ashes of the year which has fallen to dust, deals out the days according to their lot. What dost thou pray for, Nathalie?
“Not for joy. Alas! all the joys which have been in my heart have left but black thorns there; their rose-juice soon, was gone. The heavy thunder-cloud grows as the sun-gleam brightens—and what shines upon us is the ray reflected from the sword which the coming day will hold to our happy hearts. No, no; I pray not for joys; they make the thirsting heart so void. It is but sorrow that can fill it full.
“Fate deals the days according to their lot. What dost thou long for, Nathalie?
“Not love. Oh! those who press the thorny white rose of love to their hearts draw blood from out them; the warm tears of bliss which fall into the blossom soon grow chill, and are dried up amain. Love, all gleam and bloom, hangs on the morning sky of life, like some great rose-red Aurora in the heavens. Ah! do not enter that bright glittering cloud—it is but mist and tears. No, no; long not for love; die of a lovelier sorrow. Sink into the chill of death under a nobler poison-tree than is the lovely myrtle.
“Thou art kneeling at the feet of Destiny, Nathalie; tell him thy desire!