Ere chased the morn the night-cloud pale, He sought the deer in distant dale;

tr

'Farewell!" he said, "when evening closes,

Expect me where the moon reposes

On yonder vale.”

'Return, return, my Harold dear!
This wedded bosom pants with fear;
By woodland foe I deem thee dying;
Oh come! and hear the rocks replying
To Gunild's joy."

Then horns and hounds came pealing wide, ""Tis he! 'tis he!" fair Gunild cried; "Ye winds, to Harold bear my cry!"

And rocks and mountains answer'd high "Tis he! 'tis he!"

D

THE

NEGRO'S SONG.

BY

PROFESSOR THOMAS THAARUP.

I WILL fly the social room,

I will weep in lonely sadness;

The poor negro's cherish'd gloom

Must not mar the hour of gladness.

Let my fate your sighs command,

Fetter'd in a distant land.

Say, what is the negro's crime,

Ye who in our blood engrave it?

Can the colour of our clime

Plead for sin with him who gave it?

Gloomy is the negro's breast,

Robb'd of her he loves the best.

God of Christians, God of men! Thou canst melt the heart of scorn; May none e'er the bridegroom chain, From his new-espoused torn! Let our fate thy pity move, Robb'd of country and of love!

INFANCY.

BY

PROFESSOR JENS BAGGESEN,

OF COPENHAGEN.

THERE was a time, and I recal it well,

When my whole frame was but an ell in height; Oh! when I think of that, my warm tears swell, And therefore in the memory I delight.

I sported in my mother's kind embraces,
And climb'd my grandsire's venerable knee;
Unknown were care, and rage, and sorrow's traces;
To me the world was blest as blest could be.

I mark'd no frowns the world's smooth surface

wrinkle,

Its mighty space seem'd little to my eye;
I saw the stars, like sparks, at distance twinkle,
And wish'd myself a bird, to soar so high.

I saw the moon behind the hills retiring,

And thought the while-Oh! would I were but there!

Then could mine eye examine without tiring
That radiant thing, how large, how round, how fair,

Wond'ring I saw the sun of God depart
To slumber in the golden lap of even,

And from the east again in beauty dart

To bathe in crimson all the field of heaven,

I thought on him, the Father all-bestowing,
Who made me, and that beauteous orb on high,
And all the little stars, that nightly glowing
Deck'd like a row of pearls the azure sky,