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I know not if you are acquainted with German; but I cannot resist the desire of gratifying my own ears with a repetition of the sounds of the thrilling consonants which produced so great an effect on me on that occasion. His voice was rough and guttural: "Wann der Wein in Himmelsclang, Wandelt mein Geklimper, Sind Homer, and Ossian, Gegen mich nur Stumper."
The poet's voice from the Cumberland hills, "Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive" traversed the North Sea, and beyond the Rhine was swelled by a song more majestic and not less triumphant: Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen, Durch des Himmels prächt'gen Plan, Wandelt, Brüder, eure Bahn, Freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen,
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