eye--

In vain, for, pierced with myriad shafts, she died;

And now her timid Ghost dares only brood
O'er Planets in their midnight solitude---
Doom'd all the day in Ocean's caves to hide.
Thou burning Axle of a star-verged Wheel!
Dost thou affl.ct the Beings of thy ray
With feelings such as earth-born Wretches
feel---

Pride, passion, hate, distrust and agony?
Do any weep o'er blighted hopes---or curse
The hour thy light first usher'd them to life?
Doth Malice, keener than Assassin's knife,
Stab in the dark? or seeming friendship,

And wandering from its golden course. It

seems

Some spirit from the nether world bath'scaped Heaven's vigilance, and mixed with purer

forms

To work there deeds of evil. If Sybils now Breathed their dark oracles, or nations beut, As once they bent, before Apollo's shrine, And owned the frenzied priestess' auguries, What might not this portend?---Changes, and

acts

Of fear, and bloody massacres---perchance
Some sudden end to this fair-formed creation-
Or half the globe made desolate. Behold!
It glares--how like an omen. If that I
Could for a time forget myself in fable,
(Indian or Heathen storied) I could fancy
This were indeed some spirit, 'scaped by
chance

From torments in the central earth, and flung
Like an eruption from the thundering breast
Of Etna, or those mighty hills that stand
Like giants on the Quito plains, to spread
Contagion thro' the skies. Thus Satan once
Sprang up adventurous from Hell's blazing
porch;

And (like a stream of fire) winged his fierce

way

Ambiguous---undismayed--thro' frightful

wastes,

To where, amidst the jarring elements,
Steri. Chaos sate, and everlasting Night
Held her dominion---yet even there he found
The way to Eden. But away such thoughts,
Lest 1, bewildered by my phantasy,
Dream of dark iils to come, and dare believe
(Shutting my eyes against the gracious light
Now given) that the Eternal Power can sleep
While mischief walks the world.

M

B.

Past thoughts, taat come like shadows

Y mind is full of many wanderings,

from their graves,

Dissolving as we clasp them,---sudden sounds,
That have no tonee of earthly minstrelsy,
But seem to fall bathed in the aoney dews,
And soft as star-light---Yet within the brain,
Waking strange fantasies, and then they fly,
And leave me feeding on my melancholy.
Twilight is gone at last, and night is come,
To torture me. And now its herald wind
Comes gushing chilly thro' my prison bars.
I hate thee! "yet thou'rt lovely to Earth's
slaves:

To the tired sea-boy nestling in the shrouds;--
The soldier loves thee, weary from his march,
And longing to ungird his harnessry;
Theo'erlabour'd peasant feels thee full of life,
And thy dim clouds stoop down, a covering
Of genial slumber on his quiet bed.

Bouldering, fibers that yet hearts Mouldering, like embers that yet feed their

flame,

Mother of spectres, thou'rt a fearful thing.

Mingled with purple, and the sapphire light That beams from evening waters, image there Bowers of bright beauty, solemn glades, soft hills

Empurpled with the mantle of rich blooms That know no time of fading, crystal lakes Fanned but by musky gales those sweet buds breathe.

Thou art no pilgrim-bark thro' heavenly seas; But a soft lower Paradise, to soothe

The spirits of the innocent, ere they pass Before the loftier throne. Here rest, sweet babes [died,--

That looked but upon earth, and wept and Maids that like may-dew shone, and were exhaled

High hearts that died of unrequited love,
As myrtle blossoms, dropt without a wind ;~-
Disastrous patriots, fallen before they won
The desperate field,---their laurels pluck'd,
not wreath'd ;---

Bards, that with nature's touch awoke the
harp,
[graves
Yet won not the world's ear, till on their
That sweet harp echoed,drawing use less tears.

I've reach'd thee now. Thou art no Paradise,
Where injured Spirits brighten for high
Heaven,

Thou art a lonely throne; thy canopy
Veils the resplendent Angel of our world.
A thousand seraphs in their circles wait
Ou Him, the Servant of a mightier ONE.
Some he commands to wheel in holy watch
Around the globe,some from their plumes to
pour

The harvest blooms of gold, some to drop dew
And odours on the shrub,and'springing flower,
Some to tint beauty's cheek,or limn the clouds
With light of gems, and blushes of the morn.
But in his own high hand he holds the reins
That rule the Ocean. Stil I see him not,
So deep a veil is round his kingly tent
Flashing thick brilliance like a web of stars.
It opens. Thou bright sitter on that throne!
My spirit sinks before thee, as the night
Before the morn.---'Tis not the diadem
Floating in diamond fires upon thy brow,
Nor sceptre, tho' it glow with living light
Perpetual, pearly flame and lambent gold;
I bend before thy power of loveliness.

He sits like one embosom'd in high thought,
His arm outstretch'd,and hand upon theglobe
Of his fixed sceptre; his eye gazing far
And forward, shooting out a calm, long blaze
Blue as the lightnings on the summer eve.

127

His locks are amber rays, that sparkling fall, Parted, around his high,pure brow,and shade, Clustering, the cheek, where flowers of Par

adise

Mix with the splendours of the western Sun.
He stands, and his broad wings unfold above
In feathery light, pavilioning his state,
A ver canopy; not without sound,
Nor fragrance, as they ruffle that sweet air;
But followed with wild, sudden symphonies
That earthly harps know not; and odorous

breath

Richer than myrtles and the Persian rose, Crush'd, wreath'd and weeping,i'th' evening dew.

THE SWORD SONG.

BY KÖRNER.

X.

