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An excellent translation from RUCKERT, a poet of Germany. taken from an old number of the Dublin Magazine.

I HAVE a thousand thousand lays,
Compact of myriad myriad words,
And so can sing a million ways,
Can play at pleasure on the chords
Of tuned harp or heart;

Yet is there one sweet song

For which in vain I pine and long!

I cannot reach that song, with all my minstrel-art.

A shepherd sits within a dell

O'er-canopied from rain and heat;

A shallow but pellucid well

Doth ever bubble at his feet.

His pipe is but a leaf,

Yet there, above that stream,

He plays and plays, as in a dream,

One air that steals away the senses like a thief.

A simple air it seems, in truth,

And who begins will end it soon;
Yet, when that hidden shepherd youth
So pours it in the ear of Noon,
Tears flow from those anear.

All songs of yours and mine

Condensed in one were less divine

It is

Than that sweet air to sing, that sweet, sweet air to hear!

'Twas yesternoon he play'd it last;

The hummings of a hundred bees
Were in mine ears, yet, as I pass'd,

I heard him through the myrtle trees.
Stretch'd all along he lay,

Mid foliage half decay'd.

His lambs were feeding while he play'd,
And sleepily wore on the stilly Summer day.



HERE she lies whom fortune dower'd
With the virgin wealth of Youth,
Beauty, and the love of Truth,
Golden Honour, spotless Fame,
Twenty-times transmitted name!
Here she lies, deserted, dead!
Dead, alas, and on her head

The cold and crumbling earth is shower'd!
Not a stone is at her feet;

Not a bud, with Summer sweet,
Sleepeth on her winding-sheet.
Yet what do such poor wants avail?
The sad-eyed widow, Pity pale,
Weepeth when her story's told;
How her love was left for gold;
How desert' and doom'd to fade,
(Underneath the green grass laid),
She left him whose sordid pride
Left her for a meaner bride!


Scotland has been eminent for her peasant poets. She has produced another who bids fair for lasting fame. A poor labourer, named ALEXANDER BETHUNE, has published a volume of poems of great merit, from which we extract the following elegant Sonnet.

THE day was dark and stormy; but the night
Dawns into brightness, and the silvery moon
Pours over sea and land her urn of light,

Making of midnight a most pleasant noon.
The autumn blasts were withering, and their blight
Brought Desolation: but a richer boon

The balmy showers and breathing zephyrs bring;
And the cold earth, fann'd by the breath of spring,
Again shall start into luxuriant life.

Deformity and beauty-storm and calm—

The day-dawn and the darkness-quiet and qualm—
Throughout all nature mix and mingle, rife:
Then, why should man expect a fixed state,
Where all is change-or shrink beneath his fate?


France has produced many poetasters, but few poets. It was once believed that her language, so admirably adapted for prose, was unfitted for poetry. But modern writers have practically shown that it was not the fetters of language, but the iron chain of an absurd code of criticism, that had prevented the growth of true poetry. Young France has set that antiquated code at defiance, and, following the example of the English and Germans, has turned to nature as the only safe guide in art. Among the most illustrious of these moderns is BERANGER, whose lyrics are superior to anything of the kind that has appeared since the Odes of Horace. His subjects are chiefly political, and they are handled in a strain, sometimes of profound sentiment, sometimes of playful satire, which could not fail to exercise great influence over so sensitive a people as the French. The following translation of his Ode written on the occasion of the authorities denying to the remains of the Painter David a burial in the land over which his genius has shed a lustre, merely because he was a republican, is a favourable specimen of his manner. It is very well translated.

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"You cannot pass was the stern reply of the frontier


To those who bore the painter's dust to the earth he loved so well.

"O soldier!" cried the mourners then, in sad imploring


"Must stern proscription lay its ban even on his senseless bones

And can his native soil refuse a narrow resting-place

To him whose genius is the while her glory and her grace ?"

"You pass not by!" was still the cry of the frontier sentinelle.

"O soldier! ere the mist of death athwart his vision fell, Up to his latest sigh he turn'd his yearning gaze on France, And all the exile's long fond love was center'd in that glance. Oh! give a little grave to him, through whose immortal hand

All future times may see and know the grandeur of our land."

"You cannot pass!" in soften'd tones now cried the sentinelle.

"O soldier! freedom's purest glow alone in him could dwell, Whose pencil woke to life the brave, self-martyr'd in the


Of old Thermopyla, with great and good Leonidas;

And unto him his country owed the splendours of the time That saw her arts and arms revive to glorious, golden prime.”

"You cannot pass! 'tis my duty, alas!" cried the sadden'd sentinelle.

"Ah soldier! he whose hand no more shall charm us with its spell

He knew the gallant warrior's meed, for he gloried to portray

The peerless hero, whose renown can never pass away: Like Jove th' imperial conqueror seem'd to David's eye the while

Alas! that laurell'd head lies low on a far-off rocky isle!"

"You cannot pass! was still the cry of the frontier sen


Though his faltering tones betray'd the birth of thoughts too strong to quell.

"The victor of a hundred fights was bow'd before his foes, And far from home his painter's life attained its cheerless


Oh! let not France extend to death the ban that blasted life, But give her son the last, sad home, where ends all earthly strife."

"You cannot pass! alas, alas!” cried the weeping sentinelle. "Tis well"-the mourners sadly say, as they left the bier— "" 'tis well!

Retrace we now our steps to some more kindly stranger land,

And leave this cruel mother earth, made beauteous by his


For Him who raised the hearts of France till Roman stars grew dim

Come-let us seek some far-off shore, and beg a grave for him."


By BRYANT, the poet of America.

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,

When our mother nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad,

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;
The ground squirrel gaily chirps by his den,
And the wild-bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space,
And their shadows play on the bright green vale,
And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
And here they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
There's a smile on the fruit and a smile on the flower,
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broadfaced sun how he smiles
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles,
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.


From Sir E. BULWER'S Lady of Lyons we take a poetical passage. To make its meaning understood, we should premise that a poor gardener's son, a boy of singular genius, had nursed in silence and solitude an ungovernable passion for the fair Lady of Lyons. He assumes the character of a Count, and obtaining her hand, takes her to his lowly house. Her burst of passion on discovering the deception he thus attempts to soothe:

"FROM my first years my soul was fill'd with thee;
I saw thee-midst the flowers the lowly boy
Tended, unmark'd by thee-a spirit of bloom,
And joy, and freshness-as if Spring itself
Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape!
I saw thee-and the passionate heart of man
Enter'd the breast of the wild dreaming boy,-
And from that hour I grew-what to the last
I shall be-thine Adorer! Well; this love,
Vain, frantic, guilty if thou wilt-became
A fountain of Ambition and bright Hope!
I thought of tales, that by the winter hearth
Old gossips tell-how maidens, sprung from kings,

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