Ah! how from life's genial sources the precious red

streams start!

Alas! how richly blossoms the crimson rose of her heart!

A pair of weeping children, a sister and a brother, Bend like twin angels, tenderly, over the pale, dead mother;

So bend twin dewy rosebuds on the same parent spray, Over the mother flower that storm-stricken fades away!

His head downcast in sadness, where her blood the green turf stains,

By her side the white Dominican with mournful look remains ;

Would you know his little motto? he had been her own apt scholar,

"Upwards!" in golden letters still gleams upon his

collar.

Graf von Auersperg. Tr. J. O. Sargent.

THE GUILDS.

THE guild-masters of Bruges sat by cards and wine

and song,

The sailor, smith, and dyer had sat there all day long; And Coppenoll, the cobbler, from Ghent, was present

too;

He bawled in council the loudest, and made the meanest shoe

The cobbler spake: "My masters, know ye the news

to-night?

The king is coming to Candlemas, God grant, Let there be light!"

At this the dyer stealthily peeps in the cards of the

smith,

Meanwhile of a fine old carol he is merrily humming the

pith.

"A little king there once was,

say,

a marmot, you may

Of work, he had his hands full, for he slept both night

and day;

At night, because 't is the fashion in life to sleep by night, And by day because his slumbers had fatigued and tired him quite."

Then spake the smith: "This Max here is made of the right stuff;

He was always a gallant fellow, and I like him well enough;

But all the lords his courtiers with hoofs of iron prance, And on the corns of the people they love to tread and dance."

With a sly chuckle the cobbler the smith on the shoul

ders hit,

"I should like to make their boots for them, I'd give them a tight fit."

Then the dyer slapped on the table and tossed off his stoup of wine,

And roared, "The King of Clubs, bravo! the Knave of Diamonds is mine."

Then the sailor dashed in anger his cards upon the

"A god-forsaken life it is you people live on shore; Damme! It always happens the knave is trumped by the king":

All spring up in confusion, stools tumble, and glasses ring.

Then cried the smith, "A sceptre, forsooth, is a sorry

thing;

For me such work would not answer, but 't will do well enough for a king."

Then the dyer," At home there lie mouldering many red rags of my own,

Which, hung on the stool of the cobbler, would make it as fine as a throne."

Stood Coppenoll the cobbler, who gravely shook his head,

Oppressed with thought, and, muttering, thus to himself he said,

Respublica but recently has rubbed a hole in her shoe, And Master Coppenoll reckons the cobbling's for him to do.

"These kings who gives the sceptre, gentlemen, into their hands?

He who reigns in the heavens. He also created their

lands.

The Netherlands we have created, by our own labor and pains,

So the right of choosing our master in our own hands remains."

kr

'Bravo! thou gallant master! thou shalt our leader

be."

So the others fall into chorus, and all shout clamorously;
Out of the doors they tumble, the towers and steeples

gain,

And set the bells ringing the tocsin, and howl like a hurricane.

In the market-place already the guilds their banners flaunted,

And all the guild companions under them stood undaunted;

Then first began in a whisper, then louder and louder

to roll,

From the mouth of the people and head-men,

leader be Coppenoll !"

"Our

In the streets and squares there's a shouting, there's a howl and a roar and a rush,

They ply the hammer and pickaxe, and the kingly columns crush;

Many the sceptres of iron, and the crowns that yield to their blows,

With many a king's wooden noddle and many a stony lord's nose.

Graf von Auersperg. Tr. J. O. Sargent.

Brussels.

WATERLOO.

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capitol had gathered then

Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it? No; 't was but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet,
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet,

But, hark!

that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is—it is the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;