'Not mine, when towering topmasts roar 'Neath Afric's storms with piteous prayers Or bargaining vows each God to implore Lest Cyprus' or fine Tyrian wares

'Add treasure to the ravening seas.

Me shall my bounding pair-oared craft With favouring Pollux and the breeze Safe through the tossed Aegaean waft.'

VII. TO SPRING. Schiller.

WELCOME beauteous youth

Nature's darling child!

Welcome on the verdant plain

With thy wealth of wood-flowers wild!

Here meeting thee again

My heart with joy runs o'er

For thou art come again

And smiling as of yore.

Know'st thou the maiden still?
Ah! canst thou friend forget?
'Twas here she loved me well,

That maiden loves me yet.

To deck my maiden's brow
Choice flowers I asked of thee;
I come and ask again

And thou! thou giv'st them me.

Then welcome beauteous youth!
Nature's darling child;

Welcome on the verdant plain

With thy wealth of wood-flowers wild!

THE annexed translation was worked out between a young Moravian clergyman who tenanted a contiguous attic to my own in the city of New York and myself.

My friend, who was at work for the newspaper called the New York World appealed to me from time to time for a word or a rhyme as a poet is apt to do from any bystander, when he has clenched his fists, knit his brows and despairingly thrown up his eyes to the ceiling in search of inspiration, which will not come, all in vain. It ended in my getting warmed and interested in my friend's work and after taking taking the pen out of his hand pretty well dashing off in hot haste the translation given below, whereby I was made conscious for the first time of the possession of a traductory power of the existence of which within me I was until then entirely unconscious, as much so as the innocent Faublas of a productive faculty of quite another kind, before his first lesson after the evening of the ball.

VIII. TO THE DANUBE.—Blumauer.

OH! joy, that I, thou German stream!
May hail thee, kinsman true,
Who doubts thy kin to our dear land,
Come and thy image view.

Come view the German pride of soul

Thou in thy bosom bearest,

When like the German heart aroused
Thy angry waves thou rearest.

The German giant-march behold
In thy majestic course,

And point what race more kin to thee
E'er started from its source:

Or see thee eager to the deep
Thy seven fond arms expand,
And
say who more resemble thee
In friendship's sacred band.

Then viewing how beneath the wave
Thy modest bosom swells,
Exclaim, within thy veiled career
Germania's spirit dwells.

Joy! then that I thou ancient flood
May still thy praise renew,
And still in thee my race invoke
Its imaged self to view.

IX. THE HOSTESS' DAUGHTER.-Uhland.

THREE friends who were students crossed over the Rhine To the house of a hostess where they went in:

'Bring out Mother Hostess! good cyder and wine But where is that beautiful daughter of thine?'

My cyder and wine run sparkling and clear,

But my daughter lies there, stretched out on her bier.'

And when they went in to the fair maiden's room,
Lo! she lay dead and dressed for the tomb.

The first student drew her veil on one side
And wistfully gazing the dead maiden eyed,

'Oh! wert thou but living thou beautiful maid Henceforth how dearly I'd love thee,' he said.

The second one covered her face up again,
And turned round and wept, in piteous strain:

'I loved thee so fondly, this many a year,
And alas! thou now liest stretched on thy bier.'

The third one once more, her veil drew aside,
Then kissed her pale cheek, and passionate cried,

'I loved thee long fondly, I love thee yet still, And love thee for ever and ever I will.'

X. THE DEATH-LOCK.-Rückert.

Eh' ihr sie ins Grab müsst sinken,
Gebet mir die Locke nur!'

ERE the earth close o'er thee,

Maiden loved and fair!

Leave me, I implore thee,

This one lock of hair.

Thou, lock! so lately thrown
In shadow round her brow,
Its glory shed and flown

Thine, how lustrous now!

Nought else of her but will
To the tomb repair;

But thou! unfaded still

Freely float in air.

Frail as thou appearest,
Tress so finely wove,
Thou the burthen bearest
Of a heaven of love!

One lingering last caress
Let my fondness share,

Then, wind thou sacred tress
Round this ring I wear.

Turning this magic toy

She whom I adore,

Radiant with love and joy,

Springs to sight once more.*

* I have taken considerable liberty with the number and time elements of the metre in the above, but I do not find the result offend my ear. For the intermixture of iambic and trochaic lines (although upon a more exact plan) a friend reminds me that there is Horatian precedent, as also familiar examples in Milton and Ben Jonson. The version is rather a paraphrase than a translation.