tilda, who
sleeps and has the carbuncle. A little girl, their child, sits by a
coffin, and renews his youth. "This child is the primeval world, the
close of the golden time." "Here the Christian religion is reconciled
with the Heathen. The history of Orpheus, of Psyche, and others are
sung."

Henry plucks the blue flower, and delivers Matilda from her
enchantment, but she is lost to him again; he becomes senseless through
pain, and changes to a stone. "Edda (the blue flower, the Eastern
Maiden, Matilda) sacrifices herself upon the stone; he is transformed
to a melodious tree. Cyane hews down the tree and burns herself with
him. He becomes a golden ram. Edda, Matilda, is obliged to sacrifice
it. He becomes a man again. During these metamorphoses he has the very
strangest conversations."

He is happy with Matilda, who is both the Eastern Maiden and Cyane. A
joyous spirit-festival is celebrated. All that has past was Death, the
last dream and awakening. "Klingsohr comes again as king of Atlantis.
Henry's mother is Fancy, his father, Sense. Swaning is the Moon; the
miner is the antiquary and at the same time Iron. The emperor Frederick
is Arcturus. The Count of Hohenzollern and the merchants also return."
Everything flows into an allegory. Cyane brings the stone to the
emperor; but Henry is now himself the poet of the fabulous tale which
the merchants had formerly related to him.

The blissful land suffers yet again by enchantment, while subjected to
the changes of the Seasons. Henry destroys the realm of the Sun. The
whole work was to close with a long poem, only the beginning of which
was composed.

THE NUPTIALS OF THE SEASONS.

Deep buried in thought stood the new monarch. He was recalling
Dreams of the midnight, and every wonderful tale,
Which gathered he first from the heavenly flower, when stricken
Gently by prophecy, love all-subduing he felt.
He thought still he heard the accents deeply impressive,
Just as the guest was deserting the circle of joy;
Fleeting gleams of the moon illumined the clattering window,
And in the breast of the youth there raged a passionate glow.
Edda, whispered the monarch, what is the innermost longing
In the bosom that loves? What his ineffable grief?
Say it, for him would we comfort, the power is ours, and noble
Be the time when thou art the joy of heaven again.--
"Were the times not so cold and morose, if were