Those characteristics of poetry,in respect to style and imagery, most esteemed in one particular tongue, are not easy to be conveyed in a translation, without violating the rules of propriety fixed for t language into which the translation is made. There is great difficulty in avoiding, on one hand, the total annihilation of all that characterizes the foreign writer except his mere words, and on the other, of writing what may be almost deemed nousense when given in a new dress, by too great a fidelity to the original: these extremes should be avoided in a good translation; and herein consists the principal art of making one. It is not amiss, however, when the genius of a language will allow it, especially for the gratification of the curious reader, now and then to give a translation as near as possible in manner and spirit to the original, even when it may seem new and uncouth if compared to productions written in the vernacular tongu The following wild and singular poem of the celebrated German poet Korner, entitled "The Sword Song," written a few hours only before he was killed, on the 25th of August, 1813, will exemplify this, and will no doubt interest those who are pleased with the bold imagery and the novelty of German poetry: it is rendered in every respect as near to the original as possible.

That means thy glittering polished

sword upon my belted vest,

crest?

Thoy seem'st within my glowing breast
To raise a flame---Hurrah!
"A Horseman brave supports my blade,
The weapon of a freeman made;
For him I shine, for him I'll wade

Thro' blood and death---Hurrah!"
Yes, my good sword, behold me free,
I fond affection bear to thee,
As though thou wert betrothed to me
My earliest bride---Hurrah!
"Soldier of Fortune, I am thine,
For thee alone my blade shall shire---
When, Soldier, shall I call thee mine,

Joined in the field?---Hurrah!" Soon as our bridal morn shall rise, While the shrill trumpet's summons flies, And the red cannon rends the skies,

We'll join our hands---Hurrah! "O sacred union !---haste away, Ye tardy moments of delay I long, my bridegroom, for the day To be thy bride---Hurrah!"

-

Why cling'st thou in the scabbard---why ? Thou iron fair of destiny,

So wild---so fond of battle-cry,

Why cling'st thou so ?---Hurrah! "I hold myself in dread reserve, Fierce---fond in battle-fields to serve, The cause of freedom to preserve--

For this I wait---Hurrah!"
Rest---still in narrow compass rest---
Ere a long space thou shalt be blest,
Within my ardent grasp comprest---
Ready for fight---Hurrah!

"Oh let me not too long await---
I love the gory field of fate,
Where death's rich roses grow elate

In bloody blooin---Hurrah!"

Come forth! quick from thy scabbard fly,
Thou pleasure of the Soldier's eye---
Now to the scene of slaughter hie---

Thy native home---Hurrah!

"O glorious thus in nuptial tie,
To join beneath heaven's canopy---
Bright as a sunbeam of the sky,

Glitters your bride---Hurrah!”
Then out, thou messenger of strife,
Thou German soldier's plighted wife---
Who feels not renovated life

When clasping thee?---Hurrah!
When in thy scabbard on my side,
I seldom glanced on thee, my bride;
Now Heaven has bid us ne'er divide,
Forever joined--Hurrah!

Thee glowing to my lips I'll press,
And all my ardent vows confess---
O cursed be he, without redress,

Who thee forsakes---Hurrah!

Let joy sit in thy polished eyes,
While radiant sparkles flashing rise---
Our marriage-day dawns in the skies,

My Bride of Steel---Hurrah!

[VOL. 4

"Why, my dear cousin Dick! I have had

such a go !--

I went to the rout the last evening, you know, And a little time after the end of the dance, I was lounging about, when I lit on a chance: Would you guess it, dear boy! why the handsomest Lass [glass. Was taking a peep at your friend thro' her But this is not all---for the fine things she said Have not for a moment been out of my head: Spoke in praise of my colour, commended my shape, [escape-Said something of brightness, which made its But the words of how lovely! how charming! how sweet!

ter'd feels?

In accents of love 'twas my hap thus to meet.
Who can tell what emotions man thus flat-
[my heels;
I knew not which was upmost, my head or
Yet not to be wanting in playing my part,
I made my advances, my hand on my heart,
And attempted a speech---but it stuck in the
way,

And I found in the end I had nothing to say; So dropping the hand which with courage I took,

letter,

I made her my bow---but I gave such a look! Then went to my lodgings and wrote her a [better. I scarce think our Parson or you could do She's a very fiue fortune, I took care of that, So I think I have managed the business quite pat."

"Yes, a pat on the head with a bullet may

show

[owe, How much to your wit this adventure you For a rival in black, or a rival in red, May soon let you know how your message has sped.

Here---look through this tube, and perceive what an ass [ing but glass ! You have made of yourself.---she was praisSo a truce to your visions of fancy and hope, What you took to yourself, was her Kaleidoscope.'

But now, my dear Robin, the secret you'll

keep,

Or poor cousin Straggle may pay for the peep.

From the New Monthly Magazine. THE ARTIST'S CHAMBER.

A SKETCH ON THE SPOT.

HE room was low and lone, but lingeredthere,

TH

In careless loveliness the marks of mind; The page of chivalry, superb and drear,

Beside a half-filled vase of wine reclined, Told how romance and gaiety combined.

And there, like things of immortality, Stood Statues, in their master's soul enshrin'd, VENUS, with the sweet smile and heavenly eye,

And the sad, solemn beauty of pale NIOBE.
And scattered round, by wall and sofa lay
Emblems of thought, that loved from Earth
Upon a portrait fell the evening ray,
to spring.
Touching with splendour many an auburn
ring
That veil'd a brow of snow, and crimsoning
The cheek of beauty like an opening rose.
And there lay a guitar, whose silver string
Is murmuring, as the soft wind o'er it flows,
The tones it breath'd on Spanish hills at even-
ing's close.