would commune with the spirit of the inspired poet-if you would laugh with the humorist, or follow the steps of one who can guide you into the hearts of men, and unfold to you the mysteries, the beauties, and the blemishes of our nature, at the same time that he tells you what you yourself are-if you would, I say, hold intercourse with such, and let your countrymen enjoy the like privilege, you must leave your study and go forth among the people who do know and understand them-who are familiar with the great points to be admired, with the truthfulness of the master's pen and pencil; and while you thus learn to know the one, you inevitably learn to comprehend the other. And this intercourse is the only road to such knowledge-the only means whereby to fit one's self to be a translator. As a proof of this, open your dictionary, and hunt for the German word gemuthlich, and what does the definition say?—" disposed, in a humour;" which definition no more conveys to the mind of one speaking English as the mother tongue the same idea which the German word conveys to a German, than convenience would convey the idea of comfort to an Englishman. If a person undertaking to translate the word gemuthlich does not know all that a German understands and feels by it, how can he interpret what he does not comprehend-or even describe it? And if this difficulty is met in words, what becomes of the ideas, sentiments, associations and views, as untranslatable by the mere dictionary definitions as many of their words? What becomes of poetry, the language of a nation's heart? Must not the translator of poetry be intimately familiar with a nation's characteristics, the effect given by certain rhythm, and be, in some measure, a poet himself?

These remarks have been called forth by a perusal of some of "The Poems and Ballads of Schiller, translated by Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer, Bart.," many of which are not translations, but mere versions of the original, unworthy the pen of one who bears so great a name. And the same remark applies to some of the so-termed translations of Thomas Carlyle.

We are no poet, but it seems to us rather surprising that the two poems quoted below, from these two authors, should have been so poorly translated. We give almost a literal translation, which imparts, we do not hesitate to say, a better idea of the original than that of Bulwer or Carlyle. And we do not hesitate to add, further, that such translations are an imposition, let them come from ever so high a source, and ought to be condemned, if only to save the public from such productions in future, purporting to be translations.

KNOW'ST THOU THE LAND? TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE BY THOMAS CARLYLE.

Know'st thou the land where citron apples bloom,

And oranges like gold. like gold in leafy gloom;

KNOW ST THOU THE LAND?

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE BY
THE CONTRIBUTOR.

Know'st thou the land? where citron-flower
blows,

Midst dark'ning shade the golden orange glows,

A gentle wind from deep blue heaven blows, | There waves from azure skies the gentle breeze,
The myrtle thick, and high the laurel grows? There stand the myrtle, there the laurel trees!
Know'st thou it, then?
Know'st thou it well?

* Wolkensteg is the original, and is not here translated.
↑ No mention is made of torrent by the author.
From Harper and Brother's edition, p. 151.

Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer, in the above version of this poem, did not even deign to give the metre of the original, and thereby lost the dignity in which the author clothed his thought.

J. T. S. S.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

(For the Register.)

THE OLD TREE.

(BY A LADY.)

During a ride in Connecticut, I found an old leafless tree, covered with moss pendant from its branches. It was a rare sight to northern eyes, and suggested the following lines.

Old Time had come, and with his scythe,

Had touched that tree, once young and blithe,
Nor Spring's warm breath-nor summer rain,
Could e'er bring back its leaves again.

It would have stood unsightly, old,
A mockery of the wind and cold.
It would have been a blighted thing,
But for its mossy covering,

Which hung each bough in rich festoon,
Decking the tree in heavenly bloom;
A mantle green, which God had given-
As if Elijah's, dropped from heaven,
Had rested on that old gray tree,
And clothed it with sublimity!
While many a bird had made its nest,
Within this lovely place of rest,—
Filling the boughs with music rare,
As if King David's harp were there.

Hartford.

Protected thus from wintry frost,
It stands among the tempest-tost.
And while the beautiful young trees
Tremble to meet the autumn breeze,
And give in grief their treasured leaves
Which summer in her kindness weaves,-
And with shorn locks bow down their head
Impatient, waiting Spring's light tread;
This aged tree, just ripe for death,

With outstretched arms stands up and saith:

"Would'st thou-Oh! youth-be good and sage?
Would'st thou enjoy a green old age?
And when thy laurels low are laid,
And thy green bays in darkness fade,
Would'st thou,-thy youth and beauty fled-
With glory crowned, lift up thy head;
With music filled, lift up thy voice,
With songs of praise the heart rejoice?

"Give to thy God the 'dew of youth,'
And clothe thee with His love and truth;
Then thy last days shall be thy best,
And on thy form in honour rest,
The mantle of the prophet blest."

E. G. T.

CALIFORNIA ADVENTURERS.

WRITTEN BY CALEB LYON, OF LYONSDALE,

Who sailed in the Tarolinta from New York.

Where the Sacramento's waters roll their golden tide along,
Which echoes through the mountains like a merry drinking song;
Where the Sierra Nevada lifts its crests unto the sky,

A home for freedom's eagles when the tempest's sweeping by.
Where the bay of San Francisco-the Naples of the West-
Lies sleeping like an infant beside the ocean's breast;

There we go with dauntless spirits, and we go with hearts elate,
To build another empire-to found another state.

Ho! ye who love adventure, and ye who thirst for gold,
Remember ye the story of the Argonauts of old?
From the Pascagoula's valley to Kaataden's snowy land,
From beyond the Mississippi to our own Atlantic strand,
The Jasons are arousing, they who never dreamed of fears,
The sons of hardy puritans and gallant cavaliers,

Who go with dauntless spirits, and who go with hearts elate,
To build another empire-to found another state.

Then good-bye to old Manhattan-our bark is on the tide;
Farewell to father, mother, to sister, wife, and bride,

And when her shores are fading, we'll bless her through our tears,
She filled the cup of happiness through many pleasant years.
And the friends who dearly love us, within our hearts are set,
Whose tenderness and kindness we never can forget;

Yet we go with dauntless spirits, and go with hearts elate,
To build another empire-to found another state.

The good ship Tarolinta, with her gallant Captain Cave,
From our native shore will bear us in triumph o'er the wave;
By the isles of fair Bermuda-the emeralds of the west-
Where gales of ladened incense for ever love to rest.
And when the storm-wind rages, and thunders echo free,
We'll pass Terra del Fuego, the Charybdis of the sea;
By the land of Chimborazo we will sail with hearts elate,
To build another empire-to found another state.

TO MY MOTHER.

Mother, I kneel upon thy grave,
And tears are falling fast,
As o'er me now, come rushing on
The memories of the past,

Of summer days, when youth and hope
Were glowing in my soul,
Life's silver chord was tuned to joy,
And full its golden bowl;

When earth seemed fair around me,
When skies looked bright above,
When my spirit leaped in gladness,
For thou wert near to love;

When thy sweet voice, my mother,

When the close of day had come,
Rose in low prayer to Him on high,
That He would bless our home.

Again I see thee, mother,

Again that loved voice hear,

Like an angel tone of a better world,

It is falling on my ear.

I see thee stand with out-stretched arms,

With joy upon thy face,

I feel thy warm kiss on my cheek,

I fall in thy embrace.