e recollections of his countrymen. Wilhelm
Mueller died at the very moment when the rich blossoms of his poetic genius
were forming fruit; and after he had warmed and quickened the hearts of
the youth of Germany with the lyric songs of his own youth, only a short
span of time was granted him to show the world, as he did more especially
in his "Greek Songs" and "Epigrams," the higher goal toward which he
aspired. In these his last works one readily perceives that his poetry
would not have reflected the happy dreams of youth only, but that he could
perceive the poetry of life in its sorrows as clearly as in its joys, and
depict it in true and vivid colors.

One may, I think, divide the friends and admirers of Wilhelm Mueller into
two classes: those who rejoice and delight in his fresh and joyous songs,
and those who admire the nobleness and force of his character as shown in
the poems celebrating the war of Greek independence, and in his epigrams.
All poetry is not for every one, nor for every one at all times. There are
critics and historians of literature who cannot tolerate songs of youth,
of love, and of wine; they always ask "why?" and "wherefore?" and they
demand in all poetry, before anything else, high or deep thoughts. No
doubt there can be no poetry without thought, but there are thoughts which
are poetical without being drawn from the deepest depths of the heart and
brain, nay, which are poetical just because they are as simple and true
and natural as the flowers of the field or the stars of heaven. There is a
poetry for the old, but there is also a poetry for the young. The young
demand in poetry an interpretation of their own youthful feelings, and
first learn truly to understand themselves through those poets who speak
for them as they would speak for themselves, had nature endowed them with
melody of thought and harmony of diction. Youth is and will remain the
majority of the world, and will let no gloomy brow rob it of its poetic
enthusiasm for young love and old wine. True, youth is not over-critical;
true, it does not know how to speak or write in learned phrases of the
merits of its favorite poets. But for all that, where is the poet who
would not rather live in the warm recollection of the never-dying youth of
his nation than in voluminous encyclopaedias, or even in the marble
Walhallas of Germany? The story and the songs of a miller's man who loves
his master's daughter, and of a miller's daughter who